by Sarah Sundin
She carried a tray to them with a bright smile that didn’t hold even a hint of recognition.
Greasy coveralls were a great disguise if he ever needed one. “Howdy, Violet.”
She stopped and stared. “Adler?”
He flicked his chin toward the jeep. “They let just about anyone drive a jeep nowadays, huh?”
Her smile shifted.
Uh-oh. She wasn’t used to being ribbed like one of the fellows. He gave her his most dazzling grin and took a sandwich.
Violet’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to Beck. “They let just about anyone wear that uniform nowadays, huh?”
Beck and Adler cracked up, and Beck slapped him on the back. “She’s got you pegged.”
Pegged right through the heart, and he gnawed off a bite of sandwich.
Beck pointed his thumb at Adler. “You know these glamour boys. Sometimes they want to play dress up, and we humor them.”
Adler swallowed the bite and a snappy comeback. “Violet, this is Technical Sergeant Bill Beckenbauer, my crew chief. Beck, this is Miss Violet Lindstrom.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Violet said.
“The pleasure’s mine.” Beck clapped Adler on the shoulder. “In all honesty, this kid knows his way around a wrench and a P-51.”
“I’d better, since I used to build them.” He took another bite and savored how it fell into his empty belly.
“Build them?” Violet frowned. “P-51s?”
“Never told you that?” He smiled. After all, she hadn’t told him she’d been engaged. “Worked the assembly line at North American Aviation in my year of exile. After I left home and before I enlisted.”
Violet considered him, her eyes soft but appraising.
Adler considered his sandwich, ate it.
“Say, Miss Lindstrom . . .” Beck dipped his donut in his mug of coffee. “Doesn’t the Red Cross help connect servicemen and their families?”
“Oh yes. That’s a very important job we do.”
“Great.” Beck pointed his donut at Adler. “Make this oaf write home.”
Adler almost choked.
“I’ve tried.” Violet put on a cute little pout. “But he’s a mule-headed oaf.”
Adler coughed and hit his chest with his fist. “Everyone take a shot at me, why don’t you?”
“Listen, miss. You bat those pretty eyes at him, and he might break.”
Those pretty eyes turned his way—a bit shy, a bit mischievous, a bit . . . flirtatious. “I could try flattery.”
For the third time, his mouth flopped open. Only the knowledge that his mouth was full of chicken salad made him close it. Why had he told her his Achilles’ heel? “You wouldn’t.”
The mischief disappeared. “I’ll save that for a last resort, but you really should write home.”
“Y’all have made your opinion quite clear on that matter.” So had Nick.
“Oh!” She darted back to the jeep, set down the tray, and bustled around some more. “I have stationery. We always carry some. Now you have no excuse. How many sheets would you like?”
Adler’s head swung back and forth. “A whole ream of paper wouldn’t be enough.”
She tossed a sympathetic smile over her shoulder and then closed one eye as if sizing him up. “How about three?”
“Sure. No, wait. I didn’t say I would.”
“But you should.” She brought over the stationery. “Think how much better you’ll feel. And they’ll finally have the chance to forgive you. Give them that chance.”
He’d never thought of it that way before, and he couldn’t stop staring at her.
She lifted his arm and slipped the stationery into his hand. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for them. I know you love them.”
Adler fought the bending, but he was losing under the warmth of that hand. “If I write home, will y’all stop haranguing me and calling me a mule-headed oaf?”
Her eyes shone. “I promise.”
“I’ll stop calling you mule-headed,” Beck said, “but I stand by oaf.”
Adler shrugged. “Fair enough.”
Violet squeezed his wrist.
Everything in him wanted to pull her close and thank her for believing in him, for sweet-talking the sweet-talker. But that wouldn’t be wise. What if she fell for him and disobeyed God to be with him? He’d already led one woman into temptation, and he refused to do so again.
He spun away to the plane, stationery in hand. “All right, Red Cross, you did your job. Now let us do ours.”
Beck grunted. “Oaf.”
Adler glanced behind him, but Violet smiled as if he were anything but an oaf.
He was in deep, deep trouble.
That night, Adler sat on the dirt floor of the crew shack by the flight line, hunched over Red Cross stationery that was lying on a crate of spark plugs.
What could he write? “Howdy, folks. How are you doing? How’s Paxton Trucking?”
He tossed aside the ball cap and ran his hand through his hair. “Lord, I don’t know what to say. I only know I’ve got to tell them I’m sorry.”
Maybe that was it. He uncapped his pen.
Dear Daddy, Mama, and Wyatt,
I am so sorry. How else could I start this letter? After what I’ve done, the only thing to say is I am deeply sorry.
For almost three years, I refused to think about my past because it hurt like blazes. But now I can’t stop thinking about it. Yes, it hurts. Not like a stab in the heart, but like a dislocated shoulder being wrenched back into place. It had to feel worse before it could feel better. I’d been living with that dislocation for years, which made the wrenching all the more painful and all the more necessary.
About a month ago, I asked God to do that wrenching. I asked him to forgive me and to save me, and he did. Miracle of miracles.
Now I’m asking you to forgive me. Not because I expect you to do so, not in the least, but because you deserve to know how sorry I am.
This first part is to Wyatt. When Oralee died, I turned my anger on you, which wasn’t fair or right. Sure, I was angry at you for interfering, but mostly I was angry because you were right and I was wrong and Oralee paid the price.
You stood up for Oralee and protected her, as I should have done. Wyatt, please know I never really blamed you for her death. I’m the only one at fault.
I am so sorry and ashamed that I tried to kill you. How can a man forgive his brother for attempted murder? I don’t know, and I don’t expect you to. I wish you all the best at Paxton Trucking. You’re a fine man, and I know you’re doing a great job.
Daddy and Mama, I didn’t address Clay because I know he isn’t in Texas. I saw him on the troopship, although I made sure he didn’t see me.
As for what happened that night in the garage, I don’t even know where to start apologizing. I was so angry, and there was Ellen with a bottle of medicinal whiskey from her daddy. I have no excuse. I gave in to every base instinct and did the worst thing I’ve ever done.
Instead of being grateful to Clay for stopping me from murdering Wyatt, I betrayed him and stole the woman he loved. I will always be ashamed of what I did, ashamed that you all saw me in my depravity, that I drove Clay to try to kill me, and that my mother had to pull a gun on him to save my wretched life.
That’s one reason I’m writing. That night you all saw a drunken, vengeful, lecherous traitor. I’ll never be able to erase that image from your heads any more than I can erase it from mine. But please be assured that my remorse runs deep.
However, my sins don’t stop with my family. What I did to Ellen was vile and wrong. I took advantage of her and destroyed her future with Clay. Then I fled and left you all with the wreckage—with Wyatt fearing for his life, Clay betrayed, Ellen ruined, and with the knowledge that your middle son is a rat.
On top of it, you never got your truck back. I drove to California and sold it to get food, clothes, and a room. I’ll enclose a check with this letter.
In case you
wonder what I’ve been doing, I worked at North American Aviation in California for a year. Then I decided it wasn’t right for me to be safe in a factory with a war on. So I enlisted in the Army Air Forces, and they made me a P-51 fighter pilot. I’m based on the same island as Clay.
I don’t know why Clay is in the Army and not in college, but I pray he’s all right. Let me know if you think I should write him. He deserves an apology, but I’ll let you decide if a letter from me would make things better or worse.
Listen to me with all this talk about “letting me know,” as if I were ordering you to write me back. I certainly don’t expect a reply.
I’m writing because, as a wise man reminded me today, when you do something wrong, you own up to it and apologize.
I’m also writing because I love you and respect you. My disgusting sins don’t reflect how you raised me. You are the best parents a man could hope for. Your examples of faith, strength, and integrity have always been there, and now I’m finally becoming the man you wanted me to be. At least I hope I am.
Somehow I know—I feel it in my bones—that you’ve never stopped praying for me. That may be the only contact we’ll ever have again, and I’m fine with that. Please keep praying for me, and know that I’m now praying for you as well. I’ll never stop.
All my love,
Adler
With a groan, Adler capped his pen. Then he flopped onto his back on the dirt floor, staring at the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling.
He’d never felt so depleted and drained.
Yet he’d never felt so right.
21
Leiston Army Airfield
Wednesday, March 15, 1944
Kitty pulled a tray of donuts out of the jeep. “He’s here.”
Violet set a coffeepot on the table on the grass. “Who?”
“Adler, you ninny. He’s pitching.”
“Oh?” She wasn’t good at feigning innocence. “I wonder if he’s any good.”
In a meadow near the communal site, a dozen airmen were playing baseball with children from town.
Now that spring was near, the children loitered after school. When the weather was fair, they let the kids in to play.
Adler stood in the center of the makeshift baseball diamond, ball and glove held to his chest, his gaze drilling down the batter—that awful Riggs. Nick played catcher.
“Get him, Adler,” she muttered.
He coiled up for the pitch, one leg high. As soon as the ball left his hand, it thumped in Nick’s glove. Riggs swung at nothing but air.
Violet grinned. “I’ll say he’s good.”
“Three strikes and you’re out,” Nick said.
Riggs cussed.
“Watch your language.” Nick tossed the ball to Adler. “The children. The ladies.”
Adler’s gaze swept the field and landed on her. He smiled and waved.
She waved too, her heart bouncing like a loose ground ball.
Kitty leaned close. “See? He likes you.”
“As a friend,” she whispered. “And that’s how I like him.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
Violet scrunched up her nose. Only half of what she’d said was a lie.
A boy came up to bat, Sylvia Haywood’s son, Jimmy, swaggering like one of the pilots. Cpl. Tom Griffith helped Jimmy with his stance.
How could a child hit one of Adler’s pitches? Violet straightened rows of donuts, her eyes on the game.
Adler wound up—and the ball meandered from his hand to the plate. Jimmy swung, connected, whooped, and ran.
The ball hopped to Adler. He scooped it up, bobbled it, tossed it to first—too short—and Jimmy touched first base.
Oh, Adler was very good indeed.
“The next load, Violet?” Kitty called.
“Oh yes.” She dashed over.
“For heaven’s sake, stop pretending you don’t have a crush on him.”
“Stop it.” She picked up the box of cocoa and sugar. “He’s a businessman, and I’m a missionary.”
Kitty brushed a brown curl out of her face. “I’m not telling you to marry the man. Just have a fling.”
“A fling!” Violet almost dropped the box.
Kitty clucked her tongue. “You make it sound dirty. Didn’t you ever have a summer romance?”
“Well, yes.” Her neighbor’s grandson, and it had been a fine little romance. “But I’m not fifteen anymore.”
“And he won’t be here forever. Didn’t you hear? The men finish their tours after they’ve flown three hundred hours of combat. They think that’ll be the middle of summer for the original pilots.”
“Crazy idea.” Violet marched to the table.
“It’d be good for you to have some fun. That Dennis sounds like a fuddy-duddy.”
Violet set out the tin of cocoa. It wouldn’t be good if they fell in love and then had to break up to walk separate paths.
Out on the field, the players changed sides, the inning over.
“Hiya, fellas!” Kitty waved. “May I play?”
“Sure, Miss Kelly,” Tom Griffith said. “Be on our team.”
“No fair!” Jimmy cried. “If we have to have a woman, the other team does too.”
Adler swung a mischievous grin to Violet and beckoned with one finger.
Oh dear, no. She shook her head.
He sauntered over, swinging a bat up to rest on his shoulder. “Come on, Miss Lindstrom. I could teach you to play.”
She could envision his arms coming around her from behind, his hands over hers on the bat, his breath in her ear. She wanted to say she needed his help, but she couldn’t lie—again. “I’m actually pretty good at baseball.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Why do you sound embarrassed?”
“It isn’t—well, it isn’t very feminine to be good at sports.”
Adler grunted and shrugged. “So you’re tall, you’re athletic, and you prefer Zane to Jane. Not all men consider that unattractive.” His gaze cut away.
How could she breathe? He found her attractive. She forced air into her lungs. “All right, but it’s been years, so—”
“Great. You’re up.” He laid the bat in her hands.
Oh dear, indeed. At home plate she took her stance, feeling rusty and awkward. But with Riggs pitching, suddenly she wanted to hit a home run.
He waved the outfielders in closer.
Now she wanted it even more.
Riggs eyed her, wound up, and pitched. The ball was too low, especially for her, but she wanted it.
Violet dipped low and felt a satisfying smack.
Riggs cussed and ducked, and Violet dropped the bat and ran. The skirt made running tricky, but thank goodness the Red Cross had issued low-heeled oxfords.
The ball bounced into the outfield, and Violet rounded first. Cheering rose, topped by Adler’s loud “Hoo-ey!”
Kitty chased down the ball and tossed it, but too high. The boy on second darted away to catch it, and Violet planted her foot on the base. Then she smiled at the boy. “Good catch, George.”
A little boy of about six came to the plate with Nick helping him.
“Don’t be a jerk, Riggs,” Violet muttered.
To her shock, he wasn’t. He threw a soft, easy pitch, but the child swung and missed. Three times.
Then eight-year-old Harry Blythe came to bat. On the second pitch, he connected.
Riggs fielded it. Instead of turning to first, he turned to her.
She stayed put and smiled at him.
Too late to stop Harry, Riggs faced home and spat on the ground.
“Please don’t spit, Lieutenant,” Kitty called out. “You’ll teach the children bad manners.”
Violet stifled a giggle and exchanged a grin with Kitty.
Adler came to the plate, batting anchor, of course. He took his sweet time with his routine, adjusting his rolled-up khaki sleeves, tapping his bat on the plate, and tipping his crush cap farther back on his head.
His ease with
the bat, his prowess at pitching, and the thickness of his arms said he’d be a solid hitter. Riggs would be wise to walk him.
Violet had a hunch Riggs’s pride wouldn’t allow that.
Sure enough, he threw straight down the center, fast enough to challenge most hitters. But not Adler.
He swung in a swift, smooth arc, and the ball sailed into left field.
The kids screamed with glee.
Kitty cupped her hand to her mouth. “Fling, Violet! Fling!”
She glared down her friend and ran. She could have walked, but she didn’t care to insult Riggs.
After she crossed home plate, she turned to congratulate Harry, who was panting and glowing.
Then came Adler with a big grin, his chin ducked modestly. Not gloating, just enjoying the moment. She tacked good sportsmanship onto his long list of virtues.
“Miss Lindstrom?” Harry reached into his pocket. “I brought you a gift.”
“A gift? How sweet.” She put her arm around his little shoulders and guided him to the dugout area.
“Here.” He handed her a tea bag, his eyes diverted and his cheeks flushed.
“Why, thank you, Harry.” She loved how children gave from the heart. Then she noticed the tag—Lipton Tea Company, Hoboken, New Jersey. “Um, Harry, where did you get this?”
“Mum’s tea cozy.” His gray-blue eyes widened. “I asked. I promise.”
She forced a smile so she wouldn’t disparage his gift. How had Mrs. Blythe obtained American tea? She didn’t volunteer at the Aeroclub. But then, English stores did carry American Lend-Lease food. If the tea was indeed stolen, how could Violet track it? She wasn’t a detective.
She slipped the tea bag into her pocket and sat on the grass, her legs tucked to one side.
Adler plopped down beside her. “You’ve played before.”
She smiled at the distraction from her problems—and at him. “So have you.”
He draped his forearms over his bent knees. “High school and at the University of Texas before I dropped out.”
“I’d say you’re good, but you already know it. I wouldn’t want to flatter you.”
Adler chuckled and nudged her with his elbow. “By the way, you can stop haranguing me. Yesterday I mailed my letter home.”
“You did? I’m so happy. You won’t regret it. They’ll be so glad to hear from you.”