by Sarah Sundin
Adler sat in the back left corner, but the man facing him was small and scrawny. As if her heart could fall any lower.
Somehow she found a bright smile. “Hi, Adler.”
He stood from the bench. “Violet, I’d like you to meet Floyd Miller. Floyd, this is Violet Lindstrom.”
Not only was he small, but he was young, very young, with straw-colored hair and freckles on his skinny face. What was Adler thinking? “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant Miller.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, miss,” he said in a Texas drawl even more musical than Adler’s . . . and oddly familiar.
Adler motioned her around to his side of the table. “Floyd’s a new pilot in my section.”
“And boy, has Shapiro put me through my paces.” Floyd dug into his roast potatoes.
Violet sat. Not only did his voice sound familiar, but something about his face . . .
Floyd wagged his finger at her. “You’re trying to figure out where you’ve seen me.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she nodded.
Adler nudged her with his elbow. “You know him by his screen name, Floyd Milligan.”
Floyd . . . Milligan. It all made sense. Replace the crush cap with a Stetson. Replace the leather jacket with a plaid shirt and bandanna. “You—I’ve seen you in at least a dozen movies.”
His grin was as familiar as an old friend. “I’m surprised you stayed awake through that many.”
Laughter bubbled out. Floyd had always played the young sidekick, the kid the hero warned away from danger, and he was an impressive harmonica player. She clapped her hand to her chest. So many questions tumbled around, she didn’t know where to start. “You know Gene Autry and Roy Rogers and Trigger.”
“Honored to say I do. Not because Gene and Roy are famous, but because I’ve never known finer men.”
Violet faced Adler and clutched his forearm, which rested on the table. Her mouth spread wide and open, but no words fell out.
He chuckled. “You’re welcome.”
She could only nod over and over.
Adler turned to Floyd and tilted his head her way. “Told you she likes Westerns.”
Dinner flew by in a whirl of stories from the movie set. Tales of stunt failures, pranks, and mischievous horses. She hadn’t had such a wonderful meal in ages or better company.
There she was, talking with a movie star, a man who knew her favorite actors. Best of all, Adler had thought of her in a personal way. And he wasn’t setting her up with another man.
After dinner Floyd headed to the officers’ club, and Adler walked Violet back to the Aeroclub.
She strolled along, smiling at the moonlit sky. “That was a treat. I’ve met someone who fed Trigger. I can’t believe it.”
“He’s real down-to-earth too, doesn’t want special treatment.”
“And he gave me the best idea for our next children’s party—a hoedown.”
Adler laughed and bumped his shoulder against hers. “You just finished cleaning up the last party.”
“I know. Time to get to work. Wouldn’t it be fun? Maybe they’d let us hold it in the theater building, show one of Floyd’s movies, have him play the harmonica if he’s willing. We could have square dancing and serve baked beans and cornbread.”
Adler humored her and listened as she rattled off ideas.
At the Aeroclub, she went down the pathway alongside the Nissen hut that led to the side entrance to her quarters. She needed to write these ideas down before her evening shift.
She squinted at the path in the dark.
“Here. Hold my arm,” Adler said.
Although she did this every day, she didn’t argue. “It was the best day. The party went well, and your surprises—three of them. My goodness.”
He dipped his head. “I can’t take credit for the bunny suit. Nick—you know they call him Santa—well, he said it was only fitting he should play the Easter Bunny.”
“Either way, it was delightful. Then meeting Floyd—you know I enjoyed that.”
“Reckoned you might.”
She squeezed his arm. “But the trumpet—oh, Adler. You were so good, and I know how much it meant to you.”
When they arrived at the side door, Adler leaned back against the wall. “It was—it was right.”
She leaned back beside him, wiggling until the ridges of corrugated steel didn’t poke her shoulder blades.
“Comfortable?” He gave her an amused smile.
He was so close in the moonlight, she could only nod.
Adler rested his head back and gazed through the tree branches to the moon, about three-quarters full above them. “You know, for three years I didn’t think about my past because it hurt. But a whole lot of that hurt was from my sin, and I needed to feel it so I could ask God to forgive me.”
Violet hadn’t let go of his arm, so she gave it another squeeze, her heart full.
His jaw worked back and forth. “And some—a whole lot of that pain was from grief, and I needed to feel it so I could heal.”
“I know,” she said. “You’ve come so far.”
His eyes squeezed shut. “When I buried my past, I buried the pain but I also buried the good stuff.”
“Like the trumpet.”
Adler rolled his head to face her, and his eyes opened. “You’re the only one who knows what that meant.”
“Oh.” She could barely breathe in the warm glow of his eyes.
“Thank you.” His voice came out throaty and deep. “Thank you for encouraging me to play again, to write home, to remember, to . . . to feel.”
To think she’d helped in even a small way . . . oh, goodness.
Adler’s gaze softened and drew her, and he raised his free hand and stroked her cheek. Shaky. Questioning.
She let that gaze draw her, that caress. She needed to be nearer, to touch him too.
Then his gaze shuttered. His fingers stiffened. And he jerked to standing.
All Violet knew was she couldn’t allow him to flee.
She grabbed his hand and pressed it back to her cheek.
His gaze flitted, and his fingers twitched. He was wrestling again, wrestling with something deep inside.
Violet kept her gaze and her touch both firm and tender. Don’t leave. Not now. Don’t leave. The words dissolved in her mouth.
Something shifted in his eyes. Surrendered. He pulled her close, his hand in her hair and his lips on hers.
Never had she experienced such a kiss, wavering between hunger and hesitation. In the moments of hunger, she received, savoring and welcoming. In the moments of hesitation, she gave, affirming and adoring.
Far too soon, he broke away, his face crumpled up, his fingers coiled in her hair. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Out of breath from the kiss, she struggled for air. “Why not? Because of Oralee?”
He flinched. “No. Honestly, no. But we—you and I—we want different things in life.”
She had no answer, but in that moment all she wanted in life was Adler Paxton.
He uncoiled his fingers from her hair. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. I’m no better than Riggs.”
“Riggs? Oh, Adler, no. Not at all. I didn’t want him to kiss me. But you? Didn’t you notice? I was—I was willing.”
He grimaced as if she’d slapped him. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your willingness. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” But she was speaking to his back as he jogged to the main road. “Adler!”
He didn’t stop, and she didn’t follow.
Violet leaned back against the wall, and the ridges poked every bone in her back. What had just happened?
She pressed her fingers over her lips, still softened by his kiss. “Oh, Lord, what did I do?”
25
Leiston Army Airfield
Saturday, April 8, 1944
Adler let Beck help him out of the cockpit and onto the wing. After four hours in the air, his leg and back
muscles didn’t want to straighten. “Thanks, Beck. No mechanical problems.”
“How’d it go?”
“Long, hard, good mission.” Adler dropped off the wing and stretched his arms overhead, groaning from the pain and relief of it. “The B-24s demolished that aircraft factory at Brunswick. Heavy enemy attack though. A lot of bombers fell. But the Yoxford Boys got a good five victories, and no losses that I know of. Best of all, Nick made ace.”
Nick strode over from his hardstand, his helmet unbuckled and a big old grin on his face.
Adler grinned back and gave him a hearty handshake. “Congratulations, ace.”
Beck slid off the wing. “Every ace needs a good wingman.”
“And I have the best.” Nick’s face sobered. “Thanks, buddy.”
Adler pointed his thumb at Beck. “Every wingman needs a good crew chief, and I have the best.”
Beck waved him off and strode to Texas Eagle’s red-and-yellow checkered nose to start his inspection.
“That was some fine shooting.” Adler kicked out the kinks in his legs.
“And some fine flying.” Nick laughed. “I don’t know how you stayed with me in that Lufbery.”
Nick had chased the Me 109 in a tight 360-degree “Lufbery Circle” for at least three minutes before the Messerschmitt loosened the turn too much. Nick got inside the curve and made a great deflection shot.
Adler headed toward squadron headquarters with Nick. His old self still wanted to be first, but his new self was thrilled for Nick. The other night with Violet showed him he needed to finish the job of killing that old self. And fast.
“Riggs made ace too,” Nick said in a low voice. “Don’t let him get to you.”
Sure enough, Riggs ran over from his hardstand, his hand raised with five fingers splayed for his five victories.
“Congratulations, Riggs.” Adler tried to mean it. After all, they were on the same team, fighting the same enemy.
Riggs fell in beside Adler. “Two confirmed victories, and two confirmed kills. The Fw 190 went up in a fireball. Kraut never had time to bail out. And the second one crash-landed, the Messerschmitt in pieces, the pilot running away. I made sure neither would fly again.”
Adler’s stomach clenched. “You strafed the pilot?” It wasn’t forbidden, but it wasn’t encouraged either.
“You bet.”
Nick frowned at the pavement. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not?” Riggs pulled off his helmet and ran his fingers through his damp, dark hair. “If we get shot down, we’re POWs at best, lynched by civilians at worst. The Germans? If they get shot down and survive, they’re up in the air again the next day. It’s only right.”
“It’s only wrong.” Nick’s voice was dark and hard.
Riggs snorted. “You’re not my commander.”
“That’s not the point.” Adler unfastened his parachute harness. “If we get known for strafing their pilots, they’ll take their revenge—strafe us in our chutes, on the ground. You want that?”
Riggs’s upper lip curled. “How many did you get today, Paxton? Stuck at one?”
“He helped me make ace,” Nick said. “Just as Theo helped you.”
And Riggs never gave poor Theo any credit.
Riggs raised one shoulder. “You know, Paxton, I’ve been thinking about your business idea. It has merit, and I’d hate to see you lose out because you’re . . . losing out.”
“Right kind of you,” Adler said between gritted teeth.
“Maybe my old man and I could invest. I’d be the president, give the company the face it needs at the top. You could be the manager and run operations.”
“No.” He couldn’t even add a thank-you. Second in his own company? To Willard Riggs?
“Think about it. You have the idea, but I have the money and the title of ace.” He wiggled five obnoxious fingers.
In the locker room, the men turned in parachutes and life preservers. Adler sat on a bench, took off his flight boots, and put on his brown GI shoes.
Nick sat beside him. “Don’t even think about taking Riggs up on that offer.”
“No danger of that.” Adler tied his shoes. All his life, he’d chafed at the idea of working under Wyatt. But his older brother was a good man, honest and fair and dependable.
Riggs, on the other hand, was arrogant, lecherous, murderous—Adler’s old self magnified in darkest detail. At least Adler had the sense to know those traits were wrong, and he was trying to let God fix them.
“Can’t wait for our forty-eight,” Nick said.
“Me too.” That afternoon, the men from his section were taking a forty-eight-hour pass to celebrate Easter in London.
Easter. Today was Saturday, the day Jesus lay in the grave. Adler had read the truth, how his old self was crucified with Christ and lying in that grave. That’s where it deserved to be.
The men filed into the squadron pilots’ room and picked up coffee and sandwiches before debriefing.
No sign of Violet, thank goodness. He hadn’t seen her since that kiss.
An intelligence officer waved Nick over, and Adler sank into a leather armchair, waiting his turn.
His old self was certainly taking its sweet time dying. He couldn’t believe he’d lost control with Violet, same as he had with Ellen, same as he had too many times with Oralee.
Oralee had always stopped him in time, but Ellen hadn’t.
The donut tasted like cardboard in his dry mouth. With Violet, the danger wasn’t only to her virtue, but to her future.
For heaven’s sake, if God wanted her to be a missionary, how could Adler ask her to be anything else? And after tasting lasting love with Oralee, he didn’t want anything less. He had no business starting something with Violet that he couldn’t finish.
The coffee washed the donut crumbs from his mouth, leaving a bitter taste behind. He’d started it, all right.
That kiss.
Man alive. He’d shared hundreds of kisses with Oralee, but Violet’s kiss reached down into his soul. Why was that?
Adler rolled his stiff shoulders. Maybe because Oralee never knew the real Adler. She knew a good old churchgoing Texas boy—cocky, yes—but good. She’d never seen him drinking and cussing and carrying on in Austin. She never knew all the church talk was phony.
But Violet knew some of his past. And she still liked him. Too much.
He rubbed his forehead, but he couldn’t erase the memory of how that woman had kissed him. How she’d held him. How she’d refused to let him go.
Letting her go that night was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
Sunday, April 9, 1944
On Easter morning, Violet should have been rejoicing. She stepped out of the crowded theater building into a bright spring day, her head full of moving Scriptures, a rousing sermon, and her favorite hymns. But no joy.
Adler wasn’t there.
She clutched her Bible to her chest and walked back to the Aeroclub. Airmen tossed Easter greetings her way, and she returned them.
Nick hadn’t been at church either. The group was on a mission today—the war didn’t take holidays—so maybe Adler and Nick were flying.
Her feet felt heavy on the concrete walkway. She still couldn’t figure out what had happened with Adler. Why had he compared himself to Riggs? What had he meant about taking advantage of her willingness? That made no sense.
Before that he’d made too much sense, reminding her of their different paths.
She sighed. She should have let him leave when he’d wanted to. She’d pushed him into that kiss, and he hadn’t been ready. In all honesty, she’d wanted that kiss for herself. She’d ignored her reservations and given in to desire.
Poor Adler had paid the price. Something had gone wrong, and it was her fault.
Violet opened the main door of the Aeroclub. They’d opened early to give the Jewish men or those who weren’t religious a place to go. She’d split the girls’ shifts so they could worship with their
families.
Millie Clark backed out of the kitchen, her big canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She opened the gate in the snack bar and spotted Violet. “Oh, hallo, Miss Lindstrom. My—my shift is over.”
“I know.” She smiled at the girl’s nervous expression. “No need to feel guilty.”
With wide eyes, Millie edged from behind the snack bar and elbowed her bag behind her.
The girl looked as if she’d been caught with her hand in the till.
A horrible thought gripped her. The bag’s strap cut into Millie’s shoulder. But she used that bag to bring supplies to the club. Why was it full?
Millie sidled toward the entrance.
“Hi, Violet.” Kitty strode down the hallway, pinning on her cap. “On my way to Mass.”
Millie flinched and angled herself between the two American women.
Violet held up one hand to Kitty, urging her to wait.
“Hey there, Millie-girl. Don’t tell me you’re leaving me already.” Jansen ambled over with his buddy, Schmidt, two of the crudest men on base, men she’d shooed away from her workers countless times.
Millie inched toward the door. “I—I need to help my mum with Easter dinner.”
“Yes, gentlemen.” Violet’s voice came out tight. “Can’t you see she’s in an awful hurry?”
Kitty gave her a confused look.
“Yes. Yes, I am in a hurry.” Millie’s smile strained. “My mum needs me.”
“Does she need what’s in your bag too?” Violet said.
“My—my bag?”
“The bag you’re hiding from me.”
Kitty’s mouth dropped open. “It was—you emptied it this morning—scraps and buttons from your mother’s shop. Why is it full again?”
Millie’s face reddened. “Full? It isn’t full.”
Jansen peeked behind her. “Looks full to me. Say, haven’t you ladies had a lot of thefts around here?”
“How dare you?” Millie pulled the bag around to her front and hugged it. “These are my personal things.”
Schmidt elbowed Jansen, his dark eyes hard. “I’ve seen dames with big purses, but that beats all. Show us, Millie.”
“It—it’s private.” Her gaze darted toward the door.