by Sarah Sundin
“Thank you.” Cheeks burning, she followed the pale-haired man outside where the air was fresh and cool.
After the grocer set the bacon in the jeep, Violet and Sylvia climbed in.
Violet put the jeep in gear and drove out of town. “That woman certainly doesn’t like Americans.”
Sylvia clamped a hand over her hat. “Don’t you know who she is?”
“I’ve never met her.”
“That’s Hazel Banister. Hazel Clark Banister. She’s Millie’s oldest sister. She’s furious that we fired Millie.”
“Oh dear.” Violet’s mind spun ugly patterns as she drove down the street with its sweet buildings of colorful clapboard and brick. Millie. Mrs. Banister. Mr. Banister. “You don’t suppose Mr. Banister is a black marketer, selling the goods Millie stole?”
Sylvia pursed her lips. “I wondered that myself. Since the Yanks came to town, Banister’s is always well stocked.”
“What?” Violet whipped her gaze to Sylvia, then back to the road. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sylvia shrugged. “It doesn’t fit. Black marketers don’t stamp your ration book, and they sell at high prices and only to their poshest customers. Believe me, we women know who sells under the counter, and Mr. Banister doesn’t. Besides, nothing has changed at the store since we let Millie go.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” The road curved around Buckle’s Wood, and Violet’s thoughts curved too. Hazel Banister had never volunteered at the Aeroclub, so she couldn’t be stealing. Perhaps the food shortages were easing, now that the tide had turned in the Battle of the Atlantic, allowing more cargo ships to cross from the US.
Violet turned left.
Sylvia squealed and grabbed the steering wheel. “Wrong side! You’re on the wrong side of the road.”
Heart pattering, Violet straightened out onto the left side. Then she gave Sylvia a mischievous smile. “On the contrary, I was on the right side.”
“You Yanks.” Sylvia patted her chest. “Griff will have your head if you don’t return this jeep in one piece.”
Violet laughed at the thought of the cheerful corporal yielding an executioner’s axe.
She turned right onto the main road leading onto the base. There hadn’t been signs of a mission today, only a few motors running up and a few takeoffs, probably training flights for the replacement pilots who were constantly arriving.
She steeled herself against the reason those new pilots were necessary.
The jeep passed bicycles and Nissen huts and waving airmen. Violet waved back. Her afternoon would be quieter without deliveries for mission debriefings.
Best of all, she’d have more time with Adler. On nonflying days he often had coffee in the Aeroclub, chatting with his ground crew, reading magazines, and sneaking Violet fond looks and words.
Her chest warmed, lifting a smile. She loved having him near while she worked, knowing he enjoyed being near her as well.
Since he’d declared his love, the idea of a future with him seemed delightfully inevitable. Her heart leaned toward his Kansas plan. Was Great-Aunt Violet right? Had Violet been led astray by a handsome pilot?
She turned onto the road into the communal site. As handsome and persuasive as Adler could be, that wasn’t the case. If anything, he talked more about his missionary plan.
Something else was happening inside her. Ever since her conversation with Paul Harrison, she’d examined her call to the mission field. If it was even a call. She’d chosen missions because she loved the Lord and wanted to do something big and sacrificial for him.
But another notion niggled at her. Had she chosen missions so she’d look noble and godly, so everyone would admire her? What an awful reason to serve.
Violet pulled the jeep into the space alongside the Aeroclub. Lately she’d felt some sympathy for Dennis. Her former fiancé had never elaborated on his decision to give up missions, but perhaps it was more than simple greed. Perhaps he’d struggled with some of the same thoughts Violet struggled with.
She’d finally prayed and forgiven Dennis for his decision, for taking away her dream of going overseas right after college.
No matter what, she was glad she hadn’t married the man.
Violet turned off the engine. Loud voices sounded from inside the Aeroclub.
She and Sylvia exchanged a worried look, and Violet bolted from the jeep and flung open the kitchen door.
“Twenty pounds of flour? Gone like that?” Mr. Tate stood in front of Rosalind Weaver, his jowls red and quivering, his finger in her face.
Rosalind gripped the counter behind her back, her head shaking. “I—I don’t know how.”
“What’s happening?” Violet said as calmly as she could.
Mr. Tate wheeled on her. “You tell me. You accused Miss Clark of being the thief, yet food is still disappearing.”
“I—I don’t think so, sir.” Violet opened the logbook on the counter. “A few minor discrepancies, but not like before.”
“Minor?” Mr. Tate spluttered. “Mrs. Weaver lost a sack of flour last night.”
“You did?” Violet said.
Rosalind shook her tear-stained face. “I haven’t had time to tell you. I set it out to make donuts. They called me to the snack bar, and when I returned, it was gone.”
“And a vat of oil.” Mr. Tate scowled.
“Yes, sir.” Rosalind covered her face. “I don’t know who took it. So busy.”
“Explain this.” Mr. Tate snatched the logbook from Violet and flipped a page. “Mrs. Haywood checked out one hundred tea bags for the pilots after a mission—and returned none.”
Sylvia twisted her hands together. “None were left, sir.”
He turned on her. “You mean to tell me four dozen American pilots drank one hundred cups of tea?”
It was a ludicrous thought indeed. “I wish I could explain, but—”
“But you can’t. Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here, but—but—” A vein throbbed on his forehead.
Violet had to stop his harassment of her staff. “Sir, could we please discuss this privately in the office?”
“Excellent idea.” He marched out.
Violet rushed to keep up.
In the office, he motioned for her to sit in front of the desk, then he shut the door and paced beside her. “I don’t know if you’re the thief or if you’re so incompetent as to hire thieving employees, but I’ve had enough.”
Violet’s mouth went dry. “Sir, I—”
“Enough.” He waved a hand. “You have one month to clean up this place. And I’m being more generous than I ought to be. One month, or I’ll fire the lot of you—Miss Kelly, you, and the entire staff.”
Violet gasped. “Please, sir. Please don’t punish the ladies. They need these jobs.”
Mr. Tate glared down at her. “Then I suggest you find the thief. Or confess.”
Confess? Her eyes watered. He still thought she was a thief?
“One month.” He slammed the door behind him.
Violet sagged back in the chair. She didn’t know where to begin.
34
Leiston Army Airfield
Saturday, May 20, 1944
“Okay, ladies, let’s think this through.” Behind the desk in the Aeroclub office, Adler drew vertical lines down a piece of paper and labeled the columns “steps,” “problems,” and “solutions.”
Sitting next to him, Violet and Kitty wore forlorn expressions as identical as their uniforms. Since Mr. Tate’s ultimatum, the two women hadn’t been able to think straight, not that Adler blamed them. It had taken several rounds with a punching bag at the base gymnasium to clear his mind. And women didn’t seem to punch things. Too bad.
Adler shoved up his rolled-up shirtsleeves. “First step—ordering. How do y’all do that?”
Kitty tugged at a brown curl. “I don’t think that’s a problem.”
“That’s not the point. Let’s think through the entire process. Ordering.”
“I
order most of our food from Banister’s in Leiston, but some from Red Cross Headquarters in London.”
Adler made notes. Nothing for the thief to exploit in the ordering process. No changes needed. “Next step—delivery.”
“The Red Cross supplies are delivered here directly,” Kitty said. “We pick up the rest at Banister’s.”
“Who and how?”
“I do. Corporal Griffith drives me in a truck.” Kitty closed her eyes. “I used to send Millie. How could I have been so stupid?”
Violet gripped her friend’s hand. “Not stupid. Trusting. And I doubt she stole from the deliveries with Griff right there.”
“Back to the grocer’s.” Adler pointed his pen at Kitty. “You check the order versus the invoice?”
“Now I do. Then Mr. Banister and Griff and I load the truck.”
“Do you check off the invoice during loading?”
Kitty frowned. “Um, no. Oh, dear. Do you think the grocer would cheat us?”
Under both “problems” and “solutions,” Adler made more notes. “We’re not blaming anyone. We’re thinking this through. Does Griff drive you straight here, or do you make any other stops?”
“Straight here, then we unload right away.”
“Who unloads?” He started a new row.
“We all do,” Violet said. “Griff, Kitty, anyone in the kitchen.”
Kitty nodded. “While they’re unloading, I fill in the log.”
Adler tapped his pen against his chin. “Do you fill it out from the invoice or do you check off each item as it’s stored?”
“From the . . . the invoice.” Kitty’s brown eyes widened. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”
“Possibly.” Adler filled in the columns. “Someone could snitch food from the truck when your backs are turned, or Griff could leave supplies in the truck and cart them away.”
“Oh, not Griff,” Violet said.
Adler couldn’t help but smile. “Too tenderhearted. Makes for good Red Cross ladies, but right now y’all have to think like hard-boiled detectives.”
Violet chewed on her lower lip. “I hate to suspect anyone.”
“I know.” He loved that about her.
For the next half hour, he talked them through the process. It got messy, what with deliveries to ground crew and pilots’ rooms and parties, as well as snack bar operations. By the end, they’d identified a few more holes and thought up ways to plug them.
With seventeen hundred men on the base and dozens of Red Cross workers and volunteers, they might never find the culprit. But they could make it harder for the snake to strike.
Kitty glanced at the clock. “I’d better make sure everything’s ready for the after-dinner rush. Thank you, Adler.” She grabbed her jacket from the coatrack and moved to shut the door.
“Keep it open, please.” Not only did he want to protect Violet’s reputation, but he needed to avoid situations where he might be tempted to push her. Because boy, was she tempting.
“Oh, dear.” Violet ran her finger down the middle column. “We’ll never solve this.”
“Hey, now.” Adler rubbed her back, aware of the warmth of her skin through her cotton blouse. “Y’all have a good plan.”
She shook her head. “Kitty and I have other duties. We can’t monitor every step.”
“Of course not. Plug the holes we found, and we’ll go from there.” He moved her finger from the “problems” column to the “solutions” column. “Everything will be fine.”
“And if it isn’t? What if Mr. Tate fires us? The women need these jobs, and they’re good workers. It isn’t fair for all of them to be punished because of one dishonest person—who might not even be our employee.”
“I know.” He laced his fingers through hers. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Less than a month.” Her features twisted. “Then we’ll be sent home in disgrace. I can’t bear that.”
Adler understood that feeling well. But it was different for her. With his free hand, he tapped her under the chin. “If it comes to that, you go home and hold your head high. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No one else will know that. No mission board or school board will accept me.” She crumpled against his side. “And I’ll miss you.”
Boy, did he want to turn Mr. Tate into his next punching bag. Instead, he extracted his hand and put his arm around Violet’s shoulder. “Hey, now. Soon as this war’s over, I’m coming for you. I’ll sweep you up on that white steed of mine, and we’ll ride off into the sunset so you can raise our twenty-nine kids.”
She lifted her head, her face awash with doubts.
He gave her a little kiss and a wink. “You can’t run away from me that easily.”
Violet rested her head on his shoulder. “I do love you.”
“I love you too.” So much it ached inside him.
A light knock on the open door. Nick stood there. “Mail came.”
Adler blinked at his friend. The mail came every day, not that it mattered to him.
But the concern in Nick’s expression jolted him. Was something wrong with his wife? His baby girl? “Oh no. Did you get bad news from home?”
Nick shook his head and laid an envelope on the desk.
The handwriting stabbed Adler in the chest. “My father.”
“Oh, Adler.” Violet clutched his hand on her shoulder.
“Would you like me to stay?” Nick asked.
Adler raised a flimsy smile. “Thanks, but I’m all right.”
“I’m going to dinner, then the officers’ club.” Nick motioned with his thumb over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Would you like privacy?” Violet said after he left.
Every muscle wanted to flee from that letter, but he had to take on whatever pain it might inflict before he could heal. And he had Violet. “Please stay.”
He uncurled his arm from around her and picked up the envelope, the first contact he’d had with his family for almost three years. His fingers barely worked, but he opened the letter and pulled out several sheets of stationery.
Something small fluttered to the floor, and Violet picked it up. “What a cutie-pie. Who’s this?”
Adler stared at a studio photograph of a little boy with white-blond hair and laughing eyes. He took it and flipped it over. “Timothy Paxton, age 2.”
“Is one of your brothers married?”
“No . . .” But three years had passed, and shame slapped him. “Actually, I don’t know. It couldn’t be Clay. With his dark coloring, he could never have a towhead like this.”
“Wyatt? Is he blond?”
“Yeah. Must be.” But if Wyatt was married, what was he doing flirting with an English redhead? That wasn’t like him.
Adler slipped the picture into his breast pocket and unfolded the letter, his gut twining. He scooted his chair to the side and faced Violet.
She turned her chair too, set her hands on his knees, and bowed her head.
Praying for him.
Love for her swelled inside. God could get him through this alone, but he was glad God had given him Violet too.
A prayer of his own, and he dove in.
Dear Adler,
I can’t begin to tell you how relieved your mama and I were to receive your letter. You were right when you said we never stopped praying for you. But you were mistaken to think we couldn’t forgive you. We already have.
However, seeing the depth of your remorse confirms our faith in you, and we’re pleased to hear of your salvation. If this tragedy and sin turned you to God, it wasn’t all for naught.
We will always love you, and you’re always welcome here.
“They—” Adler wet his dry lips. “They forgave me.”
Violet looked up, her face luminous. “I knew they would.”
Such beautiful innocence. He gave her a wry smile and waved the stationery. “Still two pages to go.”
We apo
logize for delaying our reply. A lot has happened since that night, and some of it isn’t ours to tell. It took three weeks of talking to God, each other, and the preacher to decide how much to tell you and when.
Even though we know this letter will cause more pain and regret, we felt it best to tell you everything that concerns you. In your letter you said facing your sins was like wrenching a dislocated shoulder back into place. Well, now it’s time to fix your other shoulder.
You assumed Wyatt was in Kerrville. However, he also ran away that night and never contacted us. About a month ago we finally heard from him. God answered our prayers to hear from both our prodigals.
Like you, Wyatt seems to be doing well. Like you, he joined up. He’s an officer in the Navy, serving on the same island as you. I’ll enclose his address at the end. He wants to hear from you.
Adler rested the letter in his lap. “It was Wyatt in London. He—he wants to hear from me.”
“What great news.”
Was it? He’d driven his brother to run away for three years! So afraid he hadn’t even written home. Did Wyatt want Adler to write—or was Daddy doing a little manipulation?
Daddy hadn’t seen how Wyatt had run from him in Hyde Park.
And there was a whole lot of letter remaining.
Clay is indeed overseas with you. Financial troubles kept him from going to college. Just as well, because with you and Wyatt gone, we needed him at Paxton Trucking. Last February the military ended draft deferments for men twenty-two and younger, and the Army took him. He volunteered for the Rangers, and we’re proud of what he’s doing.
We urge you to write Clay as well. It’ll do you both good.
“It was Clay on the Queen Elizabeth.” Adler noted the difference—Clay hadn’t asked Adler to write. “He’s an Army Ranger. But he was supposed to become a doctor.”
“That isn’t your fault, is it?”
Adler frowned at the words. As much as he wanted to take on that blame, he couldn’t. “No. Something about financial troubles.” But that didn’t make sense. Clay had saved up, and he was too focused on his goal to squander his savings.
As for what happened that night in the garage, we’re glad to hear that you’re sorry, that you’ve repented, and that God’s forgiven you.