Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington Page 11

Rosalie fingered a pansy’s velvety petals.

  “I thought we should have a victory garden, so I planted that.”

  Rosalie followed her hostess’s eyes to a raised bed striped with rows of cabbage, lettuce, carrots, and peas.

  “I come out here during my breaks to tend to the plants. It seems no matter how full the place is, I always find another spot for a flower pot. When that happens, I use an old bucket and fill it with soil from my garden at home. Then I either take a seed from home or borrow a neighbor’s clipping and plant it.” She chuckled. “You should have seen the looks I first got on the bus—me in my Golden Nugget uniform, carryin’ an old bucket of dirt on with me.” She shrugged. “Now the regulars, they know me. Mr. Potterfield—that’s the bus driver—he’s the first to ask what I’m gonna be plantin’ this time.”

  “It’s very pretty.” Rosalie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She let it out again and felt some of the tension from the morning release with it. “You should be proud of all your hard work.”

  Miss Tilly squeezed her hand. “Oh, it’s not just me, honey. Soon folks from the other businesses started addin’ pots, buckets, baskets.” She pointed up at a window imbedded in the brick wall overlooking the garden. “Mrs. Patterson who’s ninety-one and her seventy-year-old daughter planted that window box. They keep it up real nice too—when they’re not assemblin’ part kits for Boeing in their apartment, that is. I love how hard everyone works to support the war. And Mr. McCluskey, from the cobbler shop across the way there, started the ivy growin’. It’s like our own secret garden back here.”

  Secret Garden.

  Rosalie had read that book for the first time to her little sister, Sue, when she was fourteen and Sue was five. She relished the pleasant memory. She wondered how Sue was doing these days. Last she’d heard, Sue was working as a nursing assistant, caring for soldiers injured overseas.

  Rosalie cupped a lovely pink rose in her hands. “You went to so much trouble. Most people’s minds are too focused on all the hardships and struggles to put time into something that’s simply pretty to look at.”

  Miss Tilly waved away the compliment. “Yes, well, while I agree that we need to give as much time as we can to growin’ our own food and supportin’ the war effort, there’s another element people often overlook. Just as our troops need to be supplied, and our families fed, our souls need to be nourished too. Like my ol’ car needs fuel, my soul needs to be filled up, and that’s what this garden’s all about. Not just for me, but my friends too.”

  Miss Tilly’s light blue skirt fluttered in the breeze as she led Rosalie to a bench in the middle of the garden. “Let’s sit a spell.” Tilly held her back as she eased herself down on the bench and stroked the spot next to her. “If you’d like, I can tell you more about my garden. But first, there’s something else I need to ask you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tromping up the steps to the second-story newsroom, Kenny’s hand gripped the cherry-wood railing. As much as he tried to put his heart into the mundane stories Bixby made him write, he doubted he’d be able to concentrate today. First, the news about his father—it was hard to comprehend that his dad would never walk again. Maybe it would sink in after he actually saw Dad. He tried to picture that—seeing his father on crutches or maybe in a wheelchair. Seeing his pant leg hanging empty. Did he experience a lot of pain? Was there any chance of complications in the future?

  And, of course, the other matter. Kenny hadn’t felt a strong attraction for a woman in years—not since Alicia, his high school sweetheart. Rosalie seemed like a strong woman, and she certainly was, but he also detected a tender, compassionate heart. He reached the landing and drew in a breath. Obviously not.

  Aunt Tilly had reminded him this morning that she and Kenny’s mom had been praying for him to find a good Christian wife. And Kenny wouldn’t want to marry someone who didn’t love God with her whole heart.

  I suppose I should’ve found out if she was a Christian. Not that Christian women are perfect. Alicia, his girlfriend in high school, attended church and claimed to serve God, but she was as manipulative and backstabbing as any Hollywood vixen.

  Still, he couldn’t shake that riveter’s dazzling mug. He couldn’t forget the way they’d danced and laughed together last night, and even her concern for Nick during the conversation they’d had at the Igloo. When she offered to help the wounded contracted workers, Kenny visualized them working side by side. And maybe when Nick and others like him received the help they needed, he and Rosalie could move on to other causes. He pictured her, chin determined, organizing supply drives, rallying folks to write letters and buy war bonds—and him writing about it. To be married to someone you not only loved and cherished, but who went all out for the same mission—that would be ideal. A blessing more than he could fathom.

  Planting his scuffed stomper on the final step, Kenny straightened his suit coat. Of course, he shouldn’t let ideas about working side by side with Rosalie take up even one speck of space in his mind. She made it clear he was lower than a Seattle slug to her. Besides, he had plenty of other things to keep his mind occupied. No point carrying a torch for her. No gorgeous eyes and perfect dance moves were worth the abuse she dished out.

  The real problem now was finding a story. Ironic that Bixby demanded a story that Kenny would love to write, but one in which no leads were panning out. It was too bad Rosalie had turned out to be such a pill. He wanted to ask about her work. Her relationship with her friends. Her family. Her—true love?

  A thought crossed his mind, one Kenny hadn’t considered before. Did she have a guy overseas thinking of her? His shoulders tightened as he considered that. Nah. Surely, Rosalie’s friends wouldn’t have encouraged his interest if she was already set on another guy, yet he didn’t doubt there were plenty of other guys—like him—who’d been interested.

  After this morning he wouldn’t touch that story with a ten-foot pole. Maybe the Lanie idea would work. If only he could do the piece about Nick and the other guys who’d been spurned. That’s a real story.

  Maybe he should just focus on Lanie. She seemed kind, gentle. Maybe he could follow Lanie through her first day at the job. Kenny’s mind tried to get excited about that as he entered the smoke-filled newsroom and placed his hat on the coat rack.

  “Davenport!” Bixby’s gruff voice greeted Kenny as he entered the large newsroom. “That you?”

  “Yes sir, I just got here. I’m not late, am I?” He turned to see Bixby striding through the door of his office. Kenny paused, then took a step back, surprised. Instead of the typical scowl, Bixby’s lips turned up in a hint of a smile. It was only a hint, but it matched the excitement flashing from Bixby’s eyes. Kenny knew something good was going on.

  “No time for chitchat, boy. Your Rosie the Riveter article’s going through the roof, ya hear? Phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. I even got a telegram from Russell W. Young asking about you.”

  Kenny shoved his hands into his pockets. “Seriously, sir? It was just a simple article.” Even as he said the words, a tingling pleasure danced in his chest. Ever since he’d started working for Bixby, he’d hoped for a response like this. He was merely surprised that this story—of all things—was the one to get it.

  “Just a simple article? Did I hear those words come out of your mouth? That’s where you’re wrong, my boy.” He slapped Kenny’s upper arm. “You were brilliant. Brilliant!”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “It’s the romance. Romance sells papers! The calls we’re getting all say the same thing. Thousands of people saw you two at Victory Square yesterday. They watched Lana Turner introduce you as lovebirds. Then what did they see when they opened their Seattle Tribune this morning? ‘Lovebirds Introduced by Lana Turner!’ They’re head over heels for your story, my boy!” He pulled a stogie from his pocket, as if he were celebrating the birth of a baby, lit it up, then offered another to Kenny. Kenny waved his hand no, but Bixby stuck one in Ke
nny’s mouth anyway.

  “So here’s what you get to do.” Bixby pulled up a chair next to Kenny’s desk and plopped down. “Take a seat, son. Take a seat.”

  Kenny removed the cigar from his mouth and stuck it in his coat pocket. He cautiously sat, not leaning back, not allowing his body to settle in. Bixby was up to something, and he had to stay on guard.

  “You, my boy, not only get to do a series of stories about that handy-dandy little riveter of yours, all Seattle is going to follow along as you romance the girl! Take them with you as you stroll beside her and gaze into the bay, or as you wait for her outside the Boeing plant with fresh flowers. Most guys are off at war, but that doesn’t mean women readers don’t want to hear about someone else getting swept off her feet.” Bixby took off his hat and fingered it in his hands, as if trying to work out the nervous energy coursing through him. “I’ve been getting pressure from the big chief for more feel-good stories for months, and now you’ve delivered it. This is exactly what Mr. Young was hoping for.”

  Tension started in his feet and crept up his legs. Russell W. Young knew Kenny’s name—was excited about his story. How in the world would Kenny tell the owner of the paper that he couldn’t deliver?

  He rose and circled behind his chair, then paced back and forth between the desks on either side of his. Even though his coworkers typed with their heads down, he could tell by the slow pace of their pounded words that they were listening. What did they think of this? Were they jealous of the attention? Or, like him, were they horrified by what Bixby was suggesting? It was a crack in the wall that separated personal and professional. No, more than that. It was a wrecking ball, smashing it completely.

  “You want me to write articles about my private life, sir? Romance a girl just to sell newspapers? What about the no fraternizing rule?” Kenny’s chest constricted. He knew writing about his personal life wasn’t the biggest problem. Rosalie would never go for it. She hated reporters and despised him for the story—the innocent, non-threatening story he’d already written.

  The sharpness of her words still stung. The anger he’d witnessed in her eyes caused his gut to ache. His shoulders tightened just with the idea of seeing her again. There was no way, absolutely no way, she’d agree to let him write about their dates—putting them on public display. More than that, she most likely wouldn’t even accept a date!

  “I’m sorry, sir.” He let out a low breath with his words. “I won’t write about my romancing a girl just to sell papers.”

  Bixby folded his arms over his barrel chest, resting them on top of his belly, and chortled. “No, no. Of course not. You think I’d do that? What kind of newspaperman do you think I am?”

  The doom of a moment before lifted, slightly. “You had me worried, sir.” Kenny brushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “You’re not going to write the romance part. That’d be ridiculous. One of that Roosevelt girl’s lady reporters’ll do that. You just write a week in the life of Rosie the Riveter story. Then take the opportunity to romance her. You know, lay it on thick—flowers, candlelit dinners, dancing. And a gal from the Women’s Page desk will put legs on that part.” He puffed the cigar, then pulled it out of his mouth and tapped the ashes into an ashtray on the desk. “Brilliant!” he repeated.

  Kenny’s abdomen tightened. He was glad now that he hadn’t eaten Tilly’s breakfast. He’d disliked some of his assignments before. He’d thought most of them to be a waste of time. But he’d never been physically ill over them. Not only did Bixby want him to spend a week following around a girl he hoped to never see again—that would’ve been torture enough—Bixby also wanted him to throw romance into the equation and have another broad write about it. He could see the headline now: SEATTLE REPORTER, WHO HAS NO GOOD REASON FOR STAYING HOME FROM WAR, LOSES AT LOVE TOO.

  He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

  The fat cat rose from his chair, still puffing his cigar. The smile was much more than a hint now, and Bixby glanced around the newsroom, as if wondering if the other reporters were also taking note of his brilliance.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bixby. I can’t do it. I won’t.” Kenny spoke as forcefully as he could, hoping Bixby would grasp his earnestness and drop the whole matter.

  “What?” Mr. Bixby took a step back, and his foot connected with the leg of Kenny’s desk. Before Kenny could reach out, the older man slid backwards, landing with a thump on the floor.

  The clicking of typewriter keys around him stopped, and Kenny rushed to help his boss. Curses flew from the seasoned man’s mouth.

  “Mr. Bixby, let me help you.”

  With a humph Mr. Bixby grasped Kenny’s hand. Kenny pulled with all his might, expecting to hear the words, “You’re fired, Davenport,” explode from the editor’s mouth.

  Instead, Bixby leaned forward, peering up into Kenny’s eyes. His brown, bushy eyebrows formed a V, and sweat dripped from his receding hairline. “I’m sure you didn’t say what I thought I heard. Please tell me you did not just refuse to do this story,” Bixby demanded, his cigar breath and spit droplets assaulting Kenny.

  Shaking his head, Kenny attempted to look apologetic. “I won’t do it, sir. It’s not right.”

  Kenny expected Bixby to explode. Instead, he sat back down, planted an elbow on the desk, and leaned his head against his hand. Kenny crossed his arms and waited. The other reporters waited too, but after thirty seconds the clicking on the typewriter keys began again. Obviously Bixby was taking his time, and time was a valued commodity around the newsroom.

  “Listen, Davenport, I know you want a big story, right?” Bixby finally said. “Well, I’m telling you, I’ve got one.”

  Kenny lifted his hands, as if defending himself from the words to come. “Actually—”

  “Stop acting like a scared sissy, son. Not this riveter story. I’m talking about one that you really want. The one about the VA Hospital not providing care to the contracted workers.” He slanted his head and squinted, his eyes disappearing in the chubby cheek flesh. “Don’t you have a friend in some predicament?”

  Kenny’s heartbeat spun like a propeller. He could feel it winding up in his chest.

  “I didn’t tell you,” Bixby continued, “but I thought it was a great story. I ran it by the big wheels upstairs. They liked it too. Told me to give it to Charlie.”

  Kenny’s fingers coiled into fists. “But that was my story.”

  Bixby nodded. “You haven’t even heard the whole of it. They want to send him overseas to see firsthand how those contracted workers serve on the front lines.”

  Kenny’s jaw dropped. This was the kind of story he’d been waiting for. The one that would make his job as reporter worthwhile. Dad would be proud. Nick would be helped. And Kenny wouldn’t have to be ashamed anymore. Charlie couldn’t have the story. How could they do that?

  “Mr. Bixby, you know this was my idea. I’m the one whose heart is in it. I’m the one who can make it shine. You have to give it to me. No one is going to care as much as I do.”

  Bixby grinned, nodding. “It’s yours.”

  “Really?” Kenny sank down into his chair. “Why thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just do the Rosie the Riveter series first. You do it, and you’ll get the ambulance driver story too. You don’t do it, Charlie gets the story, and you’ll have to find a new paper to write for.” He clicked his tongue. “But you’re a bright boy. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  Kenny placed his face in his hands. If he could, he’d will his chair to sink through the floor and escape the newsroom altogether. Here he was a professional man, with five years of lead reporting experience, and Bixby was playing with him like a toy puppet on a string.

  Kenny’s heart sank. He knew pleading with Bixby wouldn’t work. He glanced out the window at a cloud bank. As he watched, an airplane emerged, preparing to veer south to land at McChord Field, no doubt returning from some foreign mission. He thought about Nick, who’d ret
urned on an airplane like that one. He thought about the pain his friend suffered every day. If taking this Rosie the Riveter story meant Kenny could help his friend, wouldn’t it be worth it?

  Bixby sat before him, waiting. The chief obviously grasped the prize he offered Kenny—like a precious pearl in Bixby’s fat hand. All Kenny had to do was nail one story and then his life’s striving would suddenly mean something. But how could he? First of all, Rosalie hated him. Second, she’d be right in her belief that he was just a scoundrel reporter who’d do anything for a big scoop. But more than that, he’d be toying with someone’s feelings. Lying.

  Of course, Bixby wasn’t giving him any alternative. If he didn’t do it, he’d have to start all over in another newsroom in another city. And then Nick wouldn’t get the help he needed—at least not for a while.

  Still, as much as he wanted to bolster his career and help Nick, this was not the way. Couldn’t be. He had to be trustworthy, even if it meant giving up everything to start again.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” For a second Kenny could hardly believe he’d said it. The other typewriters stilled again, their eyes focused on him. Kenny rose, grabbed his briefcase, then strode across the room to retrieve his hat.

  “Oh horsefeathers!” Bixby shot to his feet, followed, and grabbed Kenny’s arm, stopping him. “You’re as stubborn as I am. Listen, Davenport, what if you just do the week in a life part? Forget the romance.”

  Kenny eyed his almost-former boss. “Really, sir? I thought the romance was the part you liked best.”

  “Well, I’m sure all the dames out there would love it, but I’m a newsman. Just the facts. We can leave romance for the gossip papers.”

  Kenny studied Bixby’s face. Bixby always drove a hard bargain. Why was he willing to compromise?

  “Don’t give me that look, son. I give you my word. Only the riveter story. It’ll save your job. It’s the only thing that will.” He reached out his hand. “Wouldn’t want to lose a fine reporter like you, Davenport.”