“Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven her?”
Walt ran his thumb over the stitches on the ball. “No, but I should. After all, Joseph forgave his brothers who sold him into slavery, Jesus forgave the men who nailed him to the cross, and he forgave my sins too. I suppose I can forgive a girl for being friendly.”
“Hmm.” Frank tugged off his shoes. “Are you going to write her?”
“Not on your life.”
Frank stretched out on the cot, silent. Walt got out his B-17 manual, eager to get his mind back on planes. He flipped through. All the men had to learn from the manual, since no one had experience in the Flying Fortress. The 306th still had only a handful of Forts, so the crews took turns, and the planes flew round the clock.
“You should write her.”
“Huh?” Walt looked up from the takeoff checklist.
“Allie. You should write her. You really liked her.”
Walt sighed. He didn’t want to talk about Allie anymore.
“Did you like her as a person, or just as a potential girlfriend?”
Why did Frank have to talk everything to death? “Both, I guess. She’s a great girl. We really . . . we understood each other.”
Frank wiggled his toes. “You said she needs friends. Write her.”
“Uh-uh. She knows I’m crazy about her.”
“Why? What’d you say?”
Walt dog-eared the page with the takeoff checklist. “Um, I said she was lovely. Beautiful eyes. Glad I could talk to her.”
Frank was quiet so long, Walt glanced over. Frank gave him a blank stare. “You’re a regular Romeo, aren’t you?”
He groaned and clapped his manual shut. He was a regular fool.
“Come on, I bet she doesn’t know how you feel. Write her. Besides, if anything happens with what’s-his-name, you’ll be next in line.”
That thought had occurred to Walt too. He shook his head. “That’s not right. Anyhow, I threw away her address.”
“Get it from your friends.”
“Are you kidding? They know how I feel. I’d look like an even bigger fool, begging for crumbs of friendship. Short of going through the Riverside phone book, there’s no way to get her address.”
“March Field.” Frank sat up, face bright. “Say, I know a fellow there. He can look it up for you.”
Walt stood and slipped on his khaki shirt. “Last name’s Miller.”
Frank winced. “Too bad.”
“Yeah. Too bad.” He slung his lightweight A-2 flight jacket over his shoulder and walked outside. The sun blazed, but it had almost set over the jagged mountains in the distance. After he got his flight gear from the equipment shed, he headed to the runway. Not that they needed paved runways—a man could land a plane anywhere on the salt flats.
“Hiya, Preach.”
He squinted into the sun and saw Harry, Mario, and Al walk toward him—away from the planes. “Hi. Where are you going?”
Harry unbuckled his parachute harness and shrugged it off. “Night navigational flight. Cracker says we don’t have to go.”
Walt’s chest simmered. “Cracker’s wrong. We fly as a crew.”
“Why should we have to?” Al blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Not a gunnery training flight.”
“We all have to get used to the plane, the altitude, oxygen. Better now than in combat. Besides, don’t you want your flight pay?”
Al cussed. “I’d rather have a night off.”
Walt didn’t want to order them, but he would if he had to. “We fly as a crew.” He strode to the assigned plane, followed by his gunners, who spouted vocabulary that burned Walt’s ears more than the desert sun.
“Wish Cracker was the first pilot,” Mario muttered.
“Cracker says the CO must have had his reasons for putting Preach in charge,” Harry said. “Can’t imagine what they were.”
Walt climbed through the rear fuselage door into the waist compartment of the B-17, too furious with his copilot to admire the craft. He went through the radio room and bomb bay and into the cockpit.
Cracker lounged in the copilot’s seat. “Say, Preach, what do you think?” He thrust a girlie magazine in Walt’s face.
He snatched it and dropped it to the floor. “I think you should read the manual instead of that trash.”
“Whoa, Preach. Get out of your pulpit.” Cracker smirked and retrieved the magazine. “Hey, why are those guys here? I sent them back to quarters.”
“You sent them. I didn’t. We fly as a crew.” He took his seat and tried to find the preflight checklist in his manual, but his fingers didn’t cooperate.
Cracker turned in his seat and called down the length of the plane, “Sorry, fellas. I tried to get you out of it.”
“We know,” Harry called back. “Thanks, anyway.”
Walt could barely see the print. Cracker had made him out to be a self-righteous slave driver, and to keep some shred of authority, that’s exactly what Walt had to be.
Riverside
July 20, 1942
Dearest darling Allie,
Can you ever forgive me? I received a
letter today from Louise Morgan. She told
me you didn’t know Walt was smitten,
and you were certain he knew about Baxter.
Then I remembered how you asked me after
the serenade whether Walt knew you had a
boyfriend. Now I see your innocence in the
matter.
Can you ever forgive me for my rash words? I
overlooked four years of precious friendship and
all that I know of your character. How could I
jump to such disgraceful conclusions? Please,
please forgive me.
Betty begged Allie’s forgiveness for two more paragraphs, then filled several pages on the joys of married life and the latest Antioch happenings.
Allie folded the letter. A dead weight lifted from her chest, and light filled its place. She still felt ashamed of how she treated Walt, sad over the loss of his friendship, and uncomfortable that Betty gave her more pardon than warranted, but her friendship with Betty was restored.
“Good news?” Mother smiled over the top of
Sunset
magazine.
“Oh yes.” She picked up her mending and settled back in the wicker chair on the porch. She shared bits of Betty’s news, and then the men returned to their evening conversation. The War Production Board had formed the Smaller War Plants Division to give companies like Miller Ball Bearings a chance for military contracts. All was well.
Until “He Wears a Pair of Silver Wings” played on the radio through the open sitting room window. Allie strained to concentrate on the description of the new bureaucracy, but then Father stopped talking, leaned forward, and gazed down the long drive.
“Who would come to visit in a taxi?” he asked.
Allie looked over the porch railing. A taxi stopped where the driveway circled in front of the house, and two men stepped out. Both wore khaki shirts and trousers. One man was tall and lean with red hair under his cap, but the other man . . .
Dinah Shore’s voice floated through the window, soft and mellow.
Why was Walter here? How did he—oh yes, she gave him her address. But why? After how she treated him? Oh no! He’d come to expose her behavior—just what she deserved, but oh no. Her heart raced, and she wished it would gallop away and take her along.
“Hi, Allie.” Walt waved up at her with a bright smile.
A smile? Allie could only follow his lead and weather the storm when it broke. “Hi.” She stood, and her mending slipped to the floor. Her hand trembled when she stooped to retrieve it. “To—to what do we owe the pleasure?”
He climbed the porch steps. “Flew into March today. Traded in our old B-18s for brand-new B-17Es. We fly back to Wendover in the morning. I figured while I was in town, I’d drop by.”
“Oh. Oh, how nice.” She sensed three people on their feet behind her. Now came the dreaded moment.
“Hi, I’m Lt. Walter Novak.” He extended his hand to Father. “I grew up with George and Betty Anello. I met Allie at the wedding. And this is my friend, Lt. Frank Kilpatrick.”
“How do you do? I’m Stanley Miller. My wife, Mary.”
Allie shook Frank’s hand, dazed by the pleasantries and handshakes, as if this situation were normal.
“You must be Baxter.” Walt offered his hand. “Good to finally meet you. You wouldn’t believe how much Allie talks about you.”
Those words kicked her in the breastbone, so hard she couldn’t breathe. Would he expose her now? No, he chatted amiably with Baxter. With those words, he’d flattered Baxter and portrayed Walt and Allie’s friendship as innocent. For some reason, he protected her instead of exposing her. Allie’s breath returned, ragged but reviving.
Walt and Frank took the seats Father showed them on the porch. Allie’s legs almost gave way as she sat. The scene was surreal. In the cool of the early evening, Father, Mother, Baxter, Walt, and Frank discussed B-17s, ball bearings, and the progress in the Pacific.
“Listen, Baxter,” Walt said after some time. “I need to ask you something. You see, I asked Allie to write me. But our friend Betty—boy, did she give me a rough time. She says I can’t write another man’s girlfriend.”
He still wanted to correspond? He was asking Baxter’s permission? Allie stared at him—a gentleman, a friend.
Baxter shrugged. “Why would I mind? I’ve never had a reason to be jealous.”
Allie twisted her mending in her lap. If only he knew.
“Well, I wouldn’t like it if the woman I loved started writing some scruffy pilot all of a sudden.”
She forced herself to breathe. He actually thought Baxter loved her?
Baxter tapped out a few cigarettes and offered one to Frank, who accepted, and Walt, who declined. “If she wants to show her patriotism by writing servicemen, it’s fine with me. Better than if she joined the WAACs.”
Allie stiffened. What if she did join the WAACs? Wasn’t that her decision to make?
Frank lit the cigarette and shielded the flame with his cupped hand. Then he took the glowing cigarette from his mouth. “Say, Walt, don’t you think you’d better ask the lady whether she wants to write a scruffy pilot?”
He chuckled. “Sorry, but you promised to write. I figured you keep your promises.”
Allie nodded, her head heavy with the meaning of his statement.
Mother straightened the stack of magazines on the wicker table. “You gentlemen must be thirsty after that long flight.”
“Yes.” Allie sprang to her feet, embarrassed to have slighted her hostess duties and relieved at the chance of temporary escape. “Iced tea, lemonade, or water?”
“Lemonade? Come on, Walt.” Frank got up and set hands on hips. “Would you look at our proper hostess, flustered because her guests want to help.” He grabbed Allie’s elbow and steered her across the porch. “I’m one of eight children, and I’m already up to four myself. Boys, girls, everyone helps in a big family. Did I mention my wife had a baby girl a few weeks ago? Finally, a girl after three boys. I get to meet her tonight. Kathleen Mary Rose. My wife and kids caught a train from L.A., and I’m meeting them at the station at eight o’clock.”
“Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.” She smiled at Frank and fumbled for the doorknob. Goodness, he talked a lot.
“Talks as much as Betty, doesn’t he?” Walt said behind her. She laughed, nodded, and swung open the front door.
“You know what they say about the Irish—full o’ the blarney,” Frank said in an affected brogue. “Isn’t this a grand house? I’ve never been in one this big.”
Jaws dropped at the sight of the marble entryway, the sweeping staircase, and the crystal chandelier. Allie winced.
Frank let out a low whistle and peered into the sitting room to the right and the dining room beyond. “Wow. How many rooms has this place got?”
She edged toward the kitchen. “Plenty.”
“She doesn’t like to call attention to her wealth.” Walt gave her a smile and pointed with his thumb to the drawing room on the left. “Is that where you play?”
“Yes.” Her stomach knotted when she saw the room through new eyes—the opulent woodwork, the plasterwork on the ceiling, the antiques, the Persian rug, the oil paintings, and the grand piano like a jewel in the center of the room.
“Wow,” Walt said. “I’ve always wanted to play a grand piano.”
“Please do. After all, I played your piano.”
“Hardly a fair exchange, but I won’t turn you down.” He headed to the piano. “What are you working on? I was right. Beethoven.”
Allie laughed. His teasing was as unexpected and welcome as Betty’s letter. Dorothy and Betty must have been mistaken about his feelings. “No, you said I couldn’t play anything newer than Beethoven, and I believe I proved you wrong.”
“Boy, did you. Frank, this lady plays a mean piano.”
“Looks like a nice piano to me. Say, Walt, you want to play a grand piano, well, this is my dream.” Frank hoisted himself up and stretched on his side along the piano top.
Allie gasped, then laughed. Never had anyone dared to sit on the Miller piano.
“Play me a song, flyboy,” Frank said in a falsetto. He leaned over and flicked off Walt’s cap.
Walt chuckled and slapped his cap on. “Sorry. Your dream doesn’t appeal to me.”
Frank sat upright, eyes flashing. “No, we need a woman. Behold, I see a woman.” He hopped to the floor, and before Allie could protest, Frank grabbed her around the waist and set her atop the piano.
She looked down into his brilliant blue eyes and laughed. “My mother would kill me if she saw me up here.”
“First she’d have to get past two of Uncle Sam’s finest.” Walt played a few measures, and a smile flickered on his lips.
“You’re right, Novak.” Frank leaned closer to Allie. “She does have the most gorgeous green eyes.”