Mother swept down the stairs behind Allie, and her garnet velvet dress shimmered with her movements. “Shall we see what Santa brought?”
Allie laughed. “Mother, I’m twenty-three, not three.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“What have we here?” Father stood at the base of the stairs, his tuxedo a mirror image of the white and black marble floor. “If it isn’t Riverside’s two greatest beauties.”
Allie tripped and caught herself on the banister. Father never complimented her looks—her mind, her character, her achievements, but never her looks.
“Thank you, darling.” Mother brushed a kiss onto Father’s cheek, her voice cool. Including Allie had diminished the compliment to Mother.
What did Mother care? Every day Father told her how beautiful she was, but Allie had heard it only twice in her life, and only once had she felt beautiful. She touched her necklace and stifled disappointment when she found the emerald.
Baxter stood to kiss her cheek when she entered the drawing room. Couldn’t he be bothered to say she looked nice, or let his eyes light up, or do something to show appreciation? Josie’s vile accusation dug into her mind, and she shoved it out.
She knelt in front of the tree. The pine scent evoked equal shares of memories from Christmases and from summer vacations at Lake Arrowhead. Hand-painted glass ornaments twinkled in the glow of tiny electric lights and reminded her of the gorgeous porcelain doll she received when she was five, the exquisite dollhouse when she was eight, her first diamonds when she was sixteen. The Millers always had quiet celebrations, just the three of them until Baxter came along.
Baxter. Allie scanned the gifts and saw a small, cubical present. To Mary, from Stanley. She released her breath.
Allie passed gifts to Father and Baxter in their matching leather chairs flanking the fireplace, and to Mother on the settee she favored, then returned to her childhood position on the floor beside the tree.
Soon she had a pile of books and records before her. Baxter admired the smart briefcase Allie had bought him. She’d spotted the satchel at the same store. It had the same tone, smell, and feel as Walt’s flight jacket, and the right casual air for an aviator. Perhaps it was too nice a gift, but she couldn’t resist the chance to spend money she had earned on a dear friend.
Only one present for Allie remained, the cardboard mailing box from Walt marked, “Don’t open till Christmas.” She worked the string over one corner, opened the top, and removed crumpled newspapers, the
Stars and Stripes
.
She found a wooden grand piano, not much larger than her hand, painted black, with graceful legs. A brass key protruded underneath, and when Allie turned it, Beethoven’s “Für Elise” played. Next to the key, tiny white letters read, “Für Allie. W.J.N. ’42.”
The letters swam before her, and she blinked to clear her vision. It was the sweetest gift she’d ever received—beautiful, handcrafted, personal, and he even squeezed in some teasing.
“How lovely,” Mother said.
“Isn’t it?” Allie ran her finger down the painted keyboard, almost expecting Walt’s hand to flatten hers. “Walt made it himself.”
“He certainly sends nice presents,” Father said, a sharp edge in his voice.
She looked up. Surely he didn’t think Walt had a romantic interest in her. “He—he sends nice things to all his friends.” Why did that sadden her? She couldn’t expect to be the sole beneficiary of his generosity.
“Speaking of gifts.” Baxter set his cigarette in an ashtray on a marble top table. “I hope you don’t think I’ve neglected you.”
The music box wound down and hung up on the final notes. “Oh. No, of course not.” That’s right. She hadn’t opened anything from him.
“I wanted to wait. Save the best for last.”
The best? Oh no. The music stopped, the phrase hovering midair, its promise of completion unfulfilled.
Allie gripped the little piano in her lap, but she had to set it aside, had to take the box from Baxter.
Oh, please,
Lord. Please let it be earrings again. Clip-on, pierced, I don’t
care.
However, the pride in Baxter’s smile left no doubt about the box’s content. The only surprise was the opulence of the setting—almost gaudy.
“Only the best for my future wife.”
Her breath came out choppy, her eyes blinded by the dance of light in the numerous diamonds, her ears deaf to her parents’ exclamations of joy.
Yoked. Yoked together. Unequally yoked together.
“Oh, look, Stanley,” Mother said, her voice choked. “She’s speechless.”
Allie met her mother’s eyes, and for the first time she found the approval she longed for.
Baxter stooped in front of Allie, pulled the ring from the box, lifted her limp hand, and slipped the ring on. He didn’t ask. She didn’t accept. He kissed her on the lips. Number thirteen, but she rejected superstition.
It was done.
Allie’s eyes clouded. A loveless marriage, but it was a worthy sacrifice, a necessary sacrifice. Now Stanley Miller could pass his company to a capable man and still keep it in the family, Mary Miller had found a suitable match for her homely daughter, and J. Baxter Hicks had earned the boss’s favor, the boss’s daughter, an inheritance, prestige, and respectability.
She clutched the music box on the floor by her right hip. What would she tell Walt? Oh, why was she even thinking of Walt?
Baxter was talking. “. . . almost done. The floors go in soon, and the decorator will have the place ready in June. I wanted a June wedding, but July will have to do.”
July. Seven months.
“Well, come here, dear,” Mother said. “I want to see.”
She got to her knees, her feet, and stumbled, her foot caught in her dress. Her parents laughed. Apparently they thought she was overcome with happiness.
Allie made her way to the settee, where Mother took her hand.
“Oh my. Isn’t that—isn’t that dazzling?” She stood and clasped Allie’s face between her hands. Her green eyes, so much like Allie’s, brimmed with tears. “Oh, I’m so proud of you. And look at you, crying for joy.”
A tear tickled as it dangled on Allie’s jaw, then scurried down her neck. She was going to cry harder—great, gulping sobs no one would mistake for joy. “I need to go. I need to show Cressie.”
“I’m sure you can’t wait to show your friends.”
Allie nodded her face free and headed for the door.
“You don’t mean now, do you?”
“Yes, now.”
“But—but dinner.”
Allie gripped the doorjamb between the drawing room and the entry, looked over her shoulder, and prodded her mouth into a smile. “I can’t wait. I won’t be long.”
She knew she was a sight, alone on Christmas Day on the streets of Riverside, no wrap, no hat, no purse, her formal gown whipping around her ankles.
As soon as she knocked on Cressie’s door, she realized she’d made a mistake. The sounds of many voices drifted from the saffron-colored house. She winced and turned away, hoping no one had heard her knock.
“Hello?”
Allie turned back, one foot on the top porch step.
A woman in her forties peered through the screen door. “May I help you?”
“I—I’m sorry.” Allie twisted her hands together and longed for a purse. “I was—well, I thought I’d drop by and see Cress—Mrs. Watts, but I wasn’t—well, it’s Christmas, of course, and I don’t mean to impose, so I’ll come back later.”
The woman opened the screen door and squinted. Evaporating tears tingled on Allie’s face. “Ma, you have a visitor.”
“Oh no. No, really, I’ll come back later. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
Cressie appeared in the doorway and grinned. “Allie! What a sur—” She squinted too. “Are you all right, love?”
Her concern made Allie lose whatever composure she’d maintained. Her chest heaved, a sob erupted, and she held up her diamond-encrusted hand.
“Allie, Allie.” Cressie wiped her hands on her apron, stepped outside, and took her hand. “Oh my. Oh my, that’s a fancy ring. I suppose I should congratulate you.” She locked questioning eyes on Allie.
She gulped and nodded.
Cressie put her arm around Allie’s shoulder and guided her to a porch swing. Despite the gray layer of dust, Allie sat.
“Well, I’m plumb flabbergasted,” Cressie said.
“Flab—flabbergasted?” Allie’s legs bent as Cressie set the swing in motion.
“Yep. I thought he’d wait till after the war so he could ask in person.”
“What do you mean?” Allie wiped her face as best she could with her hand.
“You need a hanky.” Cressie dug in her apron pocket and handed Allie a plain white handkerchief. “Flabbergasted. Your young man sounded like such a romantic fellow.”
Baxter? Romantic? She dabbed her eyes and inhaled a deep, ratcheting breath.
“That’s one fancy ring, but I see why you’re upset. Not romantic to mail it.”
Allie looked up from the handkerchief. “Mail it? He didn’t mail it.”
Cressie frowned. “How’d he get it from England?”
“England! Oh dear, no. No, that’s Walt, my friend Walt. He’s—he’s not my boyfriend. Baxter is.”
“Who’s Baxter?”
Not again. Allie flattened the handkerchief over her face. “I know—I
know
I talk about him. I make sure I talk about him. Baxter Hicks. He works for my father.”
“I’ll be.” Cressie didn’t speak for a minute. “Hmm. Well, you did say Walt was only a friend, but then you kept talking about a boyfriend, so I thought things had changed. Hmm. So that’s why you sometimes talk as if he’s right here in town. Two different men, two different men. You’ve got yourself in a fine pickle, Miss Allegra.”
“A pickle?” She pressed her eyeballs until golden lights appeared.
“Yep.” The chains on the porch swing squeaked when Cressie halted its motion. “Hmm. You got me so discombobulated when you quoted 1 Peter, because I thought your young man was a brother in Christ. Let me get this straight. Walt’s a believer and Baxter isn’t?”
“Yes.” Allie tensed herself for a lecture.
Cressie set the swing rocking again. “Baxter. Hmm. What have you told me about Baxter? Hmm. Your parents are right fond of him, are they?”
“Uh-huh.” Was that all she’d mentioned about him?
“Hmm. Walt’s the pilot. Searched for you in Herb Galloway’s cab. Writes those letters you talk about all the time. Didn’t you call him one of your favorite people in the world?”
Allie nodded and groaned. Oh, how bad that sounded. Now Cressie thought she was in love with Walt.
“Yep,” Cressie said. “A fine pickle.”
Thurleigh
January 7, 1943
“Ready to be paddled?”
Earl Butterfield walked out of the CO’s office and rubbed his backside. Nervous laughter rumbled in the hallway where Walt stood with half a dozen other first pilots and one copilot— Cracker.
“You’re next, Preach.” Butterfield leaned close enough for Walt to see brown hairs in his blond mustache. “Watch out. Armstrong’s nothing like Overacker.”
That’s why Armstrong was there. On January 4, Ira Eaker, the commanding general of the Eighth Air Force, had visited Thurleigh to investigate the high losses and high level of aborts in the 306th. He found lax discipline and low morale, and replaced Overacker with Col. Frank Armstrong, who had led the Eighth’s first mission back in August.
Walt made sure his service jacket was straight, walked into the CO’s office, and snapped a salute. Armstrong sat behind his desk, his head bent over a file.
“At ease, Lieutenant Novak.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and waited while Colonel Armstrong read the file. If he wanted to make Walt nervous, it worked. Even though he had nothing in his file to be ashamed of, he felt as if he were back in the principal’s office for putting gum in Lulu Parker’s hair.
The colonel set the file down and raised a sharp-lined face. “On December 30, seventeen out of eighteen bombers from this group aborted the mission.”
“Yes, sir.” And the one that continued was shot down.
“You didn’t fly that day, Lieutenant.”
“No, sir. My plane took heavy damage over Romilly. She’s still in the hangar.”
“You’ve never aborted one mission.”
“No, sir. Sergeant Reilly and the rest of my ground crew do a great job.”
Armstrong fixed his gaze on Walt. Behind the steel, Walt saw something he liked—integrity and intelligence. “I saw your designs for a nose-mounted gun. As you know, an armorer and a welder from this group implemented something similar.”
“Yes, sir. No connection to my design.”
The CO flipped through some papers in the file. “Your record is exemplary, and your squadron commander speaks highly of your performance. The strike photos show good accuracy.”
“Lieutenant Ruben is an excellent bombardier.”
Again with that gaze. “And the rest of your crew?”
Walt paused. With one exception, they were great. “Lieutenant Fontaine has never let me down at the navigator’s desk, nor has Sergeant Perkins in the radio room. Sergeant Sanchez is one of the most intelligent and dedicated men I’ve ever met—officer material. As for my gunners, their records speak for themselves.”
Armstrong leaned back in his chair and waited—for Walt’s assessment of Cracker, no doubt. “I thought so. Now, I’m making changes around here. More work, more discipline, and I’ve put you in for a promotion to captain.”
Walt reminded himself to blink. He wasn’t getting paddled. He was getting promoted.
“You’ll make a fine squadron commander—and soon.”
Squadron commander? He wasn’t just catching up with Ray and Jack, he was passing them. What would Dad say about that?
“One problem—Lieutenant Huntington’s record is abysmal. How this man passed flight school is beyond me. In fact, I have a formal protest letter in his file from one of his flight instructors—interesting, a Lt. Raymond Novak. Any relation?”
“My oldest brother, sir.”
“His concerns were well founded. I know you won’t object if I transfer Huntington to a ground job.”
“We fly as a crew.”
Walt frowned. Why would those words of his come back now when he had a chance to get rid of the man who’d been a jagged pebble in his shoe? “Sir, we fly as a crew.”