His Very Own Girl (6 page)

“You mind if I skip lunch, sir?” Joe had never asked anything of his platoon leader, but this was important. His mind was jammed with bright, grisly images. “I need a smoke and a walk.”

Banks pulled his lower lip in over his teeth, a grimacing expression he wore when he was thinking. He was a movie producer’s son, a regular swell with looks and dough to spare, but he was also one of those rare, respected officers who actually knew what he was doing. “Take what time you need. I’ll clear it with Capt. Crowly.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And then their association fell back into place. Banks resumed the organization of his men, while Joe sorted his aid bag, pulled his Zippo out of his breast pocket, and lit a cigarette. Unexpectedly, as the company came together via the chain of command, he found himself accepting handshakes and murmured words of praise. The platoon’s subdued appreciation eased over him, blunting the worst of the aftermath.

With a deep breath he fell into formation and marched with Baker Company toward the mess hall. He might not be able to eat, but he no longer felt the need to be alone.

chapter five

Lulu stood outside of the Leicester Cinema, her apprehension growing by the minute. “Paulie, I’m not sure about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Paulie said, practically bouncing up and down with anticipation. “It’s only one night. That’s in keeping with your philosophy about servicemen, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but generally I know the chap before I spend an evening with him in a darkened theater.”

“Unlike Paulie,” Betsy chimed in.

Paulie stuck out her tongue, then returned to Lulu. “Besides, aren’t you eager to celebrate?”

“That I am.”

Based on her testimony alone, she’d cleared the Accidents Committee’s inquisition without issue. Nicky hadn’t needed to speak on her behalf, although his presence had done much to keep her calm and rational.

Yet her mind was never calm, never rational. Three weeks had passed since she’d plowed that Hurricane into the airstrip at Wymeswold. Forgoing her staunch rules, she still hadn’t been able to shake Joe Weber.

Lulu twirled a lock of hair. She was in uniform, as always, but a skirt, stockings, and low patent leather pumps made the fact she was going on a blind date even more apparent. To distract herself she watched a pair of RAF officers across the street. Leaning against the wall of a bakery that had closed for the night, the men passed a cigarette back and forth, sharing the puffs equally. She smiled at such an amicable picture of rationing. Faded playbills for an all-girl orchestra fluttered above their heads like a dozen black-and-white handkerchiefs. A giant U.S. Army truck lumbered down the thoroughfare, honking to disperse pedestrians. The RAF officers had moved on by the time the truck passed.

“I hope he doesn’t expect too much,” she said, almost to herself. “I’m here to take in a picture show and keep him company, not suffer through an evening-long bodily assault.”

Betsy snickered. “Then you’re not thinking realistically.”

“Cool down,” Paulie said. “Whoever he is, I’m sure he won’t be so rude as to harbor expectations. Smitty said his friend simply doesn’t have a date.”

“So it’s Smitty now?” Betsy’s smile teased like the Cheshire Cat. “You’re a one-woman USO, Paulie dear.”

“I do my bit for king and country.”

“And for the Allied forces, too,” Lulu added.

“But I don’t want some lonesome soldier cluttering up one-on-one time with my new chap.” Paulie took a folding mirror and her nearly empty tube of lipstick out of her handbag. “And you, Louise.
You
don’t have a date. Problem solved. Just recall what it’s worth to you and you can thank me later.”

In return for this favor, Paulie—who never cared much one way or the other about flying new aircraft—had promised to take her name out of the running for the four-engine training spots. Paulie also knew Evelyn Wambaugh from her days at Hatfield.
Lulu, you’ve never met a pilot more resembling a timid little mouse
. Now one of the spots at Marston Moor was sure to go to Lulu. All she had to do was spend the evening with a man she’d never met. Not too difficult, actually. She spent most of her free evenings that way.

Lulu smiled. Yes, this would work out fine.

While they waited outside the cinema for the men to arrive, Lulu glanced at the crowd milling around the ticket office. So many Americans. She wondered, once they’d won the war, if the sight of Yankees in khaki and olive drab would actually become a thing of the past. Not even the most provincial little hamlets had been left unaffected by the boys’ favorite reminders of home—Betty Grable and
Esquire,
Lucky Strikes and the jive. Would England miss all that joyous, uncouth energy?

And irony of ironies, would she miss the freedom the war had provided? Every day she worked toward Allied victory was a day she took flying for granted. That privilege was unlikely to survive peacetime.

Skirting the impulse to borrow trouble, Lulu studied individual men. She found such a variety, with freckles, mustaches, tan skin, beanpole bodies, ginger hair, even wrinkles. Their only commonality was some manner of service uniform.

She wasn’t searching for one soldier in particular. Certainly not.

Yet none of the faces matched what her mind sought: his tranquil smile, intense green eyes, and square features. The strangeness of how their night had ended still wouldn’t ebb. He had been so calm, so steady and composed. Then in a blink he’d turned into a two-fisted bruiser, breaking a lance against a superior officer for reasons she would never know. Men came and went, and sometimes she didn’t even learn their names—just a dance or two before moving on—but he was a mystery she hadn’t been able to forget.

“There he is! Smitty!” Paulie waved.

Lulu grinned to herself as the scene played out like a practiced melodrama. At least in the whole crazy scheme of the war, some things remained the same.

“Wait,
he’s
your date?”

Betsy’s incredulity caught Lulu’s attention. She craned her neck and looked through a forest of soldiers and airmen. “A private, Paulie? Truly?”

Paulie shot them both dirty looks, then closed the scant distance between her and a scrawny freckle-faced kid. But rather than flirt or twirl or embrace him as she had Harry Dixon, she pulled up short and laced her hands behind her back, looking for all the world like an embarrassed schoolgirl. She seemed to have a persona to match every man she met.

“Where did she find this one?” Lulu whispered. “Did she tell you?”

Betsy shrugged, her focus on the unlikely couple. “Where does she meet any of her fellas? I thought they disembarked from troopships knowing her name, address, and favorite color.”

Lulu’s laughter breathed its last when she noticed who stood at Smitty’s side.

Joe.

Her heart pitched. Had he been there the whole time? Lulu resented the distraction of Paulie’s new partner because that meant she’d missed valuable seconds preparing for the impact of seeing Joe again.
He
was her date?

“Here,” Paulie said, “meet my friends. Betsy, Lulu, this is Pvt. Peter Smithson.”

“Call me Smitty. Everybody does. And this is Doc Web. He’s another medic, like me.”

Paulie smiled as if tea had just been served, but Lulu read the truth on her face. No wonder she’d been so eager to trade favors. Not once in their years together had Paulie accepted Lulu’s need to maintain her emotional distance.

You planned this.

Her friend’s expression briefly fell, but then she laughed and was Paulie again. “Well, well, what a coincidence.” She slid her arm through Smitty’s and snuggled closer, as if behind a defensive perimeter. “Doc Web, we brought Lulu along as your date. We didn’t know you were going to be you, of course, but . . . we’re all here now!”

Betsy giggled. “Well said.”

Joe’s gaze rested on Lulu, as warm as a blanket on a snowy winter’s eve. She’d expected antagonism, maybe even resentment. Surely after the awkward way they’d parted, he would want nothing to do with her. Yet her assumption wasn’t reflected on his face.

Her mission accomplished, apparently, Paulie turned her date toward the ticket office without a backward glance.

“All the girls and Smitty,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand it.”

“That poor kid probably doesn’t realize she earns three times as much as he does,” Betsy added. Then she cast a curious look between Lulu and Joe. “The show will be starting soon. I’m going to go find a seat.”

Lulu wanted to call her friend back, to make her stay, but she held her tongue and looked the tall medic up and down. “I’m sorry about this.”

“What for?” He leaned nearer. “I’ll share a secret. I was in on it.”

“You?”

“It’s probably my turn to apologize, but I won’t. I wanted to see you again.” Joe took her hands and smiled. “So how’d Paulie get you to agree? I mean, I assume she played an angle.”

“You think so?”

“Otherwise you would’ve begged off the moment you saw me.”

Lulu caught a hint of reproach in his voice. Was it aimed at her or at himself? After all, she hadn’t turned him down because of his fight with Dixon. Joe could’ve ended the night with a Punch-and-Judy show and her answer would’ve remained the same. But he seemed prepared, even eager, to take the blame.

Perhaps it was instinct—an elemental understanding of how poorly he would handle deceit. Or perhaps it was knowing she had nothing to lose. Lulu decided to tell the truth. “Paulie took her name out of the running for four-engine aircraft training. Now only three women will compete for the two remaining spots.”

Joe’s mouth tightened. Furrows she hadn’t noticed deepened on either side of his nose. “You want to fly four-engine bombers?”

“They’re not all bombers. The Skymaster’s only a transport. And why not? They’re not so much bigger than the two-engine Dakotas you jump out of—which I already fly.”

“And you simply ignore the dangers of something like that?”

“Ignore? Hardly. There’s a reason why certification takes two weeks, no matter how experienced the pilot.”

He crossed robust arms over his chest and settled into what must’ve been his most masculine, most condescending pose: chin tipped down, expression patient and disbelieving. He started to speak once again, but Lulu cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Honestly, I don’t care to hear any more,” she said. “Whatever you have to say, button it. Are we going to see this picture, or aren’t we?”

They’d become gunfighters from a John Wayne western. She licked her lips, waiting for his reply. His eyes darted down to catch the flick of her tongue.

Well, he was certainly interested. She should luxuriate in the novelty of her new bauble, but a quick surge of electric apprehension made her shiver. She didn’t want him to find her attractive. Well, not beyond the usual. And she certainly didn’t want to experience that pleasurable rush of knowing he did. But there it was.

His antagonism toward her ambitions as a pilot—not to mention the fact he was a solider—did nothing to quell her fascination.

Besides, Paulie was right. She
did
feel like celebrating.

“What do you say, Private?”

He ignored the hand she extended. Instead, boldly, he slid his palms along either side of her waist. He could’ve pulled their bodies together, pelvis to pelvis, but he merely let the possibility linger.

Did he do it on purpose, nudging the idea into her head so that it became all she wanted? Or was it an accident born of his hesitation? Their closeness without touching became a gentle sort of cruelty.

“A film it is.” He laced his fingers along the inward dip of her lower back. “But I don’t care how much money you make playing girl pilot. I’m buying.”