Read Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington for Free Online

today.”
    Thank goodness for Iris, at least. Her friend had probably saved her job by giving her a quick lift on her motorcycle.
    Rosalie smoothed her slacks where the cola had spilt. Still sticky. The thought of the handsome reporter sent a cool tingle to her neck. Probably because Iris had gibed about her and Kenny’s “moony” introduction all the way to the plant.
    “Give the guy a chance,” Iris had said. Thankfully her friend and neighbor had seen the show and come to Rosalie’s rescue. “Who else do you know that’s been introduced on stage by Lana Turner?”
    The auto parts deliverer—the first woman in Seattle to do the job—even thought up a plan. “Write him a note,” Iris had ordered. “Apologize, and give him your number. I’ll deliver it.” Rosalie had crumbled to her friend’s demands, and now her thoughts pingponged back and forth, wondering if she’d done the right thing.
    If I see him again, I can apologize.
    He’ll most likely never call anyway.
    What if he calls? What will I say?
    He probably thinks I’m a floozy. The nerve of sending my number!
    Then again, he did seem like a nice guy. Maybe he’s not like other reporters.
    But she didn’t have time to worry about those things now. She had a job to do.
    Factory sounds filled the air, and Rosalie had to admit she felt useful here, important. A part of something. Once a woman entered the plant doors, it didn’t matter if she was single or married, a mother, or even a grandmother. At work, she was judged by the job she accomplished, not by who was waiting for her back home or dreaming about her from far away.
    She admitted—if only to herself—she was lonely without Vic. He’d been her best friend for so long, and despite the way she’d sent him off, she missed him. But who was she to whine? She was merely one in a world of women who’d lost their men to the war.
    A part of her heart longed for love—she wasn’t afraid to confess that. Moreover, in quiet moments, she even admitted to twinges of curiosity about others’ “head over heels” experiences—like Birdie’s with her husband, John.
    As Vic had done, John flew the B-17 bombers Rosalie and Birdie riveted. While he was deployed, John sent Birdie the most romantic V-mail messages. And they weren’t just mushy nonsense. The parts Birdie shared conveyed deep honesty and even vulnerability. John always encouraged Birdie to trust in God, to stay cheerful, and he regularly signed off with an instruction: Keep laughing.
    Birdie certainly knew how to laugh. When she’d asked Rosalie if she was interested in rooming together while their men were gone, Rosalie hadn’t hesitated. After Vic died, Rosalie’s bubbly friend’s laugh lifted her out of the dark hours. Her patient, listening ear enwrapped Rosalie with the comfort of not treading alone along the isolated path of grief.
    The letters Vic wrote while away at training had been filled with encouragement for Rosalie too, but they’d lacked passion. Sometimes Rosalie wondered if this elusive phenomenon—romance, passion, true love—would ever find her. Maybe someday, but romance was not for her now. Even if Kenny did call, she’d make up for her sour attitude, but she wouldn’t let it go any further.
    Rosalie shoved a stray strand of hair inside her bandanna as she slinked past the boss’s office. His large window overlooked the floor, and she could see her boss inside, scribbling something on the ledger in front of him. Light reflected off the top of his balding head, and she hoped he wouldn’t look up to see her late arrival.
    Rosalie opened the door to the hallway that led to both the locker room and the production floor. The mechanical din rumbling through one of the world’s largest buildings grew in volume, and the unsettling thoughts of love dissipated. She breathed in the plant’s metallic smell, welcoming the sense of calm determination that settled over her. This is what’s important.
    A high-pitched