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

husband, who’d left for basic training two months ago.
    “I’m missin’ my Pete like nobody’s business,” Clara said as they walked together toward the floor. “Hey, how’d that date go the other night? What was that airman’s name?”
    Rosalie shrugged. “Jack.”
    “Now that boy’s got one of those chiseled jaws, and those dimples make women swoon. If I were single—”
    “The date went fine. And I appreciate you girls trying to set me up—even though you tricked me into it,” she scolded.
    “Oh, sweetie,” Eunice piped in, slowing her pace to walk beside them. Nearly half Clara’s size, Eunice’s job was to climb into the smaller spaces of the plane to work on wiring. “We just thought you needed some fun.”
    “And sneaking out of the movie, leaving me alone with Humphrey Bogart, Madeleine LeBeau, and Jack—whose idea was that? Poor Airman Jack had to suffer through all my tears.” Rosalie grasped Eunice’s shoulder. “That’s your idea of fun?”
    “Ain’t it yours?” Eunice smirked.
    “It was very kind of you all.” Rosalie gave a swat to Eunice’s rear. “Jack was very nice, but he’s shipping out this week. I’m just not interested in those army boys. You know how it is.”
    Birdie sidled up and looped her arm around Rosalie’s neck. “Then we’ll have to find you a civilian. Some unsuspecting sap.”
    A united chortle arose from the ladies.
    “Good luck with that one,” Rosalie bantered. Her mind carried her back to Kenny Davenport, but she pushed his smiling face from her memory.
    “Don’t you worry. If there’s a worthy non-flyboy or jughead in Seattle, I’ll be the one to find him for you!” Birdie’s bouncy blond hair jiggled as her contagious laugh splashed through the line.
    They passed another Rosie the Riveter poster, and Birdie paused. “Hey, you know what?” Birdie gave Rosalie a once-over. “That girl kinda looks like you.”
    Rosalie laughed. “Not with those muscles.”
    “No, I think she’s right,” Eunice added. “Rosalie the Riveter. How about that?”
    “C’mon.” Birdie curled her arm like Rosie on the poster. “Do it with me.”
    A chuckle sneaked past Rosalie’s lips. “Oh, all right.” She posed, even tilting her chin for emphasis. “I can do it.”
    The pack of ladies clapped, and Rosalie smiled at her friends’ support, grateful for them. And grateful for her rivet gun’s ability to shoot away her worries.
    “Uh-oh, ladies, look at the clock,” Clara warned. “We’d better light a fire under it.”
    Entering the production line, Rosalie took in the sight that never ceased to impress her. A hundred B-17 bomber cockpits were lined up in rows on the plant floor. Sunshine beamed through the ten-story-high windows, and a whole world seemed to swirl in the heights of the scaffoldings. The din of mechanical sounds—rivet guns, saws, hammers, and more—blended together, producing the resonant hum that both comforted and excited Rosalie.
    Rosalie and Birdie tromped toward the tool crib, where Ralph waited. His cocoa-colored face wore a grumpy expression, but he always made sure Rosalie and Birdie got the best tools.
    A stocky, middle-aged male riveter swaggered away from the gate. “Twenty-seven hundred rivets in one shift,” Bill Anderson stepped in Rosalie’s path, cutting her off. The arms of his shirt had been rolled up to display his bulging muscles, and his cocky demeanor caused Rosalie’s stomach to turn. “Which makes us only four hundred short of the national record.”
    His eighteen-year-old son, George, skulked beside him.
    “A woman could never come close to that,” Bill continued, leering at Rosalie. “Could you, sweetheart?” His bald head reflected the overhead lights, making him look like a polka-dotted monster from a Saturday flick at the Fifth Avenue Theatre.
    Birdie’s hands shot to her hips. “Real funny, Bill.”
    Rosalie stepped around Bill and tugged on Birdie’s sleeve, urging her forward. “Not