said.
She stared at her friends. She’d always envisioned them with their cans of white paint, their eager paintbrushes.
A new image formed in her mind. Kay sat in God’s hand like a tiny china doll. And the Lord smiled at her with a kind and loving look no man had ever given her—not for taking but only for giving. He held a paintbrush in front of her, waiting for permission.
Only he could paint her white. Not her friends. Not Kay herself. Only the Lord.
Kay closed her eyes as something warm and unfamiliar and irresistible stirred in her chest.
He waited.
She opened her eyes. “It’s time.”
13
Dinjan, India
May 8, 1944
Growing up on a farm, Roger had been raised to view rain with both gratitude and caution. Rain was a blessing, necessary for growth, but too much at the wrong time was a curse.
Roger stood by the tail of his plane alone in the downpour. The heavy rains that had fallen in India in April and the first week of May reduced the amount of cargo the Troop Carrier Groups could transport to the besieged troops in Imphal. But the thunderstorms allowed the ground crews to repair battle damage and the flight crews to rest.
Monsoon season didn’t even start until June.
He poked his toe at a shimmering puddle. Plop. Plop. Splash. How could he resist?
“And I was worried Roger Cooper might grow up.”
Roger smiled at Bill Shelby approaching from behind. “If my mom were here, she’d cluck her tongue and say, ‘Twenty-nine going on ten.’ ”
Shelby nodded at the plane. “How’s she coming along?”
“The mechanics are top-notch. They said she’d be ready tomorrow.” He worked the new rudder side to side.
“I like the artwork.”
“Yeah.” Combat pilots painted little Rising Sun flags on their planes’ noses for each victory, and Roger’s ground crew had painted one under the pilot’s window. Officially, he only had a “probable” credit for the downed fighter plane since there were no other witnesses, but most of the men in the 64th Troop Carrier Group treated him like he’d shot up the entire Japanese air force.
Veerman was less impressed. In all the excitement after they returned to base, Roger had forgotten to finish his preflight paperwork. And he’d been so much better about it lately.
Shelby smoothed his hand over one of the thirty-two patches on the fuselage. “Another month in India.”
“At least. Unless they extend our deployment again.” Roger’s stomach squirmed. Most of the men’s complaints about the order centered on the nasty British Emergency Rations, the danger, and the shortage of parts and supplies in the lowest-priority combat theater in the world. Roger didn’t voice his concern about Kay Jobson’s letters piling up unanswered in Sicily. If she’d written.
A month ago, he’d been thrilled to get away from her. Now he had the strongest urge to write her, apologize, and find out how she was doing, but he didn’t have her Army Post Office number. He certainly wouldn’t ask Grant Klein for the information.
Shelby patted the aluminum patch and wiped his wet hand on his trousers. “If we ever get back to the Mediterranean, I’ll never whine again.”
Roger blinked and focused on the conversation again. He hadn’t let a woman have this effect on him in over a decade. Maybe he should request a permanent transfer to the CBI.
“Ready for lunch?”
“Yeah.” Roger turned, tilted his hat so it took the full force of the rain, and headed toward the mess. “If it’s inedible, I can fry up some of the eggs I bought off the local kids.”
“I’m surprised they don’t give them to you. When you’re around, they act like teenage girls at a Frank Sinatra concert.”
He loved the kids here—bright and funny and generous. “I make them take the money.”
“Imagine that.” Shell’s voice rose. “Oak leaves for your Distinguished Flying Cross.”
Roger frowned and followed Shell’s gaze behind him. Klein and Singleton were heading for
She stared at her friends. She’d always envisioned them with their cans of white paint, their eager paintbrushes.
A new image formed in her mind. Kay sat in God’s hand like a tiny china doll. And the Lord smiled at her with a kind and loving look no man had ever given her—not for taking but only for giving. He held a paintbrush in front of her, waiting for permission.
Only he could paint her white. Not her friends. Not Kay herself. Only the Lord.
Kay closed her eyes as something warm and unfamiliar and irresistible stirred in her chest.
He waited.
She opened her eyes. “It’s time.”
13
Dinjan, India
May 8, 1944
Growing up on a farm, Roger had been raised to view rain with both gratitude and caution. Rain was a blessing, necessary for growth, but too much at the wrong time was a curse.
Roger stood by the tail of his plane alone in the downpour. The heavy rains that had fallen in India in April and the first week of May reduced the amount of cargo the Troop Carrier Groups could transport to the besieged troops in Imphal. But the thunderstorms allowed the ground crews to repair battle damage and the flight crews to rest.
Monsoon season didn’t even start until June.
He poked his toe at a shimmering puddle. Plop. Plop. Splash. How could he resist?
“And I was worried Roger Cooper might grow up.”
Roger smiled at Bill Shelby approaching from behind. “If my mom were here, she’d cluck her tongue and say, ‘Twenty-nine going on ten.’ ”
Shelby nodded at the plane. “How’s she coming along?”
“The mechanics are top-notch. They said she’d be ready tomorrow.” He worked the new rudder side to side.
“I like the artwork.”
“Yeah.” Combat pilots painted little Rising Sun flags on their planes’ noses for each victory, and Roger’s ground crew had painted one under the pilot’s window. Officially, he only had a “probable” credit for the downed fighter plane since there were no other witnesses, but most of the men in the 64th Troop Carrier Group treated him like he’d shot up the entire Japanese air force.
Veerman was less impressed. In all the excitement after they returned to base, Roger had forgotten to finish his preflight paperwork. And he’d been so much better about it lately.
Shelby smoothed his hand over one of the thirty-two patches on the fuselage. “Another month in India.”
“At least. Unless they extend our deployment again.” Roger’s stomach squirmed. Most of the men’s complaints about the order centered on the nasty British Emergency Rations, the danger, and the shortage of parts and supplies in the lowest-priority combat theater in the world. Roger didn’t voice his concern about Kay Jobson’s letters piling up unanswered in Sicily. If she’d written.
A month ago, he’d been thrilled to get away from her. Now he had the strongest urge to write her, apologize, and find out how she was doing, but he didn’t have her Army Post Office number. He certainly wouldn’t ask Grant Klein for the information.
Shelby patted the aluminum patch and wiped his wet hand on his trousers. “If we ever get back to the Mediterranean, I’ll never whine again.”
Roger blinked and focused on the conversation again. He hadn’t let a woman have this effect on him in over a decade. Maybe he should request a permanent transfer to the CBI.
“Ready for lunch?”
“Yeah.” Roger turned, tilted his hat so it took the full force of the rain, and headed toward the mess. “If it’s inedible, I can fry up some of the eggs I bought off the local kids.”
“I’m surprised they don’t give them to you. When you’re around, they act like teenage girls at a Frank Sinatra concert.”
He loved the kids here—bright and funny and generous. “I make them take the money.”
“Imagine that.” Shell’s voice rose. “Oak leaves for your Distinguished Flying Cross.”
Roger frowned and followed Shell’s gaze behind him. Klein and Singleton were heading for
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