Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington by Tricia Goyer Page B

finding a new place wouldn’t be easy. New laborers arrived in the city every day, and each of them needed a place to live.
    Only 7:40, and already the red transit buses, filled with mostly female laborers, rumbled by, one after another. Rosalie covered her nose as a gust of warm exhaust wafted over her. Then she fixed her gaze on the city spread before them, wondering if someplace out there they’d find a new home.
    From here the view of the downtown area was breathtaking. No wonder people chose to build such beautiful homes in this location. Rosalie had long ago resigned herself to never living in a fancy home like that. A roof over her head was fine by her.
    Would she have even that a month from now?
    Her friends were quiet, apparently lost in similar worries. Their landlord had warned them months ago of this possibility. Rosalie had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon. Hard to believe their building would be torn down—the cozy, inviting apartment she and Birdie had created along with it.
    Burying her worries, at least for now, she quickened her pace until she drew alongside Iris. “You said you didn’t have a good night,” she said. “Why? What happened? You seemed your normal electric self when we flew the coop last night.”
    Before Iris could answer, an aging soldier from the Great War, lounging on a nearby bench, hooted, startling them all.
    “That’s her!” he exclaimed. “That there’s Rosie the Riveter!” He elbowed his companion and pointed at Rosalie.
    His friend looked up and a broad smile creased his leathered old face. “Sure as shootin’, it is her!”
    The old veteran rose and shook the Tribune ’s morning edition at Rosalie. “Miss! Will you autograph this for me?” he asked, shoving his paper at her.
    Rosalie’s cheeks warmed. “My name’s not Rosie, sir.”
    Birdie poked Rosalie’s back with her finger, nudging her forward.
    “Ain’t this your picture?” the veteran asked, holding up the paper.
    Iris lifted the Tribune from his liver-spotted hand, glanced over the image the man pointed to, then handed it to Rosalie. “You’re right. That’s her, sir.” She threw the old guy a wink. “Don’t worry. She’ll sign it for ya.”
    The man’s companion fumbled at his shirt pocket. “Hold up, now. I’m sure my Bonnie stuck a pencil in my pocket so’s I could do my crossword puzzles. Hold up.” He patted his pants, front and back, before reaching again into his right shirt pocket, then finally the left. “Aha! It was in my left pocket. The left pocket! What was that woman thinking? Fifty years she tucks it in the right side, and today the left.”
    “Aw, shut your trap, will ya?” his friend grumped. “I’ve never seen it in any pocket but the left one.”
    “I’m not sure,” Rosalie faltered. “It’s not like I’m a star.”
    “You’re a star to them,” Lanie said sweetly. “Just look at their faces.”
    “And what’s one small signature?” Birdie cooed. “It’ll make their day.”
    “Fine,” she mumbled. She glanced at the gentlemen, whose faces brightened at her attention. Then she signed the bottom right-hand corner of the picture before handing it back to the man whose face shone with the same awe and gratitude fans had given Lana Turner.
    Rosalie turned away and joined her friends as they continued past the bus stop but paused as the old veteran called after her, “And make sure you give that Kenny Davenport the chance to write more about you!” He gave Rosalie a droll wink. “I kinda think he likes ya.”
    Rosalie huffed and spun on her heel. She glowered at Birdie. “See! Now do you understand why I don’t want that reporter writing any more articles about me? He’s already embarrassed me enough.” Just the thought of people recognizing her on the street—asking for autographs—made her want to run home and throw her grandmother’s quilt over her head.
    Her father used to do that to people too. He’d find some poor unsuspecting sap