A knock sounded at Cora’s door, and she jumped up from the couch to answer it.
Sheila, one of the newer girls in the boardinghouse stood in the hallway. Dressed to the nines and heavily made up, the woman had marinated herself in a sickly-sweet perfume. “Cora, there’s some guy down in the parlor to see you. A real looker, if you ask me.”
“I’m not expecting anyone. Did he give a name?”
“Vic? Vince?” Sheila shrugged. “I was too busy admiring the view to remember. His black hair and blue eyes are quite a combination.”
“Van?”
“Yeah. That’s it. You know him? Lucky you.”
“Not really. My editor stuck me with him on a series of articles, and he’s too full of himself for my liking. Jumps to conclusions, and like most guys, doesn’t think we gals can do as good a job as they can.”
“What a shame. He seemed like a real catch.”
“Maybe for someone else.” Cora turned and dug out her key from her purse hanging on the coat tree. “Guess I better get this over with.”
“Toodles.” Sheila wiggled her fingers in farewell, sending another wave of fragrance wafting toward Cora.
“See ya.” Cora stifled a cough and locked the door behind herself then hurried down the corridor. Not that she wanted to see Van, but the cloud of perfume was going to choke her to death if she didn’t escape. What did the man want?
She frowned. How did he find her? Probably finagled her address from one of the office girls. Score one for the handsome reporter. Ugh. She was as bad as Sheila. He probably knew he was good looking and used his pretty face to his advantage. That would explain his arrogance. Had girls falling at his feet, and when she didn’t, he got angry.
Was the opportunity for a byline worth the hassle of collaborating with an empty suit who thought he was better than her? If she was going to make her way in a man’s industry, she had to be willing to take a few insults. The other gals did. Women who were more experienced and more famous had to deal with the derision, so she would too. Poor Martha Gellhorn had to regularly remind people she was a reporter long before she became Hemingway’s third wife.
Cora stopped in her tracks. Had her editor teamed her with Van Toppel to keep an eye on her, gauge her abilities? Was there something Van knew that he wasn’t telling her?
“You okay, Cora?” Hair in braids and wearing a pair of dungarees and an oversized shirt, Wendy Babson stepped out of her room. She looked at her with concern. “You seem upset.”
“No. Uh. Trying to figure something out.” She gestured to Wendy’s outfit. “Problem with your bicycle?”
“Nah. Just doing a tune-up. I put a lot of miles on the bike this week, so I thought I’d give it a look-see. Don’t want to break down after dark.”
“Amen to that. Hey, you and my sister would get along. She’s in the Mechanized Transport Corps, somewhere north of London.”
“I’ve heard of them. Think she would put in a good word for me? I wonder if my luck is beginning to run out. Four years in a munitions factory, and I’m still alive.”
“I’ll send her a note.” Cora shuddered. How could her friend be so cavalier about the danger?
“Thanks.” Wendy snapped her fingers. “Drat. I left my tool bag inside. See you around, Cora. I hope things work out for you.” She slipped into her room and closed the door.
Cora smoothed her skirt and descended to the foyer then turned left into the parlor where the residents were allowed to entertain male callers. Worn, but still serviceable, the Edwardian-style furniture was arranged in clusters to allow for numerous conversations. Sofas and chairs were upholstered in buttery-soft floral fabric in shades of yellow, dusty rose, and light blue. Myriad small tables held reading lamps.
As she entered the room, Van rose, his brown fedora gripped in his tapered fingers. Tall, with an athletic build, he wore his sport coat with ease. She blinked and cleared her throat. Where was she going with these thoughts? He was the competition, not a prospective date.
A lock of hair fell over his eyebrows that were pinched together. “Thank you for seeing me. I apologize for arriving unannounced. I managed to find out which boardinghouse was yours, but not the telephone number.”
“With research prowess such as yours, I find that hard to believe.” She smiled to take the sting from her words. “Rather a case of asking forgiveness than permission, Mr. Toppel?”
His eyes widened, and he grinned. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Mrs. Strealer? You’re correct. I lied about not having the number, but I wanted to make my apology in person. My behavior was unacceptable, and I’m sorry.” He sighed. “And I’m sorry for your loss. The death of your husband must have been…be…devastating.”
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “Miss Strealer. I use my maiden name for my byline.” She cleared her throat and swallowed the lump that had formed. If Brian were still alive, would she be standing in a parlor three thousand miles from home? “Sometimes the three years feel like yesterday, and other times, forever. Thank you for your apology. I’m sure I overreacted. Let’s call a truce.”
“I’d like that.” He nodded and stepped forward, grasping her hand in his. Tingles shot up her arm, and she blinked. Where would their détente lead?
a
Van looked at their clasped hands. Her petite palm nestled in his, warm and soft. The heat spread to his elbow, and he released her as if burned. He met her eyes, now clouded with suspicion and hurt. He faked a stumble. “Sorry, I…uh…clumsy. Pardon my clumsiness.”
Her gaze cleared, and she cocked her head. “This room is crowded with furniture. Would you like to have a seat? I can prepare some tea, and we can discuss our strategy for the series.”
“I’ll stay, but I’m a coffee man. Haven’t developed a taste for this brown water the Brits call tea.”
“I’m afraid I—”
“Oh, no. That wasn’t a veiled request for coffee. I’m fine. Nothing to drink, really.”
“Okay.” Cora gestured toward the ceiling. “Let me get my notepad.”
He tossed his hat onto one of the few bare spots on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
She hurried from the room, and he stifled the urge to watch her depart. He already knew how well the blue polka-dot dress draped over her trim figure. The clean scent of soap hung in the air. Nice that she didn’t drown herself in fragrance like some girls did. He winced at the memory of the young woman who’d let him into the house.
The muted tones of Bing Crosby filtered into the room from the parlor across the hall. A giggle then whispered voices. The record crackled, and Bing sounded as if he’d contracted laryngitis. Van tapped his toe to the rhythm of the music. He was no Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, but he could hold his own on the dance floor. What would it be like to hold Cora and whirl in a candlelit room, the band serenading them?
Van glanced around. Cora’s landlady had done a nice job of decorating. The room was inviting without being too frilly or feminine. He rubbed the cushion beside him. How many guys had sat here wooing women they loved? What was the success rate for the poor fellas?
Footsteps, then Cora appeared in the doorway. Her face was flushed. Had something happened?
“You all right?” He jumped to his feet. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, one of the girls…” She waved her hand. “It’s nothing. Let’s get started.” She lowered herself on the one of the vacant chairs across from the sofa then opened her notepad and turned to a page filled with writing. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
He studied her as she dropped her gaze to the paper. Why had they been teamed together? He’d been writing some far-reaching stories about the war. Had made a name for himself. He wasn’t Ernie Pyle or Walter Cronkite, but his articles had touched lives. Letters from readers told him that.
Now, he was shackled to a rookie, albeit a beautiful one. Had she used her looks to get the job? Did she know someone? Why didn’t she use her married name? Was she hiding a connection?
“What do you think?” She looked at him, forehead wrinkled.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“My ideas. Did any of them strike you as a good way to start?”
He forked his fingers through his hair, stalling for time. Great. He’d been so lost in his paranoia, he hadn’t heard a word she said. Well, he’d do what any professional reporter would do. “They all sound reasonable. Do you have a particular favorite?”
She crossed her arms and glared at him, her lips pressed in a thin line. A long moment passed. “Remember how I don’t miss much? Well, it’s obvious you didn’t hear a word I said. Not sure why you weren’t paying attention, but if we’re going to work together, I’d appreciate enough respect that you actually listen to me. Thus far, our truce does not bode well.”
Face scorching, Van rubbed his forehead. She was right. Again. What was it about this woman that turned him into a stuffed shirt? He was a professional. Why couldn’t he seem to act like one? He’d received crummy assignments before. Ones he didn’t want to cover, and he’d done them. Without complaint. Yet in the span of two days, he’d insulted his new partner on multiple occasions and couldn’t keep his mind on the job. Perhaps it was time to hang up his press pass.
“I’m sorry. You have every right to be upset again.” He poked his thumb at his chest. “This isn’t who I am. Granted, I’m not the most friendly guy on the beat, but I can work with others. Really.”
“I’ll try to believe you, but you’ll understand if I’m a tad skeptical.” She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. “Look, I’m sure getting saddled with some dame you’ve never heard of is not your idea of fun. I’d rather do my own stories, too. But we’ve been put together for a reason the higher-ups think will benefit them, so we need to make the best of the situation. Think you can do that?”
“Yes. Without a doubt. Yes, I can.” Why did he feel like a schoolboy in the principal’s office? And what was the reason they’d been paired? He’d rummaged up a couple of old newspapers and read her stuff. Her writing was good. Very good. So she didn’t need his help. There must be some other explanation. It might take a while, but he’d find the answer.