Cora’s fingers flew over the typewriter keys as she pounded out her story about the orphanage. Words poured out of her as she relived the delightful afternoon spent with the children. Van had been skittish around the kids but eventually agreed to a game of catch with two of the older boys. She hadn’t probed the reasons for his apparent nervousness, but his behavior intrigued her. He sought an assignment in the midst of battle, yet the presence of youngsters seemed to strike fear in him.
She’d never considered herself nurturing, but playing with the kids had seemed the most natural activity in the world. They’d accepted her as one of their own, especially the darling, little Warren. Hurt and confusion clouded his eyes, but by the end of their time together, the stiffness in his posture had eased, and his expression was less guarded. She couldn’t imagine how the children felt, being all alone.
Her heart tugged. What would her own child have looked like? Petite, blonde, and blue-eyed like her or wiry and dark like Brian? Or some sort of combination of them both? Did she wish they’d been successful in having a child before he died? She slumped in the chair and pressed her hand against her chest. Did she regret not having Brians’s son or daughter or was she relieved not to be raising a child as a single parent? Would she have resented the child? Felt trapped?
So many questions and no answers.
“You okay, Cora?” A frown creasing her forehead, Fanny sat at the typewriter next to her. “You look upset. Something in your story got you down?”
Cora sighed and smoothed her skirt. “No. Well, the article got me to thinking.”
“About?”
“My life.” She cleared her throat. “I’m writing about my visit to the orphanage, and the next thing I know, I’m ruminating about the fact Brian and I didn’t have kids, and what all that means. Everyone has kids. Why didn’t we?”
“I don’t share your faith, but maybe that God of yours knew saddling you with a kid as a widow wasn’t fair.”
“Or in His plans. I hadn’t thought of it like that before.”
“Do you really think He lays out your life like a movie script?”
“No, because we have free will to make choices, but He definitely has things He wants me to do.”
“Whatever you say.” Fanny cocked her head. “Do you think He wants you to get married again?”
Van’s image flashed through Cora’s mind, and her face heated. What was that all about? Too many incidents of bossiness and condescension outweighed the few lighthearted moments of camaraderie. She frowned. “If He does, He hasn’t sent any likely candidates.”
“What about—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. For about a million reasons, my coworker is not a good choice. But you know I was older than most women when we wed. I was single and on my own for a while before meeting Brian. I don’t need to have a husband to be complete. Besides, women are forced to stay home after getting married. I love my job and want to continue a career in journalism after this war. Don’t you?”
“I guess. To be honest, I haven’t really thought about married life and what that means for me.” She batted her eyelashes. “I’m not interested in tying myself down with one guy at this stage. Especially somebody from home. That’d be boring, and the last thing I want is a humdrum life.”
Cora chuckled. “Yeah, boring and you definitely don’t go together.”
“It’s not fair that we women don’t have as many choices.”
“No, but the war has changed society. Think about it. During the Great War, there were only a few female reporters, and they were tasked with covering the woman’s side of the war, but only if their magazine or newspaper sent them. The military refused to accredit gals back then. Now, there are a bunch of us, and we’re managing to get where the action is.”
“By hook or by crook.”
“True, but thanks to Dickey Chapelle, Margaret Bourke-White, and Martha Gellhorn, we’re in the big leagues now. Our bylines are next to the boys’ bylines, and they can’t say anything about it.”
The door opened, and Van sauntered in, jacket slung over his shoulder. Hair in disarray, his face was lined with fatigue. Or was it worry? Where on earth had he gone after they finished at the orphanage? His gaze swept the room, then touched on her, and his eyes shuttered. What was going on?
“There’s your partner now.”
Cora snorted a laugh. “A word suggesting collaboration. Not happening.”
Fanny raised her eyebrow. “What’s he doing now?”
“Later. I don’t want to be overheard.” She gestured to the paper still locked in the machine. “Besides, I need to get this finished so I can submit it to the censors. I understand the need for review, but the added step shortens my deadline.”
“Good luck.” Fanny pulled her piece from the roller and stood. “I’m off. Meet me at the pub at nine o’clock. I want the whole story.” She raised her hand. “Van, I’m done over here if you need a machine.”
He waved and kept talking to a pair of writers from the Detroit Free Press.
“Fanny—”
“Ta ta.” Her friend threaded her way through the row of desks, hips swinging, and more than one man watching her grand exit.
Cora rolled her eyes. That girl was going to be the death of her. Pushing Van at her after hearing about his attitudes and behaviors was a dirty trick. She’d have to come up with a way to get back at her.
The trio of men guffawed, their laughter puncturing the sound of the typewriters, and Cora peeked at them from under her bangs. Of the three, Van was definitely the most handsome, but even though he was a believer, he treated her as a subordinate, someone of less value. That kind of bias made him objectionable. She pressed her hand against her wrist and thinned her lips. She’d have to remind her racing pulse of his unsuitability.
a
Van watched myriad emotions play across Cora’s face before her expression became impassive, and she bent her head over the page in her machine. She’d managed to dismiss whatever was bothering her.
He’d heard enough of the reporters’ complaints. Time to get a jump on his story and see how Cora was coming along with hers. Would she let him read her piece, or would she interpret his interest as interference? Probably the latter.
With a final nod to the guys, he excused himself and made his way to the vacant typing station next to the lovely yet enigmatic journalist. He dropped into the chair and rolled a sheet of paper into the machine.
Her body seemed tense after he sat, so he focused on his work. After a few aborted starts, he immersed himself into the story.
Van reached the end and sat back with a sigh. The words had flowed as if being dictated. He’d woven some of his own history into the piece, and now memories flooded his mind. He rubbed his burning eyes and waved away the fetid cigarette smoke that encompassed the room. A nasty, prevalent habit practiced by a large percentage of society.
“Seems inspiration struck.” Cora’s voice was soft and melodic. “Are you pleased with the results?”
He blew out a deep sigh. “Yes, I’ll have to proof the piece, but it feels good. Complete. I think I was able to infuse the human interest side into the documentary-type stuff that can be kind of dry. Necessary, but boring if I’m not careful.”
“Mind if I look at it? I’d like to see how our styles mesh.” She held out a sheaf of papers, a tentative look clouding her eyes. “Only if you want to, of course.”
“A great idea.” He pulled the last sheet from the typewriter, put it on the bottom of his stack, and laid the pile on her table, then took her pages. “Not that we want to mimic each other’s way of writing but knowing how we approach a topic will be helpful.”
His palms slicked with moisture. What would she say when she discovered he was an orphan? Would she look at him with pity? Scorn? No. Disdain wasn’t her way.
She picked up the document and began to read.
Rather than read her essay, he nibbled his lower lip and studied her expression. Conversation ebbed and flowed, mingling with the clatter of typewriter keys and the ping of the carriage-return bell. Time seemed to stand still while he waited.
Finally, when he didn’t think he could wait another minute, she laid down the last sheet and turned toward him, something akin to wonder on her face. Not the emotion he’d anticipated.
“You’ve written a powerful story, Van. The inclusion of your own situation while growing up adds credibility. Not that you need it with your reputation as a reporter, but I’m just an observer. In a sense, you’ve walked in these kids’ shoes.” She smiled, a gentle, accepting curve to her mouth. “Hopefully, one day I’ll be half the writer you are. Thanks for letting me read it. I wouldn’t change a thing, and I didn’t see anything that would raise flags with the censors.”
The tightness in his chest eased, and he returned her smile. Her words meant a lot. More than he thought possible.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Even though you had your grandparents, growing up without a mom and dad must have been difficult.”
He nodded and swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. “Being raised by my dad’s parents made me different, and you know how mean kids can be. Nana and Pops were quite a bit older, the only gray-haired people in the audience for school plays, choral concerts, and baseball games.” He frowned. “I wasn’t very nice to them.”
She squeezed his arm, and tingles warmed his skin. “How old were you when your parents passed?”
“Eight. They died in a train accident in Colorado. Dad had secured a new job out there, and they went ahead to make housing arrangements.” He rubbed at the crease on his slacks. “I was angry for a long time, bitter. Those emotions didn’t make for a very nice kid. My grandparents did the best they could.”
“They had their own grief to contend with.”
“Exactly.”
“Are they still…?”
Van shook his head. “No. They passed a couple of years ago, but not before we made our peace. I’m grateful for everything they did for me, and I was sure to let them know.” Why was he pouring his heart out to this woman? And why did it feel so right?
“You’re a good man, Van Toppel.”
“Remember that the next time I annoy you.” He grinned and cocked his head. “Deal?” He extended his arm. “I imagine agitating you won’t take long.”
A playful smirk on her face, she shook his hand. Her laughter, silvery and bell-like swirled around him. “I look forward to it.”
What would it be like to make her laugh every day? Maybe even into their old age? Whoa. Where did that thought come from? They were colleagues. Nothing more. Life was too precarious during wartime, possibly snuffed out at any moment. He did not need the complications associated with a romance, but his thudding heart was not cooperating with that knowledge.