Free Letters From Home by Kristina McMorris Page B

you,” he said. She would have taken the phrase for a tired old pickup line, but his tone sounded of genuine discovery. “The USO,” he explained. “A few weeks back.”
    Had she danced with him and forgotten? Surely she would have remembered a guy like this. Crud, she hated when a fella had the upper hand.
    “You were one of the singers,” he added. The connection seemed to end there.
    “You’ve got quite a memory …” She drew out the last word, a prompt for him to volunteer his name.
    “J.T.,” he said. “And you’re Betty.”
    “How did you—” she began, then glanced down at her name tag. “Oh. Right.”
    “Pleased to finally meet you.”
    “Likewise.” The feel of something sticky between her fingers prevented her from extending her hand. As a cover, she yanked the pencil from her ear and notepad out of her pocket, posed them in order-taking position.
    “Well, Betty, I think you got a fan club started by some of the guys in our office.”
    “The office?” she asked, milking the compliment.
    “Army recruitment, down off Jackson.” He reclined in his seat, one arm draped across the top of the neighboring chair, as if accustomed to claiming ownership and space at will. His posture launched a wave of arrogance stronger than his spicy cologne. “You should come by sometime. We could use a smart, beautiful woman like you in the Women’s Army Corps.”
    A giggle bubbled through her. “You see me in the WAC? Marching around all day in khaki?”
    J.T. gave her figure a brief scan, no doubt picturing her out of a uniform rather than in one. “Just think about it, sweetheart. You could help out our soldiers by doing more than singing to ‘em.” The implication might have been offensive had he not continued so smoothly. “Besides, you seem like the kinda girl who’d like to travel, see the world. Sydney, London, Rome. Maybe Hawaii? White sandy beaches, luscious palm trees. Water so blue and clear you could spot a dime at the bottom.”
    His pitch sounded as rehearsed as that of a Fuller Brush salesman, but the vision towed Betty’s mind into a drift regardless. Life could certainly be worse than living in a tropical haven. Too bad military enlistment was a requirement. She’d sooner become a lumberjack than run around playing soldier. Why, for the love of Mike, some women tried so hard to swap roles with men, she had no idea.
    “I said order up!” the chef bellowed.
    She pushed out a sweetly appeasing voice. “Coming,” she answered, abruptly reminded of her unglamorous servitude. The chef’s call should have taken priority, given his grumpiness tonight, but she couldn’t bow to another command before enlightening someone, anyone, of her overflowing potential.
    Posture lifted, she peered down at the sergeant. “Thanks for the offer, but I already got plans,” she stated, as though he should have expected as much. “I’ll be traveling with the USO, soon as a spot in a touring group opens up. So I’m sure I’ll be stopping in all those places you mentioned.” She added with a wink, “Even drop you a postcard if I have time.” In reality, all the Hedy Lamarrs and Marlene Dietrichs took overseas priority. But the possibility of joining the tour was the main reason Betty had auditioned for the USO, and she wasn’t about to give up the chance at a better job—a better life—no matter how slim.
    “Well, if things don’t work out,” he said, “come on by and see me. Or, even if you wanted to chat about other things, besides the military …” He trailed off, inviting her to fill in the blanks.
    “Wessel, there you are!” A GI appeared at the front door beside two rather refined-looking girls. To top it off, they were knockouts, which J.T. seemed to note in less than a blink. “We’re hittin’ O’Toole’s. Ya comin', or what?”
    The girls whispered to each other, then giggled, a sound that drew the sergeant from his seat like a snake to a flute. Not until reaching the exit