A Kiss To Build A Dream On

Write down the name Marianne Stillings…definitely an author to watch! [She] manages to be funny, touching, thrilling and sexy all at the same time. ~ RT Book Reviews

THE WAR AT HOME

In another life, Captain Jack Lassiter would have turned Rachel Prentiss’s head, but she lost everything at Pearl Harbor and now happiness is not hers to have. Handsome, brave, cocky, Jack will oversee her Women’s Auxiliary Service Pilot squadron’s movement of combat aircraft to strategic locations across the continental United States…and threaten her vow to protect her heart.

As the new WASP training officer at Camp Trask, North Carolina, Jack knows he’ll have his hands full. Especially with that high-flying blonde, Lieutenant Rachel Prentiss. The pull is undeniable, but things must stay professional, especially since this job has become almost as perilous as combat duty. It’s wartime, after all, and everyone has secrets—some more terrible than others, especially considering the strange recent death of Lieutenant Gracie Abbott. Yet with the world ablaze, everyone burns. Rachel and Jack will succumb to their attraction. And that first kiss is a bombshell. It will destroy all Rachel’s best defenses…and is strong enough to build a dream on.

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Marianne Stillings

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Copyright © 2016 Marianne Gilmore

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-944262-28-0

Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

For my daughters,

Rebecca Michelle and Katherine Elizabeth,

the most amazing, loving, smart, kind and courageous young women

I have ever known.

I am more proud of you than you will ever know

and I love you both beyond words.

~ Mum

In 1942, one year after the United States was thrust into World War II, women pilots from all walks of life—single, married, young, younger, socialites, sufferers and survivors of the Great Depression—were trained and became proficient in flying every type of aircraft the U.S. manufactured. These pioneering women flew under the direction of the U.S. Army, first as the Women’s Flying Training Detachment (WFTD) and the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron (WAFS), and later, when the two organizations were merged into the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots (WASP). Twenty-five thousand women applied; only 1,830 were accepted. Of these, just 1,074 passed the training. Between September 1942 and December 1944, these women delivered 12,650 aircraft of seventy-eight different types.

Thirty-eight lost their lives while serving: eleven in training and twenty-seven on active duty. Because they were considered civilian volunteers and not military, their remains were sent home at their families’ expense without the honors they were due.

The Army would not even allow the U.S. flag to be placed on their coffins.

It is to these smart, courageous women, who cleared the way for the rest of us to serve America in every manner possible, that I dedicate this simple story of two people—each wounded in their own way—who found love in a time of sorrow, devastation, and loss.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Four years ago, a very dear and lovely friend encouraged me to write a story about the WASP (Women’s Airforce Service Pilots) of WWII. I’d never heard of these women, but the idea intrigued me and I did some research. Lots of research, as it turns out. I am grateful my friend offered up the suggestion because what these ladies did should be honored and never forgotten.

Sherri Shaw, you have my thanks, my appreciation and my love. You are a talented writer and a valued and wonderful friend. Thank you for your suggestion, your input, and your help along the way. You are one remarkable lady.

As for the rest of the Rainy Day Writers, your love and support has carried me through some pretty choppy waters. With all my heart, thank you Dawn Kravagna, Shannon O’Brien, Charlotte Russell, KL Mullens, Clare Tisdale, Kristine Cayne—awesome ladies, every one.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Marianne Stillings

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

"A man’s kiss is his signature."

~ Mae West

"This is not a time when women should be patient. We are in a war and we need to fight it with all our ability and every weapon possible. Women pilots…are a weapon waiting to be used."~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Chapter 1

October 1942

Cupping her hands around her coffee mug, Rachel waited quietly while her uncle read the telegram. They sat across from each other in the kitchen at the small table where every one of their important discussions had taken place.

As Uncle George scratched his chin and silently studied the yellow sheet of Western Union paper, Rachel kept her gaze averted, idly examining the tablecloth of printed hens and roosters marching around the fabric’s hem. She’d hand-sewn the cotton square ten years ago when the country had been ravaged by the Great Depression, and though the material was looking a little threadbare, it still had a few more washings before retiring it to the rag bag.

In this calm before the storm of what she feared would be one of Uncle George’s intense heart-to-hearts, she listened to what she’d always thought of as the heartbeat of the cottage, her mother’s grandfather clock. The clock belonged to Rachel now, having been passed down through the years from her great-grandmother, to her grandmother, to her own late mother. Rachel loved the clock so dearly because she’d never met any of those women, but each had listened to its music, wound its spring, touched its beautifully carved mahogany. The women in her family had undoubtedly measured their lives by its steady rhythm, just as Rachel had done, was doing. As a child, she’d loved hearing the clock’s steadfast tick-tock-tick-tock, and counting the chimes as it announced each hour. But she was not a child anymore.

Now she regarded the grandfather clock for what it was—a thief and a conjurer. Each tick and tock, each lyrical chime, transformed the minutes of her future into the years of her past. A past that no longer held any meaning, embraced no triumphs. Twenty-five years, gone for nothing.

She shook her head; she was feeling sorry for herself. Uncle George would take her to task for it—but for the past year, she’d felt so numb, she wasn’t certain she even cared anymore.

Like a broken toy, she’d tossed her heart into a wooden box, nailed the lid shut, and buried it in the barren landscape of her soul. Out of sight and forgotten, forever and ever more.

In her short life, she’d lost a mother she’d never known, a father she barely remembered, her childhood sweetheart who later became her husband, and a young student pilot. Even the puppy Uncle George had given her all those years ago had grown up, grown old, and was now gone, buried under the willow tree in the backyard.

Except for Uncle George, Rachel would never love anyone or anything again. Never.

George shifted in his chair, bringing her back to this new problem she faced.

Well, Uncle George? She paused. When he remained silent, she added, What do you think?

His blue eyes studied her for a moment. He pursed his lips. Then, "I am thinkin’ that you are thinkin’ that yer not gonna do it."

No, she said. I mean, no as in yes. Yes, I’m not going to apply.

His eyes widened as though she had just declared she was going to sit and stare into a corner for the rest of her life. He flung his arms into the air so abruptly she was nearly startled out of her chair.

"And why the hell not? he bellowed. This here program is perfect fer you. A dream come true. The chance of a lifetime."

When she didn’t answer immediately, he pressed his case further.

Rachel, he said softly. "I’ve been proud’a you all your life but never more than at this very moment. You got a personal invite to do somethin’ girls ain’t never been allowed to do. You should take it for what it is. I know you should. And so do you."

When she still didn’t respond, he made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, picked up the telegram, and began reading aloud.

"To Mrs. Rachel Prentiss—Angel Beach, Washington—Army Air Transport command is establishing a group of women pilots…"

He looked up at her. That’s Y-O-U, missy. Returning to the telegram, he continued, "For domestic ferrying—necessary qualifications are commercial license, five hundred hours, two hundred horsepower rating—advise if you are immediately available. And it’s signed by a Army Air Force general, for Chrissakes. In Washington, right where President Roosevelt hisself lives."

He let the telegram float from his fingers to the table then slapped his open palm on the paper, startling Rachel a second time. "This is fantastic, Duckie. It’s…it’s…it’s historic. You was born to do this."

She crossed her arms over her stomach and lowered her head, unwilling to look him in the eye. In all her life with him, she’d never avoided his direct gaze, until today.

Her reply a barely audible murmur, she said, I can’t apply. I’m not qualified.

George’s brows lifted. "Hell, honey, I can’t think of anybody more qualified. Since you discovered airplanes, all you’ve ever wanted to do was fly. All you talked about. You had a newspaper clippin’ of that lady flyer, Amelia Earhart, on the wall in your room for years, from even before she disappeared."

She smiled sadly at the memory. It’s still there, Uncle George. It’s still there. Her smile faded. I appreciate the pep talk, but I don’t think I’m going to reply.

"Don’t think? In a demonstration of his mounting frustration, he huffed out a sharp breath. That tells me your heart wants to say yes, but your fear is callin’ the shots." He raised his brows to emphasize the accuracy of his analysis.

Maybe.

"Nothin’ may be about it, honey. So instead of flying—which you love to do most in the world—yer gonna do yer bit fer the war by organizing paper drives and collectin’ scrap metal and tubs of bacon grease? Not to mention starin’ out at the horizon every friggin’ day, watchin’ fer a Jap invasion? You examine them blackout curtains each and every mornin’ to make sure they don’t have no holes that might let out a teensy-weensy pinprick of light that would let them Imperial sons-a-bitches know they’re over U.S. soil. Dammit, girl, you need to get out of Angel Beach and get back into the sky."

Shaken by his diatribe, Rachel remained silent, arms tight against her stomach, eyes fixed on her coffee mug.

George was rarely given to outbursts of anger with anybody, and even more rarely with her. She’d expected him to perhaps question whether she was sure of her decision, so his attitude of confrontation and his fury caught her completely off guard.

Silence stretched between them until she felt her nerves might snap.

George leaned forward. Softly, he said, Look at me, Rachel.

A moment ticked by, another, then she slowly lifted her gaze to meet her uncle’s eyes.

There cannot be a whole helluva lotta gals so qualified as you are to take up this task. Though his words were strong, his voice was gentle, coaxing. "And you’ve been handed what amounts to a engraved invite from a Army general to do this thing."

She licked her lips, buying a little breathing room before she had to address his remarks. She swallowed. Sat up straight.

Okay, she said. Here’s the thing. I haven’t flown ever since…that day. I can’t climb into a cockpit, let alone go up without thinking about how I failed Peter Reynolds, how my arrogance and naïve assurances got an innocent boy killed. She lifted her shoulder. "I was flying almost directly over the Arizona when, when… Her voice broke, letting a small sob escape. When Steve was being k-killed. Uncle George, I can’t fly. You think I don’t want to? I do. With all my heart, all my soul, every cell in my body wants to. But if I did this thing for the Army and I messed up again and got somebody else killed…"

Her voice trailed off; the idea of seeing another death, causing another death was too horrible to put into words. Her uncle couldn’t possibly understand what she was going through so there was no use in trying to convince him she was right to ignore the invitation.

George leaned back in his chair. "Stop blaming yourself for that Reynolds kid’s death. Or Steve’s. Or anyone’s. Wasn’t you done it. Them godless and goddamned Japs did. It’s a miracle all three of you wasn’t killed, not just your husband and your student."

Tapping the telegram with his index finger, he said flatly, Don’t let what happened put a stop to your life. His words were measured, as though there were exactly one inch between each of them.

She turned her head away, but that didn’t even slow him down. "Don’t let it keep you from doin’ what you love. You have a lot to offer, and I never figured you for a fool and certainly not a coward. If you don’t go, it’ll be a worse tragedy than what happened that day. He punctuated his remark with an open-handed slap to the table, jostling the green glass salt and pepper shakers. Do you think Steve would want you to sit here and stew? He weren’t that kind of man."

He was the love of my life.

You’re young yet, Rachel. There’ll be another.

I don’t want another.

Well, he said, more than a hint of doubt edging his tone. Time’ll tell. In the meanwhile, get yerself down to Western Union and let the Army know that Rachel Prentiss, Ace of the Air, is on her way.

Don’t call me that, she bit out. Don’t call me Ace.

Instead of asking her why, he reached across the table and took her hand.

When you was a little ’un, he said gently, maybe seven, maybe eight, for the longest time, every night I tucked you in, you got tears in yer eyes and nearly took to sobbin’. Each night you said the same thing to me. ’Member what it was?

She did remember what she’d said, what she’d begged. And she remembered her uncle’s response, too.

Don’t ever make me leave, Uncle George. Promise me I can stay here and live with you forever and ever. I love you so much. I never ever want to leave you. I want to stay here with you always and always. Okay? Can I stay? Please? You won’t ever make me go?

And each night, George’s response had been the same. He’d smiled, patted her hand, tucked the covers around her.

Little Duckie, you can stay here with me as long as there be stars in the heavens and a moon smilin’ down and the sun come up each mornin’. I will never make you leave. But there will come a day. You may not believe me now ’cause it’s a ways off, but there will come a time when you will want to go. And it’ll be okay. I promise.

She’d shaken her head. No. I won’t ever go. I won’t.

He’d stood and grinned down at her.

You just have sweet dreams, honey. And don’t you worry ’bout nothin’. Uncle George is right here, and always will be. You just sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.

I remember, Uncle George, she whispered. But I don’t see how—

Out in the hallway, the phone jangled, interrupting their conversation.

With a scowl, George rose from the table and went to answer it. When he returned to the kitchen, he had his old beaten-up fedora on his head and the keys to his blue Ford flatbed in his hand. Gotta git out to the dairy. Ol’ Willy says Miss Bossy’s about to drop her calf. But you think about what I said. Promise me now?

I promise, she lied.

He stared down at her, reading her right down to the bone—as he always had.

George McCoy was a tall, handsome fellow of the aw shucks Gary Cooper variety. Though in his mid-forties, he’d never married. With his chiseled features and kindly blue eyes, there was more than one lady in town who probably wouldn’t mind finding herself on George’s arm for an evening—or two. Though he’d not been educated past the third grade, he was a keen observer of human nature and possessed more common sense than anyone she’d ever known. Many men could claim to be smart, but Rachel felt George McCoy could go them one step better: He was wise.

That day has come when it’s time fer you to go it alone, honey, he said. Your folks is gone. Steve, rest his soul, is gone. I love you to pieces, but I can’t go with you into whatever the future holds, so this is the point when you strike out completely on yer own. His smile was small and tender. And it’s okay.

She felt seven years old again when she’d been terrified another person she loved would disappear.

George took a step to leave then