Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(7)

Rio enjoys the way Jenou’s exquisitely shaped eyebrows rise.

“They let us fight? Let? Funny how I never even knew I was deprived, not going off to war.”

Rio nods slightly, discreetly, to indicate Strand, who is behind Jenou but who Jenou can still somehow see with that all-around, three-hundred-sixty-degree boy-awareness Jenou possesses. “Why should he maybe get hurt and not me?”

Jenou shrugs. “It’s how it’s always been, up until now. But you don’t have to sell me, honey. I can see all the advantages in being far from home and surrounded by healthy young males. That’s why I’m enlisting.”

It’s Jenou’s first definite statement, and even though she’s been talking about it for the last five minutes, Rio is still caught off guard. She hadn’t quite believed it.

Jenou really is jumping. Rio sees it in her eyes: defiance, anxiety, a little sadness. But excitement as well.

It’s that hint of excitement that tempts Rio.

“Look,” Jenou says, spreading her fingers palm-down on the table and leaning in. “First of all, they’re not going to send women to the front lines to get involved in all of that. They’ll have us typing forms, answering telephones, and driving trucks. I figure the war’s on for another six months or a year at most. So I spend the first part of it checking out the available stock of masculine animals, and the last part closing the deal.”

Rio shakes her head in mock despair. “For you even a war is just another excuse for being boy crazy.”

“What can I say, honey? I’m an optimist.”

And you can’t stand this town, can you, Jen? And neither can I, without Rachel and without you.

Rio and Jenou pay and leave and walk together as far as the town square. It’s spring, and the day lingers. The town square is a leafy, green space with a mix of elm trees and the occasional palm tree. This is Northern California, land of sunshine plus quite a bit of fog and just enough rain to keep the grape vines heavy with fruit.

The square is the heart of Gedwell Falls. Here are the newsstand, the telegraph office, the five-and-ten-cent store, the barber shop, a hat store, the fabric store, and one of the two full-service grocery stores. Cars and trucks, ranging from newish ’38 models to dusty old pickup trucks dating to back before the Depression, are parked angled-in in front of the businesses.

At one corner of the square is a raised, circular covered bandstand. In spring and summer an oompah-pah band sometimes plays marches and classics for folks in folding chairs set up on the grass. It’s the venue for beauty contests, the awarding of prizes in flower shows, and speeches by campaigning politicians.

Rio leaves Jenou and heads across the square alone. A warm wind blows across her neck. She’s wearing a pink sweater and a faded-blue frock that frets a little in the chilly breeze.

There comes the sound of footsteps behind her. She glances back and sees Strand Braxton gaining on her. He looks very focused, and Rio wonders where he’s rushing to.

It seems he’s rushing to catch up to her since he slows upon seeing that he’s been noticed. Then, as if forcing himself to go on, he gains speed again, looking very determined, even grim. Rio stops and waits, mystified. Strand is somewhat out of breath when he reaches Rio, who now waits at the foot of the bandstand steps and tries very hard to appear nonchalant. She leans casually against a railing that’s too low to lean casually against.

The sun is setting, orange fingers reaching through the clouds, and as she turns to face him, Strand Braxton is silhouetted against that sunset. It is such an absurdly cinematic moment that Rio almost laughs. But her appreciation of the perfectly artistic framing is undercut by a rush of anxiety.

I have nothing clever to say to him.

“Hello there, Rio,” Strand says.

“Hello, Strand.”

With that out of the way they stare awkwardly at each other for a few moments until the tension becomes too great for Strand and he finally says, “So, I guess you know I got called up. Oh, and I never said how sorry I am about . . . you know.”

“About Rachel.”

“Precisely,” he says, and digs his hands into his pockets.

“Thank you.”

A new silence threatens, and already Strand looks slightly panicky.

Taking pity, Rio says, “Are you worried? About going away, I mean?”

“Worried?” He makes an incredulous face, like nothing could be further from his thinking. But then he rethinks his reaction. He blinks, looks down at the ground, and when he raises his face again a wry look has replaced the phony nonchalance. “I suppose I am. Worried, I mean, a little, anyway. They say most fellows from Gedwell Falls get sent somewhere south to train, and I’ve never been fifty miles from this spot.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there,” she says, striving for a nonchalant tone of her own.

That makes him draw back in confusion. “Pardon me?”

“I’m enlisting,” Rio says.

What?

What?

Why did I say that?

She is on the point of laughing and saying it was all a joke. But she can’t. She doesn’t really want to take it back.

“But . . . why?”

“I guess because this is the biggest thing that will ever happen in my life,” Rio says, the words coming just ahead of the thoughts. “Any of our lifetimes. I guess . . . I guess I just want to do my part.”