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Chapter 1

Betty Roberts was exhausted. Well, writing always did expend a lot of creative energy, but she was already working on ideas for the Christmas Eve broadcast for 1941, trying to make it something special. She would have liked to go back to Elkhart, Indiana to spend Christmas with her family, but due to the war, it seemed she would be spending yet another holiday at WENN, Pittsburgh.

America had declared war on Japan the day after their sudden attack on Pearl Harbor, and Hitler declared war on the United States just yesterday. Betty had horrible visions of Victor Comstock, who was currently portraying the American voice of the Third Reich, Jonathan “Benedict” Arnold, being killed by his own country. She thought of him dying, again, from some bomb falling on the Berlin radio station where he broadcasted from. Even he had mentioned it: being blown up twice in the same war, in London and Berlin. Even thinking about it made Betty shudder; she didn’t think she could handle mourning for him twice.

She missed Victor but hearing him on the short-wave brought some comfort that he was alive and relatively safe, despite the violent reactions of Maple and the others. She realized there were some benefits from having to stay in Pittsburgh. If there was any word from Victor, she’d probably never hear back home.

She struggled to pull her thoughts back to her typewriter and the next “Hands of Time” script, but it was late, and her eyelids were getting heavy.

“Betty!” There was a loud knock at the writer’s room door.

She eyed the door warily and tucked a strand of wavy hair behind her ear. “Come in,” she sighed.

The door swung open to reveal Scott Sherwood with a roguish grin. “Becoming a shut-in, Betty?” She ignored him and returned to typing. “It’s Friday night; most of the others have already left.” He crossed the small room to stand beside her desk. “I know a great little coffee shop that stays open late. How about you and I—“

“Not a chance.”

Scott looked slightly remorseful. He had, as Maple once noted, been trying to get back into Betty’s good graces, and it wasn’t happening as quickly as he’d hoped. Everything he tried resulted in rejection. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and walked back to the doorway. “Goodnight, Betty,” he said softly, closing the door behind him.

The exchange made Betty feel slightly guilty—but only slightly. Scott had lied to her—to all of them—and showed no scruples about doing so. And what about all the times he had stranded her with a sponsor to explain one of his outlandish money-making schemes? If she heard him say “Oh, will you look at the time” one more time she’d. . . .

Rehashing the plots of Scott Sherwood was getting her nowhere. She was nearly finished with the scripts, and the fact that special musical guests had been booked helped to lighten the load, too. She stared at the words on the typewritten page until the letters began to blur and coalesce. She’d soon be finished. In just a few more minutes. . . .

Betty couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep at her desk. Of course, that would explain the cramp in her neck. She took a few moments to clear her mind of the fog that had settled in before shoving her mahogany-colored hair out of her face and putting the finishing touches on the “Hands of Time” script.

She glanced up at the clock and grimaced. Seven forty-five. There was no way she’d have time to go home and change. She smoothed out her bottle-green skirt and donned the matching jacket, figuring she was at least presentable. Now to find Hilary and Scott, she thought, grabbing the scripts for “Breakfast at Bedside Manor,” and some coffee.

Hilary was easy enough to find, as she was in the green room along with Maple, Mr. Foley, and Mr. Eldridge. She handed Scott’s script to the elder man and sent him in search of Scott. Hilary perused the script and frowned. “Betty, surely you cannot be serious. The gardener, again?” She raised a thin eyebrow.

Betty ignored Hilary’s tone and nodded. With Jeff off in London, she was running out of alternative ideas. “You’re on in ten minutes, Hilary.” Betty turned to leave but stopped when she heard Maple behind her.

“Betty, do you have a minute? I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Maple LaMarsh, despite her bright clothes and fiery red-orange hair, looked serious. The two women sat down before Maple continued. “About tonight’s broadcast. . .well, I was wondering why you were bringing in that singer. I mean, Eugenia and I can sing, you know.”

Betty sighed again; it was becoming a habit. “I know you can, but Scott’s friend at WTN is calling in a favor.”

“You mean the guy who agreed to provide programming for WEEP?”

“Yes. Well, he wanted to book Essie Mann for Christmas Eve, but WTN doesn’t have the room for her plus all their other guests. And she happens to be an acquaintance of Celia’s from California who asked to come to WENN.”

“So let me guess,” Maple drawled, “Scotty arranged this, not you.” Betty nodded almost reluctantly. “Then I guess we’ll just see when Miss Mann comes.”

“I guess so,” Betty agreed and hurried out of the room. She was distracted enough that she ran right into something, scattering various papers everywhere. Something, or actually someone, tall with black hair and deep brown eyes. “Oh, Scott, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Betty.” He bent down to help her collect the sheets. “So is there a script for me in here somewhere?” he asked, handing her the pile.

Betty’s eyes widened. “You mean, Mr. Eldridge didn’t give it to you?”

“I haven’t seen him since I got here.”

Betty silently wondered just how long Scott had been there, and then ran off in search of Mr. Eldridge. She was surprised to find him sitting quietly in the writer’s room, still holding the script. “Mr. Eldridge, I thought you were going to give that to Scott.”

“I am. Just as soon as he comes,” Mr. Eldridge replied honestly.

“Then why are you in here?” she asked incredulously. Then she realized the sheer futility in asking. “Nevermind, I’ll give it to him.” She smiled at the old man. “Thank you, Mr. Eldridge.”

“Any time, Betty.”

Betty headed back to the greenroom, handing the day’s schedule to C.J. along the way. She found Scott, wondered why she even bothered asking Mr. Eldridge to help, and found Scott in the greenroom.

“Gee, Betty, you look horrible.” She ignored him and shoved the script into his hands. “The gardener again?”

“Yes, but I don’t want you sending Hilary out of the studio screaming this time. It’s not supposed to be you; Simmons is just a character,” she emphasized.

“But Betty. . .”

Her expression told him clearly that she wasn’t going to argue. She glanced at the delicate watch on her left wrist. "Two minutes, Mr. Sherwood."

With Scott and Hilary on the air, doing a reasonable interpretation of her script, Betty finally had a slight chance to rest. She cleaned up a little, fixed her hair, and made sure Mackie, Maple, Eugenia, Mr. Foley, and Mr. Eldridge were set for the next two hours before she left to meet Essie Mann at the train station. As she rode the trolley, Betty thought it would be much more convenient if she had a car, not that there was any way she could ever afford one on her salary.

She idly remembered one of Scott’s schemes to get himself a new car; something about becoming the spokesman for Abraham’s Lincoln dealership. He had suggested a drive up to Observation Point, under the stars, to which she threatened to push him off the edge of the precipice. That brought a smile to her face. Not that she would ever actually push Scott off a cliff, but the fact that she had no intention of giving in to him gave Scott what he deserved.

At the station, Betty realized she had no idea what Essie Mann looked like. She didn’t know how to find her, although she did know what train Miss Mann was on. She’ll probably be dressed like Hilary, or Maple, or Celia; dramatic, flashy, or both, she thought. Betty remembered the day one of her favorite singers, Ruth Geddy, sauntered into WENN. The woman was cool and elegant but catty, even compared to her old rival, Hilary. Betty sat on a bench and waited. . .and waited, but no one caught her attention. She looked at her watch: 10:03. The train arrived just over 15 minutes ago. Could she have missed her?

Betty gathered her things and started towards the information desk when she heard footsteps closing behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with a woman who couldn’t be much more than a teenager dressed in a slightly wrinkled conservative emerald suit, with deep auburn curls piled on her head topped by an equally vibrant green hat, its black veil and feathers askew. A few long strands of hair escaped to hang over her shoulders, and once-red lipstick had faded to an unbecoming pink. Betty figured that must have been similar to how she appeared when she awoke that morning.

“Miss Roberts?” she asked somewhat timidly in a high and mildly accented voice, raising delicate dark eyebrows.

“Yes,” Betty answered uncertainly, wondering who this stranger was.

The young woman looked immediately relieved and smiled wanly. “Swell. I didn’t think I would ever find you, Miss Roberts. I’ve been looking for ages.”

“Oh.” Betty didn’t want to be rude, but she figured she ought to ask the obvious. “Who are you?”

She paused for a moment, looking slightly dismayed. She obviously thought Betty knew who she was. “I—I’m Essie Mann.”

Chapter 2

Betty was surprised, a little guilty, and slightly disappointed. Essie Mann was not at all what she was expecting, and she felt bad for judging the girl on appearance. It was just that Mann was a fairly well-known singer; Betty was expecting a diva, not someone. . .normal. She seemed somewhat reserved, with an almost regal calm air about her, not at all like the flamboyant performers she’d met in her time at WENN.

Essie Mann had obviously not lost her sense of humility, even though she’d performed all over the country. Betty secretly wished some of that humility would rub off on Scott, and Hilary, too. Essie was quite cordial, thought somewhat cool, and they were able to pass the time talking while they got her luggage sent to her hotel and then returned to WENN.

Essie stood in the hallway just outside the door to the station. “Thirteen thirteen,” she remarked dryly, reading the address on the door. “It seems appropriate.” She followed Betty into the station and paused to watch Gertie at the switchboard. Her conversation finished, Gertie’s curiosity took over. “Are you a friend of Betty’s?”

Essie’s look was hard to describe, as if this was something that happened often, but Betty, smiling, just looked amused. Gertie had gotten the same impression she had. “This is Miss Essie Mann,” she said, gesturing towards the other woman.

“Oh!” Gertie turned slightly pink, a stark contrast against her light red-gold hair. She suddenly turned all business (or as close to such as she could manage). “Betty, Mr. Ingram called while you were out.”

Betty groaned slightly. “What did Scott do this time?”

“It wasn’t Scott. Hilary got a little. . .sidetracked in her performance. She kept calling Scott Jeff. And,” Gertie wondered how she could say it without sounding crazy, “she mentioned something about a pumpkin.”

“Oh no. Where is she?”

“In the greenroom last I checked.” She paused. “Betty, what are you going to do?”

She looked from Essie to Gertie with an expression of concentration. “I’ve already lost one actor. I’m not going to lose another because of it.” Betty’s face softened. “I know how hard things have been for Hilary lately, but she can’t neglect her responsibilities to this station.”

Essie looked at Gertie questioningly, clueless to most of the conversation. When Betty was out of earshot, or at least, Gertie thought she was, she proceeded to tell the tale. “Jeff is Hilary’s—“

“Husband. Yes, I know, Celia’s told me.”

“Well, ex-husband, now, I suppose.”

“But what about Betty?” Essie asked impatiently. “From what Celia said about her, all this ‘for the good of the station’ stuff doesn’t sound much like her.”

Down the hallway, Betty paused at the sound of her name. She rounded the corner and stayed there, silently listening to Gertie.

“But it does sound a lot like Victor Comstock,” Gertie sighed.

“What?” Essie was perplexed.

“Celia’s probably told you about WENN’s former station manager, Victor Comstock. Well, about a year and a half ago, he went to London to broadcast for the BBC, a sort of American voice for the war. That was when Scott Sherwood came to work here as station manager. He’s not the manager now, of course, he got fired by that Mr. Pruitt so now he’s an actor, but—“

“Gertie!” she cried in exasperation and annoyance. “You were telling me about Victor Comstock.”

“Oh? Yes, Victor. In October of last year, he and Jeff were broadcasting from London when their station was bombed by the Nazis.” Her voice turned grim. “Jeff came home, but. . .Victor didn’t survive.”

Betty’s eyes clouded as she remembered that dark time. She wavered between meeting with Hilary and hearing the end of a tale that, however compelling, she knew the horrible ending to. She was engulfed by memories and couldn’t bring herself to leave.

“But what does that have to do with Betty?”

“After we learned of Victor’s death, Betty. . .well, she went mad. She locked herself up in the writer’s room for hours, just typing and typing. She was already there, working, when I’d arrive, and she’d still be there when I went home. She was drowning herself in work to escape the grief, and we just didn’t know what to do.”

The voices down the hall faded as Betty’s mind replayed the events being described. Then she thought about how different Gertie’s version would be if she knew the whole story. She smiled faintly as she thought about Victor and prayed silently for him before she stepped into the greenroom to face Hilary.

“Hilary, this has to stop.”

Hilary Booth, the diva of WENN, merely looked up, her usually meticulous makeup haphazardly done and slightly smeared around the eyes. Betty hated to even think it, but Hilary looked horrible. . .and miserable. Jeff had been with the BBC in London for months, and Hilary wasn’t coping well at all. And that was before Pavla Nemkova showed up at WENN claiming to be Jeff’s new wife. Betty still didn’t know whether or not to believe. . .anything. She thought Hilary was finally starting to do better; she was moving on, and now this.

Betty felt horrible, but there really wasn’t anything she could do to help Hilary. Not unless she could procure one Jeffrey Singer. But even if he did show up, she wondered if he’d be able to get a word out before Hilary got him. Betty hoped that if Jeff had an explanation, they’d be able to hear it before the bloodshed began. Hilary’s short involvement with Alan Ballinger had been nothing short of a mess, although Betty had thought Hilary was starting to accept her separation from Jeff. Having no other recourse, Betty tried to turn from sympathy to reason, although, reason and Hilary Booth didn’t always mix well together.

“What good is this doing you, Hilary?” There was no response. “This isn’t helping you, or us. . .or Jeff. Whatever happened to the irrepressible Hilary Booth?”

Hilary still didn’t respond, and Betty just didn’t know what else to say. Hilary was not acting at all like herself, and the pensive moods were starting to occur more frequently. It worried Betty; she wondered what was going on in the other woman’s mind.

At a loss for words, Betty left the greenroom in search of Essie. As she neared Gertie’s desk, she realized the singer had the bad luck to run into Scott Sherwood without supervision. Betty hoped he wouldn’t try to con her into or out of anything. Although, based on Essie’s hard-edged demeanor, she doubted Scott could possibly get very far in conversation with her. When Scott saw Betty coming, he broke off his conversation with Essie.

“Betty, Betty, Betty,” he said, approaching her.

Betty sighed; whenever he said her name like that it invariably meant he wanted something. “Scott, I’ve already told you, no politics in the soaps, and I’m not changing the so-called ‘romantic gunk.’”

“Betty, I’m hurt that you’d even think I would ever want to change your wonderful writing.” He gave her his most innocent expression, but Betty saw that glint in his eye that always appeared when he was plotting something. “So what do you say we strike a deal with Capitola Recordings?”

“In an attempt to raise capital for the station?”

“You know, I like the way you think, Betty Roberts,” he grinned. “All we have to do is to record Essie Mann’s broadcast, which we then sell to Capitola for marketing. A little on-air advertising for them, and a new sponsor for WENN. What do you say?”

“There’s a hole in your plan. She’s performing Christmas music. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and by the time the record reaches stores it will be after Christmas.”

“So?”

Betty groaned; surely he couldn’t be that dense. “No one is going to buy a Christmas record after Christmas.”

Scott frowned and was silent. She knew he was desperately thinking of a way to save his sinking scheme. “Then we’ll sell it to the other radio stations for Christmas airing.”

“Scott, we’re already going to broadcast simultaneously on WENN and WTN.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Betty. Where’s your sense of adventure, of innovation?”

“It’s gone home for the holidays,” she muttered.

He ignored her comment and continued. “Then we record her most popular song as a 78 before the broadcast. People will hear her on our station tonight and want a copy for themselves and other stations.”

Betty was losing her will to fight. If Scott Sherwood wouldn’t listen to reason, he had no one but himself to blame. “If you’ll excuse me, I have scripts to write.”

Betty retreated to the relative calm of the writer’s room. She had brought in a small phonograph and some records, and with some music playing, she returned to the typewriter. A short while later, she had finished the next set of scripts. With the finished product sitting in a pile on her desk, she leaned back in her chair and listened as an all too familiar intro began. Betty smiled and began to sing along with the recording of Ruth Geddy and “I Gotta Sing.”

She abruptly broke off in mid-chorus when she heard a faint knocking at the door. “Who is it?” she called.

“Essie Mann.”

Betty smiled. “As long as Mr. Sherwood’s not with you, you can come in.”

“I take it you weren’t fond of his plan,” she replied, entering the room.

“As a thought it’s nice, but as a plan, it just isn’t practical. Do you need anything?” Betty asked, picking up the pile of scripts.

“Hmm?” Essie seemed slightly distracted. “Oh, no, nothing at all. It’s just that I heard music. Nice song, isn’t it? Actually, I could hear your singing down the hallway.”

Betty started to protest. She was somewhat embarrassed to have been caught.

“Oh, I know what Ruth Geddy sounds like, and you, Miss Roberts, sound much different. In fact,” she whispered conspiratorially, “I think you sound better.”

Betty blushed, though she found Essie’s comment hard to swallow. “I’m just a writer—“

“A multi-talented writer, from what your Mr. Sherwood has told me. Betty, I’d like you to join me in recording today. What do you say?”

Betty’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her, singing on a record? Without substituting for Hilary? “Wait a minute.” Bits of reality began raining around her. “What recording?” she asked, lifting a speculative eyebrow.

“Oh, Mr. Sherwood has it all set up—the band and everything—in Studio B.” Essie breezed through the details. “How fast can you learn a song?”

Chapter 3

Betty realized that Scott Sherwood could not be left unsupervised for more than thirty seconds if she at all valued her sanity. She started to think of the best way to counteract the inevitable problems as she walked through the station’s decorated hallways.

Betty froze. Decorated? She examined the mistletoe and garlands. Surely they hadn’t been there before. Last year Pruitt had made them take down all the Christmas decorations, although Gloria Redmond’s change of heart had fixed that. Maybe Mr. Eldridge and some of the others had finally gotten around to it. As she stood there, pondering, Betty felt a slight nagging in the back of her mind, like maybe she shouldn’t be standing—

“Betty! It must be my good fortune to find you waiting under the mistletoe.” Betty’s mind registered her folly a split second before Scott kissed her gently on the lips. “You and Essie sound great on the record.”

Was that a genuine compliment, Betty thought, from Scott Sherwood?

He quickly glanced at his watch. “Oh will you look at the time. I’ve got records to sell.”

Betty, slightly in a daze, watched him leave. Was that a genuine compliment he had just paid her? “Memo to Miss Roberts,” she said quietly to herself. “Standing under mistletoe will be strictly prohibited. Especially if Scott Sherwood is in the same building.”

“Betty!” She jumped slightly at the sound of her name. She really had to cut down on these surprises. Fortunately, it was merely Mr. Eldridge, walking down the hallway. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” The elderly man narrowed his gaze through the spectacles. “You should watch where you stand, or someone might get the wrong idea and kiss you,” he said, gesturing to the mistletoe dangling above her head.

Betty stepped out from under it quickly. “I’ll be sure to remember that, Mr. Eldridge. Now why were you looking for me?”

“What?” He seemed momentarily lost. “Oh, yes. You wanted me to tell you when that Jonathan Arnold was on the radio.” Betty nodded, immediately interested. “Now, it’s not exactly him, but he’s in the news.”

“Wha—what is it, Mr. Eldridge?” Betty asked impatiently.

He paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. “The Berlin station that he broadcasts from was bombed by the British.”

Betty stood stiffly in shock. The station. . .bombed? A wave of cold washed over her, and she could feel her heart sinking. No, her mind screamed. Nononononono, this isn’t happening! Not again! She had to concentrate just to keep breathing. “Victor,” she whispered before the world went black and she sank to the floor.

“Victor.” Betty was wandering through the obscure blackness, but no matter where she looked, she couldn’t find him. The darkness was starting to fade and lighten. Betty opened her eyes and was momentarily disoriented. “Victor?” She had a sudden sense of deja vu and sat up abruptly. She was laying down on a couch in the greenroom with a blanket over her. How she had gotten there, she didn’t know.

Betty felt another presence in the room and heard footsteps approaching. “Victor,” she sighed with relief. “Oh, I had the most terrible—“

“Shh, Betty. It’s all right. You must’ve had some sort of nightmare.” Betty turned and was shocked to see Scott kneeling beside her. “You’re overworked and overtired. Mr. Eldridge said you passed out. I—we should have seen this coming.”

“But I—“

“So how about some good news: the British have gotten rid of that traitor Jonathan Arnold.” Scott said the name like a vile epithet.

Betty’s eyes widened in shock. Mr. Eldridge was right, and Victor was dead. She could feel her eyes start to sting with tears.

“Betty, is something wrong?” She didn’t respond. “I’m not sure what you know about this guy or why you’re so sympathetic towards him, but face it, Betty, the guy was a sellout, a traitor to his own country. It’s not like the work that Jeff is doing, or like Victor did.” At the mention of Victor’s name, Betty felt even worse. She thought she was going to be ill; her head spun and her stomach felt queasy. “He got what was coming to him.”

If she had the strength to, she might have started to yell. Betty would have given him a reason—Victor’s work for the Allies. But then another thought occurred to her, prompted by the deja vu. He’d survived once; he could survive again. As long as she wasn’t sure, she had to uphold her promise. But how could she be sure? The key. Victor had given her the key to the strongbox in his desk, which contained the code name and phone number of “the one man who knows everything about Jonathan Arnold.” She had kept the key with her constantly, and now was the time to use it. If anyone knew, it was Victor’s contact. Until she knew otherwise, Victor’s life still depended on her keeping his secret. It was time for Betty Roberts to put the acting skills she’d picked up during her time at WENN to work.

“You’re right, Scott,” she said softly, sounding genuinely weary. “I just thought—“

“That’s our Betty Roberts, always looking for the best in everyone.” He sat down beside her on the couch. “I know this is probably the last place you want to spend Christmas. And Pruitt threatening to can any of us who try to take a vacation? Why, if he were here I’d—“ He looked about ready to strangle someone, but he abruptly stopped. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been divided in two,” she smiled wanly. “How long was I out?”

“A while. It’s six thirteen.”

Betty’s eyes widened. “Six thirteen? That means Essie Mann went on the air—“

“Thirteen minutes ago. Don’t worry, Betty, everything’s going fine,” he tried to reassure her.

That, of course, made Betty even more nervous. “Would you please turn the radio on?”

He did so, and the sultry soprano voice of Essie Mann came through clearly. Betty felt immediately relieved. As the song ended, they heard Maple introduce the next song. “Brought to you by WENN Pittsburgh and WTN Philadelphia,” Maple’s best radio voice announced, “and just recorded on Capitola Recordings. Here’s Essie Mann with a new Christmas hit, ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas,’ featuring the Presbyterian choir of greater Pittsburgh and WENN’s own Betty Roberts.”

The record had turned out pretty well, in Betty’s opinion, but she wasn’t in the mood to stick around. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Betty stood up quickly, too quickly in fact, as she suddenly felt lightheaded and dizzy. Scott was immediately by her side and put an arm around her to steady her.

“What you have to do is relax.” He turned her to face him. “Betty, you’re going to make yourself sick.”

“There are far worse things to become.” Her remark was purposely double-edged.

“Aren’t you ever going to give me a second chance?”

“I have given you a second chance. And a third, fourth, and fifth chance as well,” she replied.

“But remember the good old days.” He placed a hand on her waist and took her hand in his. Almost against her will, Betty began to think of the same night he was: their first night of that one week quarantine at the station nearly a year ago. They had danced as Gertie played “Goodnight Ladies” on the piano, and Betty had to admit she enjoyed it. But that was before. . . .

She lost her train of thought as Scott whirled her around the room. Betty got swept up in the moment, and for awhile she forgot her hostilities towards Scott. Dancing in the greenroom, as silly as it might seem, was actually rather nice. It had been a long time since she’d been dancing, and she really had been working too hard. The music was soothing, and without a conscious thought she rested her head on his shoulder.

The fact that Betty could hear herself on the radio was slightly eerie. Song lyrics began to fill her mind, bringing forth images of those who wouldn’t be home for Christmas. Herself for starters. She supposed it was sheer luck she was able to get home last year. Luck helped along by Scott. But she desperately wanted to spend Christmas with her family, as she’d always done.

Then she thought of Jeff. No matter what had passed between him and Hilary, London wasn’t a safe place for him to be. He didn’t know how long he’d be there when he last left Pittsburgh; he could arrive home at any time. If only he could be back in Pittsburgh with them. . . .

And Victor. He might never come home, for Christmas or otherwise. She’d give anything to see him again, but she didn’t even know if he was alive. The contact! she remembered. She had to get a hold of Victor’s contact.

“Betty?” She looked up at Scott, startled out of her thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”

Betty looked apprehensive. “No,” she said slowly.

He took both of her hands in his and looked straight into her eyes. “I’m leaving WENN.”

“What?!” she exclaimed in shock. “Why? How?”

“You forgot where and when.” He paused, and commented quietly, “WENN. I didn’t think I’d be saying good bye to this place again so soon. I’m enlisting.” Betty just stared at him in silence. “Just think,” he said too brightly, “now you can call me sailor and mean it.”

“That’s not funny, Scott,” she said quickly pulling her hands from his. “You could be killed.”

“Like the noble Victor Comstock?”

“Like the scoundrel Scott Sherwood.”

“Betty, won’t you give me a break?”

“Wouldn’t I like to.” Betty almost regretted the retort that had become almost second nature as soon as she said it.

Scott looked defeated; it was certainly different from his usual confident expression. “So long, Betty Roberts.” He turned and started towards the greenroom doors.

He was leaving! Scott Sherwood was actually leaving WENN. It clicked in Betty’s mind, and frankly, it scared her. “Scott!” She ran to him. “Scott, wait.” All she could think of was that she might never see him again. It was Victor leaving all over again, but Scott was going off to fight.

Impetuously, Betty kissed him on the cheek. In that short time, Scott had wrapped his arms around her, and, well, he hadn’t even asked for a good-bye kiss this time. Betty heard the door to the greenroom swing open, and she quickly pulled away from Scott. She turned to see Mr. Foley standing in the doorway, his mouth gaping and dark eyes wide. Maple was right behind him, trying to hide the grin on her face.

She looked toward Mr. Foley, expecting him to speak, but he had been stunned into silence. “Gee, you’re gone for five minutes and look what happens,” Maple commented under her breath. “Betty, Scott,” she couldn’t help a slight smile before turning serious. “I think we’re having a crisis of a Hilary Booth nature out there.” Mr. Foley nodded emphatically in agreement.

“What’s wrong?” Betty asked in confusion.

“It’s a telegram.” Maple added in a hushed tone, “From the War Department.”

part two