legitimate theater with a Broadway director. Did she really want to throw it away in a fit of cowardice?
Swallowing her anxiety, she forced her lips into a smile. “Sounds like a grand adventure. I can’t wait!”
Both his eyebrows rose at that, but then he wiped his hand on his overalls and held it out to her. “Then welcome to the unit. I’m Wyatt. Wyatt Miller. Technical director for the show.”
Her hand was totally engulfed by Mr. Miller’s much larger, stronger one. “Virginia. Virginia Heart, but everyone calls me Vi.”
“Not Ginny? I thought that was the usual nickname for Virginia.”
“Yes, well, I prefer Vi.”
“Then Vi it is. Welcome to One Fine Mess—an original musical comedy by Gerald Stuart.” His hand swept grandly toward the stacked crates. “Music, dancing, and mayhem in two acts, guaranteed to please the pickiest of GIs.”
“Sounds wonderful.” She tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear again. This time her nervousness was real. “Um . . . Mr. Miller . . . since Sue is gone, could you tell me what time I should show up tomorrow and where?”
“Grand Central Terminal at two p.m. with all your luggage. Track eleven.”
She frowned. “But that’s a train station. I thought we were shipping out?”
Mr. Miller laughed. “We have to be inducted first and go through basic training first, like any other soldier headed toward the front. You’re in the army now, sister.”
She blinked, her sense of having fallen into a bad dream increasing by the second. “They’re sending us to boot camp?”
“Bingo.” He started to turn away and then stopped. “Anything else I can do for you?”
She caught the impatience in his voice and was reminded of time passing. They both had a lot to do before tomorrow—finding an inexpensive suitcase being at the top of her list. “No. Thank you.”
“Wait, Miss Heart, is it?”
She glanced up into his concerned face. “Yes?”
“You got somewhere to stay tonight?”
A frisson of alarm ran through her. Even though he seemed like a decent enough guy, he was still a man, and men liked sex . . . “Yes. Why?”
“You wouldn’t be the first would-be starlet to spend her last dime getting here,” he said not unkindly. “And Lord knows you won’t be the last.”
“Yes, well. I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” And she would be fine, as long as she stayed wary of those who would take advantage of her. Like older men who might want to recapture their youth with a younger woman.
“I see.” Mr. Miller paused and then turned to the other fellow. “Hey, Hank. You okay finishing up?”
Hank, who was almost done taking apart a coffee table, nodded without looking up.
Mr. Miller headed over to an open toolbox, leaving Vi standing alone. She shifted on her feet uncertainly. Was he through talking to her? She didn’t want to offend a senior member of the production staff by leaving midconversation. On the other hand, she didn’t want to stick around if it meant giving the wrong impression. In her experience, men often mistook hesitation on a woman’s part as an invitation.
Before she could decide, Mr. Miller returned with a lunch pail in hand.
“Good, you’re still here. If you’re game for it, I have a friend that might be willing to put you up. I’m thinking her sofa would be a sight more comfortable than spending the night in some back alley.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said with a mental roll of her eyes. Back alley, indeed. All-night diners or train station restrooms were much better choices.
“Glad to hear it.” The skepticism in the tone of his voice told her he wasn’t buying it. Clearly he took her as some fresh-off-the-farm rube, though that wouldn’t be far off the mark if she really were Virginia—so maybe that was good?
To her surprise, he started walking toward one of the exits without another word.
Distrust warred with pragmatism. Was he really going to leave her to fend for herself? And did she really want to spend the night on the floor somewhere, in questionable safety, wondering if she would be robbed in her sleep?
Deciding a good night’s rest was definitely worth groveling for, especially after traveling for the last three days and then having to travel again tomorrow, she sprinted after him. Pride was all well and good, but it had its practical limits. Sal had taught her that when he had all but pulled her out of the Chicago River.
She had been eight months pregnant, unable to find