Radio Mirror: The Magazine of Radio Romances (Jan-June 1943)

ayffeuo7c FRANCES WAYNE — who brought to radio something brand new in the way of a sultry voice and subtle delivery. Frances was born in Somerville, Massachusetts, and when she discovered that she had the kind of voice people like to pay to listen to, she started her singing career in a number of Boston clubs, and with her brother, Nick Jarrett, clarinet playing band leader. But like many other girls, she had an urge to try her luck in the Big City, so Frances came to New York and went to work at Kelly's Stable, famed swing spot. It was while she was singing there that Charlie Barnet heard her, and promptly invited her to sing with his top-ranking band. Now one of the outstanding features of the orchestra is Frances singing her famous version of the song, "Cheatin' on Me" her moment of anger. But it would all have to wait. It would have to wait until I could think clearly, until I could plan, until I could stiffen myself to meet the blow if my terrible suspicions were confirmed. It would all have to wait. Dean would be coming to Washington. By then, my mind would be clearer. I would know what to say, what to do. I threw things into my bag any which way, realizing that my only hope was to get away and get away quickly, and I took the next train for Washington. WHEN I got home next morning, [ needed a chance to get myself settled and calmed down a bit. What I did was to fall, still dressed, across the bed, and take a long nap. I woke up in the middle of the afternoon and went down to see what the ice box had to offer, trying to manage a laugh at myself for being hungry in the midst of all my troubles. And still I was putting off thinking about Dean. Upstairs again I began listlessly to comb my hair, to fix my face. There wasn't any reason to fix up, but I had to be doing something, anything, to keep from thinking. I just didn't dare let myself think of Diana Stuart and what she had said, quite yet. The downstairs bell rang, and I pulled myself together to face Gracie. But in a moment there was a knock on my door. Not Gracie after all, then — she never knocked. I opened the door — and there he stood, grinning broadly, with a huge florist's box under his arm, out of which the long stems of roses protruded. He looked down at me, waiting for me to speak, but I was too amazed to say anything for a long moment. At last I managed, "Why, Tom Trumble!" His grin broadened. "That's right!" "Why look at you," I cried. "How did you get to Washington? You look wonderful — that's the handsomest uniform I ever saw. And you've brought me flowers — oh, it's so good to see you, Tom!" It's in unexpected moments like that when you really find out how you feel about a person — how glad you are to be with him, how much he means to you. Tom Trumble was like a tonic to me, feeling as I did, and I made no effort to hide my pleasure at seeing him. For the next few minutes we chattered to each other like a couple of lonely magpies. The officials at his camp hadn't wanted him to come all the way back to New York. They pointed out that they were getting ready for a war, and didn't have time to think of radio programs. But Tom had leave coming to him, and when he asked permission to come to Washington on his own time, it was granted — and here he was. And since the return engagement on Hiya Soldier was still several days off he was full of all kinds of plans about what he was going to do meanwhile. He sat beside me on the cot which was my bed and parlor sofa all in one, and so intent was he on his plans that he didn't even notice how closely I was watching him. He looked like a different man — as if he'd grown up a little even in the short time since last I'd seen him. He was — well, he was suddenly a man, speaking like a man, quietly but intently. HE was saying, "The real reason I had to come to Washington, Jackie, is this: in the next years I'll be in this war — don't let anyone tell you different, because we've got to fight those Nazi murderers sooner or later, and I don't think the Japs feel as friendly toward us as they're pretending. While I have the chance I want to settle something that's mighty important to me, darling. I want to get married. I came to Washington for that — to hear you say that we can be married!" Then I had to tell him. "I can't," I said, and the voice I managed was a hoarse little whisper. But that wasn't answer enough. He moved closer to me, and there was pain and pleading in his eyes. Passionately he cried, "You're going to love me one of these days. I know it, Jackie! You've got to!" «I_» What could I tell him, but the truth? "Tom, you don't understand. I can't. I'm married." A moment hung between us tangible and heavy. "You're — you're what?" "I married Dean Hunter that night — that night you were so worried about me." "I knew it," he said, flatly. "I guess I knew it was something like that." He jumped up from the cot and went to the window, standing there, his back like a wall against me, against the hurt I represented. Then he turned and said, again, "I guess I knew it all along, really. Not the exact facts, of course, but the general idea. It doesn't change anything, Jackie. You're mine, and I won't be happy till you tell me so!" "But Tom — there's Dean — and — " "Yes. That makes it a little more difficult. But if I know you, that isn't right for you, and it'll have to be remedied. Somehow, I'm going to make it happen. You're going to be my wife!" I DIDN'T know when, but somehow, ■■■ sometime since Tom had come into the room, I had lost the heavy, oppressive weight of my fears. I looked at this tall, lean, strong young man, | so positive, so possessive. That pleased me. He pleased me, there was no doubt of that. And there was more than pleasure in what I felt for him — woman-fashion, touched by his adoration and understanding, I had to imagine myself in his arms, how hard, how tightly, he would hold me. Would I ever be there? Would his face ever be close to mine, his breath warm on my cheek? I had never even kissed him. The chances of our belonging to each other were pitifully remote. But suddenly I felt a terrible yearning for him. Then the phone rang. It was Dean. He had arrived in Washington and was at "our hotel" as he called it. Could I come right over? It was too soon. All the plans I had made for thinking things over — all my resolves to be calm, to straighten out everything in my mind! No, I couldn't see him now — not yet. I put him off, told him that I'd see him next day. When I turned away from the phone, Tom was there beside me. "Jackie — we've got to do something. I love you. Can't you say something— anything — to give me some hope?" And suddenly I found that I could. I found that I could give him hope because the same hope was rising in me, like a strong tide, sweeping away all my fears ahead of it. There had to be a way. It was as if I were seeing him for the first time, really. "Tom, Tom," I whispered. "How did this ever happen? Oh, I'm so terribly mixed up!" "I know it," he said. "That's why we've got to go over there right now." "Over there?" I gasped. "Over where?" "To wherever Dean Hunter is. You've got to talk to him — now." "Oh, but I can't," I told him. "Don't you see," he said quietly, "there's no hope for us until you settle things between you. And there's got to be hope for us, Jackie. You know that, don't you?" I raised my eyes to his for reassurance. "Yes — " Then, at last, the strength of his young afms was about me, crushing me until I couldn't breathe, didn't want to breathe, didn't want to ever be anywhere else but with him. His eager young body was close to me, his mouth near to my ear as he whispered hoarsely, "Jackie, will you do as I say?" My heart was filled with joy, but my mind was leaden with fear that this new and wonderful dream would never come true, that the promise this strange young man held for me would never be fulfilled. But in answer to his question I said, softly, "Yes, Tommy — tell me what to do and I'll do it." And then he told me what I must do! What is Tom's plan for Jackie? Will he be able to break the tie between her and Dean Hunter? Be sure to read the dramatic conclusion of "Tell Me You're Mine" in the April issue of Radio Mirror, on all newsstands March 5. RADIO MIRROR