The Sea Before Us

by Sarah Sundin

  I also pray we can be reconciled one day. If you choose, please write me at the address below. Don’t hold anything back. You deserve to have your say.

  No matter what happens to us in the coming days, please know I’ll love you and pray for you till the Lord takes me home.

  Your brother, Wyatt

  To the west, the lowering sun turned the clouds golden. Wyatt slipped the letter inside the stationery box. He’d mail both when the destroyers returned to Weymouth. Most likely, he’d find gaps to fill and he wanted them to be perfect.

  Wyatt drew his notepad from his pocket. The little pages fluttered in the wind, cataloguing each lash of self-flagellation. He did have to mail the letters and pay his debt because it was right, but he also had to forgive himself—whether or not his brothers ever forgave him.

  God already knew the full consequences of Wyatt’s actions when he forgave him, when he built the road to redemption on the cross. Nothing could wash away that road. Nothing.

  Cool salty air filled Wyatt’s lungs. For three years he’d refused to forgive himself, as if doing so would dishonor his brothers. Instead, his refusal only dishonored Jesus’s sacrifice.

  “Lord, no more,” he whispered. “I won’t do it anymore. What I did that night was wrong, but living in shame is wrong too. You never excused my actions, but you forgave me. And I—I forgive me too.”

  The notepad bent in half in his grip. In Greenock, he’d toss it in the scrap paper bin.

  31

  Kensington

  Simply smashing. Dorothy held the peacock-blue dress up to her chin, let her hair fall over her shoulder in long waves, and gazed through her eyelashes at her reflection. So sophisticated. Lawrence would love the look.

  Groaning, Dorothy hung the dress back in her wardrobe. As a member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service, she’d wear her uniform and pin up her hair as always. Utility, not glamour. Besides, she’d lost so much weight, the blue dress needed alterations.

  She coiled her hair into a chignon, adding pin curls to her usual coiffure.

  The stairs creaked one floor down, and the door to Papa’s study opened and shut. He was going to sequester himself and not greet Lawrence.

  Irritation prickled in her chest, not at Papa, but at Lawrence. Papa had finally asked her to extend a dinner invitation, and Dorothy had been thrilled. She could have had time with Lawrence, Papa could have become acquainted with Lawrence as a man, and a platonic family dinner seemed more respectful of her commanding officer.

  But Lawrence had declined, insisting he wanted time alone with Dorothy before the lockdown for D-day. Reluctant to refuse him once too often, she’d agreed as long as he picked a quiet, out-of-the-way restaurant.

  Dorothy buttoned her white blouse over her slip. A compromise. Why must she do all the compromising? Why must he push her to defy First Officer Bliss-Baldwin? Why didn’t he take her concerns seriously? Why would he risk her position for a thrill?

  She knotted her tie too tight and wiggled it looser. Wyatt always considered her concerns. He’d never put her at risk.

  Bother that man. Why did he have to tell her he loved her? Why did he have to be so thoughtful and protective when he wasn’t the right man for her? He was an American, and he wasn’t exciting. Not like Lawrence.

  Lawrence—whose idea of excitement was to put Dorothy in danger.

  Bother that man.

  She pulled her navy blue skirt up over her hips. It was so hard to please Lawrence. So hard to be droll and sophisticated. So hard to tamp down her enthusiasm and chattiness. She never had to work hard with Wyatt. And Wyatt loved her.

  Dorothy plopped onto the chair in front of her dressing table and stared at her freckled face. Wyatt even liked her freckles.

  The spots had faded and lessened over time, but they still darkened her cheeks and nose and speckled her forehead. Dreadful things.

  Those were Lawrence’s words. The freckles blurred to beige, and she wiped her eyes clear with a handkerchief.

  Bother, bother, bother that Wyatt Paxton. If he’d kept his mouth shut, she wouldn’t be so unsettled.

  She lifted her powder puff to her cheek and paused.

  “God made your freckles,” Wyatt had said.

  She’d assumed God made them to spite her, but Wyatt said it with warmth, as if God made them because he liked freckles, because he specifically liked them on her.

  “That verse,” she whispered. “Psalm 139. ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works.’”

  That light stirring returned, and she peered at her image. Marvelous, not dreadful. “God likes my freckles. He likes . . . me.”

  Since Mum’s death, she’d seen God’s love like Papa’s. Her father tolerated her because she was flesh and blood, but he couldn’t abide looking at her. He never sought her company.

  That wasn’t the sort of fatherly love the Bible ascribed to the Lord. Like the best of fathers, God doted on his children while still holding them to his standards.

  “God loves me,” she said to her dazed-eyed reflection. “God likes me. Freckles and all.”

  Her hand had settled down to the dressing table with the powder puff in her palm. She stared at it, then at her reflection, at the growing resolution in her eyes.

  Dorothy closed the tin. Mascara to brighten her eyes. Lipstick to look like a grown woman. And no powder. She felt naked, exposed . . . and free.

  She tugged on her navy blue jacket, buttoned it, and trotted downstairs just as the doorbell rang. “Good night, Papa! I’ll see you later.”

  “Fine” came muffled from behind his study door.

  Dorothy swung open the front door. “Good evening, Lawrence.”

  His handsome smile froze. “Good evening. I . . . I’ll make myself comfortable while you finish getting ready.”

  Feeling cheeky, she set on her cap and grabbed her handbag. “I’m ready.”

  He winced and lowered himself into a chair in the drawing room. “You might want to check the mirror.”

  Cheekiness hardened to contrariness. She whirled to the mirror, adjusted a single hairpin, and spun back with a smile. “There. That’s better.”

  His hands clamped on the armrests. “I thought you outgrew your freckles.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You’ll . . . take care of it, will you not?”

  She stood tall and clutched the strap of her handbag. “My appearance meets naval regulations, and I don’t feel like wearing powder tonight.”

  Lawrence’s lips squirmed. “I made reservations at a quiet little place—as you requested—but it is rather posh.”

  Was he embarrassed to be seen with her in public? She forced a smile. “Sounds lovely.”

  He raised one pleading eyebrow. He was—he was embarrassed.

  Was she willing to send him away over so trivial a matter? She’d worn powder daily since she was sixteen. Why make a fuss tonight?

  Then Lawrence’s roguish smile returned, and he rose and sauntered over to her. “Why, you little minx.”

  Minx? She blinked. Never in her life had she played the minx, especially not this evening.

  He set his hands on her shoulders and nuzzled a kiss below her ear. “You know I like a modern, daring woman.”

  Since when was eschewing powder modern and daring? She pulled back to study his face.

  Never had he looked so pleased with her. “If you prefer to spend the evening in private rather than public, simply say so.”

  Her stomach soured. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but she dreaded the answer.

  His hands slid down to her waist. “My parents are in the country. We shall have the house quite to ourselves.”

  Her thoughts jumbled and swirled and foamed. She’d adored this man forever. Every man she’d met since had fallen short in comparison. Now she could have him. With one simple yes, she might put Blissy and Helen and all other girls out of his heart. One yes, and she might win him at last.

  “No,”
she said, never more certain of a word in her life.

  His eyebrows arched. “No?”

  “No. It isn’t right.” The last word came out as rawt, with a Texas accent.

  “Pardon?”

  Dorothy stepped out of his grasp. “It isn’t the right thing to do, and I assure you that wasn’t what I meant.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “And yet I spoke clearly. The quiet little restaurant sounds lovely, and I don’t intend to wear powder. I said precisely what I meant.”

  His upper lip curled ever so slightly.

  She gestured to the door. “Perhaps you should leave.”

  Lawrence sighed, and his posture softened. “Come now, Dorothy. Let’s not be rash. I came all the way up to London to see you.”

  “And you did see me.” She opened the door wide. “I’m sorry you didn’t like what you saw.”

  A startled look, then he lowered his chin. “Good night, Second Officer.”

  “Good night, Lieutenant Commander.” She waited until he descended to the pavement, and then she shut the door and sank back against it.

  “Bother, bother, bother.”

  32

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Saturday, May 20, 1944

  What was he thinking? Wyatt peered out the train window. Dozens of platforms funneled into Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. Even if Dorothy decided to come, how would he find her?

  The train chugged to a stop. Wyatt scanned the platform for a red-haired Wren—in vain.

  He fetched his briefcase from the overhead rack. All right, then. He had a weekend in Edinburgh. He’d see the castle and Holyrood Abbey and the Royal Mile, maybe try some of that famous haggis.

  Wyatt stepped out of the compartment onto the platform and tried to get his bearings. Hundreds of people, darting every which way, platforms everywhere. Which way was the exit? Where could he buy a map? Country mouse lost in yet another city.

  A woman approached—a redhead in a WRNS uniform, her mouth tiny and her eyes big.

  He swallowed hard. “You came.”

  “So did you.”

  “All right, then.” He put on his most confident face. “Let’s go catch an embezzler. Where’s the office?”

  “Oh.” She gazed down the platform, freckles dusting her cheeks. She hadn’t worn makeup. Why not? Because he’d said her freckles were cute? Nonsense. But she did look prettier than ever, more genuine somehow. “The office is a few blocks away, off Princes Street.”

  “I’m glad you know your way around, because I’m lost.”

  Dorothy turned back with a tiny smile. “Again?”

  The teasing cracked through the awkwardness, and he laughed. “Lead on.”

  “Right this way.” She strode away, weaving through the crowd like the lifelong city mouse she was.

  When the crowd opened up, he came alongside her. “I have one rule for today.”

  “A rule?” She glanced up at him. Boy, those freckles were cute.

  He nodded. “We’re going to ignore everything I said last week. None of that uncomfortable talk. We’re friends, and I won’t let anything change that. Let’s do our job and enjoy our day. Sound fair?”

  With a blink, she lowered her gaze and headed up a wide staircase. “It does.”

  “So how was your date last week with Eaton?”

  She stumbled, caught herself, and shot him a startled look. “My date?”

  He shrugged and continued up the stairs. “I’d normally ask, wouldn’t I?”

  Wind swirled down the stairs, and she held on to her hat. “Yes, you would.”

  “So how was it?”

  “We didn’t get past my front door.”

  He studied her profile for a second. “What do you mean?”

  “We had a . . . disagreement, and I decided . . .” She let out a single chuckle. “I decided I didn’t want to be seen with him.”

  Daylight opened up at the top of the stairs and in his heart, but he clamped down on his joy for her sake. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nonsense. None of that uncomfortable talk. Let’s do our job and enjoy our day.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am.” Outside, clouds muted the sunlight. So Eaton and Dorothy had a tiff. Didn’t mean they were through, and even if they were, it didn’t mean she’d fall for him.

  Dorothy stopped on the sidewalk. A park lay in front of them. “Up to your left, that’s Old Town. You can see Edinburgh Castle at the end of the Royal Mile.”

  “Wow.” The ridge was crowned with dark ancient stone buildings, more rugged and wild than London’s polite gray polish. “When the recruiter said ‘Join the Navy and see the world,’ he wasn’t joking. Can’t believe I’m in Scotland.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She pointed straight ahead to a tall open structure of Gothic spires in the park. “That’s the Walter Scott Memorial, and New Town is to our right.”

  “New?”

  “Quite.” She headed in that direction. “Neoclassical and Georgian architecture, late eighteenth century, early nineteenth century.”

  “That’s what we call old in my country.”

  “Newborn babes.” Another teasing look, and she crossed a wide street that ran alongside the park. “This is Princes Street. If your work doesn’t take long, I’d love to show you the sights. If you’d like, that is.”

  “I’d like that.” He’d like that very much. This would probably be his last time to see her, and he wanted to savor it.

  “I’m glad. I haven’t been here for years, and I miss it so.” She headed down a street lined with “new” buildings, square and solid, but with plenty of ornate stonework. “How was your week?”

  “Busy.” He eyed the passersby and measured his words. “Ran drills, practiced with our fellows on the ground. And you’ll be proud of me—I wrote to my brothers.”

  “You did?” Her grin lit up the cloudy day. “But you don’t have all the money yet.”

  “Nope. You once told me life is short and family is dear, so I decided not to wait any longer. Besides, I can’t earn their forgiveness and love.”

  Dorothy frowned. “I suppose not.”

  “And I’m only partly responsible for where they are now. Even with deferments, they might have chosen to enlist. And you have to volunteer for both the Rangers and the Army Air Force.”

  “I’m glad you stopped blaming yourself.”

  “No more of that.” A pair of American sailors in dress blues passed and snapped salutes, which Wyatt returned. “I’ll mail the letters as soon as we return to Weymouth. It feels good. I’ve apologized and I’m making amends—not to earn their love but because it’s the—”

  “The right thing to do.”

  He stared at her.

  Her eyes had never looked so warm, or maybe it was an illusion caused by the freckles. “You say that a lot, you know.”

  He chuckled. “Reckon I do.”

  Dorothy smiled and waved. “There’s Mr. Campbell, the manager of the Edinburgh office. Mr. Montague said he’d let us in.”

  Wyatt had hoped all the men would wear kilts and tam-o’-shanters, but this man wore trousers and a gray overcoat. At least he wore a blue-and-green plaid scarf.

  “My wee lassie.” The elderly gentleman clasped Dorothy’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Look at you, all grown up. How long has it been?”

  “I don’t know.” Her cheeks flushed under the freckles. “Six years, maybe seven.”

  “Your father has been gone too long.” He turned his gaze to Wyatt.

  “Mr. Campbell, this is Lt. Wyatt Paxton,” Dorothy said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Campbell.” Wyatt shook his hand as the older man sized him up.

  “A pleasure.” He unlocked the front door. “Highly irregular having a foreigner look at our books, much less such a young lad. Highly irregular. But Mr. Montague trusts you, and our Dolly trusts you, so I’m glad to have your help.”

  Mr. Campbell strode through the lobby. “Well
, Lieutenant, I hope you find out what’s happening. We’re losing money, but Mr. MacLeod insists everything’s tip-top.”

  “Mr. MacLeod?”

  “Head of accounting.” Mr. Campbell unlocked a door.

  “One of my father’s oldest friends.” Dorothy’s voice trailed off.

  “School chums, weren’t they?” Mr. Campbell swung the door open. “Mr. Montague said to give you free rein, but mind you take care with the books. Mr. MacLeod likes them just so.”

  Wyatt glanced around the overheated room. “We’ll put things back exactly as they were.”

  “Aye, see that you do. Mr. MacLeod would have a conniption if he knew I let you look at his books.” He frowned. “I wish I could show you where things are, but I’m not familiar with this department.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Aye.” A sharp nod. “I’ll return at noon and check on you.”

  After Mr. Campbell left, Wyatt set down his briefcase, shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves.

  For the first half hour, he surveyed the files and ledgers to figure out the system. Then he pulled files and got to work at a big rolltop desk.

  Slowly, he worked his way through each department’s ledgers. Dorothy brought him files, reassembled them neatly, and returned them.

  But most of the time, she sat in a chair in the corner. Quiet.

  Every once in a while, he could feel that pretty blue gaze, and he’d look up. Sure enough, she was watching him with an unfamiliar expression, but then she’d give him a quick smile and motion him back to work.

  Made him uncomfortable. But that unfamiliar look wasn’t pity, only . . . well, he didn’t know what it was. Her gaze penetrating, her mouth turned down a bit, her cheeks pale.

  However, he’d come to Edinburgh to study the books, not Dorothy.

  He picked up an invoice from Forthwright Business Services. He’d seen a similar invoice earlier and remembered it because of the W in the middle. “Say, Dorothy. Would you please bring me the last file, the one you just put away? Come to think of it, the last three or four.”

  She stood and flipped through the file cabinet. “Did you find something?”