Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  11

  Boston

  Saturday, February 21, 1942

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  How could Arch say no when Lillian looked up to him with those big eyes? “Not at all.”

  Next to him on the sidewalk, both Jim and Dan Avery grunted. No doubt they didn’t share their sister’s interest in the show windows at Filene’s.

  “Oh, stop it.” Mary’s voice held more affection than scolding. “The movie doesn’t start until seven.”

  “And I’m dying to show off my work.” Quintessa linked arms with her roommates and led them to a large window display. “See? Inspired by our afternoon ice-skating.”

  “It’s darling,” Lillian said.

  Arch smiled. A mannequin couple skated, and three child mannequins lay in a jumble as if they’d crashed into each other. If only he could spirit Lillian away for another whirl on the ice. Alone.

  Her small hands gripping his, her pretty face vacillating between terror and joy, her voice begging him to go faster . . . his heart goading him to go faster, and his common sense telling him to go slowly. Very slowly.

  The ladies chattered about the display, how the fake trees and draped white cloth created the landscape, and how sequins and a mirror on the ground made everything glitter.

  Dan and Jim quietly discussed the Ettinger’s last cruise. They’d been sent out with a North Atlantic convoy from Nova Scotia to Iceland but had turned back halfway to escort some tankers straggling from a westbound convoy.

  Arch didn’t mind returning to Boston two weeks ahead of schedule. That day at the Public Garden he’d wanted to ask Lillian her professional opinion about sedatives, then realized he could use that question to entice Lillian into an evening out with him, a plan even Jim had approved. Monday was the day he’d ask her.

  “I wish I could do something similar at Dixon’s.” Lillian crossed her arms, one gloved finger tapping on her coat sleeve. “Clear away the ugly ads and showcase the merchandise.”

  Quintessa pointed at the window. “Maybe a rotating display so people always look to see what’s new.”

  Lillian’s face took on a determined set. “If I could increase sales, my job would be secure. But first I have to convince Mr. Dixon to let me make changes.”

  Arch dug his hands in his pockets. If only he could advise her.

  “Start with the cosmetics,” Quintessa said. “Tell him it needs a feminine touch.”

  “Hmm. That might work,” Lillian said.

  “Let me show you our cosmetics displays.” Quintessa headed for the entrance.

  Jim and Dan grumbled again, and Arch frowned to look manly, but he wouldn’t mind watching Lillian’s eyes light up.

  Mary took Jim’s hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Why don’t you boys get coffee in the restaurant? We won’t be long.”

  “Great idea.” He kissed her forehead. “Come on, fellows.”

  “Yes, great idea.” Arch’s voice sounded fake, but he followed the Avery brothers.

  The men strode through the store to the elevator. “Nothing against Clifford,” Jim said, “but I’m glad he couldn’t come into town this weekend.”

  “Now we can talk shop,” Dan said.

  Arch smiled. Did Dan Avery ever not talk shop? “Watch out. Loose lips sink ships.”

  “True.” Dan scanned the busy department store as if ferreting out German spies.

  Jim pushed the elevator button. “I hope we don’t get another North Atlantic convoy assignment. The U-boats have abandoned that route for American waters. We’re needed here.”

  “Especially around Cape Hatteras,” Dan said in a low voice. “And now the U-boats are in the Caribbean.”

  Arch stepped closer. “Any word from the Eastern Sea Frontier about setting up coastal convoys?”

  Dan shook his head. “We don’t have enough escort vessels. A poorly escorted convoy is an even greater draw for a U-boat than a solitary cargo ship—all those targets clumped together.”

  “Especially if they’re lit up from behind by city lights,” Jim said. “I wish the Navy would exercise its authority and order blackouts. But the cities claim it’d be bad for business.”

  Arch let out a harsh laugh. “So are shiploads of oil and cargo going to the bottom of the sea.” Not to mention bodies washing ashore.

  The elevator doors opened, and two ladies exited. The three men tipped their covers to them and stepped inside.

  On the bronze elevator panel, Arch pushed a glass button for the eighth floor. “How’s the Anti-Submarine Warfare Unit shaping up?”

  “Very well,” Dan said. “Most of the men served on convoy duty and learned from the British. England is two years ahead of us. We need to study what they do—escorted convoys, blackouts, air support.”

  Arch unbuttoned his overcoat. “Of course, we don’t have nearly enough ships or planes to protect our shipping along the East Coast.”

  Dan knifed his hand toward the door. “In the long run, the best way to protect shipping is to hunt and destroy U-boats. We need better weapons, better sonar training, and better radar. And we need to install radar on far more ships.”

  “Buckner would sure like a radar set,” Jim said. “He’s obsessed with sinking a U-boat.”

  The elevator doors opened, and Arch led the way toward the restaurant.

  Tension wiggled inside him. The desire to open up to his best friend wrestled with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be wise or masculine. Besides, he was doing his job, even if Buckner might not agree.

  The most frustrating part about leadership was being judged for the performance of others. His men were either jittery or drowsy, and Buckner blamed him.

  At Dan’s request, the men were shown to an isolated booth in the corner.

  Arch slid in across from Dan and Jim, who were as different as brothers could be. Jim, with his sunny disposition, and Dan, with his no-nonsense outlook.

  The men ordered coffee, and Arch rested his hands in his lap to conceal the trembling. Perhaps he could try a roundabout approach. “I’ve overheard the men calling Buckner Captain Ahab.”

  Jim chuckled. “That fits. Down in the engine room, we don’t feel Buckner’s wrath, but the deck gang sure does.”

  Here was Arch’s opening. “It wears on the men. Constantly being at general quarters, seeing the carnage from the sunken ships, and getting yelled at because we haven’t sunk a U-boat. They’re on edge, they don’t sleep well, and Buckner just tells them to buck up.”

  Jim grinned. “Buck-up Buckner.”

  The waitress poured coffee, the men thanked her, and Arch took a sip. “His approach doesn’t work. I preferred Captain Durant’s ways. He didn’t put up with laziness or insubordination, but he encouraged the men and sympathized with them.”

  Dan frowned at his coffee cup. “You don’t get better than Durant, but you have to work with Buckner, and you have to make the men shape up.”

  “I know.” Arch’s jaw stiffened. “For the sake of the war effort, my men need to be alert and quick and competent. I need to make them shape up, but I’m also concerned for their well-being.”

  Dan shrugged. “Frequent drills and training to build confidence. Appropriate discipline. Plenty of rest and recreation.”

  “He already does that.” Jim nudged his brother and laughed. “We went to the Academy too.”

  Dan lifted half a smile. “Sorry. I still think of you two as little plebes.”

  Arch stirred his coffee although he hadn’t added sugar or cream. The spoon tinkled around the rim. He’d gone against his father’s wishes to attend the Naval Academy. He’d worked hard in Annapolis and ever since. But a negative or lukewarm report from Buckner would stall his career.

  If he couldn’t pull himself and his men together, all his labor would be in vain.

  12

  Boston

  Monday, February 23, 1942

  Lillian fluffed the red, white, and blue bunting on the wooden box, then straightened the sign so
liciting tin donations. A small step, but important. People wanted to aid the war effort, and they’d take their tin somewhere—why not to Dixon’s? Once inside the store, they might remember they needed toothpaste or aspirin.

  Mr. Dixon had been swayed, and Lillian had made her first change. She frowned at the ad-plastered windows, her next project if she had her way.

  “Looks good, Miss Avery,” Albert called from the soda fountain, where he served lunch to an elderly couple.

  “Thank you.” She began rearranging the shelf closest to the door. With rubber on ration and shortages of nylons and metals, they had fewer items.

  The bell on the door jangled, and Arch Vandenberg entered the store in his navy blue overcoat. “Hi, Lillian.”

  “Arch. Hi.” She fiddled with the hem of her hip-length white jacket. “What are you doing here? Are you sick? Is Jim all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” He took off his cover and smoothed his wavy blond hair. “I have a medical question for you.”

  “All right.” She shifted bottles of pomade to disguise the depletion of bobby pins.

  Arch cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s a complicated question, involving men on my ship. Would you be willing to meet over dinner tonight to discuss it? My treat.”

  Lillian spun around too fast and knocked down a little cardboard box. Precious bobby pins scattered everywhere. “My word.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have startled you.” Arch squatted to pick up pins. “Don’t worry. It’s not a date. More of a professional consultation.”

  “Oh.” A rush of relief and disappointment heated her cheeks, and she bent over to clean up her mess.

  “Well?” He dropped pins into the box. “Are you free tonight?”

  “Yes, I am.” As she worked, she let her hair fall over her cheek like a mask.

  “How about Durgin-Park down by Faneuil Hall? Jim says it’s good. Nothing fancy, just hearty New England fare.”

  “All right. I could meet you there at five-thirty.”

  “See you then. I think that’s all.” He handed Lillian the box.

  “Thanks.” She’d buy the bobby pins herself, since she was responsible for the loss.

  “Thank you for the advice, Miss Avery,” he said in a louder voice. “I appreciate your help.” A wink at her, then he looked down the center aisle and tipped his cover. “Good-bye.”

  “Bye.” A smile escaped at his blatant flattery in front of her boss.

  After Arch left, Mr. Dixon came down the aisle. “Your friend’s visiting you at work?”

  “My brother’s friend.” Lillian set the box aside to purchase later and resumed rearranging the shelf. “He had a medical question.”

  “Your brother’s in the Navy too, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. All three of my older brothers.”

  Mr. Dixon grunted, his heavy gray brows jammed together. “Let’s hope the Navy treats them better than they treated my nephew.”

  “Oh?” Her hands rested on the shelf. Mr. Dixon never mentioned his family, and she longed to pry the door open. “How is that?”

  The pharmacist nodded toward Boston Harbor. “He served on a battleship, in the fire room. One day the boiler exploded. Some of his buddies were killed, and he was badly burned.”

  “Oh dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “That wasn’t the worst of it.” His dark eyes turned soft. “After he healed, he tried to go back, but he couldn’t handle being in the fire room. His nerves, you know.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “What did the Navy do?” He flung out one hand. “Wouldn’t give him medication. Wouldn’t train him in a new rating. Just kicked him out, said he was unfit for duty.”

  “What a shame.”

  “All his life he wanted to be a sailor. He found a job at the Navy Yard, but it’s not the same.”

  “I understand.”

  Mr. Dixon’s gaze swam back, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Yes. Well, we should get back to work.”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled as she did so. Mr. Dixon might turn out to be a teddy bear after all.

  What a strange subway system. The same station had three names—State for the northbound line, Milk Street for the southbound line, and Devonshire for the east-west line. All located beneath the historic Old State House.

  Lillian gazed up at the two-hundred-year-old brick building.

  “Out of the way, lady.”

  “Oh, sorry.” She darted away from the door. What a hick she was, gawking at the tourist sites. But how could she help it?

  In the light of the setting sun, she got her bearings. The Old State House stood at one of those typical Bostonian intersections with half a dozen streets coming from all angles—the site of the Boston Massacre, no less. To her left sat Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market.

  Now to act like a big-city girl. She stuffed her hands in her coat pockets and followed the directions Albert had given her to the restaurant. Pass Faneuil Hall, turn right, restaurant on the left.

  What kind of medical question could Arch have for her? The Navy was full of healthy young men, and the Navy’s physicians and pharmacist’s mates cared for them. Why would Arch need to talk to a civilian pharmacist?

  It couldn’t be a ruse to get her alone for dinner. She’d ruled that out based on his character. She mustn’t allow herself to fantasize about romance or to assign cruel motives to her brother’s best friend. They wouldn’t have been friends for so long if Arch had pathological tendencies.

  Lillian passed the colonial brick structure of Faneuil Hall, then Quincy Market with its granite pillars. On her left. She opened the restaurant door and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  “What do you want?” A plump waitress in her fifties eyed Lillian up and down.

  She must look like a saleswoman rather than a customer. She raised a warm smile. “I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”

  The waitress harrumphed. “Isn’t that swell? All these years we’ve kept the sunshiny tourists away, and now they find us.”

  Lillian blinked. “I . . . I live here.”

  “Yeah? One month? Two?”

  Not quite two months. She blinked again. Didn’t they want her business? “I’m meeting my friend at five-thirty.”

  “And she’s late too. Figures.” The waitress marched into the dining room. “Who’s your friend, sunshine?”

  Lillian followed, gaping at the woman’s back. Why would the restaurant allow the staff to be inhospitable?

  At a table to her right, Arch pushed back his chair and stood. “Good evening.”

  “Well, don’t that beat all?” The waitress planted her hands on wide hips. “Blueblood sailor boy and happy little country girl. What a pair.”

  Arch pulled out a chair for Lillian. “May I take your coat?”

  Stunned, Lillian allowed him. Then she sat, steam filling her chest.

  “Suppose you want menus. Can’t get a moment’s rest around here.” The waitress slapped two menus onto the table. “Let me guess—lobster for the King of New England and possum for the country girl. Sorry. We’re fresh out of possum.” She stomped away.

  The steam whooshed out Lillian’s nostrils. “That’s it. I’m leaving.” She shoved back her chair and moved to stand.

  Arch clamped a hand on top of hers. “Sit.”

  The strength of his hand alarmed her, but not as much as the warmth of it. “We should leave. She’s rude.”

  A slow smile eased up. “It’s Durgin-Park.”

  Lillian stared at him, trying to understand, willing him to move his hand, willing herself to pull away.

  Arch chuckled. “They’re famous for their rude waitresses.”

  “You picked a restaurant famous for rude waitresses?” She eased back into her chair.

  “Blame your brother.”

  “Jim?”

  “Jim. He said I needed to assure you this wasn’t a date, so he suggested the least romantic restaurant in Boston. He told me the waitresses were ente
rtaining.”

  “Entertaining? Jim would think that.”

  Arch laughed and returned his hand to his lap. “He knew how you’d react. He knew you’d bolt. His way of making sure the evening would be short as well as unromantic. I’ve been had.”

  Long tables spread with red-and-white checkered tablecloths. No music or dancing. And the surliest waitress ever. The steam changed form and burst into laughter.

  “I’ve never been one for practical jokes, but I’ll have to get him back.” Arch picked up a menu. “Now, I need to choose my entrée, because, sadly, they’re fresh out of possum.”

  Lillian smiled and opened her menu. No possum listed, but lobster was, along with steak, shepherd’s pie, turkey, and seafood. Oh, and the desserts! Indian pudding, bread pudding, Boston cream pie . . .

  “Know what you want, or you need help reading the menu?” The waitress had returned.

  Why not play along? “Well, they never learned me much in that ole country schoolhouse, and them words are mighty big, but I reckon I’ll have this here chicken potpie. And some beans. Beans is good eatin’, all we get down on the farm.”

  The waitress raised one eyebrow, and one corner of her mouth twitched as she wrote down the order.

  Arch gaped at her, much as he had the night they’d met.

  “And for you, Your Majesty?”

  “Um, pot roast. The New England pot roast, please. And the Boston baked beans.”

  Lillian looked up at the waitress plaintively. “Go easy on him. He ain’t never had beans at that there palace of his.”

  “Crazy tourists.” The waitress strode away.

  Lillian grinned in triumph. She’d played the waitress’s game and struck Arch dumb. “So what’s your medical question?”

  “My medical . . . ?” He made a funny face, ran his hand over his hair, and then gave her a charming smile. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

  “You did ask me here for a reason.”

  “Yes, I did. And thanks to that little exchange, now I know not to get on Lillian Avery’s bad side.”