Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  “I don’t—” Her eyes flew open, and her mouth slammed shut.

  He couldn’t contain his grin. “You still love me.”

  She wrestled the door open. “I didn’t say that.”

  He laughed. “So you do love me.”

  “You had a concussion. Your brains are addled.” Out the door she went, onto the back lawn. She gazed around.

  He came alongside her on the green grass under a warm sunny sky. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “I—I—to my hotel. Where am I?”

  “You went out the back door. Why don’t you stay for dinner? We’re having a barbecue right here on this lawn. No fireworks with the dim-out, but you can see the East River and the city skyline. I’d like you to meet my friends, the men I’ll work with in Boston.”

  Lillian looked at him with reddened eyes. “What medications are you taking?”

  He laughed. “I haven’t taken anything for a week. This is the real me.”

  Her gaze wavered.

  He grasped her elbow. “Please stay, Lillian.”

  Her face crumpled, and she swayed. “Oh, Arch. I do—I do love you.”

  “So stay.” He folded her in his arms, and a contented sigh flowed out. “I can say my apologies to you. I owe you a boatload. Then we can kiss and take a walk and kiss and eat hot dogs and kiss.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I plan to do a lot of it.”

  Her shoulders bounced—in laughter or tears? “I—I’ve never kissed a man in pajamas.”

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.”

  Her hands felt warm on his back through the thin cotton. “I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too. Now, would you like your bracelet back?”

  “Oh, I would.” She stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I hate crying. It’s so messy.”

  “You’ve never looked prettier.” The mottled cheeks and moist eyes showed her love. He wrapped the bracelet around her wrist and attempted to fasten it. “This isn’t easy with the shakes. I’ve realized God might not take away my combat fatigue—but he’ll help me live with it.”

  “He will. And he’s already using your condition for good. You’ll help others, I know it.”

  His cheeks heated at her praise, and he finally fastened the clasp. “Not easy with one eye either.”

  “You’re doing well.” She smiled up at him with admiration. “So well.”

  Arch set his hands on her slender waist and drew her close. “I may have lost an eye, but I’ve never seen more clearly.”

  “Oh . . .” Her pupils widened, and her eyelids drooped slightly, an irresistible invitation.

  Since he planned to spend the rest of his life kissing her, why not take his time today? Slowly, trying to judge the distance and not dislodge her hat, he lowered his lips to her brow.

  “My girl,” he murmured. “My brave, warmhearted girl.”

  “My boy.” Her kiss warmed the tip of his chin. “You . . . you smell so good.”

  He chuckled and trailed kisses down her temple. “So do you.”

  Lillian slid her hands up his chest, around his neck, into his hair, and she tugged him lower.

  How could he resist such eagerness? He sought her lips, found them, captured them, savored them. Never again would he give in to his suspicions. Never again would he allow her to shut him out. Never again would he let her go.

  “Oh, Arch.” She laid her cheek on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’ll be in Boston.”

  “Think you can get used to seeing me in a civilian suit? And . . . and a glass eye?”

  She pulled back. “May I see?”

  His stomach muscles tightened. “I don’t have it yet. It’s—”

  “I know. May I?”

  He hesitated, but didn’t she deserve to see? Didn’t he trust her to love him as he was? He shoved the bandage up to his forehead.

  Lillian studied his face. Sympathy softened her eyes, but no fear or disgust warped her features. Then the corners of her mouth turned up. “There. I’m used to it.”

  He couldn’t speak around the thickness in his throat, and he fumbled with the bandage.

  “You don’t have to put it on for my sake,” she said. “Unless you need it to prevent infection, or if it feels strange.”

  What felt strange was having her look unflinchingly at his disfigurement. He hauled in a breath and tugged off the bandage. “Being here, going through this, seeing the challenges the other patients face—well, now I understand better what you face.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She planted a kiss on his left cheek, right below his missing eye. “Oh, I’m so excited about your new job and what you’re doing for these men.”

  “I am too.” The breeze cooled his face, but her enthusiasm warmed his insides. While he’d miss being in the Navy—the spare living, the camaraderie, and the direct contribution to the war effort—this new venture energized him. “Something good came out of this injury.”

  “Two good things, I hope.” A tilt of her head, a gaze through her lashes, a hand weaving into his hair—snaring him forever.

  He was trapped, and he couldn’t be happier. “And many more good things to come.”

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for sailing with Arch and Lillian. I want to assure you that the drug ring in this story is purely fictional and not based on historical incidents. However, the treatment of combat fatigue (now known as post-traumatic stress disorder) at the time is accurate. Great strides were made during World War II, as physicians and commanders slowly came to see it as a medical condition rather than cowardice or “weak nerves,” but treatment remained difficult.

  The USS Ettinger is a fictional ship, but the situations she faced were typical. When Germany sent her U-boats to American waters for Operation Paukenschlag (“Drumbeat”), the United States was not prepared. Blackouts were considered but not ordered, due to cities complaining about decreased business. Too few escort vessels were available to form effective convoys, and too few aircraft were available for air patrol. Infighting among the various commands didn’t help. In the first six months of 1942, one hundred merchant ships were sunk in the Eastern Sea Frontier (off the US East Coast), killing thousands of merchant marines and passengers. The merchant marines and the officers and sailors of the US Navy and Coast Guard showed outstanding bravery and determination.

  The sinkings of the Norness and the Traveller follow the historical record, although the survivors of the Norness were actually rescued by the destroyer USS Ellyson. The incident in chapter 25 is loosely based on the sinking of U-85 by the destroyer USS Roper.

  All characters are fictional other than Dr. Harold Ockenga, pastor of Park Street Church, restaurant owner Mr. Okagi, pharmacists Albert and Jim Hart in Vermilion, and historical figures.

  If you’re on Pinterest, please visit my board for Anchor in the Storm (www.pinterest.com/sarahsundin) to see pictures of Boston, destroyers, Lillian’s dresses, and other inspiration for the story.

  Please join me for the third novel in the Waves of Freedom series. The last thing no-nonsense officer Lt. Dan Avery wants to see on his radar is fun-loving Quintessa Beaumont—even if she has joined the WAVES.

  1

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Thursday, July 30, 1942

  A touch of kindness and enthusiasm could transform a person’s spirit, and Quintessa Beaumont delighted in participating in the process.

  “This is lovely on you, Mrs. Finnegan.” Quintessa lined a box with tissue paper on the counter at Filene’s.

  Her customer giggled and tucked a gray curl behind her ear. “Listen to me. I sound like a schoolgirl. All because of a blouse.”

  “Not just any blouse. The perfect blouse for you.” Quintessa laid the floral fabric in neat folds in the box. At first, Mrs. Finnegan had struck her as drab and tired and dowdy. Shame on her for thinking that way—so shallow. But as Quintessa had assisted the older lady in her
search, she’d sensed a sweet dreaminess. Mrs. Finnegan deserved a blouse that reflected who she was inside, something to make her happy and confident. Quintessa had found it.

  She settled the lid on the box and handed it to Mrs. Finnegan. “Thank you for your purchase. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “The pleasure was mine. You certainly have a gift, Miss Beaumont.” Mrs. Finnegan strolled down the aisle with a new bounce in her step.

  Quintessa returned to the sales floor. No customers, so she straightened racks of summer blouses, which needed to be sold soon to make room for autumn merchandise.

  Filene’s fifth floor boasted fashionable women’s apparel, all designed to meet the War Production Board’s standards to limit use of fabric. For the past ten months, Quintessa had rotated among Filene’s various shops, learning the business and the wares. When her year in training was complete, she could finally put her business degree to use in the offices.

  A few ladies browsed the racks. With so many women working now due to the war, business was slow on weekday mornings.

  A figure in white caught her eye—a naval officer with a familiar determined gait. Quintessa’s heart lurched. Dan Avery? What was her roommate’s oldest brother doing here?

  She smoothed her blonde curls but stopped herself. Why bother? The man was already married—to the United States Navy.

  Although his stride didn’t waver, he gazed from side to side like a lost child, frowning and squinting. Then he spotted Quintessa, and the frown and squint disappeared.

  He was looking for her. Another lurch, with a tingle this time, but Quintessa shoved it aside. She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. “Lieutenant Daniel Avery. Whatever brings you to Filene’s better blouses?”

  “My mom’s birthday.” Dan rubbed the back of his neck and eyed the clothing racks like a fleet of enemy vessels. “I tried to bribe Lillian to do my shopping for me, but she refused. Some sister. Told me you’d help me find something.”

  Quintessa loved her roommate’s forthright nature. “Does the bribe apply to me too?”

  He didn’t smile. He rarely did, and she didn’t think she’d ever heard him laugh, but his dark eyes twinkled. A no-nonsense man, but not humorless. “I imagine Filene’s disapproves of employees taking bribes.”

  “I’ll settle for the commission.” Shifting her thoughts to her former Sunday school teacher, Quintessa contemplated the summer blouses. “Let’s see. Your mother is about Lillian’s size and coloring.”

  “Plumper and grayer.”

  No wonder the man was still a bachelor. “We would never say that here at Filene’s. She’s more mature.”

  “I’d hope so. Raising the seven of us, she’s earned her gray.”

  Quintessa smiled and flipped through the blouses. Mrs. Avery handled the business end of her husband’s boatyard, and she was neither frilly nor frumpy.

  “How about this?” Quintessa held up a tailored cream blouse with a brown yoke and short brown sleeves. An embroidered green vine with delicate yellow flowers softened the border between cream and brown.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Let’s see what else we have.”

  “Why?” Dan gestured to the blouse. “Is it her size?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The man certainly knew his mind. One of many things she found attractive about him. “All right then.”

  Quintessa took the blouse to the cash register and rang up the purchase. “How are things at the Anti-Submarine Warfare Unit?”

  One dark eyebrow lifted, and he pulled out his wallet. “We’re making progress, but personally, I want to get back out to sea.”

  “That’s where the excitement is.”

  “And the real work. We finally have convoys along the East Coast, and we’ve pretty much driven the U-boats away. But they’re back to their old hunting grounds in the North Atlantic, and they’re wreaking havoc in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico. The battle’s constantly changing, and we have to stay on top of it.”

  Quintessa focused on making change. Concentration was always difficult when Dan Avery spoke about the war or ships or the Navy. Passion lit the strong lines of his face and animated his firm mouth. If only he’d remove his white officer’s cap and run his hand through his wavy black hair. The wildness of it.

  She puffed out a breath. “Here’s your change. Let me wrap that for you.”

  “Very well.” He slipped the coins in the pocket of his white trousers and glanced at his wristwatch.

  Quintessa gritted her teeth as she pleated the tissue paper inside the box. What was wrong with her? She’d always been drawn to men who showered her with starry-eyed adoration. Now she was drawn to a man who looked right through her as if she had nothing of substance to stop his gaze.

  Shame shriveled up inside her. How could she blame him? He had to know she’d come to Boston to throw herself at his younger brother Jim—who turned out to be in love with her best friend, Mary Stirling. Dan had also been in Boston when Quintessa was dating Clifford White—who turned out to be married. Surely Dan saw her as a silly, selfish woman with poor judgment.

  He’d be right.

  She worked up a smile and presented him with the wrapped package. “Here you go. Thank you for your purchase.”

  “And thank you for your help. I’m sure Mom will love it.” He tipped his cap to her and strode away.

  Just as well. She needed to set her head on straight before she started another romance anyway. The past year had turned her topsy-turvy.

  Miss Doyle arrived to relieve Quintessa for her lunch break, but Quintessa headed up to the offices on the seventh floor instead. Her former boss, Mr. Garrett, had retired last week, and she’d only briefly met his replacement, Mr. Young.

  First she slipped into the restroom, powdered her nose, freshened her lipstick, and straightened her chic golden-brown suit jacket. She smiled at her reflection. Pretty and feminine, but smart and professional. Perfect for this meeting.

  The business offices buzzed with a tantalizing sense of purpose. Mr. Young’s office door stood open, and she lightly rapped on the doorjamb.

  Her boss raised his salt-and-pepper head, grinned at her, and stood to shake her hand. “Miss Beaumont, isn’t it? Yes, yes. I don’t have the final sales figures for July, but you’re in line to be one of the top salesgirls again. A true asset to Filene’s.”

  An excellent start. “Thank you, Mr. Young.”

  He crossed his arms over his charcoal-gray suit. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I wanted to speak with you about the next step in my training program.”

  “Training?” He narrowed one eye. “You’re the last person who needs sales training.”

  A sick feeling settled in her belly. Hadn’t Mr. Garrett told Mr. Young why she was here? “Mr. Garrett hired me to work here in the business offices, but—”

  “You’re a secretary?”

  Somehow Quintessa maintained her friendly professional smile. “No, sir. I have a bachelor’s degree in business. Mr. Garrett wanted to give me a year of sales experience before starting here. He felt it was important for his assistant—”

  “Assistant?” Mr. Young winced as if he had a toothache. “That might have been Mr. Garrett’s plan, but I just hired a man. These offices are no place for a young lady.”

  “Unless she’s a secretary.”

  “Yes, I’m glad you understand.” His face brightened. “Besides, you’re excellent at sales. Why would we waste your talents on boring old numbers and paperwork? And why would we hide that pretty face of yours behind office doors?”

  A pretty face. That’s all she was. Only good for decoration.

  “Now, off you go.” Mr. Young set his hand on her shoulder and guided her out his office door. “That’s a good girl. Go make Filene’s proud.”

  Quintessa trudged down the hallway. Sh
e’d come to Boston for nothing. She’d worked for her degree for nothing. Lord, what’s the reason for all this? What do you want me to do?

  Patriotic posters by the elevator reminded employees to put part of their paychecks into war bonds. The nation was at war, and everyone was working together. Her roommates Mary Stirling and Yvette Lafontaine worked at the Boston Navy Yard, where American warships were built and repaired. Her other roommate, Lillian Avery, worked as a pharmacist, freeing men to fight.

  But Quintessa Beaumont was only good for selling blouses.

  After a day like today, Quintessa needed this. She opened the door to Robillard’s Bakery and inhaled the scents of bread and pastry and hospitality.

  “Bonsoir, ma petite Quintessa.” Madame Celeste Robillard raised a plump hand in greeting.

  “Bonsoir, Madame Robillard.”

  “I will be with you in a minute,” the bakery owner said in French, Quintessa’s father’s native tongue.

  “Merci.” Her French roommate, Yvette, had introduced her to Robillard’s, a gathering place for Boston’s French expatriates and refugees.

  With sugar on ration, Robillard’s carried fewer pastries and more breads, but today a row of éclairs called from the glass display case. Why not? If she were fat, Mr. Young might want to hide her in the business offices.

  Maybe she’d buy two éclairs. Or three.

  Guilt zinged through her. No, she’d buy four, one for each roommate. How could she forget her friends? After all, she planned to indulge in their sympathy this evening. Didn’t they deserve compensation in pastry form?

  “Oh, ma petite. You are sad.” Madame Robillard’s brown eyes crinkled.

  Quintessa refused to cry. She waved her hand in airy dismissal. “Nothing an éclair can’t fix.”

  “Oui.” Madame Robillard opened a pink pasteboard box.

  “Four, s’il vous plait.”

  “You are so kind. Such a good friend.”

  That’s what everyone thought.

  Madame Robillard stopped and studied Quintessa. Wiry curls in brown and gray framed her face, escapees from the loose bun at the nape of her neck.