by Sarah Sundin
He lifted suspicious blue eyes to her. “Fine.”
She smiled and fingered the edge of her clipboard. “How’s your family? Do you have a wife? Children?”
Those eyes hardened to blue marbles. “Why do you ask?”
Mary gestured around the shipyard. “I like to know the people I work with.”
“Good for you.” Mr. Bauer snapped down his welding mask. “Please stand back. You don’t want to get hurt.”
Mary blinked and backed up. Oh my, he was prickly. But then if everyone distrusted her because of her accent, she might be prickly too.
Over to starboard, Frank Fiske wrote on a clipboard. Stocky and middle-aged, with graying blond hair, the leadingman ran this crew well.
“Good morning, Mr. Fiske.”
“Right on schedule.” Fiske scribbled his signature and handed her the form.
Mary tucked it away. “How’s your son? Any new letters?”
The leadingman’s broad brow wrinkled. “Hates Army life. He’ll be out in November unless Roosevelt has his way and gets us into a shooting war by then.”
Mary murmured her sympathy. It wasn’t her job to argue one side or the other.
He crossed his beefy arms and cracked a grin. “You had a chat with the police, I heard.”
She laughed and flapped her hand. “It was nothing. The bottle had been unattended for some time. Anyone could have tampered with it. Since I noticed something was wrong and alerted Mr. Pennington, they didn’t suspect me.”
“Who’s the suspect? Do you know?”
“Only what I read in the papers.”
“They’re idiots. A jealous lover?”
Mary scanned the ship—dozens of workmen, stuttering rivet guns, and whining machinery. If anyone was dangerous, Frank Fiske would know. “Do you think it was someone here?”
He ran his finger across his upper lip. “All I know is this war’s behind it. The men say there’s a saboteur. Talk about seeing people where they don’t belong, tools out of place. Something’s going on.”
Goose bumps rose under the sleeves of Mary’s suit jacket. Out in the harbor, the Atwood floated under the gray clouds, awaiting her commission. Jim would be aboard with his congenial smile and easy laugh. People had a right to protest but not to harm good men.
“Keep your eyes open, Miss Stirling,” Mr. Fiske said, his voice somber.
“I will.”
“Hey, Fiske.” George O’Donnell lumbered over, a few years older than Fiske and many pounds heavier. “Here’s the blueprint.”
“Thanks.” Fiske took the rolled-up document.
“Oh, Mr. O’Donnell,” Mary said. “Mr. Winslow’s looking for you.”
He pulled a tin of chewing tobacco from his pocket and stuck a wad in his mouth. “I’m sure he is.”
Fiske unrolled the blueprint on a crate. “Don’t envy you working with that fop.”
“He loves England so much, why doesn’t he go fight for them, leave us alone?”
“I doubt he could lift a gun, much less fire it.” Fiske looked at Mary over his shoulder. “Sorry ’bout that. Forgot there’s a woman present.”
“That’s all right.” It happened to her a lot, but she didn’t mind. People said things around her they might ordinarily hold back. Mr. Pennington called her his little spy.
Ira Kaplan strolled over and set down a coiled hose. “Say, Mr. Fiske, glad to see you’re keeping an eye on Bauer. The man’s shifty, up to no good.”
O’Donnell chuckled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Like what?” Kaplan straightened to his full, lanky height.
“Like us to have some German saboteur here, just like in those warmongering Hollywood movies you Jews keep churning out. Then everyone would catch your war fever.”
Mary eased back, heart pounding.
“Yeah?” Kaplan jabbed his finger at O’Donnell. “Maybe they should. If Hitler knocks out Britain, where do you think he’ll come next?”
O’Donnell scrunched up his thick face. “Over here? Over thousands of miles of ocean? You’re crazy.”
“Hitler’s got friends in South America. Don’t you know anything? You’re crazy if—”
Mary sent Frank Fiske a pleading glance, but he was already stepping forward, setting one big hand on each man’s shoulder.
O’Donnell shook his finger in Kaplan’s face. “Shame on you. I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Then you’re old enough to know better.”
“Stop it, men,” Fiske said.
“You’re right, I’m old enough.” O’Donnell glared from under iron-gray brows. “Old enough to remember how the Brits bamboozled us into the last war.”
“That’s enough, George.” Fiske tightened his grip on the draftsman’s shoulder.
“All right, Frank. All right.” O’Donnell held up both hands and stepped back.
“Back to work, Kaplan.” Fiske’s voice rang with authority.
“Yes, sir.” The young man walked away, flexing his hands open and shut.
Mary’s heart rate settled down, and she continued on her way, climbed the ladder, and strolled down to the next dock.
Her brand-new notebook beckoned her, and she opened its crisp pages. On the top of one page, she wrote “Heinrich Bauer” in shorthand, then divided the page into two columns. On the left, she wrote all he’d said, which wasn’t much. On the right, she recorded what others had said about him.
Then she flipped the page and repeated the process for Ira Kaplan and George O’Donnell.
Maybe she had read too much Nancy Drew. She couldn’t do anything with this information. Everything she’d recorded could be discounted as rumor and gossip.
Besides, showing it to someone and seeking praise would be prideful. Her favorite verse, Philippians 2:3, said, “Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.”
She’d learned the importance of humility the hard way.
Yet something deep in her belly solidified. A record needed to be kept, and who better to take notes than an invisible secretary?
4
On the fantail of the Atwood, lined up with his eight fellow officers for the commissioning ceremony, Jim had never felt taller. Although 199 men in dress blues crowded the deck, the only sounds were the pennants flapping in the breeze and the voice of Rear Adm. William Tarrant, commandant of the Boston Navy Yard, as he read a speech.
This was why Jim had joined the Navy—the tradition, the camaraderie, the sea. He’d enjoyed his service on the battleship USS Texas, but being a “plank owner,” one of the crew at a ship’s commissioning, was a great privilege.
So was serving with Lt. Cdr. Calvin Durant, the Atwood’s commanding officer. Jim’s older brothers had both sailed with the captain and spoke highly of him. An admiral-maker, Dan called him. Jim didn’t share Dan’s and Rob’s lofty ambition, but he certainly didn’t mind floating behind them.
Admiral Tarrant said, “In accordance with this authority, I hereby place the United States ship Atwood in commission. Hoist colors.”
The band on the pier played the national anthem.
Behind Jim at the stern, a sailor would be raising the American flag, while at the bow another sailor would be raising the union jack with its white stars on a dark blue background. In his line of sight, a sailor ran the Atwood’s commissioning pennant up her mast. Now she was an official ship in the United States Navy, ready to protect American shores.
Jim glanced at the empty platforms for the 5-inch gun mounts. Well, she’d be ready once they finished fitting her out.
After the ceremony, Jim headed down to the wardroom for dinner with the other officers. Since Durant had just arrived in Boston the day before, this would be the first official gathering.
Jim took his seat toward the foot of the table with Arch and the other junior officers, while Durant sat at the head.
Tall and trim, with receding sandy hair fading to gr
ay over the temples, the commanding officer leaned back in his chair and scanned the men at the table. “Tell me about yourselves.”
Jim chuckled at the confused looks on the other officers’ faces. He’d been warned about Durant’s abrupt questions and commands.
Durant leaned his forearms on the table. “Yes, tell me about yourselves. Who you are and where you’re from and why you’re in the Navy. I expect you to do the same with those under your command. Respect them as men, and they’ll respect you as an officer.”
Only the formality of the wardroom restrained Jim’s grin. As Dan and Rob said—a commander who ran a tight ship but didn’t lord it over his subordinates.
As the introductions circled the table, Jim assessed the officers and their personalities. A fine group of men. He’d like working with them.
“And our ensigns.” Durant gestured toward the foot of the table, at the man across from Jim.
“Mitch Hadley, sir.” The ensign directed his dark-eyed gaze around the group. “Grew up in St. Louis. Big family. Hard life.”
Jim smiled at Hadley, whom he recognized from the Academy class before his.
Hadley didn’t smile back but jutted out a heavy jaw. “Unlike some people, I didn’t grow up with privileges, had to work hard for everything.”
Jim and Arch exchanged a glance. That comment was obviously meant for them.
“Always glad to have a hardworking young man on board,” Durant said. “What are your goals?”
“Command, sir. I’m here to learn everything I can about the ship and about leading men. And there’s no one I’d rather learn from.”
Durant looked down at his place setting, one side of his mouth twisted to the side.
Jim made a mental note. Flattery didn’t impress the captain, not that Jim ever resorted to flattery.
“And you?” Durant addressed Arch.
“Arch Vandenberg, sir. I’m from Connecticut, an only child, and I’ve always loved the sea.” The sparkle in his sea-blue eyes confirmed his words.
Jim bit back a smile at what Arch didn’t mention—the family estate, the trust fund, the yacht.
“As for my goals . . .” Arch sent half a grin to Hadley. “I’ve always dreamed of command too. You have competition.”
“Friendly competition only, boys.” A growl rumbled in Durant’s throat, but then he turned a warm gaze to Jim. “And Mr. Avery. I barely need an introduction. I know your brothers well.”
Hadley let out a quiet snort.
Jim ignored it and rested his clasped hands on the table. “Thank you, sir. I’m proud to be their brother.” Arch’s privilege came from wealth, but Jim’s came from connection—his maternal grandfather who had served in the House of Representatives and two older brothers who had elevated the Avery name in the Navy.
Lt. Vince Banning, the executive officer, crossed his arms. “The captain might not need an introduction, but the rest of us do.”
“Of course, sir. I’m Jim Avery, from the small town of Vermilion, Ohio, on Lake Erie. My dad builds fishing boats and yachts, so I grew up on the water. And I’m the third of seven children.” Maybe the reference to his big family would soften up Hadley.
Durant’s lean face creased in a grin. “And your goals?”
“Wherever the Navy wants to use me.”
The creases flattened. “Explain.”
Jim shrugged. “I float. As long as I can work with people, I’m happy.”
“You . . . you float?” Now the creases migrated to the captain’s forehead.
“I’m easygoing. I go wherever the wind takes me.” So far he’d managed to float to the top of his high school class, into the Naval Academy, and right onto this destroyer. And for Jim, floating was a far safer policy than pushing into the wind. That’s how people got hurt.
Durant leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “Every sailor knows if you let the wind direct you, at some point you end up on the rocks.”
Instead of showing his commander he’d be easy to work with, Jim had made himself sound lazy. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m a hard worker.”
“He sure is,” Arch said. “Near the top of his class at the Academy.”
“Right behind Arch.” Jim flicked his friend a grateful look.
“Only because you tutored me in calculus.”
“If I’d known . . .” Jim shook his head in mock self-reproach.
Durant didn’t reply but motioned in the stewards with the meal.
Air ballooned in Jim’s cheeks. That hadn’t gone well, but it wouldn’t take long to win over the captain.
After dinner, Jim headed up to the deck with Arch. To starboard, the setting sun silhouetted Boston’s skyline, with the Custom House standing tall above all else. To port, the lights were flickering out at the Navy Yard.
At the bow of the Atwood, Jim gazed down the narrow length of his ship. Couldn’t wait to set out and see what she could do.
“I suppose she’s done working for the day,” Arch said.
“Who?” Jim followed his friend’s gaze to the Navy Yard. “Mary?”
“Yeah. Nice girl. Pretty too.”
A sour taste filled Jim’s mouth. “Don’t let Gloria hear you talk that way.”
Arch whapped him in the arm. “You numbskull. I’m talking about you. She’d be good for you.”
“Mary?” Jim strolled down the starboard side of the destroyer, away from the Navy Yard. “Sure, she’s pretty, but you know I prefer bubbly blondes. Always have.”
“Because of . . . what’s her name?” Arch snapped his fingers. “The girl back home with the strange name.”
Jim’s shoulders went taut. It wasn’t a strange name at all. The most beautiful name he’d ever heard. “Yes, her.”
“You always date the same type of girl, but no relationship you’ve had lasts more than a month or two.”
Jim skirted the platform for the number two 5-inch gun. “So?”
“So maybe there’s a reason.”
The reason was clear—no one held a candle to Quintessa Beaumont.
Arch stepped over a coiled line. “Maybe you should pursue a quiet brunette instead.”
High above, the superstructure for the bridge climbed into the darkening sky—the pilothouse, the signal deck, and the gun director, all stacked in order. As assistant gunnery officer, Jim would spend most of his time caged in the gun director. “I’m not going to pursue anyone right now, not when we’re shipping out soon.”
“Well then, spare me any more double dates. All those bubbles make me dizzy.”
On the far side of the superstructure, Charlestown came into view again. “Mary seems to like our evenings on the town. As long as the poor thing can put up with you and me, you’ll get a reprieve.”
Arch’s breath huffed out into the cool evening air. “Poor thing indeed.”
5
Saturday, April 19, 1941
Mary stepped out of the movie theater into the teeming Saturday night crowd on Washington Street. Neon lights flashed on marquees offering films that intrigued her—The Lady Eve . . . Western Union . . . Road to Zanzibar . . . That Night in Rio. Anything had to be better than Flying Wild.
Gloria adjusted her gloves. “That was a waste of a dime.”
“Four dimes, you mean. Thanks, Jim.” Arch punched his friend in the shoulder.
Jim bumped into Mary. “Hey, I did it for Mary. I thought she’d like the sabotage theme.”
She laughed. “Oh, don’t blame me. I didn’t have a vote.”
A rainbow of neon lights reflected in Jim’s eyes. “Come on. I know it made you think.”
“Definitely.” She followed Arch and Gloria down Washington Street. “It made me think I would have preferred that.” She pointed to a poster for The Monster and the Girl, showing a gorilla-like creature carrying an unconscious damsel in his arms.
“Next week then.”
“Maybe I’ll stay home.” She tried for a mysterious smile.
“Ah, you wou
ldn’t leave me alone with the lovebirds, would you?”
“I suppose not.” How could she? For the past several weeks, every Saturday evening Jim loped up the steps of her building and asked her out to nightclubs and movies and restaurant dinners. Not only did she get to go out on the town, but she enjoyed such pleasant company. Even if it was only pleasant and never romantic.
What did she expect? A man who’d doted on vivacious Quintessa would never fall for her.
That pleasant young man hailed a cab. “Come on. Admit it.”
Mary’s cheeks tingled. He couldn’t have known what she was thinking. “Admit what?”
“The sabotage plot. It made you think.” He held open the door of the taxi.
A relieved laugh spilled out. “All right, it did.” She climbed into the backseat, squished in the middle with Gloria, between the two officers.
Jim draped his arm across the seat back behind her—not touching her—just to make room. “Are they still talking sabotage at the Yard?”
“Constantly.” She swung her mind from Jim’s warm strength pressed up to her side and onto the situation at work. “The champagne incident shook everyone up. They see sabotage everywhere. They see people and tools where they don’t belong. Everyone’s suspicious.”
“Sounds like mass hysteria.” Gloria raised one brow.
“That’s what my boss thinks.”
“What do you think?” Arch said.
With all three sets of eyes trained on her, Mary forced herself to breathe evenly. But she wasn’t talking about herself, only about the situation. “I’m trying to sort it out. What if something is truly going on?”
Gloria flapped her gloved hand. “I hope you haven’t been listening to that interventionist propaganda.”
Arch barked out a laugh. “Since when have you become an isolationist? Have you been listening to Charles Lindbergh and Father Coughlin behind my back?”
“Nonsense. That’s propaganda too. All I know is I don’t want us to go to war. I don’t want you to leave me.”
Arch murmured in his girlfriend’s ear.
“This is why I need you around, Mary,” Jim said.