by Sarah Sundin
Mary ducked her chin. Her conscience had led her to call Agent Sheffield last week to report what she’d seen and heard at Dixon’s Drugs.
The agent turned the bottle in the light from the window, inspecting it. “Codeine sulfate, one-half grain. Your physician verifies this is a legal prescription, but said you use more and more every year. In fact, this past month, you’ve doubled your dose.”
Winslow let out a series of rough breaths, and his fingers tangled with each other. “My nerves have been acting up with the upheaval here at the shipyard. I need it to do my job.”
“Addicts . . .” Agent Sheffield narrowed his eyes. “Addicts behave erratically.”
Tremors ran through Mr. Winslow’s arms. “I do my job, sir. I do it well.”
“Tell you what.” He tossed the prescription bottle to Agent Hayes. “You cooperate, and we’ll give you a pill. Sound like a fair trade?”
Winslow’s hungry gaze bored into Agent Hayes. “I have cooperated. I let you into my house last night without a search warrant, didn’t I?”
“You did, didn’t you?” Sheffield flicked his chin in Hayes’s direction. “Give the boy a cookie.”
Mary swallowed the nasty taste in her mouth. She might have to transcribe the conversation, but she didn’t have to like the interrogation techniques.
Mr. Winslow swallowed the pill like a starving man. Then he smoothed his hair and stood. “You said you’d bring me here to compare my original plans to the blueprints. May we please get started so I can return to the comforts of my prison cell?”
Agent Sheffield unrolled a blueprint on the desk. After Mr. Winslow read something off the blueprint, he went to a filing cabinet. In a minute he pulled out a large drawing covered with numbers and notations.
“You see the coordinating number and date.” Mr. Winslow pointed to the bottom corner of each diagram. “Let me examine them. The bolts . . . the bolts . . .”
“The drawings should be exactly alike,” Agent Sheffield said.
Mary resisted the urge to lean forward and examine the diagrams herself. She was a secretary right now, not a detective.
“There!” Mr. Winslow jabbed his finger at the blueprint. “Look right there. See, on my original, the numeral one. On the blueprint, the numeral four. And here, the five is an eight. And here. And here.” He cussed, then shot Mary an apologetic look.
She chose not to record those words.
The FBI agents inspected the diagrams, and Hayes took notes in a small notepad.
“I told you. It isn’t me.” Winslow strode to the window and spun to face them. “It’s O’Donnell. He’s the one. He altered my plans to sabotage our ships and to frame me. That’s why he always refused to let me inspect his work. Why’d I let him bully me? Why?”
Agent Sheffield straightened. “O’Donnell has worked on all the affected blueprints?”
“Yes, sir. That’s his assignment, the Fiske crew.”
“Hayes?” Sheffield cocked his head to the door.
Agent Hayes opened the door and leaned out. “Mr. O’Donnell. Would you please join us?”
Mary tucked her crossed ankles under her chair. Things were about to get explosive.
O’Donnell entered the office, a smug smile on his face, and he opened his mouth.
“Come here.” Agent Sheffield motioned him over, apparently not in a mood to listen to O’Donnell taunt his boss. “We’ve found some discrepancies between Winslow’s original plans and the blueprints you drew. See here, and here, and here.”
The draftsman bent his iron-gray head over the papers, silent. “Those aren’t my marks. Look here—I close up my fours—these are open at the top. And these eights—someone added a line to a five. I always make eights with two circles. That’s what I learned in drafting school. See? These are my marks.”
“Hmm.” Sheffield looked closer, and Hayes made more notes.
So did Mary. Could O’Donnell have deliberately made such marks? Or had someone else done the alterations?
“Look. These marks are thicker than mine too. Someone altered the draft after I finished, but before the blueprints were developed.” O’Donnell leveled his gaze at Winslow. “Nice try, boss. You failed.”
“You think I’d alter my own plans? That’s poppycock.” Winslow ran shaking hands over his trousers. “If you didn’t do it, one of your friends did. Perhaps your buddy Fiske.”
“Frank? You’ve got to be desperate to accuse him.” O’Donnell’s thick eyebrows twisted. “I know it was you. I leave the plans on my desk. I never thought I needed an armed guard.”
Winslow’s mouth and eyes went hard. “If you were at your desk more often . . .”
“It could be anyone here.” O’Donnell swept his arm in the direction of the drafting room. “You, any of the draftsmen, that French girl who’s always around here. For crying out loud, it could be the janitor. We don’t lock this room.”
“The French girl,” Agent Sheffield said. “Yvette Lafontaine? You mentioned her before.”
Mary’s breath turned solid in her lungs. Why must he accuse Yvette again? And why did Agent Sheffield remember her name?
“Yeah, some froufrou foreign name like that. She wants us in the war, you know. Wants us to fight her country’s battles. Why should we? We need to protect ourselves first.”
Mary turned the page in her notebook and coughed.
“What exactly are you doing, Miss Stirling?” O’Donnell asked.
“Me?” Her face tingled as the blood drained out.
“She’s an excellent stenographer,” Agent Sheffield said. “I asked her to transcribe today’s proceedings. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why would I? I have nothing to hide.” But his dark eyes scrutinized Mary’s notebook.
“We have what we came for.” Agent Sheffield stacked the blueprint and the original and rolled them up. “Mr. Winslow, let’s go back to your cozy cell.”
“Good.” O’Donnell jutted out his chin. “He wants you to think someone else altered his drawings, but remember, he’s the one who got caught making bombs.”
“Possessing a bomb, Mr. O’Donnell. He got caught in possession of a single bomb. If you’re going to spread gossip, get your facts straight.” Agent Sheffield opened the office door. “Miss Stirling, I’ll expect that transcript tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.” She attempted a benign smile, but her lips trembled. Her cover had been smashed to pieces. From now on, she’d have to be far more careful.
33
Saturday, November 15, 1941
Jim picked at his patty melt and fries while Quintessa chatted over lunch. She told humorous stories of her stint in Filene’s children’s department, the improvements she’d made, how she loved working with the children and their mothers, and how the managers were thrilled with her sales numbers.
She was beautiful and animated and engaging. So why wasn’t Jim engaged? In high school he could listen to her for hours, enraptured. Why not now? She wasn’t selfish either. She asked about his work and family and friends. But he couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d had plenty to say to Mary, plenty he longed to say to her right now. Could he talk to Quintessa about his decision with the depth charges? About his doubts and challenges?
Even if he could, he didn’t want to.
When he invited Quintessa to lunch today, he had one purpose. The Atwood was shipping out this afternoon, and Jim wanted to choose once and for all among the three paths that lay before him.
Quintessa laughed about something, and Jim smiled and sipped his Coke, as fizzy as her laugh.
The first path was a broad lazy river. Without any effort, he could float into a relationship with Quintessa Beaumont. She already talked as if she were his girlfriend, although he’d never asked her on a real date or even held her hand. If Quintessa had arrived in March rather than November, he’d have jumped at the opportunity. But she hadn’t.
The second path felt like a sneaky, dark alley. He could back out of both
ladies’ lives. When he returned from this tour, he simply wouldn’t visit their apartment. Maybe he could get transferred to another ship. An easy path, but cowardly.
The third path looked steep and rocky with an unknown destination. He could pursue Mary and pray she fell for him. The path of the fool.
Jim took a bite of his patty melt and studied the gorgeous woman across the table from him. Sunlight slanted through the window beside him and lit up her hair. Every word was bright, every gesture sparkled. She was dazzling.
Yes, dazzling. When you fired a gun at night, the flash destroyed your night vision and blinded you. That’s what Quintessa did. But Mary had an illuminating glow, like the moon, which allowed him to see more clearly.
Jim’s fingers coiled around the crust of his sandwich, and his eyes slipped shut. Oh Lord, I miss her. I miss Mary. Please show me the right path. Not the path Quintessa chooses for me, not the path Mary chooses for me, not even the path I desire, but the one you want me to travel. Because right now, none of my options appeal to me.
“Jim?” Quintessa tilted her head. “You’re so quiet. Are you all right?”
“Hmm?” He schooled his face into neutrality. He couldn’t lie to her, but the truth required more work and thought and prayer. Whichever path he chose affected other people and could alter friendships and bruise hearts.
“Are you feeling all right?” She glanced at his plate and smiled. “You’ve crushed that sandwich crust to crumbs.”
He had. He dropped it, wiped the crumbs off on his napkin, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Guess I was full.” He tried for a sheepish smile.
She reached across the table toward him, an invitation. “I’ve been concerned. Mary always talked about how much fun you were, but you’ve been so quiet and serious since I arrived.”
“These are tense times.” Not only in the world, but in his own life.
“That’s true.” Quintessa wiggled her fingers on the table, the invitation even louder.
Jim ignored it, and he leaned closer so as to lower his voice. “We ship out today.”
“Today? So soon? We’ve barely had any time together.”
“We’re ready. I’m ready.”
“Oh.” She retracted her hand, and her mouth pinched.
He didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. “I can’t tell you or anyone else what we’re doing out there, but it’s necessary. Lives are at stake.”
“I understand.” She reinforced her words with a smile. “Sorry if I sounded selfish. I know you have important work to do. When do you have to be back?”
Jim checked his watch. “Half an hour.”
“Half an hour? Oh my. I thought we’d have the whole day. Well, we’ll just have to spend every minute together.” She peeked at him through her lashes. “May I see you off?”
His throat glued shut. Images flashed through his mind of the crowd on the wharf, the families embracing, the couples kissing, Mary’s soft hands pulling him down, deep into her kiss, his arms around her, his lips on hers—
“I’m sorry.” Quintessa glanced away, her forehead puckered. “That was forward of me.”
“No, it’s fine. Please come. Arch will want to say good-bye too.”
“Will he? He’s such a good friend for you. We have to find him a new girlfriend. Are you sure he and Mary—”
“No.” The word came out too loud and harsh, so he mustered a smile. “Trust me, no. Shall we go?”
Jim slapped down a couple of dollars for the bill and helped Quintessa with her coat.
On the walk to the Navy Yard in the cool clear air, Quintessa walked close to his side, her shoulder brushing his, an invitation for him to offer his hand or at least his elbow. But he didn’t want to, didn’t want her choosing his path for him, so he jammed his hands into his coat pockets.
At the wharf, a crowd of sailors and family members was forming. On Liberty Fleet Day, the men wore their summer whites, and he had Mary Stirling on his arm in her red dress. Now the men wore navy blue overcoats, and Quintessa Beaumont threaded her arm through his.
Never once had he minded when Mary held his arm. In fact, he offered her his arm all the time, even when he hadn’t been interested in her. It was the chivalrous thing for a man to do with a lady. But now Quintessa’s touch bothered him, as if her tiny gloved hand staked her claim.
Why did it irritate him? Why this discontent?
His eyes widened, taking in the gray ship and the blue sky and the truth he’d begged God for. This discontent was like sonar alerting him that he was floating toward the rocks.
His path didn’t lie with Quintessa, but along that uncertain and unpaved road.
A surge of rightness and determination rushed into his chest. If he showed Mary his interest, told her how he felt, maybe her heart would bend to him. Even if it didn’t, even if he made a complete fool of himself and lost his friendship with her, it was the true thing to do. True to his heart, true to where God seemed to be leading him.
If God wanted to lead him into a storm, so be it. He’d promised, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.” The Lord would be with him in the storm, and something good would come out of it, some purpose, even if Jim didn’t see it for decades.
All around him, men and officers said their romantic good-byes. Jim needed to get away now, but how could he put this fresh new plan into words, knowing those words would hurt Quintessa?
Nevertheless, it had to be done. He faced her.
“Hey, Mr. Avery! Kiss her!”
Jim cringed. Oh no. Not again. Not with Quintessa. Please, Lord, make them stop.
Either the Lord missed his prayer, or the men missed the Lord’s promptings, because the clamor built like last time. Only last time he’d longed to kiss Mary—just not in public.
“Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Jim slammed his eyes shut. Everyone was pressuring him, shoving him in the wrong direction. No more. No more.
Two small hands rested on his upper arms. “Jim?”
He opened his eyes.
Quintessa gazed up at him, all dewy-eyed and beautiful. “You have my permission.” Her invitation couldn’t be any clearer.
Or any less welcome. How many years had he longed for a moment like this, but now he didn’t want it. He didn’t love Quintessa. He loved Mary, and he’d do everything in his power to win her heart. If she rejected him, at least he’d know he’d chosen the bold but prayerful route.
Voices rose all around him. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Quintessa gave him a sly glance. “What are you waiting for?”
Jim settled a firm but kind look on her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“Come on, Mr. Avery! Kiss her like you kissed that brunette last time.”
Oh no. Jim groaned.
“Brunette?” Quintessa asked.
His face heated up. He didn’t want to involve Mary or cause trouble between the ladies. When he came home again, when he spoke his mind, there would be plenty of trouble, but he’d be there to deal with it. Not now, not when he was about to ship out.
Quintessa’s fingers tightened on his coat sleeves. “Who was she?”
“Just a friend.” That was true, especially since the kiss meant nothing to her.
“A friend?” Quintessa’s eyes widened into green pools. “Not Mary?”
How could he lie? “It didn’t mean anything to her. These fellows were acting up like this, and she only did it to shut them up.”
Quintessa eased back. “You kissed Mary, but you won’t kiss me?”
Countless emotions arced through her eyes—the indignation of a beautiful woman unaccustomed to rejection and the pain of a woman who had been betrayed by a man she’d loved and trusted for years.
Her dismay, the clamor of the sailors, everything acted like a funnel, but he resisted and set his heels.
Jim took both her hands. “Thank you for giving me a chance. I’m honored, and I appre
ciate it. But it isn’t working between us, and it never will.”
“Isn’t working? What do you mean?”
Jim clamped his lips between his teeth. This would require a long and emotional talk he didn’t have time for right now.
Regardless, he couldn’t give her false hope. “I have to leave, but we’ll talk when I return.”
Her mouth thinned into a sharp red line. “Talk?”
“Good-bye, Quintessa.” He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
Before she could respond, he marched away and up the gangplank.
Good-natured jeers from his shipmates bombarded him, groans of disappointment, offers to take his place. Mitch Hadley made a crack about his eyesight and his manhood.
None of the jabs penetrated.
Nehemiah’s enemies tried to distract him and discourage him with taunts and jeers, but he refused to let them disturb his work.
Jim forged ahead. He’d never felt stronger or more assured in his life. With the Lord’s guidance, he had set his own course, and he would sail it.
He might sail alone, but he’d sail.
34
Mary did up the side zipper of her dark blue gabardine dress. The sooner she and Yvette left the apartment for their shopping trip, the better. When Jim came to pick up Quintessa for lunch, Mary had managed to be busy cleaning the bathroom, and she wanted to be away whenever they returned.
Jim hadn’t even asked about Mary, just spirited Quintessa away.
Her zipper snagged on her slip, and her thoughts snagged on the truth. She worked to free both. Hadn’t she done everything possible to discourage conversation with Jim the past two weeks? Why should she be surprised when he no longer sought her out? Wasn’t that best in the long run?
Yes, it was. She sighed and closed the zipper.
The front door opened.
Oh bother. Mary had taken too long to get ready.
But only one set of footsteps entered the apartment, feminine heels clicking on the polished wood. The bedroom door opened, and Quintessa came in, her cheeks pink from the cold.
“Back so soon?” Mary asked.