Through Waters Deep

by Sarah Sundin

Quintessa crossed to her dresser. “He shipped out.”

  “Oh.” Mary’s chest contracted. Into danger again, with things heating up on both coasts. And she never said good-bye. Lord, keep him safe.

  Quintessa unpinned her hat. “You should have warned me how the men act when they ship out. I had no idea.”

  Mary opened her jewelry box and pushed around the earrings, a silver blur. “Oh?”

  “All the men hounding him to kiss me. But I guess you know all about that.” She let out a short laugh, tight around the edges.

  Every muscle in Mary’s body froze. Why had Jim told her? And what could she say that wouldn’t make Jim look bad—or hurt Quintessa’s feelings? Even the truth sounded suspect, but what else did she have?

  She sorted through the earrings, all in silver, for a matching pair. “Just a friendly kiss. I couldn’t stand how the men harassed him. I just wanted to end it. It didn’t mean anything to him.”

  Silence from Quintessa.

  Time to be brave, so she put on her blandest expression and turned around. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  Quintessa eyed her up and down, pressed her fingertips to her forehead, and her mouth smiled. Only her mouth. “Strange to think my best friend and I have been kissed by the same man.”

  That bland expression took more work than any smile. Jim had kissed Quintessa. She hadn’t needed to grab him and kiss him. He’d done it himself and eagerly, no doubt, and in only two weeks together. Not six months. Why had Mary deluded herself?

  Quintessa’s mouth twitched, and she sat on her bed. “I don’t have any reason to be jealous, do I?”

  The poor thing. Hugh had cheated on her, abandoned her, and broken her heart. Why wouldn’t she fear betrayal?

  “Oh, honey.” Mary dashed over, sat on the bed beside her, and took her hand. “I’d never do anything to hurt you. You’re my dearest friend in all the world. I owe you so much. Your friendship is more important to me than any man. Don’t you know that?”

  Her face buckled, and she covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m sorry. I know that. I know you’d never hurt me. I’m still too sensitive after what he did to me.”

  “I understand. I don’t blame you. But no, honey, I’m happy for you and Jim. He’s adored you for as long as I can remember, and I’m thrilled you’ve discovered each other after all these years. You deserve each other.” If her mouth said it often enough, someday her heart would agree.

  “Thank you,” Quintessa said in a cramped voice, and she glanced away.

  What her friend needed was a distraction, so Mary squeezed her hand and made her voice cheery. “Yvette and I are going downtown to shop. Would you like to join us? I could use your help picking out a new blouse.”

  “At Filene’s? On my day off? No, thank you. Besides, I have laundry and mending to do. Go have fun.”

  “All right. But how can I possibly have fun without you?” Mary said in her most dramatic voice.

  A flicker of a smile returned to her friend’s face. “Somehow you’ll manage.”

  Mary turned the display case of gold earrings. She never wore gold jewelry, only silver. Mother said silver complemented her complexion, and Mary preferred its subtlety.

  But why shouldn’t she wear gold? Wasn’t she good enough to wear gold? Maybe she needed flash to attract a man.

  Something hardened inside her, and she held a pair of gold earrings beside her cheek. Why not? She was already wearing a flashy red coat and hat. Why not gold jewelry?

  But her image wavered in the little mirror. Would a pair of gold earrings have made Jim fall in love with her? Of course not. He simply preferred the gold inside Quintessa to the silver inside Mary, and what was wrong with that?

  She swiped away her tears and studied her reflection. Gold really didn’t do anything for her skin. She exchanged the earrings. Yes, silver did look better with her coloring and brought out the light in her eyes.

  Silver was best for her.

  That hard something melted away. Silver had its own worth, its own beauty, a quieter beauty, a beauty that reflected rather than called attention to itself. There was nothing wrong with that, and nothing wrong with her. Someday, a man would come along who preferred silver.

  Perhaps at her new job. A smile rose, wobbly but warming. She’d mailed her resume and letter of recommendation to half a dozen shipyards on the Great Lakes. Surely one would hire her. She’d be closer to home and farther from Jim. Why should she watch Jim and Quintessa fall in love? She’d only get depressed. With a new start in a new city, she could heal and start over. Another change in tack.

  Anxious voices rose from the store aisle, all speaking in French. Yvette stood with several of her friends—Henri, Solange, and two others Mary didn’t know.

  Henri met Mary’s eye, frowned, then spoke to Yvette.

  Yvette turned and gave Mary a breezy smile, then addressed Henri. “C’est ne pas un problème. Elle ne parle pas français.”

  Mary didn’t speak French, but she recognized a few phrases. Yvette was assuring her friends Mary couldn’t understand their conversation. Why? What did they need to conceal from her?

  She turned to the nearest dress rack and sifted through the selections. Why did Yvette spend so much time in the drafting room, asking questions of Mr. O’Donnell? Was it simply her interest in drawing, or something more sinister?

  Why was Yvette always so adamant that Mary stop her investigation and not discuss it—yet she joined in the conversations? Was Yvette involved? Mary couldn’t imagine Yvette building or planting a bomb, but what about her friends? Were they working together?

  She ventured a glance at the group in their zealous conversation. Their families in France lived in danger under Nazi domination in the north or Vichy French domination in the south. Yvette’s friends wanted the United States to enter the war so their homeland could be freed. But were they desperate enough to commit sabotage, maybe even kill?

  Mary grabbed a random dress from the rack and fled to the dressing room. Once inside, she collapsed into the chair and rested her head in her hands.

  She’d lived with Yvette for a year and a half. She prided herself on her observational skills, but had she overlooked vital clues, blinded by friendship? Why, she barely had any notes for Yvette, and she’d never typed them up or turned them in to the FBI. But didn’t Yvette have motive? And her friends might have the means.

  What kind of detective was she? An impartial observer would have kept Yvette high on the suspect list.

  And her notebooks. How many times had Mary found Yvette flipping through? She had access to the carbon copies typed out in plain English. Wouldn’t those be an easy resource to know whom to frame? Had Mary unwittingly aided the sabotage?

  She pushed down the nausea, pulled a small notebook from her purse, and started a list. Everything she hadn’t recorded—Yvette’s comments on the sabotage and the suspects, her access to the notebooks, the conversations she’d overheard when Mary and Quintessa discussed the case, when Mary and Jim discussed the case. Yvette had even loaned Mary that smart red suit and hat for the undercover operation.

  Mary yanked a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her face. Tonight, after Yvette went to sleep, Mary would type up her notes on Yvette, as complete as she could make them. Then she’d hide all her notebooks somewhere—her trunk, and she’d keep the key with her at all times. On Monday, she’d give her report to Agent Sheffield.

  Her eyes burned at the thought of turning in her friend—but what if her friend had been using her to commit crimes?

  “Mary?” Yvette called.

  She took a deep breath and prayed her voice would sound normal. She couldn’t let Yvette know she suspected her. People who planted bombs on ships wouldn’t be concerned about the life of one secretary. “In here.”

  “Good. I’ve been looking for you. I wanted you to hold my bags while I tried on this suit. But Mr. Fiske offered to hold my bags. Wasn’t that kind?”

  “Mr. Fiske?” As
Mary’s eyes stretched open, they dried.

  “Oui. From the shipyard.”

  What was a middle-aged man doing in the women’s clothing department? He was widowed, and he had one son. And why did he just happen to run into Yvette?

  Mary checked her reflection in the mirror and powdered her face. Thank goodness her eyes weren’t too red. She grabbed the hanger from the hook. The dress wasn’t very pretty anyway. “I’m done, Yvette. I’ll see you outside.”

  “Don’t go far. I want your opinion on this suit.”

  “All right.” Mary stepped out of the room and handed the dress to the attendant. “Thank you, but it isn’t for me.”

  “I’d say not.” The attendant arched her brows.

  The dress did look about three sizes too big.

  Mr. Fiske stood not far from the dressing room area, holding Yvette’s bags and purse.

  Mary approached him. “What a pleasant surprise. Yvette told me you were holding her bags. How kind of you.”

  His broad face cracked into a bashful smile. “Well, I remember how my wife liked me to hold her things. Miss Lafontaine looked burdened. I’m glad I could help.”

  “How kind of you. I can hold them now.”

  “Thanks.” He transferred the bags and Yvette’s new black handbag. He wore heavy brown leather work gloves. Black ink stained the right forefinger, and a small tear ran alongside the thumb. Why was he wearing work gloves out on the town? Inside the heated store?

  She kept her smile in place but tilted her head at the dress rack beside him. “Shopping?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s my mother’s birthday this week. She’ll be seventy.”

  “How lovely. Is she here in town?”

  “Uh, yes.” His smile turned to a scowl. “Listen, Miss Stirling, I need to warn you. Watch out for that friend of yours.”

  “Yvette?” She refused to let her own suspicions color her voice.

  He leaned closer, his blue eyes serious. “Watch out for her and her friends. They’re dangerous. I bet they’re part of Winslow’s ring, building bombs in his basement. They found a crate of equipment, you know. Same stuff used to build the bomb found on the Atwood. Watch out.”

  Cold tingles ran through her. “Thank you for the warning.”

  He ran one gloved finger under his nose and flipped his gaze over Mary’s shoulder. “You’re much too involved in this investigation. You need to stop. If you think those FBI agents will keep you safe while you poke around, think again. You’re a nice girl, and I’d hate to see something bad happen to you.”

  Mary choked out a thank-you. Was that a fatherly warning—or a veiled threat?

  “There you are, Mary.” Yvette glided over. “I did not like the fit of that suit. Another day. Oh, you have my bags. Thank you. And thank you, Mr. Fiske. Shall we go, Mary?”

  “Yes. Let’s.” She headed down the aisle. After ten paces, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Mr. Fiske walked in the other direction toward the store entrance, without stopping to browse, without any bags.

  What about his mother’s birthday?

  A chill crept into her chest. Didn’t Mr. Fiske always say his son was the only family he had in this world? His wife was dead. And his parents?

  Dead.

  An ashy taste filled Mary’s mouth. Mr. Fiske lied to her. He’d followed her and Yvette.

  Now Mary had to figure out why.

  35

  East of Newfoundland

  Tuesday, November 18, 1941

  Heavy seas tossed the USS Atwood, but the interior communications and plotting room enjoyed relative warmth and stability, nestled below the waterline directly under the bridge.

  Jim gathered with the four men who ran the Mark 1 computer, a complex piece of machinery, a little bigger than his mom’s kitchen stove, filled with gears and levers and cams and electrical circuits. Beside the computer, three men operated the stable element, smaller than the computer but no less complex.

  “Director to plot.” Mr. Reinhardt’s voice came through Jim’s headphones from his position in the gun director high over Jim’s head. “Captain’s ordered us to run a drill using one of the merchant ships as a pretend target. He suggested we aim at the Manchester Merchant.”

  Jim grinned. The convoy commodore’s ship. The day before, US Task Unit 4.1.5 had picked up Convoy HX-160 off the coast of Newfoundland. During the night, they’d counted sixteen light violations and had received gruff resistance to their orders to darken ships. One of the captains said he didn’t take orders from “gold braids” in tin cans.

  Apparently Durant had chosen mock vengeance on the commodore, although the command ship sailed over a mile away from the Atwood and the commodore would never know he’d been targeted.

  Jim spoke into his microphone. “Ammunition?”

  Reinhardt laughed. “Nope. We’ll just practice tracking the target, computing the solution, and transmitting to the guns. You’re in condition Standby 2, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Go to Standby 3.”

  “Aye aye.” Jim looked up. “Standby 3, men.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The men turned cranks and dials and pushed buttons.

  Jim wandered behind the men at the stable element. The gyro inside had already been activated for their current state of readiness. What a great piece of machinery, calculating all the instantaneous compensations needed to overcome the effects of the ship’s pitch and roll.

  “Target angle three-zero-five,” Reinhardt said. “Target speed eight knots.”

  Jim repeated the initial values aloud, and the computer operators turned little cranks to enter the data manually. Then he called up to the bridge for wind speed and direction, and the operators entered that data too. “At Standby 3,” he told Reinhardt.

  “Very well. Begin tracking,” Reinhardt said.

  “Aye aye. Begin tracking.”

  In front of Jim, the men at the computer operated their dials. The Atwood’s speed and course came into the computer automatically, and soon the target’s bearing and range would enter the computer by electrical signals from up in the director.

  Sure beat the old system of using a plotting board and a ruler and a roll of paper, even if Jim enjoyed learning the method at the Academy.

  “Range matched,” one of the operators said.

  “Bearing synchronized.”

  “Elevation synchronized.”

  “Very well.” Jim looked over the shoulders of the computer operators, each attentive to his duties. Skilled, technical work—and each man here knew all the other men’s jobs as well.

  “Solution calculated and transmitted to guns,” an operator said.

  Jim repeated the information to Reinhardt. In the time it took electricity to travel and motors to turn, the four 5-inch guns would each train and point at the target, with the fuze-setters in the projectile hoists set for the correct range. An engineering marvel.

  “Very well,” Reinhardt said. “Cease tracking.”

  Not the most complicated target, moving at a sluggish speed in parallel to the Atwood. But the director and computer could make similar calculations even for dive-bombing airplanes.

  “Good job, men. Return to Standby 2.” Jim appreciated the captain’s drills. The monotony, discomfort, and constant vigilance of convoy escort wore on the men’s nerves, and having a task to perform helped distract them while honing their skills.

  Jim pulled out his clipboard and filled out his report for the drill. The men had been jumpy since they left Boston, and he didn’t blame them. After the Reuben James was sunk on October 31, the men oscillated between cold terror that the Atwood would be next and heated desire to avenge the men of the Reuben James.

  Neither approach was wise. Jim wanted to help them find a mellow balance, to be prepared and alert, unsullied by fear or fury.

  Balance. He tapped his pen on the clipboard. That’s what he needed. Just like Nehemiah. Prayerful but bold. A man of analysis and a man of action. A man w
ho gathered and encouraged, yet could also rebuke and stand his ground.

  Here at sea, Jim was determined to temper boldness with prayerful caution. And back in Boston?

  His breath puffed out his cheeks. He’d made a mess, but he’d sort everything out as best he could. First item on his agenda when he returned—he’d have that long, emotional talk with Quintessa. But why did it have to be emotional anyway? He’d never understand how women thought. Jim had been out with Quintessa only three times, and none of those outings qualified as true dates.

  However, he wouldn’t return until mid-December at the earliest. Quintessa would have a whole month to think about what he’d said on his departure. She was an intelligent woman. Maybe they wouldn’t need an emotional talk after all.

  Jim signed the bottom of his report. Yeah, and maybe Hitler would surrender and go back to painting.

  Regardless, Jim would be firm and truthful. He didn’t love Quintessa. He loved Mary.

  And what about Mary? Could he pursue her right away? That depended on how Quintessa reacted. He didn’t want to be an insensitive dolt, but how else would it look? Both women saw him as Quintessa’s property. Somehow they’d made that decision last time he went to sea.

  What would they decide this time?

  Jim groaned and rearranged papers on the clipboard for the rest of his watch. Daytime was quiet on convoy duty. U-boats didn’t like to attack during the day, and the merchant ships could keep station more easily. If it weren’t for the weather and the difficult nights, it might be relaxing.

  He longed to unwind. His short leave in Boston had been almost as nerve-wracking as his time at sea. If only he could have spent his time with sweet, relaxing Mary.

  If only he could be there right now. Quintessa had told him enough about the sabotage case to know something was going on, but not enough for him to make sense of it.

  And the Christmas pageant was approaching. When Quintessa told him Mary had been cast in a leading role, he was worried. How was she doing? She was strong enough to handle it, but he wouldn’t be there to cheer for her, to encourage her.

  He should be back for Christmas though.