When Tides Turn

by Sarah Sundin

  Dan turned down another passageway. With plenty of U-boat prey, frequent flights, and an experienced crew, the Bogue had an excellent chance of success. In Belfast, the crew would receive training and the carrier would be fitted with the latest technology, High-Frequency Direction-Finding equipment, which homed in on U-boat radio chatter. Combining “Huff-Duff” with radar and sonar, plus vigilant eyes in aircraft—how could the U-boats win?

  As Dan strode to his cabin, optimism pushed toward the surface. He’d obtain plenty of data on this cruise, learn from the British, and assist the crew. An extraordinary opportunity.

  If it weren’t for the career guillotine poised over his neck.

  Dan shut the cabin door behind him. At his desk he organized his notes from the briefing, and he placed the folder in the desk drawer.

  On top of the stationery box from Tess.

  Darkness swamped him, but he pulled out the box, glutton for punishment that he was.

  A week ago. It felt like only hours ago. And a lifetime ago.

  He spread out his mementoes of Tess—the rough draft of his letter to Captain Short, the lipstick-stained heart, and the two sailboat drawings. All showed his structure and her color.

  Without her, his life seemed rigid and lifeless and unbalanced.

  He traced his finger over “Dan at work” then “Danny at play,” and grief wrenched through him. In both drawings he was alone. A few months ago he’d preferred to be alone, but now that he’d tasted companionship, his solitary life felt like punishment.

  Punishment he’d earned.

  Dan rested his forehead on his fist. She’d actually cared for him. The kiss proved it. She had ample time to push him away, but she didn’t. She kissed him back. Even the forcefulness of her anger showed she cared.

  Dan rapped his other fist on the desk. “I ruined it.”

  Not only had he destroyed any chance for romance, but he’d undermined her confidence in her abilities, the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Why?” Why had he let himself get carried away with that kiss? If only he’d followed his plan and given his speech. From what he knew now, she would have listened joyfully.

  Dan leaned back and let his head sag. She’d have the speech soon. It had taken him the entire week to recall it, write it, refine it, and mail it. But no letter could make amends. She’d probably rip it to shreds without reading it anyway.

  “I never want to hear your voice again.”

  Dan winced and grabbed his neck. Why did she always do that? Why did she always run away? She didn’t even give him the chance to explain himself. It wasn’t fair. She knew he was brusque. She knew he was no good with words. How many times had he offended her in the last few months? And every single time, she ran away.

  His mouth and fist and heart hardened. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. What kind of marriage would they have had? She couldn’t run away every time he misspoke. That wasn’t right. How many times was he supposed to chase her down and beg her forgiveness? Honestly, a man needed to retain some pride.

  Dan gathered the papers, slapped the lid back in place, and shoved the box deep in the drawer. It was better for him to remain alone. He should have stayed with Admiral Howard’s counsel after all.

  He ran his hand through his hair. This was what love did to him—upended him into turmoil and grief.

  He couldn’t even take comfort in his career.

  The cabin door opened, and Lt. Clive Sinclair entered. “Ahoy, Dan old man.”

  “Ahoy.”

  Sinclair opened the locker. “I’d say I was surprised you’re not watching the preparations to get underway, but considering your dark mood since I came on board yesterday . . .”

  “You do have that effect on me.” Dan stood and recovered his mackinaw from the open locker.

  Sinclair slapped him on the back. “Still have that stirring sense of humor, my boy.”

  At least he had that. “I’m going topside.”

  “Without me? I say not.” He slipped on his own mackinaw. “Perhaps you can tell me what plunged you into darkness.”

  Dan grunted and held open the cabin door for his friend.

  Blue eyes studied him as he passed. “Did you talk to your commander about your transfer?”

  “I will be transferred—to Washington, DC.”

  Sinclair looked back with alarm. “Washington, DC? Please tell me that’s the name of the Yankees’ newest cruiser.”

  “It isn’t.” He held up one hand to request silence in public. “Let’s go to the catwalk just below the bridge. We’ll have a good view but be out of the way.”

  They climbed the ladder to the hangar deck and stepped outside onto the starboard catwalk. After they passed the winch for the motor whaleboat and two 20-mm machine guns, they found positions along the rail.

  The Bogue was moored to a buoy in Placentia Bay along with dozens of other ships. Under a clear sky, the waters stretched serene and blue. Low hills dotted with hardy pines surrounded the picturesque town of Placentia with its red-roofed clapboard buildings.

  Dan gazed to the bridge above him, his lifelong goal. Denied. At the age of thirty.

  “Washington?” Sinclair asked.

  A glance behind him revealed unmanned guns and a long stretch of privacy. Sinclair would be leaving the Bogue in Belfast, and he’d earned Dan’s trust. “I received an unsatisfactory evaluation from my immediate commanding officer. He’s recommending the transfer.”

  “Unsatisfactory? That surprises me. I sized you up as an exemplary officer.”

  “Exemplary.” His sigh rolled into the cool air. “Eight years of exemplary service. No matter how well I do my job, how thorough my reports, how sage my advice, how astute my observations, how solid my character—none of it matters anymore. All undone by one man.”

  “I find that hard to—”

  “He accused me of neglecting my duties, failing to delegate, and abusing command.”

  Sinclair frowned at the whaleboat, which was motoring to the buoy. “Is it true?”

  “No, but he manipulated the situation, and I have no recourse.”

  “Why would he . . . ?”

  “There’s bad blood between us.”

  “Like the Hatfields and McCoys? I’ll never grasp American culture.”

  Dan almost smiled. “Nothing like that. Eight years ago, I served under him. He was harsh with the men, and I asked an admiral friend for advice. The admiral saw to it that he was disciplined. His career was destroyed. But now he’s had his revenge.”

  A sailor hopped out of the whaleboat onto the buoy, where a doubled chain had moored the Bogue for the past three days.

  “What about your next in command?” Sinclair asked. “Have you told him about this vendetta?”

  “No.” Dan’s jaw clenched. “I wanted to be noble and high-minded, and I wanted Commander Lewis to judge the man on the present not the past. Look where that got me. If I tell him now, it’ll look like sour grapes. Besides, it’ll be too late by the time I return.”

  Down below, the sailor climbed back into the whaleboat. Calls and signals passed between the forecastle deck and the whaleboat, and sailors passed the chain back through the ring on the buoy, using a line bent to the end of the chain.

  “Chin up, old man,” Sinclair said. “We may be attacked by a wolf pack, and you can perform some valiant deed to save the ship. Heroism erases unsatisfactory evaluations.”

  No chance of valiant deeds in his data-collecting role. “I’ll write the most heroic reports Commander Lewis has ever read.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  But Dan’s nerves rattled like the chain being drawn to the deck. He hated feeling weak and defenseless.

  Since his first day at the Academy, he’d been marked for that exemplary career. His mind, character, and drive impressed every officer. Especially Admiral Howard.

  Grief mingled with his frustration. Dan missed his mentor, his friend, his champion. If the admiral had lived, he’d have writt
en that letter and Dan would have left Boston in February.

  Pain flamed through his neck. Why hadn’t Admiral Howard written that letter? Dan wouldn’t have gotten in this mess with Randolph to begin with. He wouldn’t have gotten in this mess with Tess either.

  At last the Bogue was unmoored. The whaleboat was hoisted aboard. And the carrier got underway, both boilers steaming.

  Dan’s last time on a warship, slicing through the waves, wind on his cheeks, salt in his lungs.

  And there was nothing he could do.

  38

  Boston

  Monday, May 3, 1943

  Tess poked at the baked beans on her plate. The supper chatter in the Navy Yard cafeteria mocked her solitude, but it seemed best to keep to herself.

  Even her acts of selflessness hurt people.

  She swallowed a bite, but the beans’ sweetness tasted cloying and heavy. Cdr. Thomas Lewis had just interrogated her about the work party she’d held for Dan. She’d meant to help, but she’d done his career more harm than good.

  She’d asked the WAVES to volunteer, woman to woman, but they weren’t her friends, Commander Lewis reminded her. She was their commanding officer. Now he thought Dan had coerced her into drafting the ladies.

  Tess took a bite of pot roast, but it tasted dry and flavorless. Hadn’t she hurt Dan enough? What was she thinking? Was she even capable of selfless giving?

  Not at all. In her arrogance, she thought she could actually help. In her selfishness, she said she did it for him, but hadn’t she cherished the appreciative look he’d given her?

  Her eyes felt hot, and she closed them. Oh Lord, I thought I’d improved, but I haven’t. Why did I join the WAVES anyway? To serve my country? Or just so I could feel worthwhile? Lord, please forgive me.

  Tess stared down at her supper. She couldn’t keep another bite down, so she stood to bus her tray. It was time to go to the meeting at Robillard’s Bakery anyway.

  Maybe she should go home. Why was she mixed up in this? Was she playing sleuth to get attention? So everyone would praise her for being clever and helpful?

  Her stomach turned, and she marched out of the cafeteria, past the poster her friends had hung only weeks earlier—“Freedom from Want.”

  Buy war bonds. Keep ’em flying. All together now.

  Regardless of her motive for reporting to the FBI, she had to keep her promise.

  Half an hour later, Tess entered the bakery. The usual delectable smells pulled her in, but the usual warmth was lacking.

  “Bonsoir, Quintessa.” Madame Robillard stood by the table closest to the door. “I do not have enough sugar this week, but please take a sandwich.”

  Tess’s heart turned inside out at the pretty sandwiches, just like she’d brought to her work party for Dan. Although she couldn’t eat, she took a plate to be polite.

  Madame Robillard fiddled with the tie to her apron, gazing around the bakery with moist eyes.

  “Madame, are you all right?”

  “Oui. Everything will be all right.” Her face buckled, and she darted behind the counter. “More sandwiches. We need more sandwiches.”

  Tess joined Yvette and Henri at a table. “Do you know what’s wrong with Madame Robillard? She seems upset.”

  “No, I don’t.” Lately Yvette’s features had changed from sleek and svelte to lean and defined. She shot Henri a glance, and a twitch of his eyebrows said he didn’t know either.

  About a dozen people sat at the tables, less than half the attendance before the bomb.

  Professor Louis Arnaud stood in the back of the room, his gaze flitting between his wife and the door. Was he afraid his mistress would burst in and make a scene? Or was he watching for the FBI to arrest him for selling secrets? The man wiped his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. “Shall we begin? Who would like to start?”

  “May I, Professor?” Jean-Auguste Fournier stood and smoothed his gray suit. “Has anyone been to Rousseau’s recently? Mademoiselle Marchand and I dined there this weekend. The meat was overcooked, and the béchamel sauce lacked all subtlety. We were disappointed to say the least.”

  Solange bobbed her head in agreement.

  “The owner is a friend of mine,” Henri said, his hand entwined with Yvette’s. “His chef was drafted, and he hasn’t found a replacement.”

  “Yet another wartime sacrifice we—”

  “Food?” Pierre Guillory bellowed, his chair tumbling to the floor behind him.

  Tess jumped and edged back.

  Pierre gestured wildly, his wide face red. “Our homeland is occupied by Nazi swine. They send our young men to Germany as slave labor. They round up our Jewish neighbors and send them who knows where. They turn Frenchmen against Frenchmen. Collaborators spy on patriots. The Milice arrest the Maquis. Everyone lives in fear of the Gestapo. No one has enough to eat. And you—you whine about the béchamel sauce?”

  Jean-Auguste lowered his chin. “I apologize, monsieur, for choosing a topic you know nothing about.”

  “Why, you—” Pierre charged forward.

  “Don’t.” Henri stepped in front of the dockworker, his dark eyes hard as onyx.

  Tess held her breath, but she couldn’t hold her opinion. Monsieur Guillory was correct.

  “You . . .” Pierre shook his finger in Henri’s face. “I used to call you friend. You used to stand for France. And now you stand in my way.”

  “I always stand for France.”

  “You say nothing. You do nothing.”

  Yvette rose to her feet. “You do not know what you say, monsieur. There is more than one way to aid France.”

  Tess gazed up. The strength and conviction reminded her of the old Yvette.

  “More than one way?” Pierre snorted and jabbed his finger in Henri’s chest. “I would be happy if you picked one.”

  Professor Arnaud’s forehead wrinkled. “What would you recommend? We lost our sources in France, and we can’t send letters anymore.”

  Pierre’s gaze hadn’t budged from Henri. “Name one way you help.”

  “I do what I can.” Henri’s voice lowered to a growl.

  “You do nothing. You are a traitor!”

  Tess joined in the gasps.

  “Please, Monsieur Guillory. You mustn’t say such things.” The professor waved his hand as if cleaning his blackboard.

  The dockworker glanced around the room and took half a step back, chagrined.

  “You must see how it is,” the professor said. “We can only aid the war effort from here in America. Do your job, buy bonds, save scrap. Someday we shall invade and drive out the Nazis.”

  Jean-Auguste sank into his chair. “If France survives the invasion, that is.”

  Another roar from Pierre. “That is how traitors talk! There is only one punishment for traitors.” He marched forward.

  Henri held up one hand. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “You! You’re the worst traitor of all!” Pierre swung at him.

  In one swift move, Henri blocked the punch, swept the man’s feet out from under him, and threw him to the floor, one hand poised like a blade at the man’s jugular.

  Tess cried out, and others did too. Then silence forced its way to the top.

  Pierre moaned and stared up at Henri.

  But Henri was looking at Yvette with alarm, as if he’d done something wrong.

  Tess’s heart pounded, and her grip tightened on her purse.

  Suddenly, Henri offered a hand to Pierre. “I apologize, monsieur.”

  Pierre swatted away the offer and scrambled to his feet. “I do not want the help of a traitor. You—all of you—you’re all traitors. You all deserve to die!” He stormed out of the bakery.

  “Oh my goodness,” Tess whispered, and she faced Yvette, expecting to see disdain.

  Instead, something unfamiliar flickered in Yvette’s golden-brown eyes, and then it was gone.

  Fear.

  Tess still felt shaky as she returned to quarters. The meeting had falle
n apart after Pierre left. Was that an actual threat? Or a hothead letting off steam? Either way, she’d report every word to the FBI tomorrow.

  And every move. Tess knew nothing about fighting, but Henri had used no ordinary moves to take Pierre down. He’d had training, and the alarm on his face said the training was meant to remain secret.

  Tess opened the door. Her new roommate, Lorena Gibbons, brushed past her. “Hiya, Tess. I’m going to Mabel and Anne’s room—Mabel’s mama sent fudge. Want to come?”

  “No, thanks.” That threesome did too much giggling and gossiping.

  “Suit yourself.” The pretty brunette strolled down the hall. “By the way, some letters came for you. I put them on your bed.”

  “Thanks.” Tess shut the door, her heart aching for her former friendship with Nora. The day after the disaster with Dan, Tess had apologized and told Nora she was right and Tess had been horribly wrong, but Nora hadn’t trusted Tess’s sincerity. Only a few days later, the Navy sent Nora back to Smith College for specialized communications school. After she graduated, she’d probably be assigned somewhere other than Boston. They’d never have the chance to make up.

  Tess stashed her purse and overcoat and cover, and she picked up the letters. From Ada Sue, Papa, and—

  Pain crushed her lungs. “Dan.”

  Solitude intensified the pain. She wanted a friend. Mary would let her cry, gently reprimand her, and then comfort her. But she couldn’t tell Mary how she’d hurt Dan. Mary and Lillian and Dan were family, and that complicated matters. She had to be discreet.

  By the time he returned, Tess would figure out a statement that was both honest and kind. In the meantime, she’d told her friends she didn’t want to talk about him. Mary and Lillian assumed she was sad because he was away at sea.

  At least the sadness was honest.

  Tess stared at the envelope, at Dan’s strong handwriting. How could she bear to read it? Maybe she should throw it away. What could he say that she hadn’t already said to herself? Nothing was to be gained from the letter but more heartache.