He’d had no idea the war would come to him.
Coming from a family of shipbuilders, battleships had always fascinated Joseph. The lines and angles which allowed the iron giants to cut through the surface of the water as though they weighed nothing at all still drew him in, which was why he felt so at home on the USS Tennessee. He felt powerful, almost invincible while on board, even though many people thought of battleships as sitting ducks out in the middle of the ocean. Joseph had thought they were crazy…
Until the attack on Pearl Harbor.
In times of peace, battleships were involved in training, maintenance, and readiness exercises such as competitions in gunnery and engineering performance. Yet during times of strife and confrontation, these sleek vessels became a commanding and intimidating presence to the enemy. Joseph had missed participating in the Fleet Problem XXI—a battleship competition that was conducted in Hawaiian waters during the spring of 1940. At the end of those pseudo-war games, President Roosevelt shifted its base of operations to Pearl Harbor, hoping to deter the Japanese Empire from expanding into the Orient.
The USS Tennessee arrived at her new base in August 1940 with an eager Joseph on board, but the next set of war games was cancelled due to increased hostility throughout the world. Joseph remembered feeling cheated at being confined to smaller scale operations in those final months of peace. Now that he realized real war was anything but a game, he’d give everything to go back to simpler times.
He scanned the Pacific Ocean, but didn’t see anything except peaceful waters. After Pearl Harbor, he couldn’t help but be jumpy, even though the Tennessee had proven to be one tough ship. She was the lead ship of her class and nicknamed the Rebel. Her underwater hull had better protection than earlier ships, and both her main and secondary batteries had two heavy caged masts supporting large optical fire-control systems to assist a weapon in hitting its target. It performed the same task as a human gunner, but fired a weapon much faster and more accurately. And since the turret guns could be elevated as high as 30 degrees, her heavy guns could fire an additional 10,000 yards, providing great value since battleships were starting to carry airplanes to spot long-range gunfire.
None of that had mattered or helped on the morning of December 7th, 1941. A day that would haunt Joseph for the rest of his life. The Tennessee was moored starboard side to a pair of masonry mooring quays on Battleship Row. During the attack, Joseph manned the ship’s anti-aircraft guns along with his fellow crewmen, attempting to defend the harbor and their warship the best they could, to no avail. The Tennessee was struck by two armor-piercing bombs during the air raid.
When the first one hit the center gun of turret two, it made all three guns fail to work, leaving the crew feeling helpless. Debris from the bomb hit the command deck of the West Virginia, mortally wounding her commanding officer. The second bomb went through the roof of turret three, damaging her left gun. Debris showered the Tennessee when the Arizona’s magazine exploded and flames engulfed her stern from the ship’s burning fuel oil. Wedged between the sunken West Virginia and her mooring quays, the Tennessee was trapped at her berth for ten days of hell, its crew reliving the nightmare, before finally being freed. Four days later after minor repairs she set sail for the West Coast to be fully repaired, and that was where Joseph resided today.
Before leaving Hawaii, Joseph remembered staring out at the harbor still full of battleships that had been destroyed by Japan. Buildings were demolished, the destruction and devastation so huge he didn’t know if the harbor would ever recover. The surprise attack had been so sudden, while most of the harbor slept, and everyone was left in shock and disbelief. All eight U.S. Navy battleships were damaged, with four being sunk.
He could still hear the piercing whine of missiles being dropped, the rapid fire of guns pelting everything within view, the agonizing sounds of men screaming and women crying. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling sick all over again from the imagined smell of burned flesh and blood. It took a conscious effort not to vomit on a daily basis. He’d felt so helpless that day. He’d stood on the ship and had fired back at Japanese Zeros, taking down his share and killing more men than he wanted to think about. Yet he’d survived. He’d been one of the lucky ones, they all said.
Funny how he didn’t feel lucky.
It took a man to do a soldier’s job, but how could he do his job when he was only half a man now. A shell of his former self. Joseph didn’t know if he would ever be the same, ever be able to help the people who needed him, ever be able to make a difference like he had once hoped. The nightmares haunted him every night. He would wake up screaming and sweaty and shaking. He was so homesick, the thought of Maine calling to his soul, but how could he go back there like this? With no other choice, he went into survival mode and focused on work.
At the Puget Sound Navy Yard, the Tennessee underwent permanent repairs and upgraded its anti-aircraft guns, as well as installing search and fire control radars and other modifications to improve its habitability. In February 1942, the Tennessee left the Sound and arrived in San Francisco, where she began a period of intensive training operations, creating Task Force 1, which consisted of the Pacific Fleet’s available battleships and several destroyers. It was soon apparent that the older battleships like the Tennessee were too slow to keep up with the carriers for long-range duels, so Joseph spent his time patrolling areas of the Pacific in the expectation that part of the Japanese fleet might attempt an attack on the U.S. West Coast.
“Mail call,” someone yelled.
Joseph blinked, realizing his shift was over. Everyone dropped what they were doing. It could take the mail months to reach the soldiers and months to send a letter back, providing nothing went wrong with the mail planes. Planes got shot down, mail got ruined, letters got lost. Whatever mail could be salvaged was delivered and sent to the recipient. Whatever couldn’t be sent was returned to the soldier, if he was still alive, that is.
That was why getting mail was like opening presents on Christmas morning. It was special and something to be treasured. And when a soldier didn’t get any word at all from back home, it was heartbreaking. People didn’t realize thoughts of home were a soldier’s lifeline. The smells, the sounds, the memories conjured by simple words on a page were the things that grounded a soldier and kept him from going crazy. It made him realize he wasn’t stuck in the devastation forever, and there was hope that one day the war would end and he would go home. It was the only thing that kept most soldiers going when surrounded by so much death and devastation.
People thought he was brave, but if they only knew the truth. He wasn’t brave. He was lonely and scared and felt like a coward on a daily basis for wanting to go home. The letter he held in his hand was so important to him. So precious. No matter who it was from, it was a gift.
Joseph took his lunch break, more concerned with opening his letter than eating in the mess hall. The fog lifted and the sun made an appearance, increasing the temperature to seventy degrees, almost as if sensing his spirits needed lifting. He wandered to a deserted part of the ship in his undress blue service uniform, consisting of button fly woolen trousers, a simplified jumper without piping or neckerchief, and a white cotton hat. He leaned over a deck rail and stared toward the shore at the impressive redwood and sequoia trees, taking a moment to clear his head before pulling out the cherished piece of mail from his pocket. Opening the envelope, he took a deep breath and read the contents.
* * *
My dearest son,
We miss you so. Your father and sisters and I worry about you every day. War is such an awful thing. I wish you had stayed home where you belong. My only son, my sandy blond-haired, sky blue-eyed angel of a boy, you should have stayed with your family and taken over your father’s business. It’s not too late. When you return, God willing, we will be waiting for you to help you pick up the pieces and get you back on the right track. You’ve had your fun, now it’s time to grow up and be responsible.
* *
*
Joseph’s hands jerked, and the letter he held nearly fell into the ocean. He clenched his jaw. Fun? Grow up? Be responsible? He almost stopped reading her letter altogether. She had no idea what he had done was about the most responsible grown-up thing a person could do. He couldn’t blame her really. There was no way she could know what he had been through and that it had changed him forever. It wasn’t fun. It was awful, and he wasn’t going to come home the same person. With a deep sigh of regret and resignation, he kept reading, his desperation for home and human contact running that deep.
* * *
Speaking of the right track, I have some wonderful news. I’ve found you the perfect woman to marry. Beverly Sanderson is of impeccable breeding; her family having made their money in real estate. She is a beautiful, agreeable, charming young woman and has already been informed of your impending return when your tour of duty is over. She loves a man in uniform and thinks what you’re doing is so heroic. If anything, your little adventure has made you the most eligible bachelor in town. You’re a perfect match socially, so it would behoove you to propose upon your return. Please don’t let us down again. We want what’s best for you, and for you to be happy, my son.
Until I see you again,
Your loving mother
* * *
Joseph folded the letter and slipped it back into his pocket with a soft chuckle and a sad shake of his head. Little adventure. His family had always thought of themselves first. They never thought about what might make him happy, but right now they were all he had left. He didn’t like his family intruding in his personal affairs, but at the same time he knew they meant well.
Maybe getting married was what he needed to make him whole again. He had never met Beverly, but he had heard of the Sandersons. They lived at 37 Coastal Ridge Road, in the wealthiest part of town. His mother would not be happy unless he married someone with the right background and social standing. The only problem was he didn’t know if Beverly would be happy with him.
He needed to write to Beverly and let her know what to expect upon his return. He wasn’t due to end his tour for another two years, and he had no idea if he was even going to survive long enough to make it home. If he did survive, he didn’t know how he was going to mentally last reliving this nightmare for that long. Somehow, he had to find a way to get through the rest of his time in one piece. All he could do for now was take one day at a time, which was becoming more and more difficult.
It would take a special person to love a broken man. He had no idea if Beverly was up to the task, but there was no one else and only one way to find out. He pulled out pen and paper and decided to write her a letter back.
How she responded would tell him everything he needed to know.
3
Present Day: Beacon Bay, Maine
After Emma left the emergency room of Beacon Memorial Hospital, she couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Logan Mayfield. He was a big, burly man with a heart equally as big, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. This strange connection hummed between them, which was crazy. Her life was a mess right now. She was an impulsive woman who was hurt and angry. Not a good combination. But still, there was something intangibly there with the doc. What, she had was no clue, which made it much more difficult to know what to do about it.
Being a good judge of character with a knack for reading people was a strength of hers. It was plain to see Dr. McGiant cared about his job, and helping people was in his nature. He’d obviously been through something major to cause him to put up the humongous wall he was hiding behind, but then again, who hadn’t been through something these days? Maybe she wasn’t a good judge of character after all. She hadn’t read Mark right, or she wouldn’t be in the predicament she was today.
Shaking off her train of thought, she focused on her present situation. She couldn’t believe the message in the bottle had been a coded map. Curiosity gnawed at her, especially over the inscription: Until Tomorrow, Kathleen Connor. Why the secrecy in using a code? What was the code and how could she decipher it? What was supposed to happen on that day so long ago? But mostly, who was this woman with the gorgeous sweeping penmanship? There was something in the way she moved her pen that called out to Emma. The grip was firm and decisive in the way she pressed down upon the paper, yet the flowing way she crafted her letters was poetic and heart-wrenching.
A burning need like she’d never known propelled Emma to the library. She wasn’t exactly sure why, but she had a strong desire to uncover this woman’s story. Maybe because using her skills as a journalist to research Kathleen Connor was the only way Emma knew how to forget the past and move on with her life, which was imperative if she was going to save her career. So here she stood later that evening in the archives, reading up on a woman who had led a tumultuous life and then literally disappeared, never to be heard from again.
The library was eerily quiet now that school was out, with only a few patrons browsing the shelves. Probably most people in town were home with their families, significant others, or even friends. Emma felt alone as usual, her work her only companion these days. The archives didn’t have a whole lot of information on Kathleen Conner. All Emma could find was Kathleen had started out as a teacher but ended up an outcast.
She was the daughter of a fisherman father and artist mother, with one brother who went on to marry and have children and grandchildren. Emma didn’t get it. Kathleen had married William Connor, yet it said she lived alone in a cottage on the outskirts of town and then vanished one day. While her husband was listed as having never remarried, dying a heartbroken victim after her leaving him at their family home, surrounded by loved ones.
Something doesn’t add up, Emma thought, filled with irrational anger for a woman she didn’t even know and circumstances she didn’t have a clue about, but she’d learned to trust her gut over the years. Why did the men always win? There was a reason Kathleen had left him. Emma would bet her career on it.
“What in the world happened to you, Kathleen Connor?” Emma said softly to herself.
Emma needed to find out what had gone wrong in Kathleen’s life. Women didn’t leave their husbands in those days. Where did she go? What happened to her? Did she ever find happiness? Emma couldn’t seem to find any Connors left in the area, but she did find the address for Kathleen’s nephew. Emma decided to reach out to him first thing in the morning.
Maybe then she could figure out what had gone so horribly wrong in her own life.
The next morning a soft rain misted Emma’s window as she drove down the coast in her Mercedes. The road traveled along the jagged, rocky cliffs overlooking the powerful waves of the vast ocean below. Big summer beach homes like the one she had rented gave way to smaller cottages the further away from town Emma got. Stairs led from the top of the cliffs down to the rugged shoreline for those adventurous souls who dared to brave the power of the sea in the surge of the waves as they crashed against the shore. The cut on her hand throbbed beneath the bandage, reminding her she was brave, no matter what the doc said. He didn’t know all she’d been through.
Maple and oak trees were scattered about, swaying softly in the sea breeze, changing over to pine the further inland a person traveled, eventually leading to the forest and all the dark secrets it had to offer. This rain was a sign of the marigolds and lilies that would soon blossom, followed by the gorgeous colors of the wildflowers that would sprout in the warmer days of summer. Emma had a good feeling about Beacon Bay. Spending the summer here and immersing herself in her quest was exactly what she needed.
“Benjamin Reynolds.” Emma tested the name on her tongue.
Connor was Kathleen’s married name. Reynolds had been her maiden name, and Benjamin was her great-nephew. Further research had revealed the family house in town had long since been sold. Ben used the cottage by the sea that Kathleen had lived out her days in as a vacation home every summer.
Finally, Emma reached her destination: 137 Coastal Ridge Road.
As she parked her car, the rain suddenly stopped and the sun came out. Emma’s lips parted as a breathtaking rainbow arched across the sky above the sea, looking glorious in all its vibrant splendor, yet somehow solitary and lonely. Emma couldn’t help but revel in the beauty of it and take it as a sign she was on the right track.
She climbed out of her car and shut the door, staring at the small one-story cottage by the sea. There was something inspiring about it. It was simple yet quaint. A small yellow building with white shutters and flower boxes in the front. A wooden deck sat on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the farthest end of the bay, with an ancient lighthouse way off in the distance. It was peaceful and still. Emma could see how Kathleen might have been happy here. Happy but alone, leaving Emma with so many unanswered questions.
Just then a man who looked to be in his sixties, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a ball cap, walked outside carrying a box to his car. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes widening in surprise. “May I help you?”
Emma donned her game face as she walked over to him and held out her hand. “Benjamin Reynolds, I presume. I’m Emma Hendricks.”
He set down his box, his gaze skimming over her curiously as he shook her hand. He eyed her Mercedes. “What brings you to this end of the bay? This place isn’t for rent. I think you’d be happier with one of them fancy beach houses at the other end of Coastal Ridge Road. You can’t miss them.”
He’d read her well. “I’ve already rented one of those beach houses for the summer, thank you. I actually wanted to talk to you about a story I’m doing.”
His ears perked up. “A writer, huh? If you’re looking to buy a nice little summer vacation home, I was planning to put this gem on the market. No one will bother you way out here, that’s for sure. Great place for a writer to get inspired.”
Until Tomorrow Page 3
