The Sea Before Us

by Sarah Sundin

  While her pen longed to add flourishes and skip unsightly elements, she stayed true to reality. In only four months soldiers would pour onto this beach, and the accuracy of her diagram could mean life or death.

  “Excuse me, Second Officer Fairfax?” Leading Wren Stella Dodds held a stack of papers before her thin chest. “I finished typing up that list of new—”

  “Lovely!” Dorothy snatched up the report. “I’ll take it to Lieutenant Commander Eaton.”

  Stella’s eyes widened, and she drew back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Oh dear, she’d been rather loud and eager, hadn’t she? Dorothy found her genteel smile. “Very good, Dodds. I appreciate your efficiency. Carry on.”

  The writer returned to her station.

  Dorothy stood and took a deep breath to get back into character. The day before with Wyatt, she’d deliberately acted like Jolly Dolly to deflect romantic interest. She’d allowed herself to talk too much. She’d indulged in silly antics and mimicry. All good sport. For some strange reason, Wyatt didn’t seem to mind.

  Now the time for nonsense was over.

  She glided to the door. On Friday, Lawrence had said he hoped for the pleasure of her company again. Well, she was free this coming weekend. If she hadn’t been, she would have wiped her calendar clean for him.

  The intelligence office throbbed with activity, but she didn’t see Lawrence. Motion by the other door drew her eye.

  Wyatt raised his hand and a shy smile.

  She returned his greeting, but her stomach clenched. What if Lawrence saw her being chummy with another man? Wyatt understood where her affections lay, but would Lawrence?

  However, Wyatt mouthed “Bye” and left.

  Perfect timing. She strolled through intelligence, past the teleprinters and past men analyzing photographs with stereo glasses.

  Thank goodness she’d laid aside her petty jealousy last night. Papa and Wyatt had talked about business until half-past nine. Papa had eaten every bit of his dinner, and this morning he’d chattered about his plan to give Wyatt a tour of his office on Friday. Then he’d gone to work—early!

  The door opened. Lawrence held it open, and First Officer Bliss-Baldwin strolled inside, patting Lawrence’s arm and gazing up at him through her lashes.

  What was going on?

  Bliss-Baldwin parted ways with Lawrence and passed Dorothy, her color too high for Dorothy’s taste.

  Then Lawrence beckoned Dorothy to follow him to his office.

  She tamped down the impulse to scamper like Charlie, and she strolled into his office as if she didn’t care. “I have the weekly report of the latest features we detected.”

  “Very good.” He took the papers and flipped through. “Jolly good show.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He motioned for her to close the door and take a seat, which she obeyed a bit too quickly.

  “Good news. I shall have First Officer Bliss-Baldwin eating out of my hand.”

  “Oh?” She crossed her ankles and her hands.

  “We’re having dinner on Friday. I’ll explain your family situation and why you need to stay in London, with complete discretion, of course. I shall persuade her to relent.” He leaned forward over the desk with that devilish smile. “I can be rather persuasive.”

  Her face tingled. Yes, he could. He’d persuaded her into a kiss before they’d even had dinner. Was that how he meant to persuade Old Blissy?

  His gleam faded. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” But her voice squeaked.

  Lawrence sat back in his chair. “You aren’t the jealous sort, are you?”

  Sophisticated women weren’t possessive, so she lifted one shoulder. “Why would I be?”

  “Good.” He wrinkled his nose. “Jealous women are so tiresome.”

  She crimped one corner of her mouth. “As are jealous men.”

  He chuckled. “Very good, then.”

  Dorothy returned to her duties. Wyatt said jealousy was dangerous, and he was right. To win Lawrence and help Papa, she’d gladly set it aside.

  London

  Tuesday, February 15, 1944

  Muriel Shaw patted an empty spot on the table in Dorothy’s favorite tearoom. “Oh, to have sugar in my tea again.”

  Dorothy added her compassionate murmur to Gwen and Johanna’s, but she didn’t agree. Rationing had kept her figure trim for the first time in her life, and she didn’t look forward to sweets tempting her from store windows again.

  Gwen Hamilton took a cucumber sandwich from the tiered serving plate. “And this war bread. How I long for soft white bread.”

  “I don’t mind.” Johanna Katin selected an oat scone. “It is food, and I am thankful.”

  “As am I.” Dorothy stood and lifted the teapot. “Shall I be Mother?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She poured fragrant Darjeeling into each china cup. “Johanna, how is your grandmother? Is she home from hospital?”

  “She is better, thank you. The doctor said she could come home tomorrow.” The only woman at the table not in uniform, Johanna wore a shirtwaist dress in a burgundy wool that complemented her olive complexion. Since she was not a British subject, she was ineligible for military service.

  “I’m itching to go dancing.” Muriel poured a spot of milk into her tea. “Who wants to go out this weekend?”

  “Not me, but thank you.” Johanna stirred her tea. Her fiancé was fighting in Burma, and she avoided mixed social events.

  Dorothy formed pretty white twirls with the milk in her tea until it blended to the right shade of brown. “I might, but it’s too early to commit.”

  “If you’re waiting for Lieutenant Commander Eaton to ask you out, don’t,” Muriel said. “Helen said he’s taking her to dinner on Friday.”

  “Helen Woolford?” From Lawrence’s own department? And Bliss-Baldwin the Friday before. Had Dorothy ruined her only chance with Lawrence with a silly monologue?

  “I’m sorry.” Johanna’s face stretched long. “I know you had your heart set on him.”

  Gwen and Muriel giggled, and Muriel flapped her hand at Johanna. “It isn’t over, darling. The lieutenant commander is a scamp. He doesn’t think he’s ready to settle down yet.”

  Dorothy forced a smile. “That’s part of his charm.”

  “Charm?” Johanna asked. “I don’t understand. Why would you want a man like that?”

  Muriel sipped her tea. “It’s jolly good sport.”

  Gwen’s gray eyes softened. “He’s perfect for her. She’s talked of no other man since we were schoolgirls. It’s no coincidence that they’re serving together now. They were meant to be.”

  Meant to be. Dorothy’s shoulders relaxed, and she sent Gwen a grateful smile.

  Johanna fingered her scone. “A good man only loves one woman, and he’s faithful to her.”

  “Oh, he’ll get there.” Muriel gave Gwen a knowing look. “Kicking and screaming, but he’ll get there. And Dorothy’s the woman to do it.”

  Dorothy found her energy again. “That’s why he’s so exciting. He’s not easily won.”

  “But once Dorothy wins him . . .” Muriel snapped her fingers. “The love of a good woman will turn that scamp into a proper house dog.”

  “An unpredictable one, I hope.” Dorothy gave her friends an arch look. How many times had Mum warned her not to repeat her mistakes, warned her not to marry a predictable man?

  “You’re doing so well.” Gwen gave her a nod. “I never thought you could act cool and indifferent, but you’re brilliant.”

  Muriel laughed. “Men can’t stand indifference. They have to change it to adulation.”

  “He’s watching you,” Gwen said. “I’ve seen him. It’s working.”

  Dorothy smiled and took a tiny bite of her watercress sandwich.

  “The playacting, yes?” Johanna asked with a glow in her eye.

  She gave her a teasing look. “I prefer to think of it as transforming rather than perfor
ming. I’m becoming the woman he wants.”

  Something sad flitted across Johanna’s face, but then she smiled. “I’m glad you are happy. But . . . I am also glad I didn’t have to change for Morris to love me.”

  Dorothy sipped her tea to conceal her expression. She had never been loved as she was, and she never would be. Change was her only hope. It was worth it to win the man she loved.

  10

  Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters

  Thursday, February 17, 1944

  Wyatt sorted through the latest air reconnaissance photos, each labeled with grid numbers corresponding to the map.

  German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was building his Atlantic Wall defenses from Norway’s North Cape to the Spanish border, and Normandy hadn’t been overlooked.

  At the American landing beaches, each warship would be assigned a sector to cover. Wyatt filled his charts with coordinates of the enemy’s known and potential positions.

  Geier’s laugh hit his ears. The officer stood talking near Eaton’s office with Marino and Eaton, looking over papers.

  Wyatt frowned. Perhaps he should find out what they were discussing. Or perhaps he was being a busybody and it was none of his cotton-picking business.

  Eaton waved over a Wren officer—Woolworth, was it? The pretty brunette flitted wren-like to Eaton and handed him a folder. He thanked her with a smile and a pat on the lower back, and the woman returned to her desk, beaming.

  Something smoldered in Wyatt’s gut. How dare Eaton flirt with another girl when he already had Dorothy’s heart?

  “Good day, Lieutenant Paxton.” Dorothy sat beside him, holding photographs. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ll like this.”

  “Hi there.” He studied her face, but she sifted through photos with a bright look about her. She must not have seen Eaton and the other Wren, thank goodness.

  “Here.” She brandished a photo, just some sand and grass and such. “Do you see that hillock? Doesn’t look exceptional, does it?”

  “No, ma’am.” He hadn’t even noted it on his chart.

  “But look here.” Dorothy set down a photograph of a little boy playing in the sand. “This was taken in 1939, a slightly different angle. And this . . .” A photo of two honeymooners lounging on the sand, heads together. “Same year, a bit closer, from the other direction.”

  It took a while to get his bearings, but a scrubby little bush oriented him. Then he saw. “No hillock.”

  “Precisely. Isn’t it smashing?”

  “Yeah. Wow.” Wyatt compared the photos—a smooth lump of earth, about ten feet long and three feet high, plenty big to conceal a machine-gun nest. “You discovered that yourself?”

  She nodded quickly, her smile luminous.

  “Wow.” He noted the information on his chart.

  “Excuse me.” She swept up the pictures and went to Eaton, of course. She showed him the same things she’d shown Wyatt, but with a cool, almost dull voice.

  “Good show, Second Officer Fairfax. I say, you do have good eyes—and very pretty ones.” He sent her away with the same pat to the lower back he’d given the other girl.

  Dorothy returned to her office. When she passed Wyatt, she gave him a thrilled smile as if he were one of her girlfriends who’d squeal for her.

  He didn’t. But he managed a congratulatory kind of look.

  More notes, his pen strokes too hard and dark. Eaton had tossed Dorothy a crumb of attention to keep her at his feet. And it worked. Why did some men—

  “No,” he muttered. No jealousy.

  “Mr. Paxton?” Commander Marino called. “Are you done for the day? Would you walk out with me?”

  He wanted a few more entries in his chart, but he could come back in the morning. “Aye aye, sir.”

  Wyatt straightened the photographs, gathered his papers into his portfolio, and grabbed his overcoat and cover from a hook by the door. In the passageway he fell in beside Marino.

  With his overcoat slung over one arm, Commander Marino tapped a cigarette out of his case. “Mr. Geier showed me his report.”

  “His report?” Wyatt couldn’t remember Geier writing one on his own. “Which one?”

  “You ought to know. Mr. Geier said you compiled the charts listing targets by sector.”

  “Yes, sir.” His mind spun. He’d worked hard on that report, and he and Geier were supposed to present it to Marino tomorrow. The smoldering in his gut flickered into flame. This wasn’t jealousy. It was righteous indignation. “Sir—”

  “Mr. Geier analyzed that data and the firepower of the British ships assigned to the American landing beaches, and he believes the bombardment will be insufficient. He says we need more ships. I concur.”

  Wyatt’s jaw dangled. That was his analysis, his conclusion, and Geier was a bald-faced liar.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Mr. Paxton. In the Navy, every officer has to carry his share of the load.”

  Wyatt forced his lungs to squeeze out words. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  His commander winced and took a long drag on his cigarette. “That’s not what I see. Mr. Geier tried to be diplomatic, but it’s obvious he does the lion’s share. All I see you do is fuss over charts.”

  “Sir, that isn’t—”

  “You need to carry your weight.” He strode down the passageway. “You need to analyze the data, form conclusions, write reports, and present them. Come D-day, we’ll need our officers on board destroyers applying that information in battle.”

  “I do all that, sir—honest. I’ve been in battle. I know what’s needed.”

  Inside the main door, Marino paused and pulled on his overcoat. “Listen, I know you were an accountant in civilian life, but it’s time to stop nitpicking over numbers and be an officer.”

  Wyatt fumbled with the brass buttons on his coat. “Sir, I am doing the analysis. I am writing the reports.” He sounded like a whiny child saying he’d cleaned his room when he hadn’t. Only he had cleaned his room—and Geier’s too.

  “I need to see more of an effort from you.” Marino opened the front door. “Good day.”

  “Good day, sir.” Outside, everything was gray, and a steady rain blurred the bare trees in the square across the street.

  His work was supposed to speak for itself, but Geier was a ventriloquist who made the work speak for him instead.

  Wyatt ducked his head and marched into the rain. Geier had turned him into the dummy.

  Wyatt ran in place, harder than usual, as if he could sweat out his anger.

  Jack jogged beside him in a ballroom in the hotel where they were quartered. Other officers also performed informal calisthenics in their gym shorts and T-shirts. “What’s up, Wy?”

  He didn’t want to talk, but he was no good at lying. He shook his head as if too winded.

  “You’re about to hit that stubborn chin of yours with your knees. What’s up?”

  Why had Wyatt become friends with Jack anyway? Should have found a friend who didn’t poke his nose into his business.

  “Sit-ups.” Jack sat on the floor. “I’ll go first so you can talk.”

  Wyatt dropped to his knees, breath chuffing, and he grasped Jack’s feet harder than necessary.

  Jack lay flat on his back with his hands behind his head. “I’ll count in my head. You talk. Don’t try to get out of it. You’ll only prolong the agony.”

  If only Jack would succumb to Wyatt’s glower, but he just started his sit-ups. And Jack was no less stubborn than Wyatt.

  While Jack did his fifty sit-ups, Wyatt related his conversation with Marino in a low voice. Didn’t want the other fellows to hear.

  “Fifty. Switch.” Jack took his place.

  Wyatt stretched out flat. Then he curled up to sitting, avoiding his buddy’s gaze.

  “I was afraid this would happen,” Jack said. “Geier’s walking all over you, and Commander Marino’s buying it.”

  Wyatt clenched his jaw and continued his sit-ups, the muscles in his trunk warm an
d tense.

  “You said you didn’t want to let jealousy control you, but what does that have to do—”

  “He’s like Adler, all right?”

  “Adler’s a lazy, lying weasel?”

  Wyatt blew out a breath and the truth. “No. No, he isn’t.”

  Jack rearranged his grip on Wyatt’s ankles. “So, because of what happened with your brother, you let Geier take advantage of you.”

  He’d lost count. Somewhere in the forties. He kept going, pushing himself. At last he rolled onto his belly. “Push-ups.”

  Jack got into the push-up position beside him. “You said it didn’t matter who got the credit, but now do you see why it does?”

  “I don’t care.” Wyatt shoved away from the earth, over and over, his words choppy.

  “Now who’s the liar?”

  He glared at his friend but then sighed. “All right, I care. But I shouldn’t.”

  “I think you should.” Jack did a few push-ups. “What if your silence affects the work?”

  “It won’t.” But an uneasy feeling wriggled inside. He collapsed to the floor and rolled onto his back. “Leg scissors.”

  Jack lay down and lifted his feet. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want to succeed.”

  Wyatt scissored his legs in the air. “I want the work to succeed.”

  “What about yourself? Don’t you want to succeed?”

  “Don’t care about that. Don’t want it, don’t deserve it.” His eyes flew wide open at the sound of his own words.

  “Don’t deserve it?”

  Wyatt stared at the ornate ceiling. His gym shoes and his thoughts banged into each other as they crossed.

  Jack got up to his knees, sweat dampening his dark hairline. “How long are you going to punish yourself?”

  Unable to look his friend in the eye, Wyatt stood, swiped his forehead on his T-shirt sleeve, and stretched his arms straight in front of him. “Deep knee bends.”

  “Wyatt?”

  He squatted until his rear end touched his heels. The pain felt right and good. The only punishment he’d received was the scar on his cheek, and it wasn’t enough for what he’d done.