The Sea Before Us

by Sarah Sundin

  “A long day, wasn’t it?” Lawrence pulled up a chair beside her.

  Dorothy folded the document. “Not as long as for the men on the far shore.”

  “Indeed not.” Lawrence’s face darkened, then brightened. “But we’ve achieved success. All five landing beaches have been secured for the most part, and reinforcements are arriving.”

  “Thank God.” She scooted her chair back to stand.

  Lawrence laid his hand on her forearm and gave her one of his famous smiles. “After everything returns to normal, you and I will celebrate over a fine dinner.”

  Her transfer could take weeks, leaving time for a number of fine dinners, but would it be enough time to gain a wedding ring? Her exhaustion deepened at the thought of those dates.

  Lawrence’s gaze roamed her bare cheeks.

  If she were to marry him, she’d have a lifetime of covering her freckles, doing dangerous things to please him, and stifling her stories and laughter.

  Her head shook from side to side, her emotions making the decision before her mind did, but her mind followed suit. Why had she been willing to trust her future in Lawrence’s flawed, reckless hands and not in the Lord’s perfect, caring hands?

  It all became clear. She wouldn’t marry this exciting wealthy man or any man of means once the company went bankrupt. After the war, she’d find some sort of job and support Papa as long as the Lord let him live.

  Warm peace settled in her chest.

  “You must be tired.” Lawrence patted her arm.

  Her gaze found him. “I’m sorry, but I won’t step out with you again. Not ever.”

  “Pardon?” He blinked rapidly.

  Dorothy eased her arm out from under his hand. “You aren’t interested in me for who I am, and you never will be. I laugh too much, talk too much, and I’m not one bit sophisticated. I do love excitement, but I don’t like danger. And I have gobs of freckles.”

  Lawrence’s mouth hung open. Had the man ever been rendered speechless before?

  She patted his arm this time. “If I can’t be loved for who I am, I’d rather be alone.”

  His gaze cut away. “I never mentioned love.”

  Then he definitely wasn’t the man for her. She gave him a warm smile. “I’m so glad I won’t leave you heartbroken.”

  Dorothy stood and crossed the barren office. She had paperwork to deliver.

  First Officer Bliss-Baldwin entered, and her gaze darted between Dorothy and Lawrence.

  No more of this nonsense. She held out the transfer request. “Ma’am, here’s the paperwork.”

  Bliss marched to her office. “I must confess, I’m surprised you kept your promise.”

  Dorothy cringed, followed the woman, and closed the door behind her. “You have every right not to trust my word, ma’am.”

  The first officer faced her, eyes sparking. “You lied to your commanding officer?”

  She measured her words. “I didn’t tell a falsehood, ma’am, but I allowed you to believe one.”

  Her mouth opened and shut. “Explain yourself.”

  Dorothy fingered the papers in her hand. “Lieutenant Commander Eaton is indeed an old family friend, and my father is doing poorly and does need me. But I allowed you to believe there was no romantic interest, which wasn’t true.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “You—”

  “We had precisely three dates. The first was fine, the second was an utter fiasco, and the third ended before it started. Even if I weren’t transferring, there would not be a fourth date. I’ve discovered the lieutenant commander . . . he isn’t the right sort of man for me.”

  Blissy flattened her fingers on her desktop. “You defied my orders.”

  “With all respect, ma’am, Wrens are not prohibited from dating naval officers. However, for you to forbid me to date the lieutenant commander for personal reasons most definitely violates regulations, as does punishing the girls he steps out with and forcing them to transfer.”

  The first officer spun to the window and tugged the blackout curtains in place.

  “Regardless,” Dorothy said, “I apologize, and I’m willing to take the consequences.”

  “What consequences?” Her voice shook. “If you pursue this, I’ll be the one facing consequences.”

  For the second time that day, the power had shifted to Dorothy, but she didn’t want it. Compassion for the woman swelled inside her. She understood the desperation to win Lawrence’s heart, the willingness to violate regulations to do so. Hadn’t Dorothy been willing to change her own essence?

  The swelling constricted her throat, and she swallowed to loosen it. Then she laid the papers on the desk. “Ma’am, here’s my transfer request. Please accept it as both my punishment and my apology. Please forgive me.”

  Bliss-Baldwin lowered her head. She bunched up the blackout curtains in her fingers.

  Something built inside Dorothy, roaring to the surface, a combination of indignation and conviction. “Pardon me for speaking freely, ma’am, but what sort of man deliberately puts women in such predicaments?”

  Bliss gasped and glanced over her shoulder.

  For one moment, something passed between them—the shock of realization and pain and regret—but then the first officer’s face went flat. “Dismissed.”

  “Aye aye, ma’am.” Dorothy turned and left.

  Thank goodness Lawrence had departed. Dorothy headed downstairs to the operations room. One final check for the latest news and she’d return to quarters.

  The large wall map was stagnant. Now that the generals were ashore, the Allied Naval Expeditionary Force had proceeded to its next phase. The warships would provide gunfire support as long as the front lines remained in range, but now the main naval role was to transport troops and supplies in a quick and orderly manner.

  On one of the plotting tables, grease pencil arrows on the clear Perspex over the map showed the day’s advances. The Americans had taken Vierville at 1100—from behind, by the soldiers climbing the bluffs, but the hold on the beach was tenuous. At the other four beaches, the Allies had made greater progress—but they’d faced far less resistance.

  Commanders Pringle and Marino came to the table, and Dorothy inched to the side.

  “You Yanks certainly rip plans to pieces.” Commander Pringle waved his hand over the map.

  Commander Marino clapped the British officer on the back. “You know full well no plan stands after bullets start flying.”

  He chuckled. “True.”

  “And when the plans fall apart, you rely on initiative, ingenuity, and sheer guts.”

  “I’ll credit you Yanks for that. And your destroyers—fine work they did today.”

  “That they did.”

  Dorothy leaned closer, holding her breath.

  “I was skeptical.” Commander Pringle crossed his arms. “Charging in, firing willy-nilly—”

  “Not willy-nilly. Only at known targets. And they blasted them away.”

  Commander Pringle chuckled. “Wish I could have seen the Oglesby going down shooting. A fine sight that must have been.”

  Dorothy sucked in a breath. “The—the Oglesby?”

  The men turned to her and sobered.

  She moistened her lips and braced her hand on the table. “The Oglesby—she sank?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Commander Marino’s brown eyes softened. “She was exchanging fire with a gun battery. We believe she took two shells. The Coast Guard cutters rescued most of the men.”

  “Wyatt?” she choked out. “Wyatt Paxton?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “We don’t have the names of the survivors yet.”

  Her other hand grasped for the table. The commander hadn’t offered any consolation such as “but I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “You said . . . she went down . . . shooting?” Her vision was fuzzy, her mouth dry.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s the word. She kept firing until the guns went under. And she knocked that battery clean off the bluff.” />
  Wyatt had gone down shooting.

  He’d gone down doing his duty, doing the right thing.

  How very like him.

  How very fitting.

  How horribly, tragically wrong.

  45

  Plymouth, England

  Thursday, June 8, 1944

  Wyatt ambled down the passageway in the Nissen hut. “How’s it feel to be a survivor of the Gunfight at the Ogie Corral?”

  Jack sent him a searing look. “Should’ve let you drown.”

  Wyatt laughed and thumped his buddy on the back. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  That was the longest minute of Wyatt’s life, tumbling around underwater. Once he’d figured out which way was up, he’d kicked off his shoes and stretched up to the surface. His life vest kept him bobbing for about fifteen minutes in the frigid water until a Coast Guardsman fished him out. Jack was on board the cutter. He’d insisted they stick around and search for the gun crew. They’d found all but one man—Luther Jackson, a mess steward, an ammunition handler, and a hero.

  Jack opened the door to Commander Marino’s office. The commander leapt to his feet and pumped Jack’s and Wyatt’s hands. “Good to see you boys.”

  “Good to see you too, sir,” Wyatt said.

  “How are you?”

  “Not a scratch, sir,” Jack said.

  Wyatt patted his shoulder and winced. “Few stitches, nothing bad.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you both intact. Have a seat.” He gestured to two wooden chairs, then sat behind his desk, grinning. “The Ogie sure made a name for herself.”

  Jack pointed his thumb at Wyatt. “All Mr. Paxton’s doing.”

  “Nonsense. The whole crew worked together.” Still, he allowed himself to accept the praise and the success. Father God did like to lavish gifts on his returning prodigals.

  “I felt useless since we couldn’t contact our SFCP,” Jack said.

  “Few of the destroyers did.” Marino’s grin collapsed. “Too many of the men were killed. Those who lived—a lot of the radios were lost or damaged. The only place it worked well was at Pointe du Hoc. The Satterlee and her SFCP did phenomenal work.”

  A sharp pain in Wyatt’s chest. The Rangers had taken horrendous losses at Pointe du Hoc. How long until he knew if Clay had survived?

  Commander Marino rocked his chair onto its back legs, his arms crossed. “You’ve probably heard the Navy’s taking a bit of heat from some, saying we failed in the bombardment.”

  “Yes, sir.” But no shame weighed him down. They’d done the best they could.

  Marino huffed. “Given more time, we could have done better, but then we’d have blown our surprise. In the future, we’ll have to find a position in the middle.”

  Jack sighed. “Maybe if we’d had an hour and a half as the British had.”

  “Maybe.” Marino’s front chair legs thumped to the floor, and he leaned his forearms on the desk. “But one thing I know, DesRon 18 did a bang-up job. Up and down Omaha Beach, charging close to shore, blasting away those guns, finding targets the best you could with little contact with the men on shore. Did you hear what Gerow said? Maj. Gen. Leonard Gerow, commander of US V Corps? When he landed at Omaha late on D-day, he radioed General Bradley at sea—‘Thank God for the United States Navy.’”

  Wyatt smiled. “That’s right nice to hear, sir.”

  “It sure is. They know. Our boys on the ground know you helped them get off the beaches when all was lost.” Marino slapped the desk. “That is teamwork.”

  “It was worth it, sir.” Wyatt’s chest tightened. Fourteen men on the Oglesby had been killed, most in the initial explosions. The Navy considered the casualties light, but they felt heavy to Wyatt.

  However, no regret accompanied his grief. His decision had led to success. But regardless of results, it was the right decision—even if every man on board had died, even if there hadn’t been a gun in that shack, even if they hadn’t silenced that battery.

  He’d chosen to protect. He’d reached out, and he’d continue to reach out no matter what.

  “You’ll receive new orders soon.” Marino opened a folder on his desk. “You were both meant to be on the far shore a while longer, but we’ll straighten things out.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Where would he go next? And when? No word from his brothers yet. Even if the mail had been released, they hadn’t had time to receive it and respond. If only he could see them before he left England.

  “Mr. Paxton, maybe you can solve a mystery.” Marino gave him half a smile.

  “A mystery, sir?”

  “That shack, the one you blasted away—was it black?”

  Memories jumbled together. “Not in color, sir. More like a . . . symbol. How did you know about that?”

  “One of the Wrens—Fairfax—she was adamant that the shack was a target. She wanted us to send you a radio message that the shack was black. Said you’d know what it meant.”

  “I would, sir.” It meant Dorothy Fairfax had survived all the blows she’d received and had pulled herself together.

  And she’d thought of him.

  “She was pretty upset when she found out the Oglesby had gone down. Don’t worry—yesterday I let her know you survived.”

  Relief flowed out in a long sigh. “Thank you, sir.”

  Marino fingered the family portrait on his desk and grinned at Wyatt. “She’s a friend?”

  A friend. “Yes, sir.” His voice sank lower than he’d intended.

  An urge rose inside to visit her, to assure her he was alive, to thank her for even thinking of sending him a message.

  But reason squelched the urge. Reason and a sense of peace. Dorothy was going to be fine, and that chapter of his life had closed. It was time to move on.

  46

  Kensington

  Friday, June 9, 1944

  In a fine slanting rain in the low evening light, Dorothy stood outside her house. She hadn’t been home in almost three weeks, but it felt longer.

  The invasion had succeeded. All five beachheads were secure, and the Allies were pushing inland. Her job was almost finished.

  In the drawing room window, the curtain swished. In a moment, the door flew open. Papa stood on the threshold, gaping at her. “You came back.”

  Never once had he met her at the door. “This is my home, and you’re my father.”

  “Well, come in. Come out of the rain.” He stepped back, his hand still on the doorknob.

  Dorothy climbed the steps. Was it her imagination, or did he have more color in his cheeks? She eased past her father, set her hat on the coatrack, and untied the belt on her raincoat. “How have you been?”

  “I didn’t think you’d come home.” His voice sounded husky. “I wouldn’t blame you. Why come home to a father who doesn’t love you?”

  She cringed at her own words. “I shouldn’t have said that.” A cold breeze shackled her ankles, and she reached around her father and shut the door. “It’s raining, Papa.”

  He grasped her shoulders, his fingers digging in, his eyes awash with emotions she’d never seen before. “Yes, you should have said that. I needed to hear. I needed to know what I’d done.”

  Dorothy couldn’t speak, and she fumbled for the buttons of her coat. This wasn’t like him at all.

  Papa’s face contorted, and his cheeks reddened. “Oh, my Dolly. My sweet little Dolly.” He crushed her in an embrace.

  She stared up over his shoulder, stiff and confused, the wooly smell of his jumper pulling her back to her childhood, to her father’s knee. When was the last time he’d hugged her, called her Dolly? Her face buckled, and a sob swelled in her throat. “Papa—”

  “I do love you,” he said in a fierce voice. “I have always loved you. But how could you know? How could you when I barely talked to you, barely looked at you?”

  “I—I understand why you didn’t.”

  “No.” He pulled back and gripped her shoulders again, his eyes red and blue and intense. “
You’re wrong.”

  Her head bobbled back and forth, trying to understand, trying to comprehend this strange sight.

  A howl rose from the back door, and a scrabbling sound.

  “Charlie.” Papa glanced over his shoulder.

  “Poor thing’s out in the rain. You let him in, I’ll get out of my wet things, and then I’ll make us a spot of tea. Mrs. Bromley’s left for the night, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes. Yes, she has.” Papa darted down the hall to the back door.

  Dorothy swiped the moisture from her eyes and took off her coat with shaky fingers. What was happening? Papa loved her? Why did those words only send more questions pinging around in her fuzzy head?

  Tea. They both needed tea.

  Papa knelt at the back door, toweling off the little black dog.

  In the kitchen, Dorothy filled the kettle with water, then set it on the stove to boil.

  Tiny taps on the floor behind her, then paws scratched at her calf.

  “My poppet.” Before he could ruin her stockings, Dorothy crouched down and rubbed him behind his ears. “Have you been a good boy while I was gone?”

  “You’re wrong about why I ignored you.” Papa stood in the kitchen doorway, taller and stronger than she’d seen him in years.

  “I’ll make the tea.” She grabbed her favorite Blue Willow teapot and rinsed it with water.

  “Listen to me. It had nothing to do with your mother.”

  Dorothy’s vision blurred, but she popped open the nearest tin of tea. “Darjeeling?”

  “I lost my wife, my sons, and my best friend. I couldn’t abide the thought of losing you too. I—I loved you too much.”

  Her fingers found the drawer handle, slid it open, and groped for a teaspoon.

  A chair scraped across the floor, then creaked. “I know I never paid you much attention. I didn’t know what to do with a girl. I—I didn’t have sisters. And you seemed so happy with your nanny and your brothers and your little friends.”

  Dorothy spooned tea leaves into the pot. Now she had to wait for the water to boil. But she couldn’t see, couldn’t compose herself. Perhaps there were some biscuits in the larder.

  “Suddenly you were all I had.” Papa’s voice dropped and shattered.