Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  This woman wasn’t like the society girls angling for the best husbands or the shopgirls digging for gold.

  Not Lillian Avery. She’d gone to college to learn, not to snag a man. She had a career and plans and dreams and didn’t need Archer Vandenberg or his wealth. And his good looks and charm didn’t seem to affect her.

  If he could win the heart of a woman like her, it wouldn’t be due to his name or looks or money, but due to who he was inside.

  That would mean something.

  Mr. Avery pulled to a stop in front of a modest-sized two-story brick home.

  Now was the time to act. Arch bolted from the car and circled to the passenger side, careful not to slip on the icy pavement. He opened the door and bowed his head. “Miss Avery.”

  She glanced up with those large eyes. Guarded eyes. She swung one leg out. A shapely leg.

  My, he liked a good set of legs on a lady.

  Then she swung out the other leg. A strange line stretched below her knee. Her leg looked stiff. Fake. An artificial leg?

  Jim’s plethora of stories bounced around in Arch’s head. Something about a sister who lost a leg and never let it slow her down. This sister?

  Oh no. He was staring.

  He shifted his gaze to Lillian’s face. Her cool, appraising face.

  “Jim didn’t tell you.”

  Arch wiped his hand over his mouth, wiped away gaping rudeness. “I—well, he—I think—”

  She closed her eyes, shook her head, and marched away, a slight hitch in her step.

  Arch’s breath turned to icicles. Win her heart? At this point he’d be happy to make peace.

  2

  Vermilion

  Saturday, December 20, 1941

  Lillian tugged her old green stocking cap over her ears, swung the tail around her neck, and escaped the house. Mom wouldn’t approve of her wearing Dad’s work coat in public, but it was so warm and Dad-scented, she didn’t care.

  She sniffed the afternoon air on Main Street. No sign of snow in the overcast sky, but plenty cold. A few blocks to her left, Lake Erie lay gray and deceptively placid, but across the street lay her haven—Dad’s boatyard on the Vermilion River. She crossed Main to the long brick building, passed the office where Mom ran the business end of things, and entered the workshop.

  Oh, the wonderful smell of sawdust and varnish. Four sailboats rested in scaffolding in various states of construction. Dad stood at the bow of one, squinting down the length and brushing sandpaper over the surface as if stroking a child’s hair.

  “Hi, Dad. Want some help?”

  He blinked, then raised a slow smile. “Are you calling my workshop untidy?”

  “Is it ever not?” She mock-frowned at the sawdust on the floor.

  “You know where things are.”

  “Good.” She dashed to the corner and grabbed the big push broom.

  “Where’s the rest of the family?”

  “Mom took soup over to poor Mrs. Cassidy. She’s still sick. Jim’s at Mary’s, and Ed and Charlie went to the movies with their buddies.”

  “And Arch? Our houseguest? Don’t tell me you left him alone.”

  Lillian ducked her head to conceal her grimace. “He was reading, last I saw. Besides, I’m sure he relishes his own company. He thinks he’s quite charming.”

  Dad chuckled. “Give the poor fellow a chance. He’s a nice young man.”

  She jabbed the broom into the far corner, but it was too large. She should have started with the smaller broom, but she liked the satisfaction of handling the large one. “Rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Did I catch him staring?”

  Jaw-to-the-pavement gaping was more like it. She shrugged. “Everyone stares. I’m used to it. But the way he tried to apologize. ‘I’m afraid I got off on the wrong foot.’ Then he got a mortified look and apologized again—for putting his foot in his mouth. Honestly. I’m not sure if he was mocking me or if he thinks I’m so frail I can’t bear to hear the word foot.”

  No response. Lillian looked up from her pile of shavings.

  Dad’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I wish I could have seen. Poor, poor fellow.”

  “Pompous fellow. We put him in Dan, Rob, and Jim’s bedroom, the biggest in the house, and he called it a ‘cozy little room.’”

  In the cavernous workshop, the swish of her broom on concrete echoed the scratch of sandpaper on wood. Tension built inside Lillian. She’d gone too far, and now she’d hear it.

  “Would you like to know what I think?” Dad asked, his voice as gentle as his touch on the wood.

  Did she have a choice? And did she really want to discount her father’s wisdom? “Go ahead.”

  “First, remember he’s been Jim’s best friend for a good six years. Your brother’s an excellent judge of character, and any friend of his deserves our respect.”

  All her indignation flowed out, down through the broom bristles. She really was coldhearted, wasn’t she? “I know.”

  “Second, he’s an only child thrust into the Avery Aviary with all our squawking and twittering and cawing.”

  A smile nudged her lips. “We are overwhelming, aren’t we?”

  “Third.” Dad met her gaze, his dark eyes amused. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you last night. I think he sees a lovely young lady, and he’s working hard—too hard—to overcome a horrible first impression.”

  Lillian’s face scrunched up, and she swept under the scaffolding. Only a stupid man would want her, and she didn’t want a stupid man. Or a twisted man. A shudder rippled through her. Never again.

  She had to distract Dad, and the broom handle inspired her. “Say, have you given any thought to my crutches? Did you look at my drawing? You’re so clever. I’m sure you could make them hinge or telescope.”

  “So you can fit them in your trunk.”

  “I hate carrying them on the train. Hate it. I only need them at night when I take off my prosthesis. And it looks odd to carry them.”

  “Lillian,” he said in that low rolling way of his when he wanted to soothe her. “You’ll be fine.”

  She jerked up her gaze, but he’d resumed sanding. She’d be fine? What did he mean by that? Didn’t he realize she didn’t want to step off the train in Boston carrying the emblem of her weakness? Not when she’d have to be stronger than ever, living with roommates she barely knew, working for a boss who didn’t want her, and pulling fully away from her family’s security.

  She loved her family, but depending on them was beginning to chafe like her prosthesis at the end of a long day.

  “You’ll be fine.” Dad ran a bare hand over the plank, one eye closed. “Lean on the Lord, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I know.” She dragged more shavings from under the scaffolding. Everyone else in the family seemed to have faith that was warmhearted and alive. Hers felt mechanical and wooden.

  A knock sounded. Lillian bonked her head on the scaffolding and rubbed it.

  Arch Vandenberg stood by the door, wearing his navy blue overcoat and service cap and a smile that said, “You missed me, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t.

  “Hello, Arch,” Dad said. “You wanted to see the shop?”

  “You did say I could come down. Is now a good time?”

  “Of course. You’re always welcome.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded at Lillian. “Hello, Lillian.”

  “Hello.” Her hands twisted around the broom handle. She wasn’t done sweeping, but she needed to leave. She headed toward the entrance, even if she did have to pass Arch. One step past him, two, and soon she’d reach the door.

  “Don’t leave on my account.”

  She spun around. She’d misjudged. He stood only one pace away, several inches taller than she, his bright blue eyes twinkling a challenge. If she left now, he’d know she’d most certainly left on his account. Stuck. She was stuck.

  “I . . .” She gestured to the back corner. “I need to switch brooms.”

  �
��May I help?”

  “Switch brooms?”

  His smile surely made girls swoon up and down the Eastern Seaboard. “Sweep. May I help sweep?”

  He didn’t look like the sweeping sort, which could be amusing. She handed him the broom. “That’s called a broom. You may have heard of them.”

  Arch frowned at the item in his black-gloved hands. “Yes. Yes, I’ve heard of such things.” Then he winked. “And that’s called sarcasm. You may have heard of it.”

  Lillian inclined her head in appreciation. At least he could take teasing. She grabbed a regular broom. She’d follow him and take care of all he missed.

  “What are you working on, Mr. Avery?” Arch pushed the broom with vigor and decent technique.

  “A yacht for a client in Columbus. She won’t be needed until summer, so I have time. Her name is Isabella, and we’re still getting acquainted.”

  Arch removed his cap and bowed from the waist. “Good day, Isabella. An honor.”

  Lillian peered at the officer. No sign of condescension or mockery. He simply shared her father’s love of boats, understood his mystical connection.

  Arch pulled his cap on over his blond hair and resumed sweeping, as he and Dad discussed the sailboat’s specifications. Since sailor boy was doing a passable job with the push broom, she’d let him manage the open spaces while she cleaned under the equipment.

  Lillian poked the broom under the woodstove, the only source of heat in the workshop, and she sniffled in the cool air. If Arch thought her lovely last night, he’d change his mind now that he’d seen her in a man’s work coat, heavy gloves, and the ugliest hat in Ohio.

  “Good,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry it isn’t sailing season,” Dad said. “I’d love to take you out.”

  “That’s all right.” Arch’s voice sounded stiff.

  “I know how it is with sailors and the sea.”

  “The sea was always my refuge.”

  Lillian pushed the dust from under the stove into Arch’s path. Oh brother. Why on earth would a rich, privileged boy need a refuge?

  “Was?” Dad said.

  Arch stood up straight. “Pardon?”

  Dad refolded his sandpaper. “You said the sea was your refuge, not is.”

  Arch’s broom paused. “I—I mean—of course, the sea’s never been safe. I knew that, but—”

  “But now you’ve seen firsthand.”

  A cloud passed before Arch’s eyes.

  Lillian couldn’t look away, but she refused to stare. With effort, she ripped her attention to sweeping around the wood box.

  A sudden chuckle from Arch. “Yes, now I’ve seen firsthand, and I have renewed respect. I’ll be a better officer for it.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Dad said.

  “The country will need all the good officers she can get. Things aren’t going well.”

  “No, they aren’t. Seems the Japanese land somewhere new every day. The Philippines, Borneo, Malaya. We’ve been caught unaware.”

  “We sure have.” Arch’s broom shushed over the floor. “The only good thing the war has done is to shut down talk of isolationism. We’re all in this together.”

  “Even here in little Vermilion.” Lillian swept under the workbench. “We have a Home Defense Guard Unit, the Boy Scouts are holding a paper drive, the Red Cross is stepping up work, and the Civic Club donated the money for Christmas lighting to local defense. People are scared but determined.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Mrs. Avery would like for us to dine at Okagi’s tonight, partly so she doesn’t have to cook so close to Christmas, and partly to support Mr. Okagi. But Arch, we won’t go if it bothers you.”

  “Why would it?”

  “Mr. Okagi is Japanese.”

  Lillian stood her broom straight and clutched it like a standard. “He’s been here over a decade, and he wants to become a citizen, but the United States won’t let him, and his wife is French, and everyone in Vermilion loves them. Their restaurant is the finest in Ohio. We used to go into the city to dine, but now city folk come out here, and it’s all because of Mr. Okagi.”

  Arch stared at her, but a different stare from the night before, his eyes warm and his mouth bent in a slight smile. “Sounds like a fine man.”

  “He is.” Her breath huffed out. She probably sounded like a silly schoolgirl.

  “The FBI came the day after Pearl Harbor.” At the workbench, Dad exchanged the sandpaper for a finer grade. “Closed down the restaurant and investigated him. He’s clean, so the FBI let him reopen the next day.”

  “I’m glad,” Arch said.

  “Well, we don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position. The Navy took the brunt of it in Hawaii.” Dad rubbed the sandpaper between his fingers.

  “Yes, but it sounds like Mr. Okagi has an airtight alibi.” Arch grinned at Lillian. “And I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you and that broom.”

  She allowed herself to smile.

  “Besides, I believe in judging a person on words and actions and character.” His expression sobered and homed in on Lillian. “Not on background or appearance.”

  Lillian sucked in a breath and swept around the workbench. Did he mean he wouldn’t judge her for her leg? Or was he asking her not to judge him by his wealth? Or both?

  The Navy had better assign Ensign Archer Vandenberg somewhere other than Boston.

  3

  Vermilion

  Thursday, December 25, 1941

  Arch had never seen such a Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Avery, five of their children, and Lucy’s husband, Martin, jumbled up on the furniture and on the floor in pajamas. Presents changed hands in no predictable order, yet the braided rug in the center of the living room bore neat piles of boxes, paper, and ribbon.

  Chaotic, confusing, and beautiful.

  On the floor by the Christmas tree, Lillian hugged a book to her chest. “Agatha Christie’s Evil Under the Sun. Thank you, Jim.”

  “Mary picked it out. She loves mysteries too. Obviously.” Jim laughed and plucked at the red and green ribbons Lillian had transferred from packages to her hair. “Don’t let my girlfriend give you ideas about solving your own murder mystery.”

  “Silly boy.” Lillian swatted Jim’s hand and readjusted the ribbons in her amber hair. “I’m a pharmacist. It won’t be a murder—it’ll be a drug ring.”

  Arch grinned and set his new handkerchief next to his chair with his other gifts. What was it about that woman that drew him?

  He repeated the reasons he shouldn’t be attracted to her. She was Jim’s sister, and if anything went wrong, the friendship could be marred. She was also crippled, and he ordinarily wouldn’t give her a second look.

  Yet reason was foundering. Why would Jim stand between his best friend and his beloved sister? And how could Arch use the word crippled to describe a young lady who let nothing impede her dreams? No, he’d describe her as strong, determined . . . enchanting.

  However, she didn’t seem to like him. He needed to orchestrate more time together, preferably in a romantic setting. And he needed to show her he wasn’t a snob.

  Charlie, the youngest Avery, pulled eight flat boxes from under the tree. “From Arch. One for each of us. Wow.”

  Arch settled back in the chair while Charlie distributed the boxes. “Jim told me your sizes. If they don’t fit, I can exchange them.”

  “Oh my.” Lucy pulled out her pair of gloves in the finest russet leather, lined with cashmere. “These are beautiful.”

  Mrs. Avery stroked the leather. “Goodness. You shouldn’t have spent so much on us.”

  “Nonsense. I’m consuming your food, heat, and hospitality for two solid weeks. It’s the least I could do.”

  She raised bewildered eyes. “But you already gave me a lovely hostess gift.”

  “Not to mention you sprang for the lot of us at Okagi’s.” Jim’s smile teased Arch for spending like the Vandenberg heir.

  Jim was wrong. Arch didn’t use money t
o get his way. Not anymore.

  He gave the family a sheepish look. “Have pity. I don’t have brothers or sisters to treat. Besides, if I can’t be generous on Christmas with my best friend’s family, when can I?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Avery gave him a look full of compassion—pity even. “And they’re lovely. Thank you.”

  Lillian inspected her glove-encased hand and tipped a smile to him. “Thank you.”

  That smile paid him back tenfold. “You’re welcome.”

  From his armchair, Mr. Avery pointed under the tree. “You missed one, Lillian.”

  She peeled off the glove. “For me? Thank you, Dad.”

  Arch couldn’t stop watching her, how the honey-colored waves of hair swished down her shoulder as she bent over the package, how her cheeks rounded, how unadorned lips spread in a winsome smile.

  That day in her father’s workshop, when she gave an impassioned plea for Mr. Okagi while dressed like a peasant in an oversized coat and a stocking cap, he’d tipped over the edge. He’d been in free fall ever since.

  “How pretty.” Lillian lifted a gold necklace. “An anchor to remind me of my nautical heritage when I get to Boston.”

  Mr. Avery rested his forearms on his knees. “To remind you of something deeper. Jesus is your anchor, your hope in any storm, your sure refuge.” He stretched out the last word so it reached all the way to Arch.

  Jesus was his refuge, his anchor. He knew that, but did he believe it?

  Arch had grown up with an aloof stained-glass Jesus, but Jim had introduced him to the rugged carpenter in the fishing boat, genuine and straightforward. Arch’s faith had become personal in the past few years, but it must not be enough.

  If it were, the shakes would be gone by now.

  In thirteen days, his survivor’s leave would end. Would he be ready to return to sea, to go below decks?

  A tremor built in his hands, and he laced his fingers together. He had to be ready. How could an officer in the US Navy plead anxiety while soldiers and sailors fought and died throughout the Pacific, while U-boats devastated Allied shipping in the Atlantic and Japanese subs sank ships off the California coast?