Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  Lord, help me do this.

  “I know I can do it.” Lillian clasped the golden chain behind her neck. “I’m so excited about my new job. The store, the patients, everything. I can’t wait.”

  “All right, girls.” Mrs. Avery stood. “Let’s clear the breakfast dishes, and then we can all get dressed.”

  Lillian headed for the dining room, her brown oxfords in contrast to her creamy bathrobe. She always wore oxfords, probably because of the prosthesis.

  Lucy eased up from the couch as if expecting her child tomorrow rather than in May, and she cradled her hand around her flat belly. “I’m coming. I can’t move so fast now.”

  Arch rearranged his laced fingers. Jim said Lillian was born big and healthy, while Lucy was small and sickly. They’d almost lost her a few times. Coddled, most likely.

  Lillian seemed to think Arch was coddled too, a rich boy accustomed to servants clearing the table.

  That thought propelled him to his feet. He’d show her he could clear dishes.

  Lillian carried a stack of plates into the kitchen, and Lucy followed with some glasses. Arch grabbed a platter and set serving bowls on top.

  “Your new job will be a stretch for you,” Lucy said in the kitchen.

  “Why? I’ve worked in pharmacies since high school.”

  “But you’ll have to work with sick people, and you’ve never had any compassion for the sick.”

  What on earth? Arch stopped in the doorway.

  Lillian stood at the sink with her back to him, her shoulders pinched together. “I was four years old.”

  Lucy placed the glasses on the counter. “You never wanted anything to do with me when I was sick, only thinking of yourself, playing with the boys, leaving me—”

  “Girls!” Mrs. Avery set her hands on her hips. “Enough of that. You’re twenty-two years old. And it’s Christmas.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Lucy said.

  “Sorry.” Lillian turned for the door and met Arch’s gaze, her eyes wide.

  “Just bringing in the dishes,” he said.

  Mrs. Avery dashed to him and took the stack. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. You’re our guest. Lillian, show him back to the living room. Lucy and I can manage the dishes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Lillian led him through the dining room and paused at the door to the living room, her eyes guarded. “See? A big family isn’t always so swell.”

  He spotted a crack and wedged it open with a smile. “So it isn’t true what they say about identical twins being inseparable?”

  “Not us.” She glanced back, her voice low. “My fault mostly.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, sank his hands into his bathrobe pockets, and willed the moment to last. “You were only four years old.”

  “Old enough to know I was being mean.”

  “And twenty-two is old enough to know you’re being mean.” He tilted his head toward the kitchen.

  She dipped her head, and the green and red ribbons flopped forward. “Apparently not.”

  Arch swallowed hard. Why did he want to hold her? He’d known her less than a week.

  Lillian lifted her chin. “Is it true about only children being spoiled brats?”

  He chuckled. Yes, she had pluck. “Not in my case. My parents gave me chores, put me in public school, and refused to buy me everything I wanted.”

  Those large eyes dissected him, allowing him to study the rich mix of greens and golds and browns. “Did you have a pony?”

  “A horse. Can you forgive me?”

  One corner of her mouth edged up. “Without brothers, you needed someone to play with, I suppose.”

  “I was lonely.” He gave her his most pitiful frown.

  “I doubt that.” She strolled into the living room.

  Yes, he was falling hard. And that conversation had gone well. If only the Navy would keep him in Boston, but they were transferring much of the fleet to the Pacific. This last week in Ohio might be his only chance with Lillian. Come New Year’s, they could be separated by thousands of miles.

  Lillian sat on the couch and leafed through a book, while Jim and his brothers sorted the wrappings on the floor.

  Arch sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Say, Jim, do we have plans for New Year’s Eve?”

  “We don’t do much here.”

  Mr. Avery gathered his pile of gifts. “Don’t worry about us. You young folks ought to go out and have fun.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Arch leaned forward on his knees. “Cleveland isn’t far. What do you say, Jim? Martin? Would Mary and Lucy like an evening of dining and dancing? Lillian?” He turned to her.

  Her face went flat. “I don’t dance.”

  Inside, he groaned. For heaven’s sake. Of course she couldn’t dance. Somehow he had to recover. “You can still enjoy an evening out. As for the dancing, I’ll sit out with you.”

  “No, thank you.” She raised her book. Evil Under the Sun indeed.

  “Well, I’m going to get dressed.” Jim stood and ran his hand over his rumpled dark hair.

  “I should too.” As he changed, he’d think of an alternate plan. Why hadn’t he said dinner and a show? That would have worked.

  He followed Jim up to the room they were sharing and shut the door.

  Jim faced him and crossed his arms over his blue bathrobe. “What are you doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “With Lillian. You’re flirting with her.”

  Arch’s mouth went dry, and he wet his lips with his tongue. “Would that be so bad?”

  Jim scrunched up his face and shook his head. “Don’t.”

  A slow measured breath. “I understand you want to protect your sister, but you know me.”

  “Yes, I know you. I’ve watched you date half a dozen women and discard them all.”

  “They were gold diggers. You know that. They only loved me for my money. Lillian—I know she isn’t like that. In fact, if it makes you feel better, she doesn’t like me at all.”

  “Good.”

  A burning sensation filled his chest. Apparently loyalty to a sibling ran deeper than loyalty to a friend.

  Jim groaned and plopped onto his bed. “It’s not just you. It’s Lillian.”

  “What do you mean?” Arch sat on the other bed.

  “She hasn’t dated much. She’s only had one boyfriend, when she was at Ohio State. I don’t know the details, and she won’t talk, but it ended badly.”

  “Oh.” Arch folded his hands between his knees.

  “I do trust you, buddy. I do, but . . .”

  But not with his sister. Arch gave a stiff nod. “I respect both of you too much. I’ll back off.”

  A long sigh. “You know what, though? Lillian could really use a friend. She hasn’t had lots of those either.” Jim’s mouth bent in a smile, repentant and warm again.

  “All right.” Most likely, Lillian would reject his friendship as she had his flirtation. But if she accepted his friendship, perhaps he could earn her trust. And Jim’s too.

  4

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Monday, January 5, 1942

  Lillian stood on the sidewalk across from Dixon’s Drugs, her only chance to be secure and independent.

  A neon sign on a brick storefront, a striped green awning over the door, and windows plastered with ads. Typical but garish.

  Her breath formed icy coils before her, and her fingers found the anchor necklace under her scarf. “Jesus is your anchor, your hope in any storm,” Dad had told her.

  If only it were true for Lillian, but it wasn’t. Not God’s fault, but hers. Please be my anchor today, Lord. Please help me make a good impression.

  She tucked in the necklace and rearranged her scarf over her bottle-green overcoat, the russet gloves warm on her hands.

  Since the gloves were a gift from Arch, she hesitated to wear them, but they were so fashionable and supple and toasty. Besides, since Christmas, Arch had only been polite
and kind. He’d abandoned the phony flirting he’d adopted as some strange way of apologizing for staring at her leg. As if acting attracted to her was preferable to staring.

  He was much better company now that he acted normal.

  Then she pulled herself tall. Only with cheer and confidence could she succeed.

  Lillian opened the door, and bells jingled. In dim light, rows of shelves marched like soldiers, and a soda fountain ran along the right side of the store.

  “May I help you, miss?” A matronly woman stood behind a cash register at a counter to the right.

  “Hi, I’m Lillian Avery, the new pharmacist.”

  “Oh yes. Mr. Dixon’s expecting you. I’m Mabel Connelly. Miss Felton isn’t here today—she’s the other cashier.”

  “I’m looking forward to working with both of you.” Lillian headed down the center aisle, past shelves crammed with goods. No signs labelled the rows, which explained why Mary had a hard time finding things. That would be easy to fix.

  At the back of the store, the prescription counter sat on her left, with a door straight ahead. In the prescription area, shelves were lined with bottles and boxes. The top shelves displayed colorful old apothecary jars with their marvelous Latin names.

  Behind the counter stood a gentleman in his sixties with a round belly, glasses, and thick silver hair. That had to be Mr. Dixon. He handed a paper bag to a young lady and then held out a jar of marbles to the little boy at her side and told him to choose one.

  How sweet. She’d like working here.

  When the patients departed, Lillian approached with her most confident expression. “Mr. Dixon? Good morning. I’m Lillian Avery.”

  He grunted and glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re five minutes early.”

  “Yes, sir.” Why did he sound disappointed?

  He opened the door and pointed to the stockroom to her right. “Put your things in here. Not happy about hiring a girl. Customers won’t like it, won’t like it at all. But you’ll have to do.”

  Apparently Mr. Dixon reserved his warmth for little boy customers. She stuffed her gloves in her pockets and hung up her coat, scarf, and hat. “I assure you, I’m a hard worker. You won’t be sorry.”

  Another grunt, and he gestured back between the shelves. “This here’s Albert Myers. He’s my main delivery boy, stock clerk, and soda jerk. Reggie’s my other clerk. You’ll meet him tomorrow.”

  Albert stepped forward. He wasn’t a boy, but a man in his thirties, with deep red hair and a friendly freckled face. “Hello, Miss Avery. Welcome.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad to be here.” She straightened her white coat over her brown skirt and cream-colored blouse. “Where should I start?”

  Mr. Dixon poured tablets onto a counting tray. “Go learn your way around out front. I expect my employees to know where everything is.”

  “Of course, sir.” She had to be prepared to answer any question.

  Lillian returned to the main store and puffed out a breath. So the man was grumpy. She’d manage.

  She strolled the perimeter of the store to note the general layout. After she finished, she’d study each aisle to become familiar with the stock.

  Halfway down the side aisle, Albert caught up to her and set down a cardboard box. “Don’t let old Dixon get under your skin, miss.”

  She smiled at him. “I won’t.”

  “Good.” He set boxes of razor blades on the shelf. “He ain’t as bad as he sounds. I was a no-good scoundrel, and he took me under his wing and gave me a job when no one else in town would.”

  Lillian scanned the shaving supplies. “I like how he gave that little boy a marble.”

  “Yeah, he likes kids. Never had any of his own. Never married, you know, but he dotes on his nephew. That’s why I’m here. Me and his nephew go way back. Used to run with a bad crowd, but he never gave up on us.”

  Yes, she’d like working here, indeed. “Thank you, Albert.”

  She continued around the perimeter, envisioning improvements. Signs, better lighting, and pleasant displays up front. Strip away some of the posters on the windows to let in the sun and show off the wares. But not for a few weeks.

  First, she had to win over her boss with hard work.

  At the rear of the store in front of the prescription counter, she studied the last row of goods, the proprietary medicines. She’d receive the most questions about them.

  Laxatives, antacids, liver pills . . .

  “Miss Avery!” Mr. Dixon hissed from behind the counter.

  She spun around. “Yes?”

  His jowly face went pale, but fire lit up his eyes. He jerked his head to the door. “Come here this instant.”

  What had she done wrong? Her stomach squirmed, but she went to her boss.

  He glared at her prosthesis. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  Jim had told Mr. Dixon, hadn’t he? She cleared her throat. “I lost it in an accident when I was five, but—”

  “That’s an artificial leg.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “You didn’t say you were a cripple.”

  A sick feeling wormed around her windpipe. “I—I thought my brother told you.”

  Mr. Dixon’s upper lip curled. “He failed to mention that. How am I supposed to get by with a cripple?”

  She couldn’t lose confidence, not now. “I’ve worked in pharmacies since high school, and I’m used to being on my feet all day. My references can vouch for me. I work as hard as any other pharmacist. Harder, in fact.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t you see? A drugstore represents good health to the community. How can someone so . . . so . . . disfigured represent good health?”

  Lillian’s eyes tingled, but she kept her chin high. “On the contrary. I represent overcoming adversity. Patients say I give them hope.”

  A deep grumble emanated from his throat. “I can’t have you out front. You’ll scare the customers away. Stay behind the counter.”

  Lillian gripped the hem of her white coat. Behind the counter? She’d only be half good behind the counter.

  Mr. Dixon marched to his counting tray. “Finally get this position filled. Finally, and now I have to start looking again. Now we’re at war. All the men will be drafted.”

  That sick feeling clamped her windpipe shut. He wanted to replace her, and she hadn’t even started.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” He gestured to the shelves. “Learn your way around.”

  “Yes, sir,” she choked out and headed for the farthest shelf. Thank goodness she’d trained herself not to cry, because her eyes burned.

  She poked around the shelves, willing her brain to learn the layout, all very orderly. It wasn’t hopeless. It couldn’t be. As always, she’d be cheerful, work hard, and find a way to make herself indispensable. A month from now, he’d forget he ever wanted to replace her.

  Lillian swept her hand down the shelf, memorizing the medications, and she paused.

  Phenobarbital, one-half grain, in five-hundred-tablet bottles. Ten bottles.

  “My word,” she whispered. Why on earth would the store need over five thousand tablets of the sedative?

  She opened her mouth to ask, then shut it. Asking questions today didn’t seem wise.

  Probably a simple ordering error, an extra zero. Poor Albert had meant to order one bottle and ordered ten. Mr. Dixon must have hated that.

  He hated everything. A dark wave plunged through her, but she wrestled it back. No, he loved children and he had given Albert a chance.

  If only he’d give her a chance too.

  5

  Boston Navy Yard

  How could Arch’s palms sweat when the temperature was below freezing?

  He and Jim strode down the pier at the Boston Navy Yard toward their new destroyer.

  “What a great assignment.” Jim grinned in the morning sunshine. “We’re serving together again, and in Boston.”

  “Yes, great.” Arch tried to return
the grin. Yes, he was glad of those things as well, especially with the intriguing Lillian Avery in town. But why a bucking little destroyer that could snap like a twig? Why the frigid U-boat-infested North Atlantic? Some said U-boats were on their way to the East Coast, but the Navy hadn’t said a word about instituting coastal convoys.

  “The USS Ettinger.” Jim paused beside the Gleaves-class destroyer, same class as the Atwood. “We saw her launching almost a year ago, the day I started falling in love with Mary.”

  Arch barked out a laugh. “Took you a while, old pal.”

  Jim knocked on his temple with a gloved fist. “Tough noggin.”

  Perhaps thick skulls ran in the family. When Arch flirted with Lillian, she shut him down like a leaky boiler valve. But when he didn’t flirt, she relaxed. How long would it take her to trust him? He wasn’t used to waiting for a woman’s affection, but Lillian was worth the wait.

  Jim hiked up the gangway, and with a steadying breath, Arch followed. He needed Jim’s friendship now, his cheer and his faith.

  The gangway bounced and jangled underfoot, and the tremors returned to his hands. He gripped his seabag with both hands to make it stop.

  The deck of the Ettinger resembled the Atwood—the bridge superstructure and two funnels, with two 5-inch guns at the bow and two at the stern. Only this deck wasn’t tilted at a grotesque angle and covered in flames, spilled fuel oil, and mutilated bodies.

  Arch slammed his eyes shut and mumbled a prayer. He couldn’t make a bad impression today.

  On the quarterdeck, Arch and Jim faced aft and saluted the flag, then saluted the officer of the deck.

  “Ensign James Avery, reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Ensign Archer Vandenberg, reporting for duty, sir.”

  The officer, a tall, trim man with sandy hair, took their orders. “Welcome aboard. I’m Lt. John Odom, first lieutenant. The captain’s on the bridge. Palonsky, escort Mr. Avery and Mr. Vandenberg to the captain.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The seaman marched toward the bridge superstructure. He glanced over his shoulder at Arch and Jim. “Say, you fellows don’t look as dry and dull as the other officers. Something tells me you like a good laugh.”

  And something in Palonsky’s eyes told Arch that if they gave this man any slack, he’d turn it into a vaudeville show. “Nothing wrong with a good laugh—after your work is done.”