by Sarah Sundin
Doc turned back, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m responsible for the health and welfare of the crew. It’s my job to know.”
It was also his job to refer men for medical discharge. “I’ll let you know if any man’s condition seriously interferes with his work.”
“No, it’s more than that.” Zeal shone in Doc’s brown eyes. “I want to find out who’s suffering, who might be using medication. I want to help them.”
Arch studied the man’s intelligent face. Were they working toward the same goal—to find the source of medication on board? Or did Doc just want to drum sailors out of the Navy? “How can you help?”
Doc huffed out a breath. “Honestly, sir, I don’t know. The physicians have some success with rest under heavy sedation, but not many patients return to duty.”
“So once they enter the hospital—”
“I know. I wish I could treat the symptoms on board and keep them on duty.”
Apparently that’s what the men themselves were trying to do. Arch opened his mouth to tell Doc about Palonsky, about Hobie selling him phenobarbital. But something about Doc’s shining zeal shut his mouth.
Did Doc want to supply the men with sedatives? He had access to medications through the Navy. Or he could tap into a ring on shore. What if he were the source on the Ettinger? What if he wanted Arch to tattle on the men so he could find new customers?
As much as he wanted to trust Doc as an ally, it seemed wise to treat him as a suspect.
Arch set his hand on the pharmacist’s mate’s shoulder. “I wish you could help them too. If I hear anything you should know, I’ll tell you.”
“Thank you, sir.” He departed.
Yes, Arch would tell Doc anything he should know. Nothing more. He didn’t have much information anyway. Hobie sold the drug to Palonsky but wouldn’t reveal where it had come from. Arch had Palonsky flush it down the head so he wouldn’t be caught with it.
The watch was almost over, so Arch headed to the quarterdeck to brief his replacement.
No progress in the case. No progress in his career. No progress with his nerves. Why couldn’t he at least have success with Lillian?
Sure, she’d opened up to him. But then she’d flinched from his touch. She wanted his friendship but nothing more.
When women were interested in him, they only wanted his money. And now a wonderful woman didn’t want his money—but she wasn’t interested in him. Why couldn’t he find someone who loved him for himself?
Arch groaned. Maybe it wasn’t possible.
18
Boston
Monday, March 23, 1942
Lillian slid the pan of scalloped potatoes into the oven and set the timer.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Mary sat at the kitchen table, her chin resting in her hands.
“Nope. It’s my night to cook. Sit and relax.”
Mary poked through the bowl of shelled peas. “Now it’s your turn to solve a mystery. It’s such fun. You need a Nancy Drew name, like The Secret of the Sedated Sailors.”
Lillian scooted a kitchen chair in front of the counter, rested her left knee on it, and opened the paper-wrapped bundle of pork chops. “The Affair of the Pharmaceutical Forger?”
“I like that. Mine was The Case of the Shipyard Saboteur.” Mary sighed and brushed her dark brown hair off her shoulder. “I miss my notebooks. I kept records of conversations, organized by suspects.”
“A notebook.” Lillian scooped some grease from the can by the stove into the frying pan. “Maybe I should keep a record. We have prescription files at Dixon’s, but they’re arranged by prescription number. It’s hard to look for trends.”
“Oh yes. You could make a log of the suspicious prescriptions.”
Lillian smeared the sizzling clump of lard in the pan. “I like the idea. I could see which doctors are involved. Ever since I scared away Mr. Jones, we haven’t had a single sedative prescription in Dr. Kane’s name. Now they come from two other physicians. But the patients insist that Mr. Dixon fill the prescriptions. He never asks questions.”
Yvette Lafontaine breezed into the kitchen and rummaged in the refrigerator. “I’m sorry, dear ones. The French patriots have an emergency meeting tonight.”
“Oh.” Lillian scrunched her lips together. “Dinner won’t be ready till six-thirty.”
“Keep a plate warm in the oven, ma petite amie. I’ll grab a bite of cheese for now. Those Vichy swine are destroying my beloved France, collaborating with the Nazis. So little we can do from America, but we must do something.”
“I understand,” Mary said.
“Look at me, turning into an American and eating ‘on the run.’” The elegant brunette frowned at the cheese. “Oh well. Au revoir.” She dashed for the door.
Lillian smiled and plopped the pork chops into the pan. “They’re keeping you and Yvette busy at the Navy Yard, aren’t they?”
“They sure are. The shipyard is running two shifts a day. There’s so much work, so many ships being built and repaired. At least I always know when the Ettinger pulls in to port.”
“Are they back?”
“No.” Mary’s mouth curved into a smile. “You look eager.”
“Goodness, no.” She salted the chops.
“You don’t want to see your brother?”
Lillian grabbed the pepper shaker. “Of course I do. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know what you meant.” Mary’s voice lilted.
She’d backed herself into a corner. All she could do was keep busy. She opened the can of tomato soup, spooned it over the pork chops, and lowered the heat.
Mary’s chair squeaked. “I love watching you and Arch together.”
“We’re not together.” Her face heated, and not from the stove.
“I know, but I still love it. Last year when Arch was dating Gloria, he was all smooth charm, but they never had long, deep talks like you do.”
“We just talk as friends, mostly about the case.” That wasn’t entirely true. Once again, she was closing herself off.
Lord, help me. Help me open up. Lillian pushed the chair away from the stove and sat. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
Lillian shook her head. She couldn’t speak.
“Arch?” Mary said. “Why, you don’t have to do anything really. Just show an inkling of interest. He’s already besotted.”
“Besotted!”
“Besotted.” Mary raised a dreamy smile. “Remember how he flirted with you in Vermilion? You gave him the cold shoulder, and he backed off. But he didn’t go away. He’s approaching slowly, cautiously.”
Lillian rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands. “Oh no.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?”
“I do. He’s a good friend.”
“But you aren’t attracted to him.”
If only that were true. She moaned. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Wrong?”
Lillian pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She never cried, and she wouldn’t start now. “Archer Vandenberg could have any girl in the world. Why would he want a cripple?”
Mary came around the table and hugged Lillian’s shoulders. “Because you’re pretty and smart and funny and you stand up to him.”
Lillian sat up straight and looked Mary in the eye. “You’ve known him longer than I have. Does he have a dark side?”
“Dark?” She frowned. “He gets morose sometimes, like when he realized Gloria only loved him for his money. But we all have our moods.”
“No, I mean dark. Sinister.”
Mary’s eyebrows drew together, and she scrutinized Lillian’s face.
How could she explain without . . . explaining? She covered her face with her hands. “I had a boyfriend in college. He said he loved me, but he only wanted me because I was weak. Not a precious sort of weak, a porcelain figurine to cherish. Oh no. He wanted a marionette he could manipul
ate, and there I was with my little wooden leg. But I showed him. I cut my strings.”
“Oh, honey.” Mary drew her closer. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
She didn’t know the half of it, but Lillian succumbed to the hug. She’d never told anyone before, not Dad or Mom or Jim. She’d only told them Gordon wasn’t the man she’d thought, giving her chin a lift that silenced further questions.
She was good at silencing questions, at shutting people out. Now, collapsed in Mary’s embrace, she couldn’t remember why she did so. Strange how the more she opened up to God, the more she opened up to others.
Her eyes felt moist, and the smell of tomato soup filled her nostrils.
“The pork chops!” Lillian extracted herself and checked on dinner. Just fine, thank goodness.
“Thank you for telling me,” Mary said in a soft voice.
“Don’t tell Jim please.” What if he told Arch? What if Arch did want a puppet to control? But deep inside, she suspected he didn’t.
Even so, did she want to become involved with him? Her throat constricted at the thought.
The front door opened and shut.
“Hi, Quintessa,” Mary called. “We’re in here.”
No response.
Mary frowned at Lillian. “Yvette? Quintessa?”
Footsteps shuffled across the living room floor. Yvette and Quintessa never shuffled.
Lillian’s blood ran cold, and her hand closed around the knife she’d used on the potatoes.
Quintessa appeared in the doorway, face pale, blonde curls disheveled. “You were right.”
“Goodness!” Mary said. “What happened?”
“You were right,” she said in a monotone. “He’s married.”
“Oh no.” The knife clattered to the counter. Lillian didn’t want to be right about that.
Mary rushed to her friend. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“He . . . he’s married. And I—I kissed him.” She groaned, clapped her hand over her mouth, and ran to the bathroom.
Lillian and Mary followed, but Quintessa had shut the bathroom door. Sounds of retching filled the air.
“Oh no.” Lillian leaned back against the wall.
“Poor Quintessa.” Mary mirrored Lillian’s posture. “Poor, poor thing.”
Lillian stared at the ceiling. Clifford had lied and cheated and manipulated. Her brothers couldn’t be the only honorable men in the world, but why did so many men have to be cads?
In a few minutes, the faucet turned on and off, and Quintessa emerged, even paler and more disheveled. She trudged to her room, sank onto the bed, and curled into a ball.
Lillian sat and pulled off Quintessa’s shoes.
Mary lay beside her friend and rubbed her shoulder. “Are you certain?”
“A—a lady came to Filene’s this afternoon and introduced herself as Mrs. Clifford White. She had pictures. Her girlfriend album, she calls it. She shows it to all his girlfriends. I’m not . . . I’m not the first.”
Mary pushed curls off Quintessa’s face. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Their wedding picture. They have children. A boy and a girl. Their Christmas picture. It was this year. I know, ’cause she was wearing the scarf I helped him pick out for his—his mother.” A sob burst out.
“There’s no sick mother,” Lillian said through gritted teeth. “Just a sick, sick man.”
Quintessa groaned and turned her face to the pillow. “I can’t stand it. I was so angry, so furious when Hugh cheated on me with her.”
Lillian and Mary exchanged a glance. Quintessa hadn’t spoken the name of her high school sweetheart since he’d gotten Alice Pendleton pregnant and married her.
“But I’m no better,” Quintessa mumbled into the pillow. “I’m worse. He’s married!”
“You didn’t know,” Mary murmured. “You couldn’t have known.”
“Why not?” Quintessa faced her friend through a tangle of curls. “There were signs. You two recognized them. But I ignored them. Am I that desperate?”
Lillian patted Quintessa’s knee, at a loss for words.
Mary stroked back Quintessa’s hair. “Shh. Please don’t be hard on yourself. It isn’t like you.”
“It isn’t, is it?” Quintessa rolled onto her back, eyes large and stricken. “I’m never hard on myself. But I need to be. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Lillian’s heart ached for her. She knew what that was like.
Quintessa rubbed her forehead. “Ever since I came to Boston, I’ve been grasping for adoration. First I came between you and Jim, and now this. A married man! Who am I?”
Mary gripped Quintessa’s hand. “You didn’t know Jim and I were falling for each other, because neither one of us told you. And you didn’t know Clifford was married, because he certainly didn’t tell you. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Angry, yes. Brokenhearted, yes. Betrayed, yes. But not guilty.”
But Lillian recognized the devastation in Quintessa’s eyes, the soul-searching devastation when you realized you weren’t the person you thought you were.
Lillian patted Quintessa’s knee again, awkward and inadequate. “I know. I know.”
19
Boston
Friday, March 27, 1942
The Ettinger drifted toward the pier at the Boston Navy Yard at a ten-degree angle, her engines still. Arch strode toward the stern, longing to fill his eyes with the city’s skyline and his mind with thoughts of an evening with Lillian Avery, but he had work to do.
The deck looked shipshape, the crew in dress blues, the bright work shined, and all equipment and laundry stowed. More importantly, the mooring lines were faked down, laid in neat loops clear for running, with the heaving lines attached and seamen standing by.
The ship edged closer, and a sailor cast the bowline to the pier.
“Cast seven,” the talker called.
“Cast seven,” Arch repeated, and a seaman heaved the stern line to the pier. One by one the other lines were cast. Commands raced. “Slack one!” “Take a strain, seven!” “Check four!”
Arch leaned over the lifeline to judge the distance to the pier and to guide the lines.
The rudder was put over away from the pier to swing the stern closer, and the engine revved in reverse to stop the headway.
The after quarter spring line drooped too low. “Take in slack on five!” Arch shouted.
Hobie McLachlan manned that line, but he was rubbing the space between his eyes.
“McLachlan!” Arch yelled. “Take in slack!”
“What, sir? Oh.” He gathered in the slack, but he was too slow, and the line dipped into the water.
Arch groaned. Once they were moored, they’d have to replace that line. Buckner would have words. “Watch what you’re doing, boys.”
At least the men in charge of the fender flopped it down in time to keep the destroyer from bumping the pier. When the Ettinger rested parallel to the pier, the men doubled up the lines and rigged the gangway.
One night in Boston, then out to patrol again. Over two dozen sinkings in the past two weeks, and the few naval vessels along the coast ran around in fruitless patrols, chasing sightings and rescuing survivors. If this continued, the loss in oil and cargo would seriously hinder the war effort.
Before long, all but a skeleton crew disembarked the Ettinger for liberty. Down on the pier, Lt. Dan Avery stood with Mary Stirling, both grinning and waving. Arch waved back. It wasn’t like Dan to look jolly. What was going on?
Arch and Jim descended the gangway, and Jim swept Mary into his arms and kissed her.
Impatience wriggled inside. Would he ever get together with Lillian? It shouldn’t require this much effort.
Yet she was worth the effort. Tonight they planned to take the ladies dancing. If Clifford wasn’t in town, maybe they could talk Dan into escorting Quintessa. Arch would sit out with Lillian or perhaps coax her to dance as he’d coaxed her to skate.
“Best news since Pearl Harbor,” Dan said with
that grin still in place. “Today Admiral King approved coastal convoys.”
“He did?” Arch shook his head to clear his mind and his ears. “We still don’t have enough escorts.”
“Not by a long shot.” Dan crossed his arms. “The plan is for partial convoys starting in April—they’re calling them bucket brigades—with full convoys by May or June.”
“Bucket brigades?” Jim asked.
“You know the U-boats mainly attack at night,” Dan said. “So the convoys will sail by day and put into harbor at night. All the merchantmen will sail together with whatever escorts we can arrange. They’re even purchasing private yachts and arming them with depth charges and machine guns.”
“Say, Arch.” Jim nudged him with an elbow. “You have a yacht.”
The idea of a machine gun on the Caroline made him laugh. “I’m afraid she’s too small.”
“They’re also releasing seventy Kingfishers for air patrols in the Eastern and Gulf Sea Frontiers.” Dan tilted his head toward the open ocean. “Not the long-range bombers we need, but it’s a step in the right direction.”
“And a cause for celebration.” Jim whirled Mary around. “What do you say? Think we can talk Lillian and Quintessa into an evening of dancing?”
Mary’s laughter and smile dissolved. “Oh. Not Quintessa. I—I’ll explain later.”
“Mr. Avery, sir?” A seaman stood to the side with a stack of mail. “A letter for you. And Mr. Vandenberg, you have three.”
“From Rob,” Jim said with a grin.
Dan peeked over his shoulder. “From Hawaii. I’m trying not to be jealous of our brother. Right in the thick of things.”
Arch flipped through the envelopes—one from his mother, one from Bitsy—no, two from Bitsy. He groaned and tucked the two unwanted letters in his trouser pocket.
As they walked down the pier, Arch read the letter from his mother, skimming through the society news.
We hope you’ll be able to come home for our thirtieth anniversary next month. We’re planning a lovely dinner on Friday, April 24, with music and dancing. We’ll understand if you can’t come, but we’ll be elated if you can.
By the way, Bitsy and her friends will be in Boston next week to visit her brother. She hopes to see you. When you came home in December, she was quite concerned about your welfare, and she says you haven’t replied to her letters, which deepens her concern. I know you two aren’t close any longer—and I don’t blame you after how she threw you over—but she regrets her actions. Please remember the Chamberlains are dear friends. If your ship is in town and you don’t see her, we’ll never hear the end of it.
