Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  That explained why he had two letters from Miss Elizabeth Chamberlain. Arch extracted them from his pocket—one from Stonington and one from Boston.

  He opened the most recent one. Bitsy was in Boston through March 29. She was in town today.

  Arch’s groan caused the rest of the party to stop and stare at him.

  “Is everything all right?” Mary asked.

  He waved the perfume-scented missive. “Bitsy’s in town. My former girlfriend. She’ll know we’re in port, and she expects to see me. And my parents expect me to see her.”

  “Guess you have no choice,” Jim said.

  Arch huffed. “We’re only in town one night. I’d rather spend it with my friends. But I don’t have a choice.”

  “We understand.” Mary’s eyes shone with sympathy, but the tilt of her mouth almost looked smug. “Lillian will understand too.”

  Lillian would probably be thrilled. He wanted to crumple the stupid letter, but he needed the hotel phone number.

  Why did it have to be a Friday? He couldn’t take Bitsy and her girlfriends out for coffee. They’d expect a night on the town. It was the right thing to do, but he didn’t have to like it.

  In the lobby of the Parker House, Bitsy held both of Arch’s hands and gave him a sly smile. “Archer Vandenberg, if I’d known you’d look like this in naval uniform, I never would have broken up with you.”

  Her friends, Trudy Sutherland and Helen Whipple, twittered by her side.

  Arch extracted his hands. “You three ladies are a vision of loveliness.”

  Trudy patted her brown curls. “Poor Archie. He never got over you, did he, Bits?”

  Helen raised her long chin to Bitsy. “You did treat him abominably.”

  “I did. But I was a silly child then. I’m all grown up now.”

  Indeed she was. Every inch a cool elegant beauty. Deep-brown hair hung in sleek waves to her shoulders, the front pinned up in curls. Her golden dress clung to a figure as long-legged and lean as he remembered from his youth, but rounded out nicely.

  She was lethal.

  And he couldn’t let her know. “You said we have reservations for six o’clock?”

  “Oh my.” Helen swung back her pale blonde hair. “All business. What happened to the legendary Vandenberg charm?”

  “I grew up too. Shall we?” He gestured across the hotel lobby.

  Trudy chattered the whole way, while Helen lashed her with droll comments. Arch studied the ornate wood paneling as they walked. A mutual friend had once told him Bitsy chose her friends because she looked brilliant in comparison to Trudy and gorgeous in comparison to Helen. A cynical thought, but not unwarranted.

  In the restaurant, they were shown to a table. The waiter took their orders and brought out the famous Parker House rolls.

  Bitsy laid her hand on Arch’s forearm. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been concerned. You looked positively haggard in December, and you didn’t stay for Christmas.”

  “You went out west, didn’t you?” Trudy asked.

  One corner of Arch’s mouth flicked up. “I stayed with my friend Jim’s family in Ohio.”

  “Ohio.” Helen raised one plucked eyebrow. “How quaint.”

  Arch sipped his water. He had once been that big of a snob too.

  “Well, I think you look worlds better now.” Bitsy gave his arm a proprietary squeeze. “You’re still quiet, but we are at war.”

  “We are.” They had no idea, none at all. Men were dying in the Philippines and New Guinea and Burma, and hundreds of men were dying at sea, and here they sat at ease, while the piano played “Dancing in the Dark.”

  Trudy laced her fingers together and rested her chin on top. “Tell us, Archie. What’s it like in the Navy?”

  “First, I don’t go by Archie anymore. Just Arch.” He laid his hands in his lap to break Bitsy’s grip. “And the Navy is the right place for me to be.”

  “We are at war,” Helen said.

  Trudy nodded as if she’d had a deep thought. “Yes, we are.”

  How many times would they say that?

  “What is it about the Navy that draws you? I want to understand.” Bitsy’s brown eyes glowed.

  So now she wanted to understand. When they were eighteen, she didn’t want to hear one word about it.

  “The sea? Sailing?” she asked.

  “That’s part of it.” An idea tumbled in his mind, and he grabbed it, molded it into words for the first time. “The sea has always drawn me—magnificent, immense, mysterious, powerful. Now I know why. Those same traits also draw me to the Lord. Especially lately. When I’m at sea, I feel . . . weak. I’m learning the Lord, only the Lord, is my strength.”

  All three ladies wore flat smiles, and they shot nervous glances at each other. He’d breached the law of propriety in his crowd. Good.

  Energy surged through him. Time to drive the wedge deeper. “That’s not the only reason I love the Navy. It’s the spare simplicity of life. Jim and I share a cabin twelve feet by six. Bunks, a sink, a desk, and a locker this wide.” He measured off space between his hands. “Everything I own fits inside. Everything I want.”

  “All this serious talk.” Bitsy clucked her tongue and gave Arch an impish smile. “Come along, darling. Why don’t you ask me to dance while we wait for our dinner?”

  Once again, he had no choice. He stood, nodded apologies to Trudy and Helen, and offered his arm to Bitsy. “Shall we?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” She followed him to the dance floor and nestled in his arms as the piano played “Star Dreams.”

  Her perfume filled his nostrils, sophisticated and evocative. The supple feel of her waist under his arm and the brush of her hair against his chin brought a rush of memories. Dances and horseback rides and picnics. Bitsy stretched on the Caroline in the sunshine, her legs as long as a summer’s day. Heated, fumbling kisses whenever and wherever they could steal them.

  Bitsy sighed and stroked his shoulder with her thumb. “I do worry. I’ve never known you to be so serious.”

  “We are at war.” He couldn’t resist.

  She snuggled closer. “I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. I could never forgive myself.”

  “Forgive yourself? Unless you’re a German spy, you have nothing to fear.”

  She raised her face only a few short inches away, her brown eyes crowned with long lashes. “I mean, I could never forgive myself for how I ended it with you, for not understanding your patriotism and your love of the sea. I should have supported you, but I was silly.”

  His feet struggled to remember the dance steps. How he would have welcomed that speech a few years ago.

  Her bright red lips trembled, just a touch. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I forgave you a long time ago.”

  “Oh, thank you, darling. And I forgive you for not answering my letters. Although you must improve in that matter.” A coy lift of her eyebrows, and she nestled closer, making him well aware of her new curves.

  Heat rose in his belly. He wouldn’t have to work for her trust and affection. She didn’t recoil from his touch. A few charming words, and she’d be his again.

  Would that be so bad? She regretted her choice. She wouldn’t pressure him to leave the Navy after the war, would she? She’d learned her lesson, hadn’t she?

  The heat turned muggy and stifling. The ceiling pressed on him, the hatch slammed shut, dogged into position.

  Trapped.

  He knew Bitsy too well. She’d drag him back to their old life, and if he resisted, she’d make him miserable. This woman would never be satisfied with the spartan life he loved.

  Besides, he couldn’t lie to himself. How could he give his heart back to Elizabeth Chamberlain when it belonged to Lillian Avery? Even if Lillian didn’t want it, it was hers.

  “Darling?” Bitsy looked up with tiny creases across her brow. “Are you all right? Your hand is . . .”

  Shaking. His hand was shaking.

&nb
sp; He drew in a long breath. Then he stopped dancing and took both her hands in his. “Yes, I’ve forgiven you. And I appreciate everything you said. But we’re not right for each other.”

  Hurt flickered in her eyes, then a flash of anger, then it all smoothed into confident composure. “So you say. Things change.”

  No, they wouldn’t. But he gave her a polite tilt of his head. “Shall we finish our dance?”

  She laughed and twirled into his arms. “Oh, my darling. Our dance will never end.”

  He laughed for her sake, to help her save face, but he prayed she was wrong.

  20

  Boston

  Friday, April 3, 1942

  No prescriptions waited to be filled, Mr. Dixon wasn’t coming in until one o’clock, and Albert was cleaning the soda fountain.

  Perfect. Lillian pulled her notepad out of her purse in the stockroom, returned to the prescription file, and found where she’d stopped yesterday.

  Lillian flipped back until she found another order for a large quanitity of barbiturates, then recorded the date, the patient’s name, the doctor’s name, the medication, and the quantity.

  As suspected, nothing from Dr. Kane since her encounter with Harvey Jones almost a month earlier. Recent orders came from Dr. Mercer and Dr. Tennant. How far back did these prescriptions go? How long had this been happening?

  Marian Zimmerman approached the counter.

  Lillian tucked her notepad in the pocket of her white coat. “Good morning, Mrs. Zimmerman.”

  “Good morning, Miss Avery.” She set an empty tube on the counter and adjusted her hat over her gray hair. “I need a refill of my ointment. I even remembered to bring my old tube.”

  “Oh, thank you.” The War Production Board’s new requirement for customers to bring in old tin tubes in order to buy new ones had gone into effect the day before. “I’ve already had to send one patient home for his old tube, and Mrs. Connelly and Miss Felton are having a time of it. Toothpaste, shaving cream . . .”

  “Well, I don’t mind.” Mrs. Zimmerman raised a strong chin. “Tin is vital to the war effort, and my grandsons have all enlisted.”

  “Good for them.” Lillian examined the prescription label—a compounded ointment. “This will take me about half an hour.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll browse through your new cosmetics section. I love it. And the window is so bright and cheery, like a show window at Filene’s.”

  Lillian laughed. “My roommate works at Filene’s. She gave me tips.”

  “You did a splendid job.” Mrs. Zimmerman strolled down the aisle.

  If only Mr. Dixon could hear.

  In the file, Lillian located the original prescription. Mr. Dixon had recorded his calculations on the back. Too bad. Lillian loved doing math.

  She pulled down bulk containers of salicylic acid, benzoic acid, and white ointment.

  The door opened and shut, and Albert grinned at her. “Mrs. Z is raving about your display. I’ll pass it on to Mr. Dixon.”

  “Thank you. It’d sound better coming from you than from me.” She smiled as she set up the scales and lined the pans with parchment paper.

  Albert went to the stockroom. “Have any plans this weekend?”

  “My roommates and I want to see Bob Hope’s new movie.”

  “My Favorite Blonde? Sounds like a good one. Maybe I can talk my buddies into a movie. Have to drag them from their favorite watering hole, though.” He pulled out a large cardboard box. “So your brother and his friends aren’t in town, huh?”

  “Not that I know.” Lillian placed 1.8 grams of weights in one pan, then scooped salicylic-acid powder into the other pan until it balanced.

  “I’m restocking the bandages.” Albert headed out to the main store.

  “Thanks,” Lillian called after him. She funneled the salicylic acid into a mortar, replaced the paper, and weighed out 3.6 grams of benzoic acid.

  Her stomach felt as sour as if she’d swallowed that acid. If the Ettinger came to port, she wouldn’t see Arch anyway. He’d go to Connecticut to see his beloved Bitsy.

  Bitsy? What kind of name was that for a grown woman? Sounded like a flibbertigibbet prep school girl.

  But Arch had once loved her. Jim said she’d broken up with Arch because he’d joined the Navy and she wanted a rich husband. Well, Miss Bitsy must have changed her mind.

  Lillian added the benzoic acid to the mortar and ground the two powders together with the pestle. She had no right to be jealous. Hadn’t she discouraged his attention? Didn’t she use every opportunity to remind him she only wanted to be friends?

  Her throat tightened, and she concentrated on weighing 54.6 grams of white ointment. Then she added a small portion to the mortar and mixed it with the powders.

  Besotted. Mary said Arch was besotted with Lillian and was approaching cautiously.

  Not anymore he wasn’t. She’d been too prickly for too long, and he’d given up.

  Lillian transferred the mixed ointment to the marble ointment slab, scraped the remaining white ointment onto the slab beside it, and combined the two piles with her metal spatula, back and forth, back and forth.

  A month ago, she would have been elated that Arch’s affections had turned. But now she felt as empty and squeezed out as Mrs. Zimmerman’s tin tube.

  “Tomorrow.” Mr. Dixon jabbed the letter. “Tomorrow the government is taking my quinine.”

  “We can keep fifty ounces. And we don’t get malaria cases here. Our soldiers in the Pacific need it more than we do.” Grief flooded Lillian’s chest. The American and Filipino forces on the Bataan Peninsula weren’t expected to last the week.

  Mr. Dixon grumbled, the closest he’d come to acknowledging she was right. “Your shift is over, Miss Avery. Are you done with your work?”

  “I am.” Lillian went into the stockroom, hung up her white coat, and put on her taupe suit jacket over her peach blouse. Finally it was warm enough to leave her winter coat at home.

  She checked her purse to make sure she had her notepad. At home, she’d transfer the information to a larger notebook.

  Mr. Dixon passed the stockroom door, set a paper bag in Albert’s delivery box by the pharmacy door, then put the bulk phenobarbital bottle back on the shelf.

  Phenobarbital? Lillian held her breath. What if she could trace the delivery? As an employee of Dixon’s Drugs, she wouldn’t look suspicious making a delivery. Then she could see if Detective Malloy was right about the forgers using vacant apartments and setting checks under the doormat. Lord, should I?

  Mr. Dixon and Albert stood by the shelf, counting bottles of quinine, their backs to her.

  Lillian located the bag Mr. Dixon had placed in the box. On the upper right corner of the bag, he’d written “Monument Avenue. Paid in full.”

  It had to be a sign. Lillian snatched it up. “This delivery is on my way home. I’ll take care of it. It’s paid in full.”

  Out the door and down the aisle she strode.

  Albert called after her, “Miss Avery, you shouldn’t.”

  She just waved and smiled. “It’s no bother. See you Monday.”

  When she was out on Main Street, she walked at a brisk pace and examined the bag. For heaven’s sake—that was her building. Opal Harrison was the patient.

  Lillian groaned. She’d grabbed the wrong bag. Instead of tracking down a drug dealer, she’d tracked down a sweet little old lady. At least Lillian could deliver her medication.

  She peeked in the bag and stopped short. Phenobarbital, two hundred tablets, for Opal Harrison. How strange.

  Lillian turned up her street, the Bunker Hill Monument lit up in the orange glow of the setting sun. She climbed the steps of her building and rang the doorbell.

  Mrs. Harrison opened the door and beamed. “Well, hello, Lillian. You’re a few hours early for your piano lesson.”

  Lillian laughed. “Just a few. I brought your prescription to save Albert the trip.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. I’m almost
out, and I need it for my rheumatism.”

  “Phenobarbital?” Sedatives weren’t used to treat rheumatism.

  Mrs. Harrison stared, then blinked her clear blue eyes. “My joints get so painful, it’s hard to sleep.”

  Lillian frowned. “It’s a very high dose.”

  Those blue eyes snapped. “I’ve been taking it for years. Mr. Dixon doesn’t have a problem with it. Why do you?”

  She sucked in a breath. “I—I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  Mrs. Harrison’s shoulders slumped, and she covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day. My hip’s acting up.”

  “That’s all right.” Lillian took a step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Nonsense. We can’t leave it like this.” She held the door open wide. “A little music. That’s what I need. Play me ‘To a Wild Rose.’”

  “If I do, you’ll really be angry with me.”

  “Nonsense, sweet girl.” Mrs. Harrison led her into the apartment, which smelled like chicken soup. “Have a seat. Let me get the sheet music.”

  “I already have it memorized.” But not mastered. At the top of the sheet music, the instructions read, “With a simple tenderness,” something Lillian lacked.

  Mrs. Harrison eased into her armchair. “Take a deep breath and pour your heart into it.”

  If she varied the volume and held some of the notes, that might do the trick. She launched in, but the song sounded disjointed and stilted.

  When Lillian finished, Mrs. Harrison folded her hands over her belly. “You’re playing with your head, analyzing how to make it sound as if you played with your heart.”

  Lillian stood. “I’ll try again tomorrow. I had a long day at work.”

  “Of course, dear. Tomorrow you’ll do fine.”