Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  They stopped and stared at Lillian. “Ma’am, are you—”

  “Get them!” She motioned with her head toward the store. “They murdered that sailor this morning. Don’t let them get away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” They ran up the street.

  “Miss?” The middle-aged lady inched closer. “What did they . . . what did they do to your leg?”

  “They took off my pros—pros—my prosthesis.” Her breath quickened, racing out of control. “Please. Please untie me.”

  “Let’s get you safe inside, honey.” She looped her arm around Lillian’s waist and helped her to the steps of the house.

  “I can’t—I can’t hop up stairs. I need—I need to sit.” Lillian turned and sat hard, bumping her tailbone. “Please. Please un . . . un . . .”

  “Yes, honey.” Her voice cooed, and she worked on the knot in the twine. “Everything’s going to be all right now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Her hands free, Lillian hugged her knee and hunched over, her breath chuffing. She was going to live. She was actually going to live. “Thank you. Thank you, Lord.”

  43

  US Naval Hospital, Brooklyn, New York

  Thursday, June 11, 1942

  Pain awakened him. Deep, aching pain throbbed in his head.

  Soft voices broke through, male and female, and the tinkling sound of silverware on tin plates.

  Arch opened his eyes. A blur of muted whites, and he blinked to bring them into focus. White walls, pale white light through tall windows, and rows of white beds. A hospital.

  How did he . . . ? Yes, on the Ettinger. The engine room. The shell from the U-boat. The shrapnel hitting him in the face.

  His vision seemed flat—only from his right eye. He extracted his hand from under the blankets. A thick mass of bandages bound the top and the left side of his head.

  They were wound too tight. The pain. His skull would crack like an overboiled egg.

  He moaned and worked his fingers under the bandages to loosen them.

  “Mr. Vandenberg?” A pretty brunette in a white nurse’s uniform leaned over the bed. “Good morning, sir. I’m Nurse Green.”

  “Too tight. Hurts.”

  The nurse pulled his hand away from the bandages. “Would you like more morphine?”

  After all he’d seen the past few months, his instinctual reaction was to refuse the drug, but the pain sickened him. “Yes, please. And loosen the bandages.”

  She probed the rim of the dressing with cool fingers. “They’re fine. Remember, you took quite a blow to the head. You’ve had a bad concussion, fractures, and surgery. I’m afraid you’ll be in pain for a while.”

  “Surgery?”

  Her smile faltered. “Dr. Kendrick did a marvelous job. I—I’ll go get him. He’s been waiting for you to wake up.”

  “How long?” The words vibrated more pain through his cheekbone.

  “Let’s see.” She picked up a clipboard. “You were injured on Tuesday night, had surgery yesterday morning. Today’s Thursday.”

  “Well, look who’s awake.” A silver-haired man stood at the foot of Arch’s bed, wearing a white coat and a stethoscope over the Navy officer’s blue trousers and white shirt. “How’s the pain?”

  Arch moaned.

  “I was about to get him some morphine.” Nurse Green headed down the aisle.

  Dr. Kendrick rounded the bed and inspected Arch’s bandages, his black tie flopping in front of Arch’s face. “Yes, yes. No signs of bleeding or infection. Healing nicely.”

  Surgery? Arch’s mind swam. How bad were his injuries? How deformed was he? While he’d never been vain about his looks, he did enjoy being considered handsome. Of course, deformity would drive away some of the gold diggers. “What happened, sir? How bad?”

  “Yes. Well. This is never easy.” The physician wrote on his clipboard. “You had extensive fractures around the eye socket. We were able to repair the bones, pin them in place, good as new. But we did have to remove the eye.”

  Arch clapped his hand over his left eye. “My eye? Removed?” It was . . . gone?

  “Not as bad as it sounds.” He continued to write in the chart. “In a few weeks when the swelling goes down, we’ll fit you with an orbital prosthesis, a glass eye. They’re quite realistic. No one will be able to tell by looking at you.”

  A glass eye. Two-dimensional vision for the rest of his life. Yet only one thought took hold, swirling into nauseating certainty. “The Navy.”

  Arch closed his eyes—no, his only remaining eye. He already knew the answer. His weak nerves hadn’t cost him his commission, but this would. The Navy had no use for one-eyed officers.

  His moan settled deep into his soul.

  “Here you go, sir.” A cool hand rotated his arm and something cold rubbed inside his elbow, followed by a prick of pain, a rush of warmth.

  He didn’t care. He’d lost the only thing he had left in this life.

  “This is always hardest on the Academy boys,” the doctor said. “But don’t worry. A bright young man with a war record like yours will have no trouble getting a job.”

  Arch groaned. He would get a job. That was the trouble.

  “Pardon me?” Arch touched the sleeve of Nurse Holloway, the afternoon nurse. “Do you have any word?”

  She smiled, plain-faced but kindhearted. “When I hear, I’ll tell you.”

  “Thank you.” All day, between bouts of nausea, drug-induced grogginess, and unrelenting pain, he’d been trying to find out if Lillian had been warned. If she was all right.

  Even the loss of his eye and his career seemed unimportant once he remembered the drug ring. He was already responsible for Palonsky’s death. How could he bear it if anything happened to Lillian?

  “Dr. Kendrick?” Nurse Holloway called. “Mr. Vandenberg is asking again.”

  “Is he oriented enough?”

  The nurse’s pale cheeks turned pink. “He wants to know, sir.”

  “Do you have any news?” Arch pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing from the redistribution of pain in his skull. “I need to talk to the police, get word to Lillian—”

  “The police wish to speak to you, but I told them you’re in no condition—”

  “Please, sir. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  The doctor held up one hand. “Your captain said to tell you that he gave the police your report. He’s waiting outside with another officer. I wanted to send them away, but they insisted I ask—”

  “Send them in.” The volume of his own voice provoked a wave of pain, but he bit back his groan. The other officer—it had to be Jim. “Please, sir. I need to see them. My ship. The case. I need to know. I—I’ll heal better if I know.”

  Dr. Kendrick chuckled. “I see his mental faculties are intact. I’ll send them in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Nurse Holloway eased Arch up to sitting and placed more pillows behind his back. “How is that, sir?”

  “Better. Thanks.” Being slightly vertical felt more dignified.

  It had to be Jim. It had to. Whatever grief Jim gave him would be a small price to pay for news about Lillian.

  Two officers came down the aisle of the ward in dress whites, one short with a purposeful stride, one tall with an easygoing gait. Captain Buckner and Jim.

  As soon as they reached the foot of his bed, Arch pushed himself higher. “Lil—”

  “As you can see, the Ettinger made it through.” Captain Buckner grinned.

  It was only polite, only right to inquire about his ship and crew. “What happened? I passed out, I’m afraid.”

  “We sank one of the U-boats and drove the other away. She used up so many shells, she’ll have to go back to Germany.” The captain clapped Jim on the shoulder. “Thanks to some excellent gunnery from Mr. Avery. I’m grateful for your suggestion to send him to the director.”

  “He’s the right man.” Arch gave his old friend a nod.

  Jim returned the gesture, his ga
ze unnaturally inscrutable. “I’m sorry to tell you we lost three men. Mr. Gannett and two signalmen. And about twenty men were wounded.”

  Captain Buckner clasped his hands behind him. “The ship will be at the Brooklyn Navy Yard for repairs for a while, but she’ll be back in the fight before you know it.”

  Arch had waited long enough. “And Lillian?”

  Jim’s lips thinned to a straight line. “She’s alive.”

  “Alive!” Arch jerked up to sitting, and pain stabbed. “Alive? Why? Is she hurt?”

  “Praise God, no.”

  The two officers took the chairs offered by Nurse Holloway, thanked her, and sat.

  Arch listened in stunned disbelief as Jim related Lillian’s story. How she’d discovered the elusive Scar was Mr. Dixon’s nephew, and that Mr. Dixon—Mr. Dixon!—ran the whole operation. How the pharmacist had sent two thugs to stage a robbery and kill her. How Lillian had foiled them with quick thinking and a great deal of courage. And how Mr. Dixon, Scar, and the two thugs were in jail and several other men were under investigation.

  Arch sank back to the pillows and thanked God for keeping Lillian safe, for helping her think straight, and for putting an end to the whole mess. “Are you sure she’s all right?”

  “I saw her myself,” Jim said. “We pulled in to New York early yesterday. I called, found out what happened, and caught the next train to Boston. I came back a few hours ago. She’s a bit shaken, but she’s resilient. She’ll be fine.”

  She was more than resilient. Lillian Avery was the best woman he’d ever known, and he’d pushed her away. And he’d endangered her. “I’m sorry I got her into this.”

  Jim sighed and stretched out his legs. “You? I’m the one who got her that job—with a criminal for a boss.”

  “Maybe, but I’m the one who started the investigation.”

  Captain Buckner cleared his throat. “Because you did, the ring is broken and four criminals are behind bars. The work you and Palonsky did was vital. With your testimony, Miss Avery’s, and Earl Kramer’s, convictions are guaranteed. Palonsky’s death was not in vain.”

  Nausea oozed around, and Arch pressed his hand to his belly. Palonsky’s death might not be in vain, but it wouldn’t have happened at all if Arch hadn’t waved dollar bills in the man’s face.

  “We should let you rest.” Captain Buckner stood. “I’m sorry about your injury. You served well on the Ettinger, and I’ve put you in for a commendation.”

  Arch shook his hand, but what good was a commendation without a commission? Nothing but a medal to stuff in his dresser drawer.

  “I hope our paths cross again.” The captain turned to leave.

  “Jim,” Arch said. “I’d like to speak with you in private.”

  Jim looked to his CO, who gave a nod of approval, and Jim returned to his seat.

  Arch waited for the captain to depart. “I need to apologize for what happened with Lillian. For breaking her heart.”

  Jim shrugged. “It wasn’t going to work anyway. You’re too different. Better it ended early before you got too attached to each other.”

  Too late for that. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I also need to apologize.” Jim gestured to Arch’s face. “Your eye. That’s right where I hit you.”

  “You only gave me a bruise.”

  “Maybe I weakened the bone.”

  “You overestimate the power of your own fist.”

  Jim cracked a smile, the first Arch had seen from him since that fist had been thrown. Then Jim sobered. “Anyway, I’m real sorry about the Navy. You’re a good officer, and I know how much it meant to you.”

  Misery intensified the nausea, and Arch glanced away, along the line of beds filled with the wounded.

  “I should go.” Jim’s chair creaked. “I guess we won’t see each other again.”

  Arch sucked in a breath, but then it seeped out. Nothing connected them anymore—not the Navy, not Lillian, not even the long years of their friendship. It was all gone.

  Jim stood tall and snapped a salute, his eyes dark with emotion. “It was an honor serving with you, Mr. Vandenberg.”

  Arch’s salute touched his bandages and his heart. “And it was an honor serving with you, Mr. Avery.”

  With military precision, Jim turned on his heel and strode out of the ward.

  In less than a week, Arch had sent a good man to his death and he’d lost his eye, his commission, his best friend, and the woman he loved.

  All that remained was his wealth. And he knew what that would do to him. He didn’t deserve any better.

  44

  Boston

  Thursday, June 11, 1942

  Lillian poked at the cool mound of chicken salad resting on a bed of tomato slices. The perfect meal for a balmy evening.

  She had to eat. Too many days with too little food were taking a toll.

  Her brother Dan wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That had better be your last day with the police.”

  Mary and Quintessa murmured their agreement.

  “It’s all right.” Lillian cut a tomato slice in half. “Detective Malloy is very kind. He lets me stop when—when I need to.”

  The police had caught Hank and Shorty in the store—sack, clipboard, gun, and all—evidence that landed them in jail beside Mr. Dixon and his nephew. They were also questioning Albert and a man named Stanley Jackson, the forger. From Mr. Jackson’s picture, Lillian identified him as the man who used the alias of Harvey Jones. Apparently he’d wanted to get out of the ring so badly that he’d run away to enlist. Now he was cooperating with the police.

  Lillian had spent the last two days at the police station and in Dixon’s Drugs, helping the officers decipher the mess. It was hard to see the store again and remember what had happened. It was even harder to talk about Arch and remember the joy of his friendship, of working together, of the protective way he’d held her.

  He’d lost his eye! That meant he could no longer serve in the Navy. He had to be devastated. On top of that, he was dealing with Warren Palonsky’s death and all the nasty things Lillian had said to him.

  “You had some phone calls today.”

  She blinked and forced her eyes to focus on Quintessa.

  The blonde slid a piece of paper to her. “Good thing I had the day off from Filene’s to serve as your personal secretary.”

  Lillian stared at the list of drugstores and phone numbers. “Five stores?”

  “They all want to hire Boston’s plucky girl druggist.”

  That’s what the newspapers had dubbed her.

  She pushed away the list and her plate. “I don’t want to be in Boston anymore. I want to go home.”

  “I don’t blame you. Go home, sweetie.” Quintessa patted her arm. “What you need is rest and relaxation and pampering from your mama.”

  Dan snorted. “I disagree. Interview for those jobs. Take the best offer and start immediately. Work will take your mind off all this. Leaving town would make things worse, cement your fears.”

  Lillian rubbed her hollow stomach. “I should visit Lucy. And I can’t stand Boston right now. I just can’t.”

  “How about a compromise?” Mary slid Lillian’s plate back in front of her. “Go home for a week, be pampered, hold that baby niece of yours, and clear your mind. Then you can decide—Ohio, Boston, California, Texas—wherever you want.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Mary set her napkin on the table.

  Lillian scooped chicken salad into her mouth. It did taste good. If only it would stay down.

  “Lillian?” Mary said. “It’s Mrs. Harrison.”

  Mrs. Harrison? Her neighbor hadn’t spoken to her in almost two months. Lillian went to the door.

  Mrs. Harrison stood on the landing, twisting her hands, her eyes watery. “I—I saw the newspaper today.”

  “Please, come in.” At last she had a chance to apologize.

  “No, no. You have company. Would you . . . would yo
u be willing to come to my apartment?”

  “Of course.” Lillian said good-bye to her brother and roommates and followed her neighbor upstairs. “I’m glad you came. I need to apologize—”

  “No. You were right about Giffy. I just couldn’t hear it.”

  “But it was wrong of me, so coldhearted. You were grieving. I was awful.”

  “Well, I was wrong too.” Mrs. Harrison opened her door. “I shouldn’t have treated you as I did.”

  Lillian inhaled the sweet familiar scents of furniture polish and chicken broth and lavender. Then she looked into Mrs. Harrison’s blue eyes. “I truly am sorry about your grandson. I know how much you loved him.”

  Her lips pressed together, her cheeks reddened, and she blinked over and over. “It was a double loss. I lost the sweet little boy I adored. And I lost the upright young man I believed him to be. He . . . he was using me. Deep inside I knew it, but I told myself I was helping him.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Lillian pulled her handkerchief from her pocket.

  Mrs. Harrison shook her head and dabbed her eyes with her own hankie. “When I saw today’s paper—oh! That gang of hoodlums Giffy got himself involved with—they tried to kill you. And they killed that poor sailor. And what about that handsome officer of yours? I saw his name in the paper too. He could have been hurt. How is he?”

  The piano bench—she and Arch had sat there not so long ago, shoulders pressed together. “I—I don’t know. Oh, it was horrible. I fell in love with him, and he with me. I opened my heart, but then I slammed it shut and drove him away. Now he’s been injured, and he’s out of the Navy, and I’ll never see him again.”

  “‘To a Wild Rose.’”

  “What?”

  “You need to play it.” She motioned to the bench. “And I need to hear it.”

  Why bother arguing? It would only delay the inevitable. Lillian plopped onto the bench, so alone. Although she hadn’t played the piece for weeks, or even thought of it, she played it by rote. Once through, mechanical, note by note, just as written.

  The last chord sounded, and it resonated, tingling through Lillian’s soul. So poignant. So wistful, full of longing and loss.