by Sarah Sundin
She started again. Arch had sat next to her with vulnerability in his brilliant eyes, compassion in his deep voice, and strength in every fiber. She’d loved him so much, and now he was gone from her life forever. And Warren Palonsky was dead. Funny, bright, talented—murdered. And her own boss, the man she’d worked with for six months, had cared so little for her that he’d ordered her death. And those thugs—they could have . . . they could have . . .
Her chest heaved, and something wet splashed on her thumb. Then another droplet landed on middle C. She was . . . crying?
She hadn’t cried since she lost her leg. Not one tear.
“Oh, you poor, sweet child. It’s all too much, isn’t it?” Mrs. Harrison sat beside her on the bench and gathered her in a hug.
Something broke inside, and great sobs convulsed her, creaking and rusty, and Mrs. Harrison rocked her back and forth in her lavender-scented embrace.
Two sets of sobs mingled together, for young life lost, for love destroyed, for trust betrayed, for friendship forsaken. And they rocked each other and comforted each other and mourned together and healed together.
After a few minutes, Lillian pulled back with a sniffle and fumbled for her handkerchief.
“That was lovely,” Mrs. Harrison said, drying her own eyes.
“My tears?” Lillian grimaced at the ugly mess she’d made of her hankie.
“The song. That was the most touching version of the piece I’ve ever heard.”
“It was?” She couldn’t even remember how it sounded.
Mrs. Harrison squeezed her hand with her wrinkled, arthritic, beautiful fingers. “Now you’ve experienced great love. Now you’ve suffered great loss. Now your heart is truly open.”
Lillian pressed her free hand to her chest. Why did an open heart have to hurt so much?
45
US Naval Hospital, Brooklyn
Saturday, June 20, 1942
Mother leaned over and kissed Arch’s cheek, then held his face between her hands, her eyes brimming with concern. “I’m so glad you survived. It could have been much worse.”
Sitting up in bed, Arch nodded so he wouldn’t have to speak. His bruising and swelling had receded, and the bandages had been reduced in volume. On the outside, he seemed barely altered.
Father shook his hand. “You look well, son. You’ll be up and around in no time.”
“Yes, sir.” He swallowed a bitter taste. At least his father hadn’t said, “I told you so.” All those years he’d run from Vandenberg Insurance, and now he was thrown back in.
“It’s good to see you, Archer.” Bitsy kissed his cheek too. A white pouf of netting on her hat veiled her dark eyes. If she’d intended to look like a bride, she’d succeeded. But the veil didn’t conceal her averted gaze. Was she afraid of what she’d see? Or would she put up with the gaping hole in his skull as long as she was surrounded by opulence? He knew the answer. She wouldn’t visit him in the hospital unless she was willing to wear his ring.
His parents and the woman who wanted to be his wife sat in chairs at the foot of his bed.
This was his fate, and he had to accept it. Sure, he could look for another job, but he had a hunch all other doors would be slammed in his face because he belonged in the family business. It was time to stop running.
“I have a proposition for you.” Father removed his fedora. “As I’ve told you, business is booming. I’d like to open a branch in Boston and put you in charge.”
“Yes, sir.” Was this fate so bad? He had a job for life, and he’d earn more money than he could ever spend. He’d have the beautiful wife and be able to buy her the ornate home and yacht she expected.
“You’d spend a month or two with me learning the ropes, but you already know a lot about the business, more than you think you do.”
“I’ll do my best to learn quickly.”
Father’s blue eyes lit up as his dream of his son following in his footsteps came true, a dream Arch had denied him for too long. “I’ll pay you handsomely. And you can stay in Boston. I know you have friends there.”
Arch winced. Not anymore.
Bitsy smiled and tipped her head coyly. “It’s a splendid opportunity.”
“Yes, it is.” She’d never love him for who he was inside, but he didn’t deserve it anyway. Lillian had loved him like that, but he’d driven her away with his suspicion and his tests.
And now he would become everything he hated. Now he could hire and fire at will. He would manipulate people and use them, he knew he would, just like he’d used Palonsky. Who could love a man like that?
More bitterness, harder to swallow this time.
Fifteen more minutes passed, filled with Father’s giddy plans for the family business and Mother’s giddy plans for his homecoming and Bitsy silent and smiling.
Finally they left.
Arch groaned, stood, and paced. The sooner he accepted his fate, the better. So why did he chafe? Why did he long to escape this hospital and catch a train to Boston to see Lillian?
This fate would be more bearable with her at his side.
A louder grumble, and he wheeled and strode in the other direction. She’d never speak to him, and he didn’t blame her. He hadn’t been fair to her. Why had he insisted she despise wealth as he did? Wasn’t it enough that she didn’t crave it? Jim was right. Arch had a neurotic obsession, and he’d punished the woman he loved for not sharing it.
And he did love her. He still loved her. And he missed her.
Arch stopped, and his head sagged back. How could he marry Bitsy when he loved Lillian?
“Why are you so glum?” John Simmons glared at him from a slit in the bandages that swathed his head and torso. “Did I hear right? Your father’s offering you a plum job?”
He sighed. “I don’t want it.”
“You have a job, and you’re complaining? Some nerve. What about the rest of us? Who’ll hire us? No one.”
Arch had heard the doctors and nurses. Simmons had suffered severe burns that would leave him covered with disfiguring scars.
The man was correct. Arch had no right to complain. He shook off his self-pity and stepped closer to the officer’s bed. “What did you do in the Navy?”
“Gunnery officer. No need for that in civilian life.”
“How about working for an ordnance manufacturer?”
Pale blue eyes stared from that slit. “They’ll never look past the scars.”
Arch rubbed his chin. If Lillian had a hard time finding a job with her disability, how much harder would it be for John Simmons?
Or for Bob Carmichael across the aisle, who sat in a wheelchair, both legs amputated above the knee?
“Carmichael? What did you do?”
“Executive officer,” he said in a dull voice, not meeting Arch’s eyes.
“And you?” Arch marched over to Harlan Dyle, whose minor injuries and weak nerves were getting him drummed out of the Navy.
Dyle didn’t look up from the paper he was writing on. “Supply officer.”
Arch stood in the aisle and turned in a slow circle. So many intelligent, educated men, whose talents would be wasted due to scars and missing limbs and persistent tremors.
They had no hope, nothing to cling to. Neither did Arch.
Wait, what was he thinking? He pressed the heel of his hand to his bandaged forehead. He knew better than that, but he’d never truly put it into practice.
As a youth, he’d put his hope in his wealth. As a man, he’d put his hope in his career. Both had failed him.
What would it be like to put his hope in God, not just for moments of decision or turmoil, but day to day? With the Lord, he’d been able to descend into the engine room during battle for the good of the ship. And he’d done his job.
But working for his father?
The night he and Lillian broke up, she’d said he was strong enough to handle it. He wasn’t. He was weak. But with God . . . ?
Why wouldn’t the Lord help him descend into Vandenbe
rg Insurance . . . for the good of others?
Arch took another turn, studying the men around him, his two-dimensional vision filling with possibilities.
“Simmons!” He pointed at the man. “You’re good with numbers, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Of course you are. And Carmichael? You’re good with people, a leader. And Dyle—all you need is a quiet space to work. Am I right?”
The patients stared at him, baffled.
Arch couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. He could do this. With God, he could handle anything.
46
Vermilion, Ohio
Sunday, June 28, 1942
The Avery family strolled home from church in the summer sunshine. Ed and Charlie led the way, then Dad and Mom, then Martin and Lucy carrying baby Barbara, and Lillian brought up the rear.
Lillian turned right onto Liberty Avenue by Glenn’s Sohio Station, gazing behind her on Liberty toward the Ritter Public Library, where she’d spent many hours exploring distant lands and times through stories.
Two weeks she’d been home. Two weeks she’d been pampered. Two weeks she’d rested and relaxed. She’d helped Dad in the boathouse and Mom in the office. They’d gone sailing on Lake Erie, watched the regatta on the Vermilion River, and enjoyed a fancy meal at Okagi’s. While people with Japanese ancestry living on the West Coast had been sent to relocation camps, those living in the rest of the nation remained free.
As much as Lillian loved her home, two weeks was enough. Pampering was like a drug, sedating and habit-forming and incapacitating, and she needed to wean herself off.
Her brothers’ laughter drifted back, mixed with her parents’ chatter and Lucy’s whining.
Lillian studied the storefronts in brick and in brightly painted clapboard, the solid bank building on her right and cozy Hart’s Drug Store to her left on the corner of Main.
Mr. Hart had always encouraged her, and he’d trained her well when she’d worked for him in high school. But his son, Jim, had just graduated from pharmacy school at the University of Michigan, and Lillian wouldn’t have a job in Vermilion.
Everyone insisted she’d have no trouble finding work anywhere she looked. All she’d have to do was show the article from the Boston Globe.
But where did she want to go? Lillian followed her family up Main Street toward Lake Erie.
Could she return to Boston? Could she face the scene of the crime? No matter where she went, God would be her sure refuge.
She did have ten job offers in Boston, including one from Morton’s, the lovely store on Winthrop Square. She still had an apartment, she had friends, and Jim and Dan would be in town, at least for a while.
And she wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Arch.
The familiar ache twisted inside her. Where would he go? Back to Connecticut to work for his father? Surely he wouldn’t have to do that. A man with his attributes could land any job he wanted.
The ache hollowed out. Since he and Jim were no longer friends, she’d never find out what happened to him.
Lucy stopped on the sidewalk and hefted her daughter higher on her shoulder. “Mom, would you please carry the baby? My arms are going to give out.”
“May I?” Lillian gathered the month-old infant in her arms.
“Watch her head. Keep the sun out of her eyes.”
“I know.” For the baby’s sake, she bit back the testiness in her voice. “Hello, Miss Barbara. It’s your Aunt Lillian again.”
That sweet little face squinted at her from under a lacy bonnet.
Lillian laughed. “I know. I look like Mommy, I sound like Mommy, but I’m not Mommy. You’ll just have to make do.” She nestled her niece on her shoulder and continued down the road.
Lucy stuck to her side. “You’re wearing that bracelet again. I think you’ve worn it every day since you came home.”
“I have.” The sunlight warmed the coral and sparkled on the emeralds.
“But Mom said Arch gave it to you.”
“The night we broke up.”
Lucy’s eyebrows sprang high. “Isn’t that a bit . . . macabre? Are you pining for him?”
“No, that’s not it.” Lillian patted the baby’s back. “The morning I left Boston, I looked at it one last time. I planned to hide it away forever. Seemed a shame. It’s so lovely. Why should it be abandoned because of a painful history? It has intrinsic beauty and worth, and it deserves to be worn and loved.”
She could still feel Arch’s fingers as he fastened the bracelet around her wrist, still see him longing for someone to see his intrinsic worth and love him for who he was, rich or poor.
She’d given him that love, but then she’d stolen it from him. If only she could tell him the truth. But what would it accomplish? Right now he thought she was a calculating gold digger. If she told him the truth, he’d realize she was the sort of woman who would betray a confidence and tell lies just to protect her heart.
“The bracelet deserves to be loved?” Lucy let out a long sigh. “You talk as if it has feelings, as if you feel sorry for it.”
Lillian nuzzled Barbara’s soft neck. “I do feel sorry for it.”
“Why do you have more compassion for that bracelet than you do for people?”
Her muscles stiffened. When Barbara squirmed in her grip, she forced herself to relax and speak calmly. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Well, you don’t know me at all. You never even tried.”
Lillian wrestled with a lifetime of frustration and annoyance and hurt, but the bracelet circled her wrist, its warmth seeping inside and melting her resistance. She stopped on the sidewalk until her sister faced her. “No, I don’t know you as well as I should. But I’d like to.”
Lucy gaped at her. “Pardon?”
“You and I have a history, and a lot of it is ugly. You were sickly, and I ignored you because I was strong. I was rude to you.”
“I’ll say.” She crossed her arms and glanced up the road toward the lake.
“And all my life you’ve called me coldhearted and cruel. That’s hard to hear and dangerous to believe.”
Lucy gasped, a retort practically visible on her tongue, but then she pressed her lips shut. “I was . . . I was hurt.”
“So was I. Now, we can spend the rest of our lives arguing about who wounded the other the most. Is that what you want?”
Tears welled in Lucy’s eyes, and she shook her head.
Lillian jiggled her wrist and made the sparkles dance. “Or you and I can decide that our sisterhood has intrinsic beauty—we’re twins, for heaven’s sake. We can decide to forgive each other for the past and love each other for who we are. I’m willing to do that. Are you?”
Lucy wiped tears from her red cheeks. “It’s all I ever wanted. A sister.”
A sigh ruffled the baby’s bonnet. “All right then. As of today, we’re starting over.”
“I—I’d hug you, but the baby.”
Lillian laughed, shaky and damp, and her sister joined her, the rhythm of their laughter melding, identical yet unique.
US Naval Hospital, Brooklyn
Tuesday, June 30, 1942
Arch forced himself to look in the handheld mirror at his flattened eyelid and the void filled with a flesh-colored composite. In a few weeks, a shell-shaped glass eye would rest over the rounded implant. The sight was rather disturbing.
“The war has raised some challenges.” Lieutenant Schneider sat on a stool facing Arch’s exam chair. “The art and science of making ocular prosthetics was developed in Germany, and the process has always been a closely guarded secret. Now we’ve lost our supplier.”
Arch murmured his understanding and laid the mirror in his bathrobe-covered lap.
The ocularist held out open palms. “The Navy is researching other materials, but in the meantime, we have to work with the supply in stock. We should have the right size, and we can polish it to fit. We’ll match your eye color as best we can.”
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“How much longer?”
“You’re healing well, Dr. Kendrick said. Another two weeks for the swelling to resolve, then we can start fitting you. You should be able to go home in three weeks.”
Late July. “The sooner the better.”
Lieutenant Schneider grinned. “Raring to go? I’m sure it’s difficult to sit still and do nothing.”
Arch returned the grin. “Actually, I’ve been quite busy.”
“Good.” He stood and offered his hand. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Thank you, sir.” Arch shook the man’s hand—after a miss. How long would it take to adjust to a lack of depth perception?
After Lieutenant Schneider left, a nurse came in and replaced Arch’s bandages, mostly so he wouldn’t shock people.
Arch thanked the nurse and headed for the recreation room. Yesterday he hadn’t minded creating shock.
Bitsy had visited again, and alone this time. He’d shocked her four times. First, he told her his plans for the Boston office of Vandenberg Insurance, which made her brow wrinkle. Second, he told her his plans for his salary, which made her gasp. Third, he informed her that Pauline Grayson had told malicious lies and he’d already written to his parents to refute them, which made Bitsy blanch.
Fourth, he removed his bandages, which made her recoil and beg him to have the decency to cover up.
He hadn’t done it to test her, but to show her the truth—he wasn’t the man for her.
In a huff, Bitsy declared something was seriously wrong with him, and then she’d left.
He’d become skilled at driving women away.
Arch peeked into the recreation room, where patients in matching pajamas and bathrobes played pool and chess, discussing how Ted Williams of the Red Sox had enlisted in the US Marines.
In the hallway in front of him, a pay phone beckoned.
While he’d never regret driving Bitsy away—and in time she’d be glad—he’d always regret driving Lillian away.
The urge to speak to her had grown inside like a painful tumor. The only way to feel better was to excise it. He would have preferred to talk to her in person, but three weeks was too long. A phone call would be better than nothing.
