“Dougie and I will take these two bottom ones.” Phoebe happily plopped her son onto the mattress of the left-side bunk and tossed her purse and travel bag on the one just across from it. “You can take that one above Douglas maybe? That way whoever has to room with us can sleep above me. You know. Just in case they don’t want to sleep above my little tot. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.” Annaliese placed Katrine’s purse and overnight bag on the cot above Douglas.
Phoebe ran to one of two side-by-side portholes on the other side of the little room. “Look! We’ll be able to watch the world go by!”
Her son climbed off his bed and toddled over to her. Phoebe gathered him up to show him the view outside the glass.
The cabin door opened then, and Annaliese and Phoebe both turned.
There at the threshold was the French woman from Tidworth who had gone first when the officials had insisted the women strip off their clothes.
“Well, hello there!” Phoebe said happily. “Are you our roommate, then?”
“I suppose I am,” the woman said in heavily accented English, looking from Phoebe to Annaliese and back again.
“Come on in!” With Douglas in her arms, Phoebe strode over to the French woman to welcome her. “I’m Phoebe Rogers, this is my little Douglas, and that’s Katrine Sawyer. She’s Belgian.”
The French woman turned to look at Annaliese. “Yes. So I heard you say earlier back at the camp.”
“Well, everyone thinks she’s German but she’s not. She’s from a little place in eastern Belgium where they speak German. Isn’t that right, Katrine?”
“Yes,” Annaliese answered.
“I thought our roommates were assigned alphabetically,” the French woman said, her eyes still on Annaliese.
“Yes, but I didn’t want Katrine having to stay with strangers and Dougie likes her, and I’m awful afraid of the water. I tend to babble when I’m nervous and Katrine here doesn’t seem to mind! And what’s your name?”
Simone turned back to Phoebe. “Simone Robinson. Pleasure to meet you.” Then she turned to Annaliese. “And you.”
Annaliese smiled and nodded but said nothing. Simone Robinson’s gaze was penetrating and a bit intimidating.
“You speak French as well?”
“Yes,” Annaliese answered in English. “Some.”
“Oh, now don’t you two go speaking in French!” Phoebe exclaimed with a pout. “Please don’t. It won’t be fair!”
“I prefer English on the ship,” Annaliese said.
Simone’s brow crinkled in consternation as Annaliese spoke. “Forgive me,” Simone said a second later. “It is very hard for me to hear the German accent in your voice and not think of the war. I . . . Much was taken from me.”
Annaliese heard buried anguish in the French woman’s voice. She opened her mouth to say that no apology was needed, that she wished she didn’t have to say anything to anyone for the duration of the voyage, but she wasn’t sure of all the right words. Tears stung her eyes and she shut her mouth.
Phoebe plopped Douglas down onto the floor and pulled Simone farther into the room. “Let’s not talk about the war anymore! Simone, you want to sleep above me? Katrine doesn’t mind bunking over Douglas, and then I can be near him if he cries during the night.”
“I do not mind,” Simone said as she placed a travel bag on the mattress above Phoebe’s.
“We’re going to have the best time ever!” Phoebe said happily as she took off her coat. “Five days of being treated like queens.”
Simone and Annaliese unbuttoned their outer things as well.
“You’re expecting, aren’t you?” Phoebe said knowingly as Simone draped her coat over her bunk.
“You can see?” Simone said, looking down at her middle.
“Not really! I just saw the little bump the other day when . . . when you . . . when we had to . . .”
“When we had to parade naked across a stage?” Simone unwound a scarf from her neck and laid it across her coat.
“Oh, my, yes! Wasn’t that the worst thing in the world?”
Simone laughed, but it was a weak chuckle. “I would say there are worse things in the world.”
Annaliese found herself nodding in agreement. Simone noticed but said nothing.
“That was very brave, what you did,” Phoebe said.
“What? Going first before the doctor?” Simone asked.
“Well, no, not that. Just how you did it. What you said. You reminded us that we were all survivors. We’d made it through hell. And we’d found love! Right, Katrine?”
Annaliese, lost in a pocket of grief, didn’t look up. Didn’t respond to the name.
“Katrine?”
And then Phoebe’s hand was on her arm in a gentle squeeze. “Are you all right?”
Annaliese realized with a start that she’d missed answering as Katrine. “I . . . yes, I’m fine.”
Phoebe looked at her with concern. “Well, shall we all go to the salon for our orientation?” she said a second later. “I hear there’s going to be wonderful refreshments!”
They left the cabin to head back down two decks to the Queen’s Salon. Even without its artwork and chandeliers, the expansive ballroom was still beautifully appointed. Long serving tables covered with starched white linens had been laid out with tea, coffee, and hot cocoa, as well as silver trays of éclairs and tarts, and slices of fresh fruit. Some of the women began to softly weep at the sight of citrus, bananas, and other luxuries they hadn’t seen in five years, and that their children had never tasted.
Annaliese wanted to enjoy the thrill of such decadent food, but every new moment on the ship seemed to remind her that she didn’t belong there. Katrine did. Katrine should be the one eating an orange slice and licking chocolate off her fingers and rooming with Phoebe and Simone on the stunning ship.
“You’re not hungry?” Phoebe asked as Annaliese followed her and Simone to a table, her hands empty except for a cup of tea.
She shook her head and said nothing, not wanting her German accent to be heard above the din of chattering women.
They took their seats and minutes later a Red Cross matron stepped up to the stage microphone to welcome the war brides and to advise them of what the next five days would be like.
Meals would take place in the main dining room, they were told, and seating was by cabin and was to stay by cabin. They were not to exchange seating arrangements or to queue up at the doors before their set meal time. Nursery care was available for mothers needing a little break, but only for one hour at a time, unless it was to attend the ship’s nightly cinema, and then only by reservation. Children’s story hour would take place every evening from five to six P.M. Dispensaries would be available for medical care for a set number of hours per day, as would the ship’s retail shops. Knitting and leather craft classes would take place in the afternoons, and cards and Ping-Pong and bingo would be available into the late hours every day. Every afternoon in the Grand Salon, classes on what life would be like in the United States would take place and every war bride was strongly encouraged to attend them.
After a welcome from the ship’s commandant, the women were told that the ship would be pulling up anchor and setting out to sea. If they wanted to bid farewell to England, they could don their coats and scarves and head up to the sun deck to watch the ship set sail.
Some minutes later, Annaliese stood next to Phoebe and Simone and hundreds of other women as the Queen Mary was tugged out of the harbor. Annaliese could feel the weight of solid ground falling away as the ocean liner slowly steamed forward.
Only a few onlookers had gathered to watch the Queen leave the harbor, but dozens of the war brides waved and threw them kisses as if they were family.
“Good-bye, England!” Phoebe said, as she pumped one of Douglas’s chubby arms up and
down. “Good-bye!”
Simone, like Annaliese, kept her gaze on the vista ahead of them, not behind.
Five more days, and all that lay behind her would be too far away to chase her back.
She didn’t know exactly how she was going to make her way in America. Perhaps she could find a way to amend Katrine’s documents so that she could be Katherine Dumont, using Katrine’s maiden name. She could pretend to be mute so that no one would hear her voice and identify her as German. She could make her way to California or Canada or Mexico. Surely there were still wide-open places in the world. . . .
Annaliese shook her head. Thinking of what awaited her on the other side of the Atlantic was too much to consider.
Right now, there were only five days.
Just five days.
Twenty-seven
SAN DIEGO
PRESENT DAY
Brette awoke to the sound of her phone vibrating at her bedside. Keith was calling.
She sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes.
“Hi, honey,” she said sleepily.
“I woke you, didn’t I? Sorry.”
“My alarm was going to go off in a few minutes anyway. Everything okay?”
“Just missed you and wanted to know how your trip to Long Beach was. I know we weren’t going to talk until tonight, but I just found out I am supposed to go to some corporate dinner.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Sounds like not fun. So how was your day with your high school friend?”
She considered how much to say. That she had agreed to do a little ghost hunting was going to be enough of a surprise to Keith, especially in light of their conversation on the beach. “I actually didn’t see him. What he wanted was a favor.”
“Really? What kind?”
Brette described Trevor Prescott’s dilemma in as relaxed a tone as she could, and that she had only agreed to visit the Queen Mary because she felt such pity for him and his daughter.
“It’s actually a pretty cool ship,” she said, still faking a light tone as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“So did you find his wife’s ghost?” Keith said evenly, after a moment’s pause.
“No. I didn’t think she was there to begin with, actually. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.”
“I guess it was nice of you then to drive all that way to put that notion to rest for his kid. Hope he appreciated it.”
“He did. He does. Although I don’t know if his daughter’s going to believe the word of someone she doesn’t know.”
“Not your problem, though.”
“No, but . . .” Her voice trailed away as she pondered what to say next.
“But what? It’s not.”
“No, I know. It’s just that . . . We can talk about it later. You’re probably on your way to somewhere important.” She padded out to the kitchen to switch on the Keurig.
“I’ve got a few minutes. What were you going to say?”
She hesitated before answering. “Well, while I was there, I came across something that interests me.”
“Oh?”
“There were other Drifters there, Keith.”
A moment of silence hung between them.
“Okay,” he finally said.
“I was approached by one. I think I might want to check into how she died.”
Another pause. “What for?”
“Well, this Drifter supposedly killed herself in 1946 by jumping overboard.” Brette dropped a K-cup into the coffeemaker and slipped a clean mug under the spout. “She was a German ballet dancer trying to escape an abusive marriage by pretending to be a Belgian war bride. She’d switched her passport with that of her best friend, who actually was a GI bride but who’d just died in a car accident. They looked like each other. This German woman tried to come to America on the Queen Mary using her friend’s identity, but the authorities caught on to her before the ship got to New York.” The coffee dripped noisily into her cup. “It’s always been believed she committed suicide when she found out she’d been discovered. But I don’t think she did.”
Silence hung on the other end. She’d said too much too soon. Idiot.
“Brette, what does all this have to do with you?”
“I can just tell you when you get home,” she said, faking a nonchalant tone and picking up her mug.
“Tell me what when I get home?”
“Just why I want to look into it, that’s all.”
“Look into it.” It was a question and not a question.
“I don’t think she jumped.”
“And how do you know that?”
Because she told me.
“Can’t we just talk about this when you get home?” she said instead. “It’s actually kind of interesting.”
A long moment passed.
“I don’t know what to say, Brette. This isn’t like you. You’ve never wanted to get involved before. When I left for Chicago, you were going to look into getting professional advice about this . . . ability you have.”
“I know. But this situation . . . this one’s different.”
“You also promised me you’d talk to your mom. Have you?”
“And I will. But I want to do this first. I feel like I’m supposed to. Like maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe it’s all related,” she said, thinking out loud, and realizing at just that moment that solving the mystery for the ghost on the ship was somehow linked to figuring out how to make peace with having the Sight. The new concept sent her thoughts spinning. She needed time to ponder. “Can we just wait to talk about this when you get home? It’s nothing you need to worry over. Honestly. It’s just a little research project.”
“But it doesn’t sound like just a little research project, hon. You just said you think it’s all related. You mean related to you and me and our starting a family? Is that what you mean?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe. I know that sounds crazy, but I think I’m making progress on what we talked about. I really do. Please, Keith. I need you to trust me on this.”
“I wish you’d wait to go any further with this until I get home. I’m worried about you.”
“But even if you were home, I’d have to be the one to figure it out. This is my dilemma. Do I have your trust, Keith? Please tell me I do.”
“You have everything that’s mine, Brette. You’ve always had it.”
Despite a dozen thoughts ricocheting across her brain, she sensed a new layer of calm within. Keith’s faith in her was still intact.
“I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I love you and I miss you,” she said, emotion thick in her throat.
“I love you, too. Promise me you won’t make any big decisions until I get back.”
“I promise.”
They hung up and Brette hurried to get ready for work, her thoughts in a tussle but her heart calm as an ocean with no wind.
• • •
THE MORNING’S HOSPITAL ADMISSIONS WERE PLENTIFUL AND kept Brette busy until well after noon. She finally broke away a bit before one o’clock to step outside and make the call to the assisted-care facility in St. Louis. Brette got through to the administrator’s office at the Somerset Village and asked if she’d be able to speak with Phoebe Rogers.
“And what is the nature of your call?” the administrator asked. “If you’re a salesperson of any kind, I’m afraid I won’t be passing along your information.”
“I just want to talk with her about her time on the Queen Mary when she was a war bride,” Brette said. “I’m doing some research. I promise I’m not selling a thing.”
“I’ll give her the message, but it’s up to Mrs. Rogers if she’d like to return your call.”
“May I ask what you think is the likelihood of that happenin
g?” Brette replied.
“Well, if you’ve called to talk about the Queen Mary, I’d say you can count on it. I’ll ring her room and see if she’s willing to call you back.”
Brette hung up and took a seat on a shaded bench. The day was balmy but a welcome breeze riffled the queen palms all around her. She had taken only a few bites of the lunch she’d packed that morning when her cell phone rang.
“Hello. This is Phoebe Rogers. Are you the young lady who called for me?” Phoebe’s voice had the timbre and tone of a long-ago English childhood, mellowed now to the faintest hint of a British accent.
“Mrs. Rogers. Thanks so much for calling me back.”
They exchanged pleasantries. Brette told her she’d found her story online and had recently been to the Queen Mary.
“She’s a beautiful old girl, isn’t she? The Queen?” Phoebe began to tell Brette all about the ship’s beauty and charm and the five days she’d been aboard it as a war bride.
“It is indeed a wonderful ship,” Brette broke in when Phoebe stopped to take a breath. “The thing is, and I hope you don’t mind my asking, I’m very interested in what happened to your roommate, Annaliese Kurtz.”
“Oh. Do we have to talk about that? It’s very sad, you know, what happened to her.”
“Yes, I know. But I have reason to believe that maybe . . . maybe she didn’t actually jump.”
“But I was there. I was on the deck.”
“You and your other roommate?”
“Yes, Simone and I were both there.”
“And you saw her go over? You actually saw her go over the railing?”
A second of silence passed.
“Why are you asking about this? It was such a long time ago.” Phoebe’s voice sounded thick with sadness. And something else. Regret, maybe?
“I know it was a long time ago. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t commit suicide. She may have wanted to kill herself when she first found out that she was going to be arrested, but I think maybe she changed her mind. I think she changed her mind when she was on the railing and started to climb back over, and then something happened.”
A Bridge Across the Ocean Page 20
