by Sarah Sundin
Claudia clasped her slender hands in front of her chest. “Ooh, you can sit with me. Please do.”
“I’d love to.” She’d only been there five minutes, and she’d already made a friend.
Mrs. Gunderson gestured to a bookshelf. “Claudia, please show Mary where to find her music. After practice we’ll find a robe that fits.”
“Oh.” Mary’s face tingled. She should have told the choir director earlier. “I—I won’t be able to sing on Sundays.”
“Do you have to work?”
“No. I . . . I . . .” She twisted her hands together.
Mrs. Gunderson looked up at her with kindly green eyes. “Stage fright, dear?”
Mary’s breath rushed out. “A severe case.”
“You realize the choir sings up in the gallery behind the congregation.”
“Yes, ma’am.” That fact gave her hope.
For a long moment, the choir director studied her. “So why are you here?”
Only the truth would do. “Because I love to sing, and the only way to conquer a fear is to face it, right? And Jesus tells us we shouldn’t hide a candle under a bushel. Someday I hope to sing on Sundays.”
“Good.” Mrs. Gunderson played a scale. “Put your candle on a candlestick so it can give light to all. ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’”
Inside Mary, that truth wrestled with other biblical principles of humility and not putting oneself above others. There had to be a balance, but she hadn’t found it.
Mrs. Gunderson plunked out a chord and raised a sudden bright smile. “Welcome, Mary. Come and shine with us.”
“Yes, do come.” Claudia motioned her to the bookshelf. “Sit with me, and I’ll tell you what’s what.”
Mary followed her. “Thank you.”
Claudia pulled a leather-bound folder from the shelf. “Are you new to Park Street?”
“I’ve been coming here for four years.”
“Four years?” She gave her a blank look. “I’ve never noticed you.”
“I like to be invisible.”
One red eyebrow twitched. “You really don’t like to sing for an audience? Why ever not?”
Only Jim had heard the story, and she certainly didn’t want to tell it to a new acquaintance. “Why do you like to sing for an audience?”
“Oh, I love it.” She batted her big blue eyes. “It’s the most exciting thing in the world. As I’m sure you know, I’m the main soloist.”
“Yes. You have a beautiful voice.”
Claudia headed for the front row in the soprano section and patted the seat next to her, a glint in her eye. “I suppose I don’t have to worry about competition from you.”
“Definitely not.” Mary sat. If only the ladies in the back row had invited her to join them instead.
“Good.” Another dimpled smile from Claudia. “I’m glad we can be friends.”
Mary smiled back, but cautiously. Friends? Only as long as she didn’t threaten Claudia’s position. Even though Mary had no intention of doing so, that was not a good foundation for a friendship.
“Everyone, please find your places.” Mrs. Gunderson tapped on a music stand with a baton, while an elderly gentleman sat at the piano. “First, we’ll sing ‘Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,’ which will be the opening hymn on Sunday. Please stand.”
One of Mary’s favorites. With Claudia’s help, she found the music in the folder.
The piano played the opening chords, Mrs. Gunderson waved her baton, and everyone sang. Mary joined in, her voice soft so as not to stand out.
After the first verse, the choir director motioned for them to halt. “The beauty of a choir is all the voices rising together, mingling as one, in perfect harmony. But that beauty can only be realized when each of us sings fully. So sing out, all of you, in joy to our Lord.”
Mrs. Gunderson gave Mary a quick pointed look, then waved her baton. That speech was meant for Mary alone, but the director had been kind enough not to single her out.
They began again with the first verse, and Mary let her voice build in volume. Why not? Her voice was only one of many. She wasn’t putting herself on display or parading like a peacock.
Mrs. Gunderson gave her an approving look and made a fluttering, boosting motion in front of her chest.
Since Mary knew the hymn, she closed her eyes and let Beethoven’s music and the message flood through her. Her voice melded with the others, singing for God’s glory, not personal acclaim.
Her eyes sprang open. That was the point, wasn’t it? The purpose behind your actions. Shining your candle to call attention to yourself was prideful, but when your purpose was to call attention to the Lord, then it was right and good.
With abandon, she let her voice rise, her eyes drifting shut from the sheer joy of it.
Mortals, join the mighty chorus
Which the morning stars began;
Father-love is reigning o’er us,
Brother-love binds man to man.
Ever singing, march we onward,
Victors in the midst of strife;
Joyful music leads us sunward
In the triumph song of life.
The hymn ended with a swell of music. Why had Mary let her fears trap her for so long? Why had she kept herself away from such delight?
“Excellent. Excellent.” Mrs. Gunderson went back to the piano. “Mr. Fanarolli, please come work with me on your solo. The rest of you, please study the anthem.”
Claudia leaned over and flipped through pages in Mary’s folder. “Well, you’re certainly making yourself at home.”
“I am. It’s exhilarating, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Well.” Claudia sneaked a glance to the piano, then gave Mary a sympathetic look. “Do remember, despite what Mrs. Gunderson says, we all know only a few voices in this choir are presentable. The rest of you . . .” She shrugged. “Keep it down to a soft background.”
Was this why the soprano section was so weak? Why turnover was so high? “Thank you for the advice.” Mary infused her voice with polite distance. “But I’ll take direction from Mrs. Gunderson. I’m sure you won’t mind.”
Claudia’s blue eyes snapped. “Of course not.”
For the rest of the practice time, Claudia spoke not one word to Mary, and afterward she flounced out without saying good-bye.
A wry smile tilted up Mary’s lips. So much for the new friendship.
Mrs. Gunderson beckoned Mary to the music stand. “Thank you for joining us this evening. You have a lovely voice, and you sang with courage.”
Mary laughed. “I don’t know about courage. But I sang with joy.”
“The same thing. ‘The joy of the Lord is your strength.’”
Perhaps it was—or should be.
Mrs. Gunderson patted Mary’s arm. “Please join us again next Thursday.”
“I will.” How sweet that she didn’t pressure Mary to come on Sunday.
In the hallway, two elderly ladies waited for Mary. “We didn’t meet, dear.” The tinier of the ladies—and they were both tiny—held out her crepe-paper hand. “I’m Bertha Wilkins, and this is my sister, Edith.”
“Hello.” Mary shook both their hands. “I’m Mary Stirling. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Not as pleased as we are to meet you.” Edith peered up with cloudy gray eyes. “Not often someone stands up to Claudia. Thinks she’s the queen bee, that one. Drives off all the sopranos, she does.”
“Never you mind her.” Bertha gave a sharp nod. “Come sit with us next week, if you’d like.”
Warmth rose in Mary’s chest, as energizing as the singing. “I’d like that very much.”
14
Boston
Saturday, June 14, 1941
Jim bounded up the stairs to Mary’s apartment and rang the doorbell.
Within seconds, the door swung open. “Oh, Jim! I’m so glad you’re safe.”
He just stared. Mar
y wore a dress of silver-blue, just like her eyes. Starry clips held up her night-dark hair. She was stunning. He cleared his throat. “You got my message.”
“Yes, Yvette told me.” She headed across the room. “Dining at the Normandie and dancing at the Totem Pole Ballroom. I’m so excited. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Mm-hmm.” He followed her inside. So much for being suave. Why didn’t he tell her she was stunning instead of staring at her like a fool?
“Pardon me. I need to switch purses. Are Arch and Gloria waiting in the cab?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll only be a moment.” She leaned over a little cabinet and rummaged inside.
Why hadn’t he noticed her figure before? Really noticed it? The curves of her legs, her hips, her waist, her—well, everything was just right.
“We’ll have lots to talk about tonight, won’t we?” Mary pulled items from one purse and stuffed them into another, her skirt swinging around her knees. “Goodness, when I heard they’d found a bomb on your ship, my heart stopped. I’m thankful no one was hurt.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She glanced at him. “Are you all right?”
“All right?”
“You’re quiet.”
Because she’d addled his thinking. He wrangled up a smile. “The shakedown cruise was a lot more eventful than expected.”
“You poor thing.” She glided over to him, her brow furrowed, her red lips pinched into a bow. “Are you sure you want to go out tonight?”
Not at that moment. At that moment, he wanted to close the distance between them and greet her properly. But assaulting her with a kiss wouldn’t be suave. Instead, he offered his elbow. “Nothing I’d like better than an evening on the town with a beautiful lady.”
“Thank you. Let me get my wrap.” She swished past him to the coatrack as if he hadn’t complimented her at all.
Jim followed and helped her with a little cape thing. Either Mary didn’t realize how much he’d meant that compliment—or she did realize and chose to ignore it.
On the cab ride and over dinner at the Normandie, Gloria prattled about the big bands and the new movies and even the latest on the Boston Red Sox—how Ted Williams was batting over .400 and how Lefty Groves was heading for his three-hundredth win. Impressive for a woman, but not what Jim wanted to discuss. Mary kept looking at him with concern in those starry eyes and questions perched almost visibly on those pretty lips.
After dinner, they walked next door to the Totem Pole Ballroom. A huge dance floor faced the stage, which was flanked by two colorful totem poles. Surrounding the dance floor were the ballroom’s famous couches, with velvet upholstery and high backs and sides. Emory Daugherty and his Tom-Tom Boys played a lively rendition of “Cherokee,” and Arch and Jim led the ladies to one of the couches.
Jim sat and crossed his ankle over his knee. If only the couch had a low back, he could drape his arm behind Mary’s shoulders. That would be subtle.
Arch leaned over and grinned at Mary. “Our amateur sleuth can’t wait to give us yet another interrogation.”
“It’s true.” Mary smoothed her silvery skirt. “Wait—another interrogation?”
Jim clasped his hands over his knee. What else could he do with them? “We came in late last night. We spent all day talking to the FBI, the Navy brass, and folks from the Navy Yard. I must have shown them where I found the bomb a dozen times.”
Mary gasped. “You found it?”
Gloria leapt to her feet. “Oh, Arch. I can’t stand to talk about this. Please, let’s dance. The thought of you being hurt . . .”
Arch led her to the dance floor but flashed Jim a “what else can I do?” look over his shoulder.
“Did you?” Mary scooted a few inches farther from Jim but swiveled to face him. “Did you find it? How?”
“One of my petty officers. The gun captain. He noticed drops of water below a panel box—there was no source of water inside. I investigated and told the captain. That’s when we found it.”
She covered her mouth, her eyes enormous. “Oh my. I’m glad you investigated.”
He smiled and nudged her with his elbow. “Thanks to you.”
“Me?” Her slender hand lowered from her mouth.
“If you hadn’t talked about your suspicions, all those rumors, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”
She raised a playful smile, and a defiant glint flashed in her eyes. “So my Nancy Drew ramblings aren’t so silly after all.”
“Of course not. Never were.”
“Thank you. It means so much that you believe in me.” Her expression softened, and she laid her hand on Jim’s arm. “Have they said anything about the suspects?”
Suspects? The only thing in his consciousness was her hand on his wool-encased arm. What would be most gentlemanly? To cover her hand with his own? To squeeze her hand? To raise it to his lips with a debonair smirk?
“Well?” she asked. “Have they?”
Jim blinked. “No. But they think it’s a Nazi because of the swastika.”
“The swas—” She clapped both hands over her mouth. “Swastika?”
Jim had lost his hand-holding or hand-smooching opportunity, but he leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The saboteur painted a red swastika in the panel box behind the bomb. And the words ‘Sieg Heil.’”
Mary leaned back in the divan and gazed out over the swaying couples toward the stage, where the band played “Moon Love.”
He knew that analytical look. “What are you thinking?”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t know. It’s too obvious, don’t you think?”
“That thought occurred to me. It’s like a scene out of a low-budget spy movie, with a dastardly Nazi villain twisting his tiny Hitler mustache.”
“Yes.” She snapped her gaze back to him. “If I wanted to sink a ship, I’d use a bomb, but why the swastika, the note? If the bomb exploded, the note would be obliterated. Why bother?”
“It’s as if he wanted the bomb to be found.”
“As if he wanted it to look like a Nazi planted it.”
“As if he wanted to frame the Germans.”
“Yes.” Mary’s eyes darted, sparking with ideas.
Jim drew nearer. The thrill of thinking together, of completing each other’s thoughts—that made his heart float higher than thousands of bubbles would have.
“So many suspects.” She tapped her fingers on her crossed arms. “Ira Kaplan—he can’t stand Heinrich Bauer and lets everyone know. He certainly has the technical expertise and the access to the ship. And he’s brilliant. He studied for two years at MIT, then dropped out to work at the Navy Yard, his bit to support the Allied war effort.”
“He’s that hothead I saw on board the Atwood, right? He even said, ‘Sieg Heil’ when he mocked the German man.”
One corner of Mary’s mouth puckered. “Yes, he’s hotheaded, but I don’t think he’s dangerous. Then there’s Mr. Winslow. He has even more of a desire to see us in the war than Mr. Kaplan does. He’s smart enough, and he knows naval architecture, but I’ve never seen him on board ship. And he doesn’t seem strong enough. Oh, and there are so many more.”
Jim loved watching her face as she thought things through, the flashes of insight in her eyes, the doubt twisting her lips, the glow of delight in the puzzling-out process.
Mary said something about notes and the FBI and vindication.
“Mm.” He tried to concentrate on her words but failed.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Once again, she laid her hand on his arm.
Another chance, but he froze. “All right?”
“You look dazed. You’re not your usual sunny self.”
He shrugged. “Tired, I guess.”
“You poor thing. And we dragged you out. Let’s call a cab and get you back to quarters.”
“No!”
Mary pulled back her hand, her eyes round.
“I mean . . .” Jim scratched
together what little dignity he’d retained. He stood and offered a smile and his arm. “Just need a chance to wake up. How about a dance?”
“Sure.” She gave him a quizzical look, but she rose.
Jim led her down the steps, over carpet emblazoned with piano keyboards and musical notes and the words “Totem Pole.” Suave had eluded him, but he could at least grasp for an impression of sanity.
Out on the polished dance floor, he swung Mary into his arms. The band played “Two Sleepy People,” a bit too appropriate, but slow enough to require a foxtrot rather than a full jitterbug. He savored the firm, warm curve of Mary’s waist.
“Have they found any more bombs?” she asked. “I assume they’ve looked.”
“We tore the ship apart—as much as we could at sea—and didn’t find anything. They’ll tear her apart even more at the Yard.”
“You’re not staying on board, are you?”
“No, they put us up in the officers’ quarters on shore.” Jim gave her a mischievous grin, determined to be the sunny man Mary seemed to miss. “Once again, Miss Stirling is asking all the questions and not talking about herself.”
“I told you I went to the FBI. Although you listened about as well as Agent Sheffield.”
He laughed. “I’ll pay better attention now, I promise. What else have you been up to the last two weeks? Did you follow the ways of Nancy Drew and get locked up in any towers or cellars or freezers?”
“No.” A smile twitched. “But I joined the choir at Park Street.”
“You did?” He twirled her in a big circle and made her laugh. “Good job. I knew you could do it.”
“Well, I’m only partway there. I’m singing at practices but not on Sundays yet. Someday I will. I’m determined to overcome my fear.”
“Nehemiah was afraid too.”
“Nehemiah?”
Not the typical dance-floor or wardroom conversation topic. “When the king asked him why he was sad, he was afraid. He wasn’t allowed to be sad in the king’s presence. In fact, he was ‘very sore afraid.’”
Mary’s lips bent into an appealing little smile. “Not just sore afraid, but very sore afraid? I know how he feels.”
“But what did he do? He prayed, and then he spoke boldly.”
