Through Waters Deep (16 page)

“No, sir. No further sound contacts.”

Jim registered the information in the log book. Most likely, they'd heard a whale—a whale that should be thankful he hadn't lost a fin to the
Atwood
's depth charges. Or it could have been a U-boat, zipping in on reconnaissance, then zipping out to call in his buddies for the slaughter.

Without a doubt, someday soon Jim would be tested in
battle. He tugged off his gloves and blew on his hands. His fingers tingled with renewed warmth, and his mind tingled with the determination to be bold, strong, and decisive.

If only that sound contact had come nearer. Jim was ready to prove himself.

Boston
Thursday, October 9, 1941

Quintessa set a New England pot roast on the kitchen table between Mary and Yvette. “I feel so Bostonian. It smells heavenly, if I do say so myself.”

“It does.” Mary inhaled the savory scent. “When did you become such a good cook?”

Quintessa took her seat. “I was a single gal alone in Chicago. Cook or starve.”

“Well, thank you for sharing your skills. I'm glad you moved in with us.”

“You're just saying that because now you only have to cook twice a week.” Quintessa winked.

Mary laughed and winked back. “Now, if we could just find three more roommates . . .”

“Oh!” Yvette pressed one hand to her chest. “Only if they aren't detectives.”

With bright eyes, Quintessa turned to Mary. “Speaking of detectives, what's new in the case?”

“Must we?” Yvette shuddered. “This talk of sabotage ruins the appetite.”

“Ten minutes.” Quintessa darted out of her chair, grabbed the egg timer, and set it on the table. “No more than ten. Girl Scout promise.”

Mary waited for a nod from Yvette, then proceeded. “Everything's been quiet since Mr. Kaplan was arrested, although Mr. Fiske still complains about shoddy work.”

Yvette sliced her pot roast and took a bite, her fork remaining in her left hand in the European style. “I saw the FBI agents today.”

Mary concealed her smile. For someone who claimed sabotage talk destroyed her appetite, she always participated in the conversation and showed a great deal of interest in Mary's typed-up notes. “They still have an office in my building.”

Quintessa's eyes danced. “That means they must have other suspects.”

“All Agent Sheffield will tell me is they're building their case.” Mary divided a perfectly boiled potato. “But when I asked if he meant his case against Kaplan, he just smiled.”

“Ooh! He does have another suspect. Who do you think it is?”

Mary measured her words. “Everyone thinks it's an interventionist, Mr. Kaplan or one of his buddies, who made it look as if Mr. Bauer planted the bomb.”

“Or . . .” Quintessa gazed at the ceiling and tapped her fork on her sliced pot roast. “Or it could be an isolationist who framed Mr. Kaplan to make it look like he was framing Mr. Bauer.”

Yvette drew back her chin. “That is crazy, as you Americans say.”

But Mary laughed. “As different as you and I are, Quintessa, we do think alike.”

“You are both crazy.”

Mary leaned forward. “No, think about it. Everything about the bomb was so overt, as if to say, ‘Look! An evil Nazi was here.'”

Yvette leveled her brown-eyed gaze at Mary. “An evil Nazi
was
here.”

“Perhaps.” Mary shrugged and took a bite of tender beef.

“If not a Nazi, who? George O'Donnell?”

Mary stared at the Frenchwoman, who was concentrating on her plate. What a strange leap to make. “Why him?”

“I have been in the drafting room. My friend Henri shows me his work. It is fascinating. But Mr. O'Donnell is angry. I ask about his drawings, but he . . .” She snapped her fingers.

“Snaps at you?” Mary said.

“Yes. Snaps at me.”

Quintessa rested her chin in her hand. “If only we had another clue.”

“We don't.” Which wasn't good for Mr. Kaplan.

“They're trying to lull us into complacency.” Quintessa lifted her chin high. “But no, not us. We will not be lulled. We will be vigilant.”

“You're wasting your talents at Filene's.” Mary took another bite.

“Not at all. I love my job. For a whole year, I get to explore every department as a salesgirl so I understand how a store is run. After that, I can put my business degree to work in management. I do hope they like me.”

Mary gave her a fond smile. “How could they not?” Not only was Quintessa smart and charming, but she had a way of making everyone feel special. “Everyone likes you.”

“I hope Jim does.” Quintessa's smile turned dreamy. “Every time I look at his service portrait or reread one of your letters about him, I fall a little more in love.”

The bit of beef turned to stone in Mary's throat, and her
eyes watered. If only she could enjoy Quintessa's company without hearing Jim's name.

Quintessa frowned at Mary. “The other day, I had a horrible thought. You and Jim have been such good buddies recently. I hope you don't think I'm stealing your friend.”

Mary sipped her coffee to clear her throat. “No. No, of course not.”

“Because I won't. We can double-date. You said his best friend is single, right? And you know I'm not one of those jealous sorts who won't let her boyfriend talk to another girl.”

“I know.” Mary grabbed her plate and headed for the sink. Not only did she need to hide her face, but she couldn't eat another bite.

“You talk as if it is fait accompli,” Yvette said.

Quintessa's laugh bubbled up. “I do, don't I? I don't mean to sound arrogant. I don't, but Jim simply adored me in high school, and now I'm wise enough to appreciate him.”

Mary scraped her plate over the trash can, her vision blurry. In six months of friendship, Jim had never fawned over Mary as he had over Quintessa. He'd never shown any true interest in her. The moments she'd interpreted as romantic could easily be interpreted as friendly or chivalrous. She'd deluded herself.

And the kiss? The more she thought about it, the less romantic it seemed. If he'd wanted a kiss, he would have kissed her himself. Sure, he responded to her kiss, but he was a man. Any red-blooded male would respond to a kiss. For heaven's sake, Arch had kissed a complete stranger.

The egg timer dinged.

“Oh, Mary!” Quintessa called. “Look at the time. You need to leave for choir.”

She blinked away the haze in her eyes and glanced at her watch. “Oh dear, I do. I hate to leave a mess.”

“But it's Thursday,” Quintessa said. “My day to cook and
clean. Don't you worry about a thing. Go use your lovely voice and have fun.”

Mary worked up a smile, blew her friend a kiss, grabbed her coat, and left.

As she rode the El downtown, her thoughts descended underground with her. Mary drew her coat tight. Part of her wanted to tell Quintessa how she felt about Jim, to fight for the man she loved. Quintessa would back down, mortified that she'd interfered in Mary's romance, and she'd wish Jim and Mary every happiness.

But a scene played like a movie in Mary's mind. Jim returning from sea, mounting the stairs to her apartment with that grin, Mary throwing herself into his arms. Then, over Mary's shoulder, Jim would see Quintessa, the woman he'd always loved. Something would pass between Jim and Quintessa, the spark of mutual attraction. But Jim would feel compelled to date Mary and would pass up his chance with Quintessa, his dream.

Mary turned to the window and rubbed away more tears. Confessing her love to Quintessa might be honest, but in a selfish, mean-spirited way. What could be crueler than coming between two people who longed for each other?

Quintessa was already falling for Jim, and she hadn't even seen him yet—the brilliance of his smile and his mind, the depth of his voice and his heart. Once she did, she'd be lost in love.

Mary pressed her fist to her mouth. She owed her best friend so much. Quintessa could have chosen any girl in Vermilion to befriend, but she'd chosen Mary, the school outcast. Mary could still see her in the schoolyard in her pink drop-waist dress, her bobbed blonde curls shimmering in the sun, her fists planted on her hips, chastising the other girls for picking on her friend.

Quintessa saved Mary from a youth full of misery and isolation. If Mary loved her best friend, she'd want her to be
happy. Only a little while ago, Mary had wished she could do something, anything to make Quintessa happy again, and now she had her opportunity.

And Jim? A sob gurgled in her throat, but she shoved it down. If she truly loved Jim, she'd want him to be happy. She'd want to help him fulfill his dream. She'd make any sacrifice for his sake.

How could she do otherwise?

Sandwiched between Bertha and Edith, Mary let the music comfort her. When Jim returned, the Lord would see her through. She was doing the right thing, she knew it, and the Lord would reward her with peace.

The final song finished, and Mary took her seat.

Mrs. Gunderson tapped the music stand with her baton. “As you know, the Christmas pageant is only two months from now, and it's time to announce parts.”

In the row in front of Mary, Claudia Richards scooted forward in her chair and smoothed her red hair.

Bertha nudged Mary and smiled at her. The two sisters had dared Mary to try out with them for the parts of the three angels, and she'd accepted. What fun it would be to sing with these two sweet friends. And the angels sang from up in the gallery. Behind the congregation.

Mrs. Gunderson lifted a sheet of paper and adjusted her glasses. “The part of Joseph will be played by Ed Fanarolli, Mary by our very own Mary—Mary Stirling—Gabriel by—”

After Claudia gasped, Mary's ears shut out everything else. Quintessa's pot roast turned green in Mary's belly and threatened to reappear. No, no, no. She couldn't be cast as Mary. She couldn't. She hadn't even tried out for it. She didn't want it. She wouldn't take it. She refused.

General motion and conversation let her know Mrs. Gunderson had finished the cast list and choir was dismissed. Bertha and Edith were congratulating her, but the words jumbled together.

Claudia dashed to the choir director. “There must be a mistake. I tried out for the role of Mary, not for an angel, and I sang quite well that evening.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Gunderson raised a stiff smile. “You sang angelically.”

“But—but I've played Mary five years in a row.”

“And it's time someone else had a turn.”

Now was the moment. Mary scrambled over, almost knocking over two wooden chairs. “Please, let Claudia have the role. I don't want it.”

Claudia jutted out her chin. “See?”

“This is how it will be this year.” The choir director gathered her papers and tapped them into a neat stack on the music stand. “Mary, you've done so well on Sundays. You're ready for something more.”

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Like an angel.”

Mrs. Gunderson peered at Mary and Claudia in turn over her glasses. “My decision is final.”

Claudia's face turned cherry red, and she stormed out of the choir room.

“Come with me.” Mrs. Gunderson took Mary's arm and led her to the corner of the room. “I thought you'd recovered from your stage fright.”

Her eyes burned. “I—I have. But a starring role? As Mary? I can't. Please let Claudia—”

“No. I prayed about this all week. For several reasons, I feel this is what the Lord wants.” Mrs. Gunderson's eyes were so soft and encouraging. “First, you have a lovely voice, and a little push would be good for you.”

This wasn't a push but a shove. She hugged herself harder, willing the nausea away.

“Second, you're right for the role. Mary needs to be a young soprano, and I only have two. For the past five years, I haven't had a choice, but this year I do. The mother of our Lord was the essence of humility and gentleness, just like you.”

Mary shook her head, blinking hard. If only the choir director knew how she struggled with pride and selfishness.

“Third, and this is just between you and me.” Mrs. Gunderson glanced over Mary's shoulder and lowered her voice. “Claudia is a gifted singer, but she's proud and divisive. She doesn't represent our church well, and she definitely doesn't represent our Lord. You may notice she hasn't had a solo for some time. I've been featuring the men and the altos.”

Mary nodded. She'd heard Claudia complain about that several times.

Mrs. Gunderson stashed her music in the cabinet. “I've decided to remove Claudia from the limelight for her own sake and for the sake of the church. Pride is a nasty, destructive sin.”

How well Mary knew. She could still feel the swell of pride in her chest, the weight of the blue robe on her shoulders, the pressure in her bladder, the warmth gushing down, the clammy cloth stuck to her legs, the sharp cold of nakedness and humiliation, the darts of laughter. She could still hear the crash, see baby Jesus shattered before her, one glass eye staring at her accusingly.

“I can't,” she said. “I can't do it. You don't know what you're asking of me.”

Mrs. Gunderson squeezed Mary's arm. “When the mother of our Lord heard the angel Gabriel's announcement, I imagine she felt the same way. How could a simple peasant girl—and not yet married—raise the Christ as her own child?”

Mary swiped at the tears tickling her cheek. “I can imagine.”

“What did Mary say? ‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.'”