Through Waters Deep (18 page)

Saturday, November 1, 1941

“Ever since we said good-bye, I couldn't wait to say hello.” Jim rehearsed his line as he strolled past the Bunker Hill Monument toward Mary's apartment, his head ducked against the rain.

In the gleam of the street lamps, raindrops shimmered in the puddles. Surely Mary was at home on a rainy Saturday evening. Perhaps he should have called first, but he wanted to surprise her. Since she wouldn't have gone to work today, she wouldn't know the
Atwood
had come into port this afternoon.

After the ordeal of their first convoy escort, Durant had given all the men liberty tonight except a skeleton crew. Jim couldn't shake the images of Ozzie Douglas's mangled hand and of those three bodies in the water when they'd returned to the sunken freighter. At least they'd been able to save the other three sailors—Norwegians who didn't speak a lick of English.

Tonight he could talk with Mary. The other officers praised Jim's actions that day and said he'd done the right thing.
Even Mitch Hadley and Dick Reinhardt were impressed. But the accolades sat wrong, like an ill-fitting uniform. Mary would listen. She'd understand.

He headed down Monument Avenue. If it weren't for the rain, he wouldn't even need his overcoat. After the North Atlantic, forty-five degrees felt balmy. Besides, he felt warm inside. In just a minute, he'd hold Mary in his arms and give her the hello he'd imagined all month.

He broke into a jog. At her building, he glanced up to the window. A dark figure, silhouetted by golden light, parted the curtains. Jim waved and grinned. She waved, and the curtains dropped.

Jim took the stairs two at a time and raised his hand to knock. Excited feminine chatter on the other side of the door made him pause. Didn't sound like Mary or Yvette, but it did sound like his return was welcome.

“Ever since we said good-bye,” he murmured, “I couldn't wait to say—”

The door flung open. “Hello, Jim.”

A beautiful blonde stood in his path, everything about her as dazzling as in his memories. “Quintessa?”

“Look at you, poor thing. Out in the rain without an umbrella.” She sprang forward, pulled him into the entryway, and took off his cover. “But don't you look wonderful?”

Jim smoothed his hair as if the gesture would smooth his thoughts. “When—when did you get into town?”

“Over a month ago. The day you left, would you believe it?” Her eyes danced, all green and gold. “But I've had a swell time. I'm working at Filene's, and it's the best job I've ever had. I haven't been this happy in ages.”

“Filene's? You have a job? Here?” He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. This was the longest Quintessa had ever aimed conversation his direction. She'd never been rude, just focused appropriately on Hugh.

“I moved to Boston. Isn't it exciting? I'll tell you all about it over dinner. When I heard how much fun you and Mary were having, I just had to come.”

Mary—the reason he was here. He tore his gaze from Quintessa.

There was Mary, standing by the telephone in a brown suit, the receiver cradled to her cheek. “Yes, that's right. Two for seven. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Mary.” Her name flowed out, full of hope and longing.

“It's good to see you. I'm glad you came home safely.” She hung up the telephone. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to serve Yvette her soup. She's been sick in bed, poor dear. You two go have fun. Everything's set.”

You two? “What?”

“You have so much catching up to do.” Mary headed for the kitchen door. “Besides, Quintessa came all the way to Boston just to see you.”

“Oh, Mary.” Quintessa clucked her tongue. “I came to see you too.”

“Of course you did.” Mary raised a teasing smile and went into the kitchen.

Quintessa sighed and laid her hand on Jim's arm. “I admit, it's partly true.”

“What?” Jim blinked hard and faced Quintessa, everything heaving him around like the seas off Greenland.

Quintessa gazed up at him through long lashes. “I have to admit, I was a bit jealous of Mary having so much fun with our handsome naval officer, and I had to come.”

He couldn't swallow, couldn't see straight. He'd always adored Quintessa, and now she looked at him . . . adoringly. But Mary—he loved Mary. And what was she doing?

“Bye. Have fun.” Mary leaned out the kitchen door and gave them a smile and a wave as if sending her little brother out on a date.

What on earth? Didn't she remember their kiss? He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “You're coming with us, aren't you?”

“Me?” She turned away and tied an apron around her waist. “Don't be silly. I wouldn't dream of interrupting your special date.”

Jim's hands balled up. Interrupt? Interrupt? Mary was supposed to be his special date.

“Poor confused Jim.” Quintessa giggled. “That's why I have our evening all planned out. I have for over a week, in case you came home. As soon as Mary spotted you coming down the hill, she called the Normandie for me. We have reservations at seven, so we'd better hurry. Let me freshen up. Won't take but a moment.”

Jim nodded absently, but as soon as Quintessa left, he hung up his damp overcoat and marched into the kitchen. “Mary?”

“Hmm?” She stood at the stove, her back to him, ladling soup into two bowls.

He stopped and stared at her, the blue apron tied around her tiny waist, her dark hair curling on her shoulders, begging for his fingers.
Ever since we said good-bye
. . . this wasn't how he'd imagined hello.

“Yes?” Mary glanced over her shoulder at him.

Jim cleared his throat. “What's going on?”

“Isn't it wonderful?” She leaned back against the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. “All your dreams come true. Sometimes a broken heart allows a woman to see the good in a man she'd overlooked.”

He shook his head, comprehending but not comprehending. “I don't under—” He waved his hand south, in the general direction of the docks. Didn't she remember? Didn't she still feel that kiss as he did? “When I left—when we said good-bye—”

“Oh, that.” She tilted her head, one corner of her mouth dimpled. “You don't have to worry about me.”

“Worry . . . ?”

“The kiss,” she whispered, and she peeked past him through the doorway. “I know it didn't mean anything. I know it was just for show. You don't have to worry about me building a silly fantasy.”

His jaw hardened. It didn't mean anything to her? She thought he'd kissed her back just for show? Well, she might not have built a silly fantasy, but he had.

“Just a friendly kiss,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes.” She turned to the stove. “Quintessa doesn't know, and you don't have to worry about me pining away for you. I know you've loved Quintessa forever. I'm so happy for both of you.”

“I'm ready, Jim,” Quintessa called.

The smell of chicken soup filled his nose, paralyzing him like a drug. The kiss meant nothing to Mary. He meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

“Go on.” Mary gave him an eager smile. “The girl of your dreams is waiting for you.”

He spun away, his chest hot.

Quintessa stood in the entryway, twirling in a dark green dress. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” he said over his clenched jaw.

She strolled over to him, blonde curls bouncing. “And look at you. So handsome in your Navy uniform. Even more handsome than Mary said. Of course, she was just looking at you with the eyes of a friend.”

His ribs felt like a vise on his heart and lungs. Mary had her back to him again, ladled soup again, oblivious to his presence again. The eyes of a friend indeed.

Jim wheeled to Quintessa, flashed a grin, and offered his elbow. “What are we waiting for? Our evening of dining and
dancing awaits. Just the two of us.” Did he sound testy? So what? Mary didn't want him.

But Quintessa did—brilliant, sparkling, vibrant Quintessa with the golden-green eyes—eyes that saw him as a man, not just a friend.

As she chattered and laughed, he helped her on with her coat, slipped on his coat and cover, took Quintessa's umbrella, and led her out into the rain to hail a cab.

If his dream had just come true, why did he want to wake up and end it?

Sunday, November 2, 1941

Mary bent her head over the music for the closing hymn, “O, That I Had a Thousand Voices.” Her choir robe burned, taunting her to rip it off and flee the church. How could she sing about hope and joy when her heart felt wrung out, when her mouth ached from smiling late into the night as Quintessa related every delightful detail about her delightful date with delightful Jim?

His manners—impeccable. His dancing—lively. His company—attentive to her every word. He was quieter than Quintessa remembered, but then she did prattle on, didn't she? Thank goodness he wasn't as gangly and goofy as she remembered. She'd never cared for that about him, but he'd outgrown it. Wasn't she the happiest girl in the world?

Mary's voice cracked.

Claudia Richards glanced back at her and smirked.

Mary focused hard on the words. A thousand voices? If only she had one voice that behaved.

Down below her in the sanctuary, Jim sat in the pew in
his dress blues, with Arch on one side and Quintessa close, close, close on the other.

This morning's headline deepened her longing for their friendship. The destroyer USS
Reuben James
had been sunk by a U-boat in the North Atlantic on Friday, taking 115 men down with her, including all her officers. Did Jim know any of the men? What did he think would happen next? Surely America wouldn't sit idly by after Germany sank one of her warships?

For one heart-piercing moment, Jim looked up over his shoulder and met her eye. Her brain felt fuzzy, woozy. If she wasn't careful, he'd see her heartbreak. No, she'd chosen the role of a supportive friend, and she'd play it well, for his sake and for Quintessa's sake.

Bertha nudged her and tapped the sheet music. “We skipped verse two,” she whispered.

Heavens, that was right. Mary furiously scanned to find her place, the words and notes tumbling before her eyes. She waited until they started the fourth verse and joined in, her voice alone among the sopranos. Oh, heavens above. The altos were leading this verse, weren't they?

Claudia's shoulders shook in suppressed laughter, and Mrs. Gunderson shot her a concerned look.

Mary's eyes stung with hot tears. What had she done wrong? What had she done to deserve this pain and humiliation?

Her sails luffed, jangling on their rings, announcing her failure for all to see. Mousy Mary Stirling honestly thought she had a chance with handsome Jim Avery, thought so much of herself that she grabbed him and kissed him as if he'd enjoy it. And she'd joined the choir, parading herself on stage. And the investigation? Putting herself where she didn't belong, getting an innocent man arrested, and impeding the FBI.

The choir robe—so hot. She wiped sweat off her upper lip and yanked the collar away from her neck.

Why hadn't she stayed in hiding, in obscurity where she was safe? Oh, that's right. Pride. Pride lured her out. Mary Stirling could catch a saboteur. Mary Stirling could catch a man. Mary Stirling could publicly display herself in a bright red dress and a choir robe.

She stumbled through the final verse, her voice faint and quavering.

At last, they were dismissed. Mary dashed down to the choir room, the two flights of spiral stairs making her dizzy.

Claudia hung back at the door and snickered as Mary passed her. “Someone isn't ready for a solo.”

No, someone wasn't. Someone never wanted it in the first place. Mary ripped off her choir robe and almost lost her balance.

“Steady there.” Edith braced her. “Mary, dear. Are you all right?”

Overcome by the compassion in the ancient gray eyes, Mary shook her head, her mouth screwed shut.

“You don't look well. Your cheeks are too red, your eyes bleary.” Bertha pressed her hand to Mary's forehead. “Land sakes, you're burning up.”

“I am?” Mary felt her own forehead. It was indeed warm. “My roommate's had the flu.”

“Go straight home, young lady, and put yourself to bed.”

As much as Mary would like that, she couldn't. “I have to wait for Quintessa. She'd wonder where I went.”

“I see your young Navy friends are back. Such a shame you're sick.”

“Yes. Such.” But a smile edged up. Now she had a legitimate excuse to skip lunch and the afternoon excursion she'd dreaded all night.

Mary headed out to the sidewalk. A friendly greeting, a
quick explanation, and a polite good-bye. That was all. She could do it.

Quintessa waited, one hand wrapped around Jim's elbow, the other stretched to Mary. “There you are.”

Mary held up one hand. “I caught Yvette's flu, I'm afraid.”

Quintessa stopped short. “Oh, you poor dear.”

“Sorry you're not feeling well.” The coolness of Jim's voice should have felt like a balm to her fever, but it pricked her soul.

Mary worked up a cheery smile and turned to Arch. “I'm afraid that means I'll have to abandon you to third-wheel status. I should go home.”

“I'll go with you.” Quintessa dropped Jim's arm and stepped closer. “You've been fussing over Yvette all week, and now it's your turn to be fussed over.”

“Nonsense.” Mary eased back. “You told me Jim won't be in town long, so you should enjoy every minute together. You certainly don't want to get sick.”

“No, I don't.” Quintessa embraced Jim's arm and gazed up at him.

Now Mary really did feel sick. She turned for the Park Street subway station. “I'll see you later, Quintessa. Have fun, everyone.”

“Hope you feel better,” Arch called after her.

Highly unlikely. Even chicken soup and hot tea couldn't cure her.

In the length of the train ride home, Mary's symptoms deepened and clarified. Every muscle ached, her face flamed, and her head felt stuffed full of wool. She longed to shed her heavy new coat—a dark, showy red. With a matching hat. She should shove them both in the nearest Salvation Army bin and retreat to safe, modest brown.

She huddled by the window, her cheek pressed to the cool glass. Should she even continue with the investigation? She was bound to stir up more trouble. Bound to.

But the work satisfied her and would distract her from Jim. This flu would keep her home from work all week. If she didn't have anything to do, she'd go crazy. She could type up her remaining notes and organize her notebooks filled with all the carbon copies she'd kept.

Perhaps new patterns would emerge, new clues, new directions. Or perhaps she'd see the folly of her ways and give it up for good. Either way, she had a purpose.

Mary got off the El at the City Square Station. Breed's Hill rose high and formidable before her, although she climbed it every day. She trudged up Main Street, light-headed. Before she tucked herself into bed, she needed aspirin and Yvette needed more cough syrup. They were out of both.

Maybe Quintessa would get sick too. Wouldn't that be nice?

Mary clutched her hot, cruel head. What was wrong with her? How could she wish illness on her dearest friend out of jealousy for a man who didn't even love her? A man who'd never been interested in her in the first place? A man who preferred gold to silver, and why shouldn't he?

Mary caught her breath and found her bearings on Main. The lights were on in Dixon's Drugs, open every Sunday at eleven.

Mary headed inside, past the soda fountain and the cosmetics and the household goods, back to where the proprietary medications were stored close to the prescription counter.

The pharmacist, a heavyset man in his sixties with thick gray hair and thicker glasses, talked to a patient wearing an overcoat and a fedora. On the counter, a hand-lettered sign read “Pharmacist wanted. Inquire with Mr. Dixon.”

Mary blinked her heavy eyes. If only she could apply, be hired, get away.

What on earth was she thinking? She wasn't even a pharmacist. Oh, she needed aspirin badly.

But getting away . . .

Why not? She was a secretary, qualified and experienced. She could work anywhere in the country. Shipyards were bustling from Bath, Maine, to Charleston, South Carolina, from Seattle, Washington, to San Diego, California. Even on the Great Lakes.

Why did she need to be in Boston? She didn't. What was keeping her here? Nothing.

The pharmacist slipped an amber glass vial into a paper bag. “Your consumption of codeine has increased greatly the past few months.”

Mary backed away, not wanting to intrude on a private conversation.

“I'm aware of that,” the patient said in a familiar, cultured voice. “My nerves have been acting up lately, the pains in my arms and legs.”

Mary recognized that voice, the slight frame in the well-cut coat and expensive hat.

The pharmacist shook his head, his jowls shifting. “See that you cut back. You don't want to become an addict.”

“We wouldn't want that, would we?” With a wry chuckle, Mr. Weldon Winslow, naval architect, slapped down some cash and grabbed the paper bag.

Mary's mouth went dry. He was addicted to codeine?

She spun away and slipped down an aisle, her head lowered. The jittering, the shaking. What had Agent Sheffield said? “Maybe you should see a doctor about that.” He knew—he knew what the shaking meant.

How many times had Mary seen Mr. Winslow swallow something furtively or hide small objects?

Palpitations shivered in Mary's chest. What did this mean to the investigation? Was Mr. Winslow's addiction causing him to make errors others interpreted as sabotage? Or was it driving him to abandon common sense and commit sabotage? Addicts often turned to crime to support their habits, didn't they?

Mr. Winslow's steps approached, and Mary angled her back away from him, pretending to examine a bottle in her hand. Milk of magnesia? She didn't need milk of magnesia.

This was a new clue, an important clue. But should she report it? Agent Sheffield already suspected something. Let him discover it on his own. Mary couldn't afford to get another innocent man locked up. For goodness' sake, Mr. Winslow had a wife and children who depended on him. How could she ruin four lives with her meddling?

It was high time she retreated. She needed to keep her suspicions and gossip and nonsensical theories to herself.

Tears scalded her eyes. Why hadn't she left well enough alone?