Through Waters Deep (2 page)

Boston
Sunday, March 23, 1941

Jim pressed his hand to the doorjamb and inhaled the smoky scent of old wood as he left Paul Revere's house. In 1775 the hero might have touched this same spot on the night he rode into history. He gazed up the muddy gray clapboard wall to the overhanging second story. “‘Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.' I can't believe I'm in his house.”

“Not anymore, you aren't.” Arch Vandenberg draped his arm over Gloria Washburn's shoulder and sent Jim a droll look. No matter how hard Arch tried to act middle class, he couldn't shed the upper-class affectation of boredom.

“Isn't Boston the most fascinating city?” Mary tipped back her head and turned in a circle, her spring coat rippling around her legs. Nice legs.

Nice legs wouldn't turn her into the bubbly blonde type of girl Jim preferred. Just as well. Since the
Atwood
would ship out soon, Jim didn't want the complication of a romance.

“I thought we'd see even more history this week.” He gave
her his best attempt at an evil grin. “The hanging of a young secretary on Boston Common for sabotage.”

She laughed and headed north up the hill, past a triangular plaza. “Thank goodness, no. They questioned me for about ten minutes and sent me on my way. According to the newspapers, the police are fixated on the senator. They think a political rival or his jealous lover wanted to harm him or his wife.”

A note of doubt in her voice led him to quicken his step and catch up. “You don't agree?”

“I don't know.” Light blue eyes narrowed. “The papers are drawn to the sensational, of course, but with all the division in the country right now, all the intrigue, I hope they look into it thoroughly. Hundreds of shipyard workers had access to that bottle.”

The last person Jim wanted working on his ship was a man inflamed by politics. He hopped off the sidewalk and crossed the cobblestone road. The hearty smell of tomatoes and garlic from the Italian restaurants made his mouth water. A plate of spaghetti and meatballs sounded good, even with the lobster roll he'd had for lunch still cozied up in his stomach. Boston agreed with him.

“Jim,” Arch called from behind. “I thought you said Mary was quiet.”

“I did. I've heard more words from Mary Stirling's mouth today than all through high school.”

She lowered her head and tucked brown hair behind her ear, revealing a smile. “I can talk when something interests me.”

“You can sing too.”

Her gaze jerked up to him. “Sing?”

If he knew her better, he'd give her a playful nudge. “We shared a hymnal this morning, remember? You sing well. You should join the choir.”

“Heavens, no.” Alarm flashed across her face, same as when her boss called her onto the platform at the launching the other day.

“Stage fright?”

Ripples crossed her forehead. “I don't like to call attention to myself. Besides, there are so many hams in this world. Let them have the stage.”

“Looks like your choir actually needs more sopranos.” His church in Ohio teemed with the songbirds.

“They sound lovely as is. Did you like the service? The sermon?”

“Very much.” Jim stepped behind Mary to let an elderly lady pass. “Your pastor is a great speaker. Dr. Ock—?”

“Ockenga. Harold Ockenga. I visited Park Street Church when I first arrived in Boston. If I was going to live in a historic city, I might as well attend a historic church. But his preaching! Well, it's wonderful. Every week I'm both inspired and challenged. Isn't that a perfect combination?”

“Sure is.” Jim smiled at her delighted expression. In high school, Mary had been the invisible sidekick. Although he'd known her for years, in a way, he didn't know her at all.

“And your family?” Mary turned left on another road, also lined with red brick buildings with white window frames. “How are they? I'm so fond of your mother. She was my favorite Sunday school teacher.”

“She's still teaching those Bible stories, and Dad's still building sailboats on the shores of Lake Erie.”

“And your brothers? They're in the Navy too, aren't they?” Mary turned right, onto a broader street.

“Ed and Charlie are still in high school, but my older brothers are Navy men. Dan's on a cruiser in the Atlantic, and Rob's based in San Diego.” Jim twisted his gold Academy ring, thankful for his brothers' outstanding records and content to float in their wake.

“And the twins? How are they?”

Jim's fingers tightened, and he massaged the scar tissue on his palms. “Lillian's ready to graduate from pharmacy school in June. Ohio State. Nothing can stop her.”

“No, it can't.” Mary tilted her head in a thoughtful way and watched Jim's hands. “They were a year behind me in school, so I didn't know them well, but I always admired Lillian's tenacity, especially since . . .”

Since she only had one foot. Jim winced, tugged his jacket straight, and put on a smile. “She's a spitfire. She and Lucy might look identical, but—”

“But they couldn't be more different. I heard Lucy married.”

“She did. Martin Freeman, right out of high school.”

“I remember Martin. Everyone liked him.” Mary spread her hands wide toward a park across the road. “Here we are.”

Jim peered down a long walkway lined with trees. A statue of a man on horseback led the way to a brick church with a tall white steeple. He grinned. “Old North Church?”

“‘One, if by land, and two, if by sea.'”

Jim whooped and jogged across the street. He'd always loved the story of Paul Revere, galloping at night, evading British patrols, alerting the people of Lexington before he was arrested on the road to Concord.

He came to a stop at the foot of the statue. Paul Revere, in his tricorn hat, shouting out his warning from his steed.

“The statue was dedicated last year,” Mary said behind him.

“Then I'm glad I came this year.”

“Jim Avery certainly enjoys his tourist attractions.” Arch led Gloria to the statue. “You should have seen him in New York City.”

The cool blonde let out a low laugh. “You're just jealous,
Arch. Deep inside, you want to run around like a little boy too.”

“Only if I'm running after you, darling.”

That must have been the right response, because Gloria nuzzled up to Arch's shoulder.

Jim leaned closer to Mary and spoke in a stage whisper. “I'm glad you're in town, so I don't have to be alone with this lovey-dovey nonsense.”

He led Mary down the mall toward a fountain, leaving the lovebirds cooing to each other by the statue.

“The British are coming! The British are coming!” Raucous voices sounded up ahead. Three young men approached, laughing and jostling each other.

Jim stood taller and scooted closer to Mary.

“Those lousy Brits are still coming.” One of the men spat to the side. “Coming to drag us into another war.”

Jim and Arch had been warned that isolationist sentiments ran high in Boston, and that wearing civilian clothes might be wise. But Jim was too proud of the smart dress blues he'd longed to wear all his life.

“Say, what do we have here?” The burliest of the men locked gazes with Jim. “A tea-drinking Brit-lover, that's what.”

Jim's breath stilled. Not only would it be wrong for an officer to have a confrontation with a local, but he didn't want to make any waves. Someone was sure to get hurt, especially since Jim and Arch had excelled at boxing at the Academy. The only good course was to sweep away on the current.

Jim put his hand on the small of Mary's back and guided her toward the church. “Excuse us, please. We're just taking a Sunday stroll.”

The brute stepped right into his path, eye to eye with Jim, a grungy brown cap low on his thick forehead. “Why don't you stroll on over—”

“Ralph Tucker?” That was Mary. Speaking in a pleasant voice, as if she'd run into her oldest friend.

Tucker blinked and glanced at the brunette. “Miss—Miss Stirling?”

“I assure you the ensign had a good American cup of coffee with his lunch, strong and black.”

Bushy eyebrows disappeared beneath that ratty cap. “Yes, miss. No offense meant.”

“None taken.” Jim gave him half a smile, half more than he deserved.

The men skedaddled in the other direction.

Jim pretended to wipe his forehead. “Well, Arch. Thank goodness we brought along Mary as our bodyguard.”

“Speak for yourself.” Arch's eyes glowed with blue fire. “I've always wanted to get into a good honest fight.”

Jim motioned toward the three men who'd show him a good fight, all right. “Be my guest.”

Gloria tugged on Arch's arm. “Don't be silly. I like your face as is, with two eyes and a nose and a mouth in their customary positions. Let's keep it that way.”

“Besides, Jim needs to find a spot of tea.”

A joke from Mary Stirling? He followed her toward the Old North Church. “Isn't it illegal to drink tea in Boston? Don't they throw you into the harbor for that?”

“Only during parties.”

Jim smiled, nodded, and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. She'd make a fine companion while he was based here.

He drew next to her. “So those three fine specimens of manhood—”

“Work at the Navy Yard.”

“Please don't tell me they worked on the
Atwood
.”

“They did.”

Jim groaned. “Poor ship will fall apart at the seams.”

Mary laughed. “Don't worry. The men are full of hot air, but they're excellent at their work. And they enjoy their paychecks. Have you been on board yet?”

“Tomorrow. Can't wait.” His feet twitched, threatening to add an ungentlemanly skip to his step. “An assignment to a destroyer is the best thing for an officer.”

“Oh? I'd think you'd want to be on one of the big ships—a battleship or a cruiser.”

“Nope.” The trees on either side marked a straight path before him. “Almost all the great modern-day officers served on destroyers. ‘Tin cans' are special, small, close-knit. With only two hundred men, you have to work together. The commanders train you in all departments, from gunnery to engineering to communication, so any man can step in where needed.”

“That makes sense.”

“And destroyers are scrappy little ships.”

“I see. And that makes a strapping good officer.”

“I hope so.” The Navy had plotted an excellent course for him, and he couldn't wait to see which career they'd point him to.

“Well, the Boston Navy Yard is known for its destroyers. You'll love the
Atwood
.”

Jim smiled down at the familiar, unfamiliar face. “You know, this might be the longest conversation you and I have ever had.”

“I'm sure of it.” Mary's eyes sparkled. “With Quintessa around, how could we have gotten a word in edgewise?”

His chest contracted. He hadn't spoken or heard that name in years, yet it never left his thoughts. He forced a light smile. “True.”

“I never minded. I could enjoy fun evenings out without being responsible for conversation. And Hugh and Quintessa were so entertaining.”

The sound of his former best friend's name hurt even more, but it was his turn to respond. “Are you—still in contact?” The question scraped on his throat.

“Oh yes. She's my dearest friend in the world, and we write every week. She's in Chicago now. It was best for her to leave town after . . .” Her voice petered out.

After Hugh cheated on Quintessa while she was away at college, got the other girl pregnant, and married her. “Still can't believe he did such a thing.”

“Of course not. You're an honorable man. All those years you pined over Quintessa, but you never—”

“What?” He stopped beside a basswood tree, the fountain behind him tinkling like Quintessa's laughter. “She was Hugh's girl. I'd never—”

“I know.” Mary gave him a compassionate look that saw right through him. “We knew you'd never interfere. You're not that kind of man. But we also knew you were crazy about her.”

Jim's mouth tightened, and he marched toward the brick church building. “I was a fool.”

“Nonsense. We were all dazzled by her.”

He still was. “Main reason I haven't gone home much since I graduated. It wasn't right, being crazy over another man's girl. I needed to break free.”

“Me too, in a way.”

“How's that?” He faced her.

Mary reached up to a low-hanging branch still waiting for its leaves. “I was content living in her shadow. No one paid attention to me, and I liked that. But my parents said I needed to step out and find out who I was and what I could do, and my grandfather found me this job with his old friend.”

“Did it work?”

“I think so. I love my job. I'm using my talents for a good
purpose.” She smiled and fluttered the bare branch in front of her face like a fan. “And I can still hide in obscurity.”

Jim laughed. After his time in the Academy, with everyone angling to get noticed, to be liked, to get ahead, Mary's attitude was refreshingly foreign.

Friday, March 28, 1941

Mary curled up in her armchair in the bay window of her apartment, sipped her morning cup of unpatriotic tea, and tucked her bathrobe around her slippered feet. If she nudged aside the lace curtains and tilted her head, she could gaze up Charlestown's Monument Avenue to the Bunker Hill Monument.

What more could she say in her letter to Quintessa? The poor dear was lonely in Chicago and still reeling from heartbreak. Almost two years had passed since Hugh's betrayal, but they had dated close to five years, waiting for Quintessa to graduate from college.

Except Hugh couldn't wait.

After all Quintessa had done for her, all the years of deep friendship, Mary longed to do something to ease her pain.

All she could offer was a cheerful letter. She traced her handwriting on the stationery. Her news about seeing Jim Avery would pique Quintessa's interest, as would the mystery at the shipyard. How many hours had the girls spent huddled over Nancy Drew books in junior high, sharing
good-natured arguments about who would make the better detective—Quintessa with her confidence and ability to talk to anyone, or Mary with her analytical ways and ability to listen? In reality, they worked best as a team.

Mary tapped her pen on her stationery. One more paragraph.

She glanced up to the sailboat painting over the radiator for inspiration. She'd bought it to honor her New England home, for the peaceful blues and the zip of red on the lighthouse in the background. The boat leaned into the waves, its sails plumped with wind, and spray leaped behind it. Although she liked her life quiet and orderly, the sense of exhilaration and boldness spoke to her.

“Why is that, little boat?” she said.

“You must not talk to yourself.” Yvette Lafontaine stumbled in from her bedroom, her brown hair tousled and bathrobe askew. Mornings were the only time she didn't look glamorous.

“You talk plenty to yourself when you're fully awake,
ma petite amie
,” Mary cooed to her in her best French accent.

Yvette fumbled with the coffee percolator. “Your French is horrible, but that is fine. You have other charms.”

Ah yes, her charms. Mary arched one eyebrow. People complimented her clever mind, her kindness, and her quiet ways. If only men found such things enchanting.

Mary shifted her notebook and clipboard, straightened the jacket of her dove gray suit, and turned into the drafting room. She loved this part of her job, visiting the various departments and collecting reports for Mr. Pennington.

Rows of drafting tables filled the room, with draftsmen hard at work crafting plans into blueprints. Mary poked her head into the naval architect's office. “Mr. Winslow?”

He coughed, pressed something between his lips, and drank some coffee. “Miss Stirling. You're early.”

“Sorry to startle you.” Never before had she seen the man flustered.

Mr. Winslow stood to greet her, his slight build wrapped in an expensive suit, his brown hair sleekly styled, his every move full of the patrician elegance expected of the heir to the Winslow Shipbuilding Company fortune. Even though he'd forsaken it to work at the Boston Navy Yard. “Good morning, Miss Stirling. How are you today?”

“Fine, thank you.” She shook his manicured hand, feeling large and clumsy.

“I have your weekly reports.” He swept them from his desk and handed them to her. “By the way, have you seen Mr. O'Donnell? I have a project for him. If the man spent as much time on his work as he did on his confounded politics . . .”

“If I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him.” She made a note in her notebook.

“Thank you.” Mr. Winslow returned to his desk.

Not the best time to ask her usual questions about his wife and little boys. Perhaps the architect was flustered because of all the bad news from London, his wife's childhood home.

Mary headed outside under the graying sky and shivered. She should have brought her coat. Spring hadn't quite arrived. Oh well. Her rounds wouldn't take more than an hour.

She quickened her pace toward the docks, past all the men hard at work. When she'd started working at the Boston Navy Yard in 1937 at the height of the Depression, men lined up outside the gate looking for sparse work. Now with the Navy building destroyers to replace those they'd traded to Britain, the shipyard bustled with activity.

At Dry Dock Two, she crossed the gangplank to a destroyer under construction. While the Navy Yard built some ships on traditional shipways and launched them down the ways
into the harbor, they built some ships deep in the dry dock, then flooded the dry dock to float the ships for launching.

This destroyer's keel had been laid, then the bulkheads set in place, dividing the ship into compartments. Then equipment was lowered into position and decks placed on top like lids. This destroyer had its first layer of decking.

Mary worked her way down the ladder.

“Let me help you, Miss Stirling.” A work-roughened hand reached up to her.

“Thank you.” She took Ira Kaplan's hand, hopped to the steel deck, and smiled at the scaler. “Have you seen Mr. Fiske?”

The young man took off his cap, ran his hand through black curls, and jutted his angular chin toward the stern of the ship. “I saw him over there a few minutes ago, talking to Bauer. Glad of it. Need to keep an eye on that Kraut. Everyone knows he's trouble.”

Sharp opinions ruled at the shipyard, but Mary stayed above the fray. “Thank you for your help.” She picked her way over cables, lines, and tools.

Since Heinrich Bauer had emigrated from Germany only four years earlier, he prompted many rumors. Mary angled herself into the welder's line of sight. “Excuse me, Mr. Bauer?”

He raised the leather welding mask that protected his face from sparks. “Yes?”

“I'm looking for Mr. Fiske. Have you seen him?”

“Over there,” he said in a heavy German accent and pointed to starboard.

Although she'd worked with him for almost four years, she knew nothing about him. “How are you doing?”

He lifted suspicious blue eyes to her. “Fine.”

She smiled and fingered the edge of her clipboard. “How's your family? Do you have a wife? Children?”

Those eyes hardened to blue marbles. “Why do you ask?”

Mary gestured around the shipyard. “I like to know the people I work with.”

“Good for you.” Mr. Bauer snapped down his welding mask. “Please stand back. You don't want to get hurt.”

Mary blinked and backed up. Oh my, he was prickly. But then if everyone distrusted her because of her accent, she might be prickly too.

Over to starboard, Frank Fiske wrote on a clipboard. Stocky and middle-aged, with graying blond hair, the leadingman ran this crew well.

“Good morning, Mr. Fiske.”

“Right on schedule.” Fiske scribbled his signature and handed her the form.

Mary tucked it away. “How's your son? Any new letters?”

The leadingman's broad brow wrinkled. “Hates Army life. He'll be out in November unless Roosevelt has his way and gets us into a shooting war by then.”

Mary murmured her sympathy. It wasn't her job to argue one side or the other.

He crossed his beefy arms and cracked a grin. “You had a chat with the police, I heard.”

She laughed and flapped her hand. “It was nothing. The bottle had been unattended for some time. Anyone could have tampered with it. Since I noticed something was wrong and alerted Mr. Pennington, they didn't suspect me.”

“Who's the suspect? Do you know?”

“Only what I read in the papers.”

“They're idiots. A jealous lover?”

Mary scanned the ship—dozens of workmen, stuttering rivet guns, and whining machinery. If anyone was dangerous, Frank Fiske would know. “Do you think it was someone here?”

He ran his finger across his upper lip. “All I know is this
war's behind it. The men say there's a saboteur. Talk about seeing people where they don't belong, tools out of place. Something's going on.”

Goose bumps rose under the sleeves of Mary's suit jacket. Out in the harbor, the
Atwood
floated under the gray clouds, awaiting her commission. Jim would be aboard with his congenial smile and easy laugh. People had a right to protest but not to harm good men.

“Keep your eyes open, Miss Stirling,” Mr. Fiske said, his voice somber.

“I will.”

“Hey, Fiske.” George O'Donnell lumbered over, a few years older than Fiske and many pounds heavier. “Here's the blueprint.”

“Thanks.” Fiske took the rolled-up document.

“Oh, Mr. O'Donnell,” Mary said. “Mr. Winslow's looking for you.”

He pulled a tin of chewing tobacco from his pocket and stuck a wad in his mouth. “I'm sure he is.”

Fiske unrolled the blueprint on a crate. “Don't envy you working with that fop.”

“He loves England so much, why doesn't he go fight for them, leave us alone?”

“I doubt he could lift a gun, much less fire it.” Fiske looked at Mary over his shoulder. “Sorry 'bout that. Forgot there's a woman present.”

“That's all right.” It happened to her a lot, but she didn't mind. People said things around her they might ordinarily hold back. Mr. Pennington called her his little spy.

Ira Kaplan strolled over and set down a coiled hose. “Say, Mr. Fiske, glad to see you're keeping an eye on Bauer. The man's shifty, up to no good.”

O'Donnell chuckled. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Like what?” Kaplan straightened to his full, lanky height.

“Like us to have some German saboteur here, just like in those warmongering Hollywood movies you Jews keep churning out. Then everyone would catch your war fever.”

Mary eased back, heart pounding.

“Yeah?” Kaplan jabbed his finger at O'Donnell. “Maybe they should. If Hitler knocks out Britain, where do you think he'll come next?”

O'Donnell scrunched up his thick face. “Over here? Over thousands of miles of ocean? You're crazy.”

“Hitler's got friends in South America. Don't you know anything? You're crazy if—”

Mary sent Frank Fiske a pleading glance, but he was already stepping forward, setting one big hand on each man's shoulder.

O'Donnell shook his finger in Kaplan's face. “Shame on you. I'm old enough to be your father.”

“Then you're old enough to know better.”

“Stop it, men,” Fiske said.

“You're right, I'm old enough.” O'Donnell glared from under iron-gray brows. “Old enough to remember how the Brits bamboozled us into the last war.”

“That's enough, George.” Fiske tightened his grip on the draftsman's shoulder.

“All right, Frank. All right.” O'Donnell held up both hands and stepped back.

“Back to work, Kaplan.” Fiske's voice rang with authority.

“Yes, sir.” The young man walked away, flexing his hands open and shut.

Mary's heart rate settled down, and she continued on her way, climbed the ladder, and strolled down to the next dock.

Her brand-new notebook beckoned her, and she opened its crisp pages. On the top of one page, she wrote “Heinrich Bauer” in shorthand, then divided the page into two columns. On the left, she wrote all he'd said, which wasn't
much. On the right, she recorded what others had said about him.

Then she flipped the page and repeated the process for Ira Kaplan and George O'Donnell.

Maybe she
had
read too much Nancy Drew. She couldn't do anything with this information. Everything she'd recorded could be discounted as rumor and gossip.

Besides, showing it to someone and seeking praise would be prideful. Her favorite verse, Philippians 2:3, said, “Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.”

She'd learned the importance of humility the hard way.

Yet something deep in her belly solidified. A record needed to be kept, and who better to take notes than an invisible secretary?