Through Waters Deep (20 page)

Saturday, November 15, 1941

Jim picked at his patty melt and fries while Quintessa chatted over lunch. She told humorous stories of her stint in Filene's children's department, the improvements she'd made, how she loved working with the children and their mothers, and how the managers were thrilled with her sales numbers.

She was beautiful and animated and engaging. So why wasn't Jim engaged? In high school he could listen to her for hours, enraptured. Why not now? She wasn't selfish either. She asked about his work and family and friends. But he couldn't think of anything to say. He'd had plenty to say to Mary, plenty he longed to say to her right now. Could he talk to Quintessa about his decision with the depth charges? About his doubts and challenges?

Even if he could, he didn't want to.

When he invited Quintessa to lunch today, he had one purpose. The
Atwood
was shipping out this afternoon, and Jim wanted to choose once and for all among the three paths that lay before him.

Quintessa laughed about something, and Jim smiled and sipped his Coke, as fizzy as her laugh.

The first path was a broad lazy river. Without any effort, he could float into a relationship with Quintessa Beaumont. She already talked as if she were his girlfriend, although he'd never asked her on a real date or even held her hand. If Quintessa had arrived in March rather than November, he'd have jumped at the opportunity. But she hadn't.

The second path felt like a sneaky, dark alley. He could back out of both ladies' lives. When he returned from this tour, he simply wouldn't visit their apartment. Maybe he could get transferred to another ship. An easy path, but cowardly.

The third path looked steep and rocky with an unknown destination. He could pursue Mary and pray she fell for him. The path of the fool.

Jim took a bite of his patty melt and studied the gorgeous woman across the table from him. Sunlight slanted through the window beside him and lit up her hair. Every word was bright, every gesture sparkled. She was dazzling.

Yes, dazzling. When you fired a gun at night, the flash destroyed your night vision and blinded you. That's what Quintessa did. But Mary had an illuminating glow, like the moon, which allowed him to see more clearly.

Jim's fingers coiled around the crust of his sandwich, and his eyes slipped shut.
Oh Lord, I miss her. I miss
Mary. Please show me the right path. Not the path
Quintessa chooses for me, not the path Mary chooses for
me, not even the path I desire, but the one
you want me to travel. Because right now, none of
my options appeal to me.

“Jim?” Quintessa tilted her head. “You're so quiet. Are you all right?”

“Hmm?” He schooled his face into neutrality. He couldn't lie to her, but the truth required more work and thought and
prayer. Whichever path he chose affected other people and could alter friendships and bruise hearts.

“Are you feeling all right?” She glanced at his plate and smiled. “You've crushed that sandwich crust to crumbs.”

He had. He dropped it, wiped the crumbs off on his napkin, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Guess I was full.” He tried for a sheepish smile.

She reached across the table toward him, an invitation. “I've been concerned. Mary always talked about how much fun you were, but you've been so quiet and serious since I arrived.”

“These are tense times.” Not only in the world, but in his own life.

“That's true.” Quintessa wiggled her fingers on the table, the invitation even louder.

Jim ignored it, and he leaned closer so as to lower his voice. “We ship out today.”

“Today? So soon? We've barely had any time together.”

“We're ready. I'm ready.”

“Oh.” She retracted her hand, and her mouth pinched.

He didn't mean to hurt her feelings. “I can't tell you or anyone else what we're doing out there, but it's necessary. Lives are at stake.”

“I understand.” She reinforced her words with a smile. “Sorry if I sounded selfish. I know you have important work to do. When do you have to be back?”

Jim checked his watch. “Half an hour.”

“Half an hour? Oh my. I thought we'd have the whole day. Well, we'll just have to spend every minute together.” She peeked at him through her lashes. “May I see you off?”

His throat glued shut. Images flashed through his mind of the crowd on the wharf, the families embracing, the couples kissing, Mary's soft hands pulling him down, deep into her kiss, his arms around her, his lips on hers—

“I'm sorry.” Quintessa glanced away, her forehead puckered. “That was forward of me.”

“No, it's fine. Please come. Arch will want to say good-bye too.”

“Will he? He's such a good friend for you. We have to find him a new girlfriend. Are you sure he and Mary—”

“No.” The word came out too loud and harsh, so he mustered a smile. “Trust me, no. Shall we go?”

Jim slapped down a couple of dollars for the bill and helped Quintessa with her coat.

On the walk to the Navy Yard in the cool clear air, Quintessa walked close to his side, her shoulder brushing his, an invitation for him to offer his hand or at least his elbow. But he didn't want to, didn't want her choosing his path for him, so he jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

At the wharf, a crowd of sailors and family members was forming. On Liberty Fleet Day, the men wore their summer whites, and he had Mary Stirling on his arm in her red dress. Now the men wore navy blue overcoats, and Quintessa Beaumont threaded her arm through his.

Never once had he minded when Mary held his arm. In fact, he offered her his arm all the time, even when he hadn't been interested in her. It was the chivalrous thing for a man to do with a lady. But now Quintessa's touch bothered him, as if her tiny gloved hand staked her claim.

Why did it irritate him? Why this discontent?

His eyes widened, taking in the gray ship and the blue sky and the truth he'd begged God for. This discontent was like sonar alerting him that he was floating toward the rocks.

His path didn't lie with Quintessa, but along that uncertain and unpaved road.

A surge of rightness and determination rushed into his chest. If he showed Mary his interest, told her how he felt,
maybe her heart would bend to him. Even if it didn't, even if he made a complete fool of himself and lost his friendship with her, it was the true thing to do. True to his heart, true to where God seemed to be leading him.

If God wanted to lead him into a storm, so be it. He'd promised, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.” The Lord would be with him in the storm, and something good would come out of it, some purpose, even if Jim didn't see it for decades.

All around him, men and officers said their romantic good-byes. Jim needed to get away now, but how could he put this fresh new plan into words, knowing those words would hurt Quintessa?

Nevertheless, it had to be done. He faced her.

“Hey, Mr. Avery! Kiss her!”

Jim cringed. Oh no. Not again. Not with Quintessa.
Please, Lord, make them stop.

Either the Lord missed his prayer, or the men missed the Lord's promptings, because the clamor built like last time. Only last time he'd longed to kiss Mary—just not in public.

“Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Jim slammed his eyes shut. Everyone was pressuring him, shoving him in the wrong direction. No more. No more.

Two small hands rested on his upper arms. “Jim?”

He opened his eyes.

Quintessa gazed up at him, all dewy-eyed and beautiful. “You have my permission.” Her invitation couldn't be any clearer.

Or any less welcome. How many years had he longed for a moment like this, but now he didn't want it. He didn't love Quintessa. He loved Mary, and he'd do everything in his power to win her heart. If she rejected him, at least he'd know he'd chosen the bold but prayerful route.

Voices rose all around him. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Quintessa gave him a sly glance. “What are you waiting for?”

Jim settled a firm but kind look on her. “I'm sorry, but I can't.”

“You can't?”

“Come on, Mr. Avery! Kiss her like you kissed that brunette last time.”

Oh no. Jim groaned.

“Brunette?” Quintessa asked.

His face heated up. He didn't want to involve Mary or cause trouble between the ladies. When he came home again, when he spoke his mind, there would be plenty of trouble, but he'd be there to deal with it. Not now, not when he was about to ship out.

Quintessa's fingers tightened on his coat sleeves. “Who was she?”

“Just a friend.” That was true, especially since the kiss meant nothing to her.

“A friend?” Quintessa's eyes widened into green pools. “Not Mary?”

How could he lie? “It didn't mean anything to her. These fellows were acting up like this, and she only did it to shut them up.”

Quintessa eased back. “You kissed Mary, but you won't kiss me?”

Countless emotions arced through her eyes—the indignation of a beautiful woman unaccustomed to rejection and the pain of a woman who had been betrayed by a man she'd loved and trusted for years.

Her dismay, the clamor of the sailors, everything acted like a funnel, but he resisted and set his heels.

Jim took both her hands. “Thank you for giving me a chance. I'm honored, and I appreciate it. But it isn't working between us, and it never will.”

“Isn't working? What do you mean?”

Jim clamped his lips between his teeth. This would require a long and emotional talk he didn't have time for right now.

Regardless, he couldn't give her false hope. “I have to leave, but we'll talk when I return.”

Her mouth thinned into a sharp red line. “Talk?”

“Good-bye, Quintessa.” He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.

Before she could respond, he marched away and up the gangplank.

Good-natured jeers from his shipmates bombarded him, groans of disappointment, offers to take his place. Mitch Hadley made a crack about his eyesight and his manhood.

None of the jabs penetrated.

Nehemiah's enemies tried to distract him and discourage him with taunts and jeers, but he refused to let them disturb his work.

Jim forged ahead. He'd never felt stronger or more assured in his life. With the Lord's guidance, he had set his own course, and he would sail it.

He might sail alone, but he'd sail.

Mary did up the side zipper of her dark blue gabardine dress. The sooner she and Yvette left the apartment for their shopping trip, the better. When Jim came to pick up Quintessa for lunch, Mary had managed to be busy cleaning the bathroom, and she wanted to be away whenever they returned.

Jim hadn't even asked about Mary, just spirited Quintessa away.

Her zipper snagged on her slip, and her thoughts snagged on the truth. She worked to free both. Hadn't she done everything possible to discourage conversation with Jim the past two weeks? Why should she be surprised when he no longer sought her out? Wasn't that best in the long run?

Yes, it was. She sighed and closed the zipper.

The front door opened.

Oh bother. Mary had taken too long to get ready.

But only one set of footsteps entered the apartment, feminine heels clicking on the polished wood. The bedroom door opened, and Quintessa came in, her cheeks pink from the cold.

“Back so soon?” Mary asked.

Quintessa crossed to her dresser. “He shipped out.”

“Oh.” Mary's chest contracted. Into danger again, with things heating up on both coasts. And she never said good-bye.
Lord, keep him safe.

Quintessa unpinned her hat. “You should have warned me how the men act when they ship out. I had no idea.”

Mary opened her jewelry box and pushed around the earrings, a silver blur. “Oh?”

“All the men hounding him to kiss me. But I guess you know all about that.” She let out a short laugh, tight around the edges.

Every muscle in Mary's body froze. Why had Jim told her? And what could she say that wouldn't make Jim look bad—or hurt Quintessa's feelings? Even the truth sounded suspect, but what else did she have?

She sorted through the earrings, all in silver, for a matching pair. “Just a friendly kiss. I couldn't stand how the men harassed him. I just wanted to end it. It didn't mean anything to him.”

Silence from Quintessa.

Time to be brave, so she put on her blandest expression and turned around. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Quintessa eyed her up and down, pressed her fingertips to her forehead, and her mouth smiled. Only her mouth. “Strange to think my best friend and I have been kissed by the same man.”

That bland expression took more work than any smile. Jim had kissed Quintessa. She hadn't needed to grab him and kiss him. He'd done it himself and eagerly, no doubt, and in only two weeks together. Not six months. Why had Mary deluded herself?

Quintessa's mouth twitched, and she sat on her bed. “I don't have any reason to be jealous, do I?”

The poor thing. Hugh had cheated on her, abandoned her, and broken her heart. Why wouldn't she fear betrayal?

“Oh, honey.” Mary dashed over, sat on the bed beside her, and took her hand. “I'd never do anything to hurt you. You're my dearest friend in all the world. I owe you so much. Your friendship is more important to me than any man. Don't you know that?”

Her face buckled, and she covered her eyes with her hand. “I'm sorry. I know that. I know you'd never hurt me. I'm still too sensitive after what
he
did to me.”

“I understand. I don't blame you. But no, honey, I'm happy for you and Jim. He's adored you for as long as I can remember, and I'm thrilled you've discovered each other after all these years. You deserve each other.” If her mouth said it often enough, someday her heart would agree.

“Thank you,” Quintessa said in a cramped voice, and she glanced away.

What her friend needed was a distraction, so Mary squeezed her hand and made her voice cheery. “Yvette and I are going downtown to shop. Would you like to join us? I could use your help picking out a new blouse.”

“At Filene's? On my day off? No, thank you. Besides, I have laundry and mending to do. Go have fun.”

“All right. But how can I possibly have fun without you?” Mary said in her most dramatic voice.

A flicker of a smile returned to her friend's face. “Somehow you'll manage.”

Mary turned the display case of gold earrings. She never wore gold jewelry, only silver. Mother said silver complemented her complexion, and Mary preferred its subtlety.

But why shouldn't she wear gold? Wasn't she good enough to wear gold? Maybe she needed flash to attract a man.

Something hardened inside her, and she held a pair of gold
earrings beside her cheek. Why not? She was already wearing a flashy red coat and hat. Why not gold jewelry?

But her image wavered in the little mirror. Would a pair of gold earrings have made Jim fall in love with her? Of course not. He simply preferred the gold inside Quintessa to the silver inside Mary, and what was wrong with that?

She swiped away her tears and studied her reflection. Gold really didn't do anything for her skin. She exchanged the earrings. Yes, silver did look better with her coloring and brought out the light in her eyes.

Silver was best for her.

That hard something melted away. Silver had its own worth, its own beauty, a quieter beauty, a beauty that reflected rather than called attention to itself. There was nothing wrong with that, and nothing wrong with her. Someday, a man would come along who preferred silver.

Perhaps at her new job. A smile rose, wobbly but warming. She'd mailed her resume and letter of recommendation to half a dozen shipyards on the Great Lakes. Surely one would hire her. She'd be closer to home and farther from Jim. Why should she watch Jim and Quintessa fall in love? She'd only get depressed. With a new start in a new city, she could heal and start over. Another change in tack.

Anxious voices rose from the store aisle, all speaking in French. Yvette stood with several of her friends—Henri, Solange, and two others Mary didn't know.

Henri met Mary's eye, frowned, then spoke to Yvette.

Yvette turned and gave Mary a breezy smile, then addressed Henri.
“C'est ne pas un problème. Elle ne parle
pas français.”

Mary didn't speak French, but she recognized a few phrases. Yvette was assuring her friends Mary couldn't understand their conversation. Why? What did they need to conceal from her?

She turned to the nearest dress rack and sifted through the selections. Why did Yvette spend so much time in the drafting room, asking questions of Mr. O'Donnell? Was it simply her interest in drawing, or something more sinister?

Why was Yvette always so adamant that Mary stop her investigation and not discuss it—yet she joined in the conversations? Was Yvette involved? Mary couldn't imagine Yvette building or planting a bomb, but what about her friends? Were they working together?

She ventured a glance at the group in their zealous conversation. Their families in France lived in danger under Nazi domination in the north or Vichy French domination in the south. Yvette's friends wanted the United States to enter the war so their homeland could be freed. But were they desperate enough to commit sabotage, maybe even kill?

Mary grabbed a random dress from the rack and fled to the dressing room. Once inside, she collapsed into the chair and rested her head in her hands.

She'd lived with Yvette for a year and a half. She prided herself on her observational skills, but had she overlooked vital clues, blinded by friendship? Why, she barely had any notes for Yvette, and she'd never typed them up or turned them in to the FBI. But didn't Yvette have motive? And her friends might have the means.

What kind of detective was she? An impartial observer would have kept Yvette high on the suspect list.

And her notebooks. How many times had Mary found Yvette flipping through? She had access to the carbon copies typed out in plain English. Wouldn't those be an easy resource to know whom to frame? Had Mary unwittingly aided the sabotage?

She pushed down the nausea, pulled a small notebook from her purse, and started a list. Everything she hadn't recorded—Yvette's comments on the sabotage and the suspects, her
access to the notebooks, the conversations she'd overheard when Mary and Quintessa discussed the case, when Mary and Jim discussed the case. Yvette had even loaned Mary that smart red suit and hat for the undercover operation.

Mary yanked a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her face. Tonight, after Yvette went to sleep, Mary would type up her notes on Yvette, as complete as she could make them. Then she'd hide all her notebooks somewhere—her trunk, and she'd keep the key with her at all times. On Monday, she'd give her report to Agent Sheffield.

Her eyes burned at the thought of turning in her friend—but what if her friend had been using her to commit crimes?

“Mary?” Yvette called.

She took a deep breath and prayed her voice would sound normal. She couldn't let Yvette know she suspected her. People who planted bombs on ships wouldn't be concerned about the life of one secretary. “In here.”

“Good. I've been looking for you. I wanted you to hold my bags while I tried on this suit. But Mr. Fiske offered to hold my bags. Wasn't that kind?”

“Mr. Fiske?” As Mary's eyes stretched open, they dried.

“
Oui
. From the shipyard.”

What was a middle-aged man doing in the women's clothing department? He was widowed, and he had one son. And why did he just happen to run into Yvette?

Mary checked her reflection in the mirror and powdered her face. Thank goodness her eyes weren't too red. She grabbed the hanger from the hook. The dress wasn't very pretty anyway. “I'm done, Yvette. I'll see you outside.”

“Don't go far. I want your opinion on this suit.”

“All right.” Mary stepped out of the room and handed the dress to the attendant. “Thank you, but it isn't for me.”

“I'd say not.” The attendant arched her brows.

The dress did look about three sizes too big.

Mr. Fiske stood not far from the dressing room area, holding Yvette's bags and purse.

Mary approached him. “What a pleasant surprise. Yvette told me you were holding her bags. How kind of you.”

His broad face cracked into a bashful smile. “Well, I remember how my wife liked me to hold her things. Miss Lafontaine looked burdened. I'm glad I could help.”

“How kind of you. I can hold them now.”

“Thanks.” He transferred the bags and Yvette's new black handbag. He wore heavy brown leather work gloves. Black ink stained the right forefinger, and a small tear ran alongside the thumb. Why was he wearing work gloves out on the town? Inside the heated store?

She kept her smile in place but tilted her head at the dress rack beside him. “Shopping?”

“Yeah, well, it's my mother's birthday this week. She'll be seventy.”

“How lovely. Is she here in town?”

“Uh, yes.” His smile turned to a scowl. “Listen, Miss Stirling, I need to warn you. Watch out for that friend of yours.”

“Yvette?” She refused to let her own suspicions color her voice.

He leaned closer, his blue eyes serious. “Watch out for her and her friends. They're dangerous. I bet they're part of Winslow's ring, building bombs in his basement. They found a crate of equipment, you know. Same stuff used to build the bomb found on the
Atwood
. Watch out.”

Cold tingles ran through her. “Thank you for the warning.”

He ran one gloved finger under his nose and flipped his gaze over Mary's shoulder. “You're much too involved in this investigation. You need to stop. If you think those FBI agents will keep you safe while you poke around, think again. You're a nice girl, and I'd hate to see something bad happen to you.”

Mary choked out a thank-you. Was that a fatherly warning—or a veiled threat?

“There you are, Mary.” Yvette glided over. “I did not like the fit of that suit. Another day. Oh, you have my bags. Thank you. And thank you, Mr. Fiske. Shall we go, Mary?”

“Yes. Let's.” She headed down the aisle. After ten paces, she glanced over her shoulder.

Mr. Fiske walked in the other direction toward the store entrance, without stopping to browse, without any bags.

What about his mother's birthday?

A chill crept into her chest. Didn't Mr. Fiske always say his son was the only family he had in this world? His wife was dead. And his parents?

Dead.

An ashy taste filled Mary's mouth. Mr. Fiske lied to her. He'd followed her and Yvette.

Now Mary had to figure out why.