Her brows knit together. "I might. This store is so convenient, so close to the El station."

Mr. Dixon's dark-eyed gaze wheeled to Lillian. "A feminine touch."

"Yes, sir." She gave him a bright smile. "Think about it. Spring is almost here. We're itching for it. We ladies are tired of our winter coats, and now the War Production Board has placed limits on fashion, and we just want to feel pretty again."

Mr. Dixon rubbed his heavy jowls. "I don't like change. This is my father's store-"

"Founded in 1878," she said with pride as if she'd helped found it herself. "I only want to make one small change. An experiment. One month. If it doesn't work, everything goes back to normal."

He glared at her. "You haven't told me what you have in mind."

Lillian's heart bounded. In the doorway, she gestured to her right. "On this side, the soda fountain and cash register, same as always, the window covered with ads and posters."

Mr. Dixon grunted his approval. Of course he did. She hadn't suggested a change yet.

Lillian gestured to the left. "On this side, set up a display on a cabinet, with a mirror. Strip away the ads so pa.s.sersby can see. In the window, I can drape some pastel fabric-my roommates have remnants I can use. We can show off the latest spring goods. Then the ladies will look inside, see the cosmetics display, and wonder if a new spring shade might cheer them up in these dark times. And once they're inside . . ." She swept her hand toward the rest of the store.

Mr. Dixon's glare didn't diminish, but neither did Lillian's smile.

He grunted and adjusted his gla.s.ses. "One month, and it'd better not cost me one cent."

"No, sir. And it won't draw me away from my regular work."

"Better not." He marched down the center aisle.

It worked! Lillian wanted to cheer, to spin, to . . . something. Mrs. Connelly gave her a gleeful smile and mimed clapping her hands. Lillian mouthed "thank you" and headed for the prescription counter in a sedate manner. But in her heart, she cheered and spun and danced.

That evening after Mr. Dixon left, Lillian used a quiet moment before the store closed to sketch her plans. If she succeeded, sales would rise, and she'd keep her job. Mr. Dixon hadn't talked about replacing her for several weeks.

She was finally winning him over. This afternoon she'd gotten him talking about how he wanted to buy a cottage on Nantucket when he retired and set up his nephew in a fishing business, maybe a seafood restaurant. His love for the young man warmed Lillian's heart.

A patient approached the counter, a light-haired man in his thirties.

"Good evening," she said. "Harvey Jones, isn't it?"

"Yes." He eyed her. "I need this filled tonight. I'll wait."

Lillian studied it. Three hundred phen.o.barbital tablets, signed by Dr. Kane.

The blood drained from her face, and she headed for the shelf to conceal her expression.

The forger or one of his lackeys.

What should she do? She'd promised Arch she'd wait to call the police, but how could she fill a forged prescription? Dr. Kane had ordered her not to fill any more barbiturate prescriptions in his name. How could she violate her professional standards?

She couldn't. Arch meant well. He wanted to protect her, but she couldn't fill this.

Lillian took down the bulk bottle and walked to the counting tray. And the phone. Out of the side of her eye, she observed Mr. Jones. The man poked through Mr. Dixon's jar of marbles on the counter. Facing her.

How could she call the police without alerting Mr. Jones?

Her pulse raced. Maybe she could call the physician first. Just make sure.

She grabbed the phone and dialed with quivering fingers.

"Is something wrong?"

Lillian's breath froze. Her finger misdialed. She raised a benign smile. "I want to verify the prescription with Dr. Kane."

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing I can see. But it's standard procedure."

"Mr. Dixon never calls." His voice rose, and a customer turned and stared.

She couldn't let Mr. Jones make a scene. She returned to the counter and gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm young and I'm a woman, and Dr. Kane doesn't trust me yet. He wants me to verify his prescriptions."

His eyes flashed. "Then I don't trust you either. Mr. Dixon shouldn't leave you alone."

Her story was falling to pieces before her eyes. "I'm a licensed-"

Mr. Jones s.n.a.t.c.hed the prescription from her hand. "I'll take my business elsewhere from now on. You can tell Mr. Dixon I said so."

Oh no. What had she done?

The crook had fled, and he'd taken the evidence with him. Now she couldn't call the police.

She'd also lost business for the store. What if Mr. Jones complained? What if he told her boss her stupid story about Dr. Kane not trusting her? Mr. Dixon would fire her on the spot.

She moaned, leaned back against the counter, and pressed her hand to her forehead.

Why had she told that story? Calling Dr. Kane to verify? Mr. Jones knew Dr. Kane hadn't written that prescription. Her story was guaranteed to set off the crook's alarms. What was she thinking? She wasn't any good at making up stories like that. She should have thought up something better in advance, knowing this day would come.

Now Mr. Jones wouldn't be back. He'd go to another pharmacy and continue his racket.

Her head spun. If he was part of a ring, she'd tipped them off. Would they think she was on to them? Or just a silly untrustworthy girl? Would they buy her story? Or would they see the truth-that she'd already talked to Dr. Kane about the phen.o.barbital?

What a disaster.

That night on her walk home, Lillian saw dark figures in every doorway. Nonsense. She was overreacting. This wasn't a Hollywood movie with spooks prowling after young ladies.

Still, the streets seemed too quiet, the night too dark, the streetlamps too weak.

She turned right onto Monument Avenue. Ahead of her on the hill, the Bunker Hill Monument towered dark, a finger of accusation.

Arch had trusted her to follow one simple instruction. She'd promised him. And she'd failed.

Yet she longed to tell him. In Concord, she'd spilled her heart before him, and he'd understood, wisdom and compa.s.sion deep in those too-blue eyes. She pictured him reaching for her again as he had on the bridge. This time, instead of flinching like a dog who'd been kicked too often, she'd fall into his arms.

He'd hold her. She knew he would.

What would it be like to lean into him, to let him support her, even for a minute?

Her breath quickened. From antic.i.p.ation-or terror? If she trusted him, what would become of her? The last time she'd trusted a man . . .

Lillian shuddered and gripped her necklace. Dad's favorite hymn said, "My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness; I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus' name."

Arch's frame might be sweet indeed, but she needed to lean on the Lord, not a man.

Footsteps clumped behind her, heavy and masculine. Was she being followed, or was her imagination getting the best of her? If it was Mr. Jones, she'd let him know he couldn't intimidate her.

She flung a pointed glance over her shoulder.

Not Mr. Jones. This man was tall and angular. The tip of his cigarette glowed red in the darkness, and a wisp of gray smoke trailed to his side.

Nevertheless, she picked up her pace and pulled her keys from her purse so she wouldn't have to pause at the door.

Finally, her building, the only one with blackout curtains. Although Boston hadn't ordered a blackout, Mary insisted as a quiet way of declaring the necessity for the men at sea.

Lillian climbed the stairs, jammed her key into the lock, and shoved open the door. The tall man pa.s.sed by without a glance.

She shut the door and threw the lock. But it had only been her imagination.

"Hi there, sweetie," Quintessa called. "We kept the pot roast warm in the oven for you."

Mary, Quintessa, and their other roommate, Yvette Lafontaine, sat in the living room, smiling their greetings, looking up from books and magazines. On the radio in the background, Cab Calloway sang "Blues in the Night."

Lillian managed to say a cheery "good evening," then escaped to her room to take off her prosthesis and put on her cozy nightgown and bathrobe.

How had a day that started so well ended so horribly?

17.

Ma.s.sachusetts Bay

Tuesday, March 17, 1942

Fog pressed on the Ettinger, blinding her and concealing her. Standing by the aft funnel, Arch could see neither bow nor stern. Only gray.

For once, they weren't at general quarters, so the boatswain's mates performed basic maintenance as the ship patrolled between Cape Ann to the north of Boston and Pollock Rip at the southern tip of Cape Cod. The men chipped off paint, repaired lines, and checked tackle and davits, the sounds of their tools hollow in the fog.

Carpenter's Mate Bud Engelman handed Arch his report. "Mr. Vandenberg, sir. I took the daily soundings in the peak tanks and voids. No leakage noted."

Seaman Phil Carey stood beside the petty officer, blinking heavily.

"Very well." Always good to know the hull's structural integrity remained sound. Arch scanned the report, then his gaze flipped up to Carey, who was striking to earn a promotion to carpenter's mate as well. "Are you all right, Carey?"

"Just tired, sir. Not getting enough sleep, you know."

"It's almost noon." Engelman scowled. "He's always tired, sir. Can't get any work out of him."

Was Carey taking drugs too? Arch studied the young man's square-jawed face, but droopy eyelids weren't solid proof. Regardless, he had to do something. "I know you're tired, Carey. We all are. But we have to make do. U-boats are sinking our ships, and we're the only line of defense. You must stay alert."

"Aye aye, sir."

Arch clapped Engelman on the shoulder. "Get the man some coffee, the blacker the better. And let me know if this continues. Next time we're in port, Carey might need a long nap on board rather than liberty."

The striker's shoulders slumped.

After they left, Arch read the report more thoroughly and headed to the bridge to take the paperwork to Emmett Taylor, who was serving as officer of the deck on this watch.

"Hey, watch it, Stein!"

Arch whipped around and glanced up at the torpedo tubes.

"Sorry, Fish. Just some oil. Won't happen again." Seaman Stein handed a rag to Torpedoman's Mate Gifford Payne, nicknamed "Fish" for his work with torpedoes.

Fish wiped his face. "Wake up and watch what you're doing, you clod. I'm adjusting the firing mechanism, and you startled me. Could have been fatal to all of us."

"Sorry, Fish. Sorry." Stein rubbed his eyes as if waking from a nap.

Arch shook his head and headed for the bridge, his conscience niggling him. It wasn't enough to investigate the problems on board. He needed to report them. Captain Buckner wouldn't like it, but Arch had to do his duty as an officer. And soon.

For one thing, the problems seemed to extend past the deck division into ordnance. Jim hadn't seen any problems in engineering. Down in the engine and fire rooms, they didn't see the carnage.

For the first time since the Atwood went down, Arch longed for his old position below decks, blind to the death and destruction around them.

But no, the deck division was better. Up here, at least he wouldn't die trapped.

What were his chances of surviving the war anyway? The j.a.panese continued to devour the Pacific Islands, now down to the Solomons, a small leap from Australia.

In the Atlantic, only two U-boats had been sunk by the Americans, both by Navy aircraft off the sh.o.r.es of Newfoundland, making no dent in the losses of merchant ships. Adm. Ernest King, the Commander-in-Chief of the US Navy, refused to inst.i.tute convoys along the East Coast until adequate escort ships were available. The British were planning to send twenty-four anti-submarine trawlers, but the vessels were too slow to do much good.