"Besotted!"

"Besotted." Mary raised a dreamy smile. "Remember how he flirted with you in Vermilion? You gave him the cold shoulder, and he backed off. But he didn't go away. He's approaching slowly, cautiously."

Lillian rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands. "Oh no."

"What's the matter? Don't you like him?"

"I do. He's a good friend."

"But you aren't attracted to him."

If only that were true. She moaned. "What's wrong with him?"

"Wrong?"

Lillian pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She never cried, and she wouldn't start now. "Archer Vandenberg could have any girl in the world. Why would he want a cripple?"

Mary came around the table and hugged Lillian's shoulders. "Because you're pretty and smart and funny and you stand up to him."

Lillian sat up straight and looked Mary in the eye. "You've known him longer than I have. Does he have a dark side?"

"Dark?" She frowned. "He gets morose sometimes, like when he realized Gloria only loved him for his money. But we all have our moods."

"No, I mean dark. Sinister."

Mary's eyebrows drew together, and she scrutinized Lillian's face.

How could she explain without . . . explaining? She covered her face with her hands. "I had a boyfriend in college. He said he loved me, but he only wanted me because I was weak. Not a precious sort of weak, a porcelain figurine to cherish. Oh no. He wanted a marionette he could manipulate, and there I was with my little wooden leg. But I showed him. I cut my strings."

"Oh, honey." Mary drew her closer. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

She didn't know the half of it, but Lillian succ.u.mbed to the hug. She'd never told anyone before, not Dad or Mom or Jim. She'd only told them Gordon wasn't the man she'd thought, giving her chin a lift that silenced further questions.

She was good at silencing questions, at shutting people out. Now, collapsed in Mary's embrace, she couldn't remember why she did so. Strange how the more she opened up to G.o.d, the more she opened up to others.

Her eyes felt moist, and the smell of tomato soup filled her nostrils.

"The pork chops!" Lillian extracted herself and checked on dinner. Just fine, thank goodness.

"Thank you for telling me," Mary said in a soft voice.

"Don't tell Jim please." What if he told Arch? What if Arch did want a puppet to control? But deep inside, she suspected he didn't.

Even so, did she want to become involved with him? Her throat constricted at the thought.

The front door opened and shut.

"Hi, Quintessa," Mary called. "We're in here."

No response.

Mary frowned at Lillian. "Yvette? Quintessa?"

Footsteps shuffled across the living room floor. Yvette and Quintessa never shuffled.

Lillian's blood ran cold, and her hand closed around the knife she'd used on the potatoes.

Quintessa appeared in the doorway, face pale, blonde curls disheveled. "You were right."

"Goodness!" Mary said. "What happened?"

"You were right," she said in a monotone. "He's married."

"Oh no." The knife clattered to the counter. Lillian didn't want to be right about that.

Mary rushed to her friend. "Oh, sweetheart."

"He . . . he's married. And I-I kissed him." She groaned, clapped her hand over her mouth, and ran to the bathroom.

Lillian and Mary followed, but Quintessa had shut the bathroom door. Sounds of retching filled the air.

"Oh no." Lillian leaned back against the wall.

"Poor Quintessa." Mary mirrored Lillian's posture. "Poor, poor thing."

Lillian stared at the ceiling. Clifford had lied and cheated and manipulated. Her brothers couldn't be the only honorable men in the world, but why did so many men have to be cads?

In a few minutes, the faucet turned on and off, and Quintessa emerged, even paler and more disheveled. She trudged to her room, sank onto the bed, and curled into a ball.

Lillian sat and pulled off Quintessa's shoes.

Mary lay beside her friend and rubbed her shoulder. "Are you certain?"

"A-a lady came to Filene's this afternoon and introduced herself as Mrs. Clifford White. She had pictures. Her girlfriend alb.u.m, she calls it. She shows it to all his girlfriends. I'm not . . . I'm not the first."

Mary pushed curls off Quintessa's face. "I'm sorry, honey."

"Their wedding picture. They have children. A boy and a girl. Their Christmas picture. It was this year. I know, 'cause she was wearing the scarf I helped him pick out for his-his mother." A sob burst out.

"There's no sick mother," Lillian said through gritted teeth. "Just a sick, sick man."

Quintessa groaned and turned her face to the pillow. "I can't stand it. I was so angry, so furious when Hugh cheated on me with her."

Lillian and Mary exchanged a glance. Quintessa hadn't spoken the name of her high school sweetheart since he'd gotten Alice Pendleton pregnant and married her.

"But I'm no better," Quintessa mumbled into the pillow. "I'm worse. He's married!"

"You didn't know," Mary murmured. "You couldn't have known."

"Why not?" Quintessa faced her friend through a tangle of curls. "There were signs. You two recognized them. But I ignored them. Am I that desperate?"

Lillian patted Quintessa's knee, at a loss for words.

Mary stroked back Quintessa's hair. "Shh. Please don't be hard on yourself. It isn't like you."

"It isn't, is it?" Quintessa rolled onto her back, eyes large and stricken. "I'm never hard on myself. But I need to be. I don't know who I am anymore."

Lillian's heart ached for her. She knew what that was like.

Quintessa rubbed her forehead. "Ever since I came to Boston, I've been grasping for adoration. First I came between you and Jim, and now this. A married man! Who am I?"

Mary gripped Quintessa's hand. "You didn't know Jim and I were falling for each other, because neither one of us told you. And you didn't know Clifford was married, because he certainly didn't tell you. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Angry, yes. Brokenhearted, yes. Betrayed, yes. But not guilty."

But Lillian recognized the devastation in Quintessa's eyes, the soul-searching devastation when you realized you weren't the person you thought you were.

Lillian patted Quintessa's knee again, awkward and inadequate. "I know. I know."

19.

Boston

Friday, March 27, 1942

The Ettinger drifted toward the pier at the Boston Navy Yard at a ten-degree angle, her engines still. Arch strode toward the stern, longing to fill his eyes with the city's skyline and his mind with thoughts of an evening with Lillian Avery, but he had work to do.

The deck looked shipshape, the crew in dress blues, the bright work shined, and all equipment and laundry stowed. More importantly, the mooring lines were faked down, laid in neat loops clear for running, with the heaving lines attached and seamen standing by.

The ship edged closer, and a sailor cast the bowline to the pier.

"Cast seven," the talker called.

"Cast seven," Arch repeated, and a seaman heaved the stern line to the pier. One by one the other lines were cast. Commands raced. "Slack one!" "Take a strain, seven!" "Check four!"

Arch leaned over the lifeline to judge the distance to the pier and to guide the lines.

The rudder was put over away from the pier to swing the stern closer, and the engine revved in reverse to stop the headway.

The after quarter spring line drooped too low. "Take in slack on five!" Arch shouted.

Hobie McLachlan manned that line, but he was rubbing the s.p.a.ce between his eyes.

"McLachlan!" Arch yelled. "Take in slack!"

"What, sir? Oh." He gathered in the slack, but he was too slow, and the line dipped into the water.

Arch groaned. Once they were moored, they'd have to replace that line. Buckner would have words. "Watch what you're doing, boys."

At least the men in charge of the fender flopped it down in time to keep the destroyer from b.u.mping the pier. When the Ettinger rested parallel to the pier, the men doubled up the lines and rigged the gangway.

One night in Boston, then out to patrol again. Over two dozen sinkings in the past two weeks, and the few naval vessels along the coast ran around in fruitless patrols, chasing sightings and rescuing survivors. If this continued, the loss in oil and cargo would seriously hinder the war effort.

Before long, all but a skeleton crew disembarked the Ettinger for liberty. Down on the pier, Lt. Dan Avery stood with Mary Stirling, both grinning and waving. Arch waved back. It wasn't like Dan to look jolly. What was going on?

Arch and Jim descended the gangway, and Jim swept Mary into his arms and kissed her.

Impatience wriggled inside. Would he ever get together with Lillian? It shouldn't require this much effort.

Yet she was worth the effort. Tonight they planned to take the ladies dancing. If Clifford wasn't in town, maybe they could talk Dan into escorting Quintessa. Arch would sit out with Lillian or perhaps coax her to dance as he'd coaxed her to skate.

"Best news since Pearl Harbor," Dan said with that grin still in place. "Today Admiral King approved coastal convoys."

"He did?" Arch shook his head to clear his mind and his ears. "We still don't have enough escorts."

"Not by a long shot." Dan crossed his arms. "The plan is for partial convoys starting in April-they're calling them bucket brigades-with full convoys by May or June."

"Bucket brigades?" Jim asked.

"You know the U-boats mainly attack at night," Dan said. "So the convoys will sail by day and put into harbor at night. All the merchantmen will sail together with whatever escorts we can arrange. They're even purchasing private yachts and arming them with depth charges and machine guns."

"Say, Arch." Jim nudged him with an elbow. "You have a yacht."

The idea of a machine gun on the Caroline made him laugh. "I'm afraid she's too small."

"They're also releasing seventy Kingfishers for air patrols in the Eastern and Gulf Sea Frontiers." Dan tilted his head toward the open ocean. "Not the long-range bombers we need, but it's a step in the right direction."

"And a cause for celebration." Jim whirled Mary around. "What do you say? Think we can talk Lillian and Quintessa into an evening of dancing?"

Mary's laughter and smile dissolved. "Oh. Not Quintessa. I-I'll explain later."

"Mr. Avery, sir?" A seaman stood to the side with a stack of mail. "A letter for you. And Mr. Vandenberg, you have three."

"From Rob," Jim said with a grin.