"Don't leave on my account."

She spun around. She'd misjudged. He stood only one pace away, several inches taller than she, his bright blue eyes twinkling a challenge. If she left now, he'd know she'd most certainly left on his account. Stuck. She was stuck.

"I . . ." She gestured to the back corner. "I need to switch brooms."

"May I help?"

"Switch brooms?"

His smile surely made girls swoon up and down the Eastern Seaboard. "Sweep. May I help sweep?"

He didn't look like the sweeping sort, which could be amusing. She handed him the broom. "That's called a broom. You may have heard of them."

Arch frowned at the item in his black-gloved hands. "Yes. Yes, I've heard of such things." Then he winked. "And that's called sarcasm. You may have heard of it."

Lillian inclined her head in appreciation. At least he could take teasing. She grabbed a regular broom. She'd follow him and take care of all he missed.

"What are you working on, Mr. Avery?" Arch pushed the broom with vigor and decent technique.

"A yacht for a client in Columbus. She won't be needed until summer, so I have time. Her name is Isabella, and we're still getting acquainted."

Arch removed his cap and bowed from the waist. "Good day, Isabella. An honor."

Lillian peered at the officer. No sign of condescension or mockery. He simply shared her father's love of boats, understood his mystical connection.

Arch pulled his cap on over his blond hair and resumed sweeping, as he and Dad discussed the sailboat's specifications. Since sailor boy was doing a pa.s.sable job with the push broom, she'd let him manage the open s.p.a.ces while she cleaned under the equipment.

Lillian poked the broom under the woodstove, the only source of heat in the workshop, and she sniffled in the cool air. If Arch thought her lovely last night, he'd change his mind now that he'd seen her in a man's work coat, heavy gloves, and the ugliest hat in Ohio.

"Good," she whispered.

"I'm sorry it isn't sailing season," Dad said. "I'd love to take you out."

"That's all right." Arch's voice sounded stiff.

"I know how it is with sailors and the sea."

"The sea was always my refuge."

Lillian pushed the dust from under the stove into Arch's path. Oh brother. Why on earth would a rich, privileged boy need a refuge?

"Was?" Dad said.

Arch stood up straight. "Pardon?"

Dad refolded his sandpaper. "You said the sea was your refuge, not is."

Arch's broom paused. "I-I mean-of course, the sea's never been safe. I knew that, but-"

"But now you've seen firsthand."

A cloud pa.s.sed before Arch's eyes.

Lillian couldn't look away, but she refused to stare. With effort, she ripped her attention to sweeping around the wood box.

A sudden chuckle from Arch. "Yes, now I've seen firsthand, and I have renewed respect. I'll be a better officer for it."

"I'm sure you will," Dad said.

"The country will need all the good officers she can get. Things aren't going well."

"No, they aren't. Seems the j.a.panese land somewhere new every day. The Philippines, Borneo, Malaya. We've been caught unaware."

"We sure have." Arch's broom shushed over the floor. "The only good thing the war has done is to shut down talk of isolationism. We're all in this together."

"Even here in little Vermilion." Lillian swept under the workbench. "We have a Home Defense Guard Unit, the Boy Scouts are holding a paper drive, the Red Cross is stepping up work, and the Civic Club donated the money for Christmas lighting to local defense. People are scared but determined."

Dad cleared his throat. "Mrs. Avery would like for us to dine at Okagi's tonight, partly so she doesn't have to cook so close to Christmas, and partly to support Mr. Okagi. But Arch, we won't go if it bothers you."

"Why would it?"

"Mr. Okagi is j.a.panese."

Lillian stood her broom straight and clutched it like a standard. "He's been here over a decade, and he wants to become a citizen, but the United States won't let him, and his wife is French, and everyone in Vermilion loves them. Their restaurant is the finest in Ohio. We used to go into the city to dine, but now city folk come out here, and it's all because of Mr. Okagi."

Arch stared at her, but a different stare from the night before, his eyes warm and his mouth bent in a slight smile. "Sounds like a fine man."

"He is." Her breath huffed out. She probably sounded like a silly schoolgirl.

"The FBI came the day after Pearl Harbor." At the workbench, Dad exchanged the sandpaper for a finer grade. "Closed down the restaurant and investigated him. He's clean, so the FBI let him reopen the next day."

"I'm glad," Arch said.

"Well, we don't want to put you in an uncomfortable position. The Navy took the brunt of it in Hawaii." Dad rubbed the sandpaper between his fingers.

"Yes, but it sounds like Mr. Okagi has an airtight alibi." Arch grinned at Lillian. "And I wouldn't want to get in the way of you and that broom."

She allowed herself to smile.

"Besides, I believe in judging a person on words and actions and character." His expression sobered and homed in on Lillian. "Not on background or appearance."

Lillian sucked in a breath and swept around the workbench. Did he mean he wouldn't judge her for her leg? Or was he asking her not to judge him by his wealth? Or both?

The Navy had better a.s.sign Ensign Archer Vandenberg somewhere other than Boston.

3.

Vermilion

Thursday, December 25, 1941

Arch had never seen such a Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Avery, five of their children, and Lucy's husband, Martin, jumbled up on the furniture and on the floor in pajamas. Presents changed hands in no predictable order, yet the braided rug in the center of the living room bore neat piles of boxes, paper, and ribbon.

Chaotic, confusing, and beautiful.

On the floor by the Christmas tree, Lillian hugged a book to her chest. "Agatha Christie's Evil Under the Sun. Thank you, Jim."

"Mary picked it out. She loves mysteries too. Obviously." Jim laughed and plucked at the red and green ribbons Lillian had transferred from packages to her hair. "Don't let my girlfriend give you ideas about solving your own murder mystery."

"Silly boy." Lillian swatted Jim's hand and readjusted the ribbons in her amber hair. "I'm a pharmacist. It won't be a murder-it'll be a drug ring."

Arch grinned and set his new handkerchief next to his chair with his other gifts. What was it about that woman that drew him?

He repeated the reasons he shouldn't be attracted to her. She was Jim's sister, and if anything went wrong, the friendship could be marred. She was also crippled, and he ordinarily wouldn't give her a second look.

Yet reason was foundering. Why would Jim stand between his best friend and his beloved sister? And how could Arch use the word crippled to describe a young lady who let nothing impede her dreams? No, he'd describe her as strong, determined . . . enchanting.

However, she didn't seem to like him. He needed to orchestrate more time together, preferably in a romantic setting. And he needed to show her he wasn't a sn.o.b.

Charlie, the youngest Avery, pulled eight flat boxes from under the tree. "From Arch. One for each of us. Wow."

Arch settled back in the chair while Charlie distributed the boxes. "Jim told me your sizes. If they don't fit, I can exchange them."

"Oh my." Lucy pulled out her pair of gloves in the finest russet leather, lined with cashmere. "These are beautiful."

Mrs. Avery stroked the leather. "Goodness. You shouldn't have spent so much on us."

"Nonsense. I'm consuming your food, heat, and hospitality for two solid weeks. It's the least I could do."

She raised bewildered eyes. "But you already gave me a lovely hostess gift."

"Not to mention you sprang for the lot of us at Okagi's." Jim's smile teased Arch for spending like the Vandenberg heir.

Jim was wrong. Arch didn't use money to get his way. Not anymore.

He gave the family a sheepish look. "Have pity. I don't have brothers or sisters to treat. Besides, if I can't be generous on Christmas with my best friend's family, when can I?"

"Of course." Mrs. Avery gave him a look full of compa.s.sion-pity even. "And they're lovely. Thank you."

Lillian inspected her glove-encased hand and tipped a smile to him. "Thank you."

That smile paid him back tenfold. "You're welcome."

From his armchair, Mr. Avery pointed under the tree. "You missed one, Lillian."

She peeled off the glove. "For me? Thank you, Dad."

Arch couldn't stop watching her, how the honey-colored waves of hair swished down her shoulder as she bent over the package, how her cheeks rounded, how unadorned lips spread in a winsome smile.

That day in her father's workshop, when she gave an impa.s.sioned plea for Mr. Okagi while dressed like a peasant in an oversized coat and a stocking cap, he'd tipped over the edge. He'd been in free fall ever since.

"How pretty." Lillian lifted a gold necklace. "An anchor to remind me of my nautical heritage when I get to Boston."

Mr. Avery rested his forearms on his knees. "To remind you of something deeper. Jesus is your anchor, your hope in any storm, your sure refuge." He stretched out the last word so it reached all the way to Arch.

Jesus was his refuge, his anchor. He knew that, but did he believe it?

Arch had grown up with an aloof stained-gla.s.s Jesus, but Jim had introduced him to the rugged carpenter in the fishing boat, genuine and straightforward. Arch's faith had become personal in the past few years, but it must not be enough.

If it were, the shakes would be gone by now.

In thirteen days, his survivor's leave would end. Would he be ready to return to sea, to go below decks?

A tremor built in his hands, and he laced his fingers together. He had to be ready. How could an officer in the US Navy plead anxiety while soldiers and sailors fought and died throughout the Pacific, while U-boats devastated Allied shipping in the Atlantic and j.a.panese subs sank ships off the California coast?

Lord, help me do this.

"I know I can do it." Lillian clasped the golden chain behind her neck. "I'm so excited about my new job. The store, the patients, everything. I can't wait."

"All right, girls." Mrs. Avery stood. "Let's clear the breakfast dishes, and then we can all get dressed."

Lillian headed for the dining room, her brown oxfords in contrast to her creamy bathrobe. She always wore oxfords, probably because of the prosthesis.

Lucy eased up from the couch as if expecting her child tomorrow rather than in May, and she cradled her hand around her flat belly. "I'm coming. I can't move so fast now."

Arch rearranged his laced fingers. Jim said Lillian was born big and healthy, while Lucy was small and sickly. They'd almost lost her a few times. Coddled, most likely.

Lillian seemed to think Arch was coddled too, a rich boy accustomed to servants clearing the table.

That thought propelled him to his feet. He'd show her he could clear dishes.

Lillian carried a stack of plates into the kitchen, and Lucy followed with some gla.s.ses. Arch grabbed a platter and set serving bowls on top.