Arch had waited long enough. "And Lillian?"

Jim's lips thinned to a straight line. "She's alive."

"Alive!" Arch jerked up to sitting, and pain stabbed. "Alive? Why? Is she hurt?"

"Praise G.o.d, no."

The two officers took the chairs offered by Nurse Holloway, thanked her, and sat.

Arch listened in stunned disbelief as Jim related Lillian's story. How she'd discovered the elusive Scar was Mr. Dixon's nephew, and that Mr. Dixon-Mr. Dixon!-ran the whole operation. How the pharmacist had sent two thugs to stage a robbery and kill her. How Lillian had foiled them with quick thinking and a great deal of courage. And how Mr. Dixon, Scar, and the two thugs were in jail and several other men were under investigation.

Arch sank back to the pillows and thanked G.o.d for keeping Lillian safe, for helping her think straight, and for putting an end to the whole mess. "Are you sure she's all right?"

"I saw her myself," Jim said. "We pulled in to New York early yesterday. I called, found out what happened, and caught the next train to Boston. I came back a few hours ago. She's a bit shaken, but she's resilient. She'll be fine."

She was more than resilient. Lillian Avery was the best woman he'd ever known, and he'd pushed her away. And he'd endangered her. "I'm sorry I got her into this."

Jim sighed and stretched out his legs. "You? I'm the one who got her that job-with a criminal for a boss."

"Maybe, but I'm the one who started the investigation."

Captain Buckner cleared his throat. "Because you did, the ring is broken and four criminals are behind bars. The work you and Palonsky did was vital. With your testimony, Miss Avery's, and Earl Kramer's, convictions are guaranteed. Palonsky's death was not in vain."

Nausea oozed around, and Arch pressed his hand to his belly. Palonsky's death might not be in vain, but it wouldn't have happened at all if Arch hadn't waved dollar bills in the man's face.

"We should let you rest." Captain Buckner stood. "I'm sorry about your injury. You served well on the Ettinger, and I've put you in for a commendation."

Arch shook his hand, but what good was a commendation without a commission? Nothing but a medal to stuff in his dresser drawer.

"I hope our paths cross again." The captain turned to leave.

"Jim," Arch said. "I'd like to speak with you in private."

Jim looked to his CO, who gave a nod of approval, and Jim returned to his seat.

Arch waited for the captain to depart. "I need to apologize for what happened with Lillian. For breaking her heart."

Jim shrugged. "It wasn't going to work anyway. You're too different. Better it ended early before you got too attached to each other."

Too late for that. "I suppose you're right."

"I also need to apologize." Jim gestured to Arch's face. "Your eye. That's right where I hit you."

"You only gave me a bruise."

"Maybe I weakened the bone."

"You overestimate the power of your own fist."

Jim cracked a smile, the first Arch had seen from him since that fist had been thrown. Then Jim sobered. "Anyway, I'm real sorry about the Navy. You're a good officer, and I know how much it meant to you."

Misery intensified the nausea, and Arch glanced away, along the line of beds filled with the wounded.

"I should go." Jim's chair creaked. "I guess we won't see each other again."

Arch sucked in a breath, but then it seeped out. Nothing connected them anymore-not the Navy, not Lillian, not even the long years of their friendship. It was all gone.

Jim stood tall and snapped a salute, his eyes dark with emotion. "It was an honor serving with you, Mr. Vandenberg."

Arch's salute touched his bandages and his heart. "And it was an honor serving with you, Mr. Avery."

With military precision, Jim turned on his heel and strode out of the ward.

In less than a week, Arch had sent a good man to his death and he'd lost his eye, his commission, his best friend, and the woman he loved.

All that remained was his wealth. And he knew what that would do to him. He didn't deserve any better.

44.

Boston

Thursday, June 11, 1942

Lillian poked at the cool mound of chicken salad resting on a bed of tomato slices. The perfect meal for a balmy evening.

She had to eat. Too many days with too little food were taking a toll.

Her brother Dan wiped his mouth with his napkin. "That had better be your last day with the police."

Mary and Quintessa murmured their agreement.

"It's all right." Lillian cut a tomato slice in half. "Detective Malloy is very kind. He lets me stop when-when I need to."

The police had caught Hank and Shorty in the store-sack, clipboard, gun, and all-evidence that landed them in jail beside Mr. Dixon and his nephew. They were also questioning Albert and a man named Stanley Jackson, the forger. From Mr. Jackson's picture, Lillian identified him as the man who used the alias of Harvey Jones. Apparently he'd wanted to get out of the ring so badly that he'd run away to enlist. Now he was cooperating with the police.

Lillian had spent the last two days at the police station and in Dixon's Drugs, helping the officers decipher the mess. It was hard to see the store again and remember what had happened. It was even harder to talk about Arch and remember the joy of his friendship, of working together, of the protective way he'd held her.

He'd lost his eye! That meant he could no longer serve in the Navy. He had to be devastated. On top of that, he was dealing with Warren Palonsky's death and all the nasty things Lillian had said to him.

"You had some phone calls today."

She blinked and forced her eyes to focus on Quintessa.

The blonde slid a piece of paper to her. "Good thing I had the day off from Filene's to serve as your personal secretary."

Lillian stared at the list of drugstores and phone numbers. "Five stores?"

"They all want to hire Boston's plucky girl druggist."

That's what the newspapers had dubbed her.

She pushed away the list and her plate. "I don't want to be in Boston anymore. I want to go home."

"I don't blame you. Go home, sweetie." Quintessa patted her arm. "What you need is rest and relaxation and pampering from your mama."

Dan snorted. "I disagree. Interview for those jobs. Take the best offer and start immediately. Work will take your mind off all this. Leaving town would make things worse, cement your fears."

Lillian rubbed her hollow stomach. "I should visit Lucy. And I can't stand Boston right now. I just can't."

"How about a compromise?" Mary slid Lillian's plate back in front of her. "Go home for a week, be pampered, hold that baby niece of yours, and clear your mind. Then you can decide-Ohio, Boston, California, Texas-wherever you want."

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it." Mary set her napkin on the table.

Lillian scooped chicken salad into her mouth. It did taste good. If only it would stay down.

"Lillian?" Mary said. "It's Mrs. Harrison."

Mrs. Harrison? Her neighbor hadn't spoken to her in almost two months. Lillian went to the door.

Mrs. Harrison stood on the landing, twisting her hands, her eyes watery. "I-I saw the newspaper today."

"Please, come in." At last she had a chance to apologize.

"No, no. You have company. Would you . . . would you be willing to come to my apartment?"

"Of course." Lillian said good-bye to her brother and roommates and followed her neighbor upstairs. "I'm glad you came. I need to apologize-"

"No. You were right about Giffy. I just couldn't hear it."

"But it was wrong of me, so coldhearted. You were grieving. I was awful."

"Well, I was wrong too." Mrs. Harrison opened her door. "I shouldn't have treated you as I did."

Lillian inhaled the sweet familiar scents of furniture polish and chicken broth and lavender. Then she looked into Mrs. Harrison's blue eyes. "I truly am sorry about your grandson. I know how much you loved him."

Her lips pressed together, her cheeks reddened, and she blinked over and over. "It was a double loss. I lost the sweet little boy I adored. And I lost the upright young man I believed him to be. He . . . he was using me. Deep inside I knew it, but I told myself I was helping him."

"I'm so sorry." Lillian pulled her handkerchief from her pocket.

Mrs. Harrison shook her head and dabbed her eyes with her own hankie. "When I saw today's paper-oh! That gang of hoodlums Giffy got himself involved with-they tried to kill you. And they killed that poor sailor. And what about that handsome officer of yours? I saw his name in the paper too. He could have been hurt. How is he?"

The piano bench-she and Arch had sat there not so long ago, shoulders pressed together. "I-I don't know. Oh, it was horrible. I fell in love with him, and he with me. I opened my heart, but then I slammed it shut and drove him away. Now he's been injured, and he's out of the Navy, and I'll never see him again."

"'To a Wild Rose.'"

"What?"

"You need to play it." She motioned to the bench. "And I need to hear it."

Why bother arguing? It would only delay the inevitable. Lillian plopped onto the bench, so alone. Although she hadn't played the piece for weeks, or even thought of it, she played it by rote. Once through, mechanical, note by note, just as written.

The last chord sounded, and it resonated, tingling through Lillian's soul. So poignant. So wistful, full of longing and loss.

She started again. Arch had sat next to her with vulnerability in his brilliant eyes, compa.s.sion in his deep voice, and strength in every fiber. She'd loved him so much, and now he was gone from her life forever. And Warren Palonsky was dead. Funny, bright, talented-murdered. And her own boss, the man she'd worked with for six months, had cared so little for her that he'd ordered her death. And those thugs-they could have . . . they could have . . .

Her chest heaved, and something wet splashed on her thumb. Then another droplet landed on middle C. She was . . . crying?

She hadn't cried since she lost her leg. Not one tear.

"Oh, you poor, sweet child. It's all too much, isn't it?" Mrs. Harrison sat beside her on the bench and gathered her in a hug.

Something broke inside, and great sobs convulsed her, creaking and rusty, and Mrs. Harrison rocked her back and forth in her lavender-scented embrace.

Two sets of sobs mingled together, for young life lost, for love destroyed, for trust betrayed, for friendship forsaken. And they rocked each other and comforted each other and mourned together and healed together.

After a few minutes, Lillian pulled back with a sniffle and fumbled for her handkerchief.

"That was lovely," Mrs. Harrison said, drying her own eyes.

"My tears?" Lillian grimaced at the ugly mess she'd made of her hankie.

"The song. That was the most touching version of the piece I've ever heard."

"It was?" She couldn't even remember how it sounded.

Mrs. Harrison squeezed her hand with her wrinkled, arthritic, beautiful fingers. "Now you've experienced great love. Now you've suffered great loss. Now your heart is truly open."

Lillian pressed her free hand to her chest. Why did an open heart have to hurt so much?