Anchor In The Storm Part 15

"I'm sorry," Mary said.

Arch gave Jim an I-told-you-so look, but Jim just rolled his eyes.

Quintessa pressed her hand to her forehead. "I do sound selfish. His mother's ill, and I'm whining because I can't surprise my boyfriend with a picnic at the North Bridge."

"Nonsense." Mary hugged her. "You don't have a selfish bone in your body. You're just used to being adored by the men in your life, and when a man doesn't dote on you . . ."

Quintessa looked stricken. "That's selfish."

"No," Mary said. "Being used to something and demanding it are two different things."

Arch knew plenty of women like Quintessa. Gorgeous, intelligent, vivacious, accustomed to constant attention. At least Quintessa had a measure of humility and self-awareness.

Then there was Lillian. His gaze swung to the lovely young lady in the green coat. Not only did she not demand attention, she seemed leery of it. He wanted to know why. He wanted to change her mind. But how could he do so when his dark mood had stripped away all semblance of charm?

Arch lagged behind the group as they walked along tree-lined streets past graceful colonial homes. Everyone chatted, and Jim tried to draw him in to conversation, but Arch gave short if polite replies. Jim took the hint and stopped trying.

Lillian fell quiet. Her gait stiffened, and the hitch in her step increased. What was it like for her to walk with a prosthesis, with the stump of her leg bearing her weight with each step, perhaps rubbing in the socket? It had to hurt, yet she never complained.

They pa.s.sed the Old Manse, former home to both Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and then headed down a long pathway to the North Bridge.

Lillian's shoulders relaxed, but her gait slowed.

Arch fell in beside her as they neared the bridge. "Would you like to rest?"

Her gaze flew to him, bristling with barbs. "I'm not weak."

"No, but you do get sore," he said gently.

Her mouth drifted open, then she looked away. "I-I am a bit uncomfortable today."

"There's a bench up ahead by the bridge. I could use a rest myself."

"I'm sorry I snapped," she muttered.

"Well, if your week was anything like mine, you have reason to snap." Arch plopped onto the bench, exhausted inside and out.

Lillian sat beside him and crossed her ankles a few times, probably seeking a comfortable position. "That destroyer that was sunk off the coast of Delaware, right?"

"The Jacob Jones." A sigh flowed out all the way from his toes. On February 28, the Jacob Jones had been searching for survivors from the sunken tanker R.P. Resor, when she was also sunk by a U-boat. "One hundred forty-nine men killed. d.i.c.k Reinhardt was one of them. We served with him. Survived the sinking of the Atwood, but not the Jacob Jones. He was married."

"Oh no. I'm so sorry."

Arch stretched out his legs and closed his twitching eyelids. "It just won't stop. We don't have enough warships to run convoys along the East Coast. In the Pacific, the j.a.panese pick off our ships as if shooting skeet. How many Allied ships were sunk in the Java Sea? How many hundreds of men died? Now Singapore's fallen, and the Dutch East Indies, and tens of thousands of our men are besieged on Bataan."

"It does look bad."

"We've only been at war three months, and it's one defeat after another."

"That's only true on the outside."

"Hmm?" He opened his eyes.

Lillian held up her chin. "We'll rally. We always do. Think of the men who are enlisting, the ships and planes and tanks we're building, the women flocking to work in the factories, everyone pulling together. We just have to keep our spirits up and-and lean on the Lord."

Arch gazed at the anchor necklace at the base of her pretty neck. "'Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul.' I wish my faith ran that deep."

"I wish mine did too." Her eyes searched Arch's. "I-I'm trying to lean on him, but . . ."

Arch's eyes closed again. "I don't know why I don't lean on the Lord more. I trust him. I do."

"Me too." Lillian's voice was soft and pensive.

Something unwound in Arch, and he let it. "Growing up, I trusted in money and connections. My parents warned me not to. Trust in your mind, your character, they said-those things no man can touch. So I did. Now what do I trust in? What do I really trust in? My naval career." That was his way to escape the privileged life and its dangers. But man could take away that career. Then where would he be?

"My career." The wretchedness in Lillian's voice pried Arch's eyes open. She gazed toward the bridge, where Jim, Mary, and Quintessa leaned on the railing, dropping sticks in the water and racing to the other side to watch them float away.

"Your career?" Arch asked.

She shook her head, eyes glistening. "I didn't want to be weak like Lucy. She was sickly as a child, always depending on others, and I hated it in her. After my accident, my greatest fear was ending up like her. I pushed myself, forced myself to walk even when I bled. Then I saw how people recoiled from me. When I grew up, no one would take care of me, and I refused to burden my family. A career was my only hope, and I worked hard for it."

Arch watched her reddening face and reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief, but she shook her head.

"My family," she said, her voice steady. "They all have such strong faith, but I resisted opening my heart to G.o.d. I do believe. I always have. But I kept him at a distance. I'm trying to change, trying to open up." She looked Arch in the eye and shifted her mouth to one side. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

He chuckled. "I don't know why I told you my garbage either. I guess you needed to take a load off your feet, and we both needed to take loads off our chests."

"Well, I refuse to be down." She stood. "Come on. We can't come to Concord and not cross the North Bridge."

That optimism drew him to his feet. "Yes, ma'am."

Lillian headed up the wooden bridge. "It might not cheer you up, but it'll take your mind off the war for a moment. I called Dr. Kane this week. He didn't write the prescriptions. They're forgeries."

"He's telling the truth?"

Lillian frowned. "I suppose he could be lying. I hadn't considered that."

He didn't want her to question her judgment. "A forger."

"Yes. I called the police, but they can't do anything unless he's still in the store. Next time, the detective said."

"Wait." At the top of the bridge, Arch stopped and reached for Lillian's arm.

She glanced at his hand and eased away.

Why did she distrust him so much? Even now? His stomach soured, but he let go and focused on why he'd stopped her in the first place. "Don't call the police yet."

"Why not? Forgery's a crime."

"Yes, but what if it's a ring? What if more than one person is involved?"

"I-I think it is a ring. It's too much phen.o.barbital for only one addict." She glanced to the far end of the bridge, where Jim and her friends stood by the Minuteman statue.

"Then please wait. If you have one man arrested, what will the others do? You could be in danger."

Fear sparked in her hazel eyes, but defiance sparked brighter. "You want me to do nothing while these criminals-"

"I want you to wait." He sank his hands in his coat pockets so he wouldn't reach for her again. "Let's investigate some more, find the links. For one thing, Palonsky and I made progress."

"You did?"

His fingers closed around the folded envelope in his pocket, and he pulled it out. "I asked him to complain about his nerves in front of Hobie McLachlan. He did so. It took a few days, but Hobie pulled Palonsky aside and gave him this." He opened the envelope.

Lillian pulled out a tablet and gasped. "That's phen.o.barbital!"

"Thought so." He jiggled the envelope.

Lillian dropped the pill inside. "Palonsky didn't take any, did he?"

"No, but the next day he told Hobie he'd had the best night's sleep in ages." Arch stuffed the envelope back in his pocket. "Hobie offered to supply him with more. For a price, of course. Palonsky agreed. After all, I'm covering his costs."

"Hobie McLachlan." Lillian scanned the clouds. "The name doesn't ring a bell. I wonder where he's getting the med. From a physician? From Dixon's under a fake name? Or from a middleman?"

"He said he had a prescription, but I don't trust him one whit."

Lillian strolled toward the statue. "That's nice of you to cover the costs."

"Plus a monthly stipend." Guilt jabbed his belly. But he wasn't using his wealth to manipulate. He'd hired an a.s.sistant, perfectly acceptable.

A breeze rustled the empty branches, and Lillian brushed hair off her cheek. "He should be careful not to spend too much in front of the other sailors. They'll wonder why he's suddenly so rich."

"I told him something similar." Only he hadn't used the word rich. "He's saving it. He wants to go to Hollywood after the war, get into the movies. If the war ever ends, that is."

"No more of that." Lillian marched to the statue. "Where'd they go?"

Down on the riverbank, Jim set down the picnic basket, and the ladies spread out a blanket. "There they are. Lunchtime."

Lillian stared up at the statue, head tilted, fingers tapping on her crossed arms. "Look at him. He left his plow behind and picked up his gun to fight."

A smile tugged on his lips. "Just like 1942."

"Exactly." She gave him a determined look. "In 1775, who would have guessed a ragtag group of farmers-untrained, undisciplined, and unorganized-would defeat the greatest military power of their time?"

Arch turned toward the bridge. Those farmers had stood their ground, marched toward the uniformed ranks, and fired "the shot heard 'round the world."

He inhaled freedom and courage and hope. "We'll prevail too."

"Yes, we will."

Arch faced Lillian. She was good for him with her stubborn optimism. If only he could convince her that he'd be good for her as well.

16.

Boston

Tuesday, March 10, 1942

Lillian peeled tape off the time-faded ad for Bayer aspirin and savored the afternoon sunshine slanting through the window.

Mr. Dixon handed her a poster of a pilot in his c.o.c.kpit, proclaiming, "You buy 'em. We'll fly 'em. Defense Bonds and Stamps."

Lillian set it in position. Why did a man who hated paying for electricity block G.o.d's own free lighting?

With a few pieces of tape, she secured the patriotic poster. How could she present her ideas to Mr. Dixon?

On a recent Sunday at Park Street Church, Dr. Harold Ockenga had preached about Daniel standing up to the Babylonians so he and his friends could avoid unclean foods. Daniel hadn't acted in angry defiance. With respect and kindness and prayer, he'd proposed an experiment.

An experiment. Lillian sent up a prayer and cleared her throat. "Mr. Dixon, I've been thinking about why we don't sell a lot of cosmetics here."

"What do you mean? We sell plenty."

She smoothed down the last piece of tape. "Not compared to other stores where I've worked. I think we could increase sales with a feminine touch to our cosmetics display."

"Mrs. Connelly." Mr. Dixon marched to the cash register. "Do you think there's anything wrong with the cosmetics display?"

The cashier's eyes widened, then she rearranged rolls of Necco wafers. "Well, it could stand some improvement. It's not the most . . . attractive display."

Mr. Dixon strode to a customer, a woman in her forties. "Excuse me, ma'am. Do you buy cosmetics here?"

She stepped back and stared at him. "Um, well, no. I prefer to buy them . . ." She waved toward the street, as if she didn't want to name a compet.i.tor.

He tugged his white coat down over his ample belly. "With a more . . . attractive display, would you shop here?"