Anchor In The Storm Part 24

Lillian's heart dragged down. "Oh dear. I play so poorly, she has to escape."

"Not at all. I think . . . I think she wanted to give us a moment alone."

His eyes were so blue, a shade that made her think of swimming pools and diving in and never surfacing for air. His firm shoulder pressed closer, and his Adam's apple dipped to the knot of his tie and back.

What if she did? What if she dove in? Freedom and joy welled up, but then something cold and sickening coiled in her stomach. Not again. She couldn't let this happen again.

Lillian scooted off the bench. "We should leave."

"Sit." His lips twisted back and forth between impatience and compa.s.sion.

She crossed her arms. "I'm not a dog."

He sighed and patted the bench. "Please sit."

"I'd rather not."

"You'd rather not open up to me again."

Her head sagged back, and she groaned. "What's wrong with me? I'm so coldhearted."

"I didn't say that, and I don't believe it. You're just . . . independent."

"Independent." Lillian sank down to the bench. "I've been thinking. My independence is like my prosthesis. I rely on both to get by. Without them, I feel weak. And my stump-it's ugly. The prosthesis hides it."

"I doubt-"

"My independence hides my heart. I-I'm not soft and sweet the way women are supposed to be."

"I like you this way."

She resumed the song, her cheeks warm. This wasn't how friends talked. This was more intimate.

Arch added some chords at the ba.s.s end. "I haven't been fair with you."

"How's that?"

His fingers spanned the chords, strong but gentle. "I pressure you to open up while I harbor a secret."

She paused. "A secret?"

"Play or I won't tell you."

Lillian returned to the music, watching his face.

His mouth tightened, and his eyelid twitched. "I haven't told anyone, not even Jim. Well, I did tell a physician once, but I won't make that mistake again. It could end my career."

"What?" Her mind bounced between possibilities and memories.

"When the Atwood was torpedoed, the engine room started to flood. When the captain gave the order to abandon ship, we-we couldn't get a hatch open. We were trapped."

"Oh no. How awful."

"We finally opened one, just in time. But ever since, I've had trouble sleeping. I get nightmares. My hands . . ." He held up one hand. "See it shake? I'm not cold. I'm never cold. Just telling the story started it up again."

"Oh, Arch." A better woman would take that hand and kiss away the trembles. "No wonder the case is so important to you. It's personal."

"I know what the men are going through." He stared at the top of the upright piano, and the cords of his neck stood out. "When general quarters sounds, I don't know if I can pull myself together. With G.o.d's help, I do my job, but barely. I understand how the men feel, why they want to treat it themselves, why they can't tell anyone."

"If the Navy knew . . ."

"I could lose my commission. The Navy is my life. I've worked too hard for this, and I can't go back to what I was. I don't want to be like that again-superficial, pretentious, manipulative."

Lillian smiled at the deep, genuine, kind man beside her. "You couldn't be like that."

He let out a dark chuckle and played a few chords. "You didn't know me when I was younger."

"Well, you could never be like that again. It isn't in you."

"You don't know how tempting it is, the way of life, the way of thinking that takes over. You think you're sophisticated and cultured and right, and everyone praises you. But you're wrong. That-" He thumped out a chord. "That is why I never want to be rich again."

"What about-well, what about when you inherit?"

"I'm selling it all, giving it all away. I don't want a penny of it."

What a fascinating man. What character to know himself so well. What strength to avoid the thing that tempted him. What sacrifice to forsake what most people craved.

He gave a firm nod. "There. I've shown you my weakness-and it isn't a good sort of weakness-and the ugliness inside my heart. Now we're even."

That cost him, same as telling her stories had cost her. Even more because his story held the power to end his career. How could she tell him how much it meant to her?

She lifted her fingers from the keys, hesitated, then laid her hand on his forearm. "Thank you. Thank you for trusting me."

Arch glanced at her hand, then covered it with his own. "I suppose we've worn out our welcome."

Lillian spun around. "Oh dear. Poor Mrs. Harrison."

"I'd like lunch before my watch, so we should leave."

"Of course." She stood. "Mrs. Harrison? We're leaving now."

"Oh, all right." Mrs. Harrison shuffled out of the bedroom with a satisfied gleam in her eye. The little matchmaker. "I'll see you next week, Lillian."

"Or earlier, I hope." Lillian picked up her purse from the cabinet by the door.

Arch stopped in front of the cabinet, which displayed framed photographs of Mrs. Harrison's grandchildren, and he pointed to a photo of a sailor. "Who-who is this?"

"That's my oldest grandson, Giffy." She picked up the portrait. "Isn't he handsome?"

"Oh yes." Lillian studied the picture. The young man grinned at the camera, his white "Dixie cup" cover at a jaunty angle over dark curls, his lean face confident and mischievous. "You must be proud."

"I am. He's the only one who pays me any mind." She traced the outline of his shoulder in his white uniform with its dark neckerchief. "He's taking me out to dinner tonight."

"I'm glad he's in town. Which ship-"

Arch grabbed her arm above the elbow. Hard.

Lillian glared at him, a retort on her tongue, but the pallor of his face and the intensity of his gaze silenced her. What was going on?

"I'm sorry, ladies. I have to report for duty." Without releasing his grip, Arch smiled at Mrs. Harrison. "Thank you for having us over. It was an honor to meet you."

"Likewise, young man. Please visit any time you're in town."

He bowed his head to her and steered Lillian out the door.

"Good-bye." She tried to shake off Arch's grip as he led her down the stairs, but he wouldn't let go. "Would-"

"Shh. Not yet." He propelled her down the stairs.

She pursed her lips and wrestled down panic with logic. Arch would never hurt her, and he wasn't trying to control her. She trusted him enough to bide her time.

Arch turned up Monument Avenue, still gripping her arm.

"Would you mind telling me what that was about?" She let her voice be chilly.

"In a minute." He led her up to the square, up the bank of granite steps toward Bunker Hill Monument, and onto the gra.s.s. "Giffy is Fish."

"What?"

"Giffy. I recognized his picture. Gifford Payne. Fish. Our source on board."

Lillian clapped her hand over her mouth. "Her-her grandson? Oh no. Poor Mrs. Harrison."

Under a large shade tree, Arch set his hands on her shoulders. "You delivered sedatives to her. The prescription was in her name, right?"

His face swam in her vision, mottled by leaves blocking the sunlight, his pale, pale face. "Are you . . . are you saying-"

"She's a link between Dixon's Drugs and the Ettinger. She's involved somehow."

Her knees wobbled. "She's getting the drugs for him? For him to sell? Mrs. Harrison? My Mrs. Harrison?"

"Maybe she doesn't know what he's doing. Maybe he's using her. He's a slippery fish, that man, the other reason for his nickname."

"Oh no." Her stomach writhed, and she clutched it. "I trusted her."

"Now, now." He squeezed her shoulders. "Reserve judgment. We don't have all the facts."

"Two hundred tablets a month. She's the link."

"One link. Two hundred isn't enough. At least ten men are involved on my ship, and Fish told Palonsky other ships are involved. Plus, you've seen forged prescriptions for other patients. This is only one piece of the puzzle."

"Oh, Arch. What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Now, now." His hands slipped behind her shoulders, as if to draw her close, but he stopped.

A breeze rustled the leaves, scented with spring and green and life, and she wanted to lean on Arch, wanted to trust in someone else's strength for a change.

She edged half a step closer. With a sigh, he gathered her into his arms, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder and circled her arms around his waist, clutching at the dark blue wool of his jacket. So new, so terrifying, so right.

"We have to keep you safe," he murmured. "That's the most important thing."

So this was how it felt to be cherished. She wanted to savor it, but she shook it off. "No. Solving the case is the most important thing."

"My brave girl." He rubbed her back, up and down. "But this is no time for bravery. We need to be cautious. Keep making your log, but don't take any chances. None."

She nodded, not feeling brave at all. "What about you?"

"I'll be careful. But you-keep up your lessons with Mrs. Harrison. Don't let her know we suspect her. Don't act as if anything has changed. Can you do that?"

"I-I think so."

"Whatever you do, don't tell her Jim and I serve on the Ettinger. What if she told Fish? He mustn't see the connection."

"All right." Lillian gazed across the expanse of Arch's chest, at his chin before her nose, at the dappled light alternating between dark and bright.

Friends didn't cling to each other. Friends didn't call one another "my brave girl." Friends didn't murmur and caress and sigh. Not like this.

Lillian backed out of his arms. Why did she suddenly feel chilly and incomplete? And why did he look lonely?

Arch tucked his hands in his pockets. "Ready for lunch?"

Somehow she nodded, although she had no appet.i.te. What had they gotten themselves into indeed?

25.

Off the coast of Ma.s.sachusetts