Anchor In The Storm Part 46

45.

US Naval Hospital, Brooklyn

Sat.u.r.day, June 20, 1942

Mother leaned over and kissed Arch's cheek, then held his face between her hands, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with concern. "I'm so glad you survived. It could have been much worse."

Sitting up in bed, Arch nodded so he wouldn't have to speak. His bruising and swelling had receded, and the bandages had been reduced in volume. On the outside, he seemed barely altered.

Father shook his hand. "You look well, son. You'll be up and around in no time."

"Yes, sir." He swallowed a bitter taste. At least his father hadn't said, "I told you so." All those years he'd run from Vandenberg Insurance, and now he was thrown back in.

"It's good to see you, Archer." Bitsy kissed his cheek too. A white pouf of netting on her hat veiled her dark eyes. If she'd intended to look like a bride, she'd succeeded. But the veil didn't conceal her averted gaze. Was she afraid of what she'd see? Or would she put up with the gaping hole in his skull as long as she was surrounded by opulence? He knew the answer. She wouldn't visit him in the hospital unless she was willing to wear his ring.

His parents and the woman who wanted to be his wife sat in chairs at the foot of his bed.

This was his fate, and he had to accept it. Sure, he could look for another job, but he had a hunch all other doors would be slammed in his face because he belonged in the family business. It was time to stop running.

"I have a proposition for you." Father removed his fedora. "As I've told you, business is booming. I'd like to open a branch in Boston and put you in charge."

"Yes, sir." Was this fate so bad? He had a job for life, and he'd earn more money than he could ever spend. He'd have the beautiful wife and be able to buy her the ornate home and yacht she expected.

"You'd spend a month or two with me learning the ropes, but you already know a lot about the business, more than you think you do."

"I'll do my best to learn quickly."

Father's blue eyes lit up as his dream of his son following in his footsteps came true, a dream Arch had denied him for too long. "I'll pay you handsomely. And you can stay in Boston. I know you have friends there."

Arch winced. Not anymore.

Bitsy smiled and tipped her head coyly. "It's a splendid opportunity."

"Yes, it is." She'd never love him for who he was inside, but he didn't deserve it anyway. Lillian had loved him like that, but he'd driven her away with his suspicion and his tests.

And now he would become everything he hated. Now he could hire and fire at will. He would manipulate people and use them, he knew he would, just like he'd used Palonsky. Who could love a man like that?

More bitterness, harder to swallow this time.

Fifteen more minutes pa.s.sed, filled with Father's giddy plans for the family business and Mother's giddy plans for his homecoming and Bitsy silent and smiling.

Finally they left.

Arch groaned, stood, and paced. The sooner he accepted his fate, the better. So why did he chafe? Why did he long to escape this hospital and catch a train to Boston to see Lillian?

This fate would be more bearable with her at his side.

A louder grumble, and he wheeled and strode in the other direction. She'd never speak to him, and he didn't blame her. He hadn't been fair to her. Why had he insisted she despise wealth as he did? Wasn't it enough that she didn't crave it? Jim was right. Arch had a neurotic obsession, and he'd punished the woman he loved for not sharing it.

And he did love her. He still loved her. And he missed her.

Arch stopped, and his head sagged back. How could he marry Bitsy when he loved Lillian?

"Why are you so glum?" John Simmons glared at him from a slit in the bandages that swathed his head and torso. "Did I hear right? Your father's offering you a plum job?"

He sighed. "I don't want it."

"You have a job, and you're complaining? Some nerve. What about the rest of us? Who'll hire us? No one."

Arch had heard the doctors and nurses. Simmons had suffered severe burns that would leave him covered with disfiguring scars.

The man was correct. Arch had no right to complain. He shook off his self-pity and stepped closer to the officer's bed. "What did you do in the Navy?"

"Gunnery officer. No need for that in civilian life."

"How about working for an ordnance manufacturer?"

Pale blue eyes stared from that slit. "They'll never look past the scars."

Arch rubbed his chin. If Lillian had a hard time finding a job with her disability, how much harder would it be for John Simmons?

Or for Bob Carmichael across the aisle, who sat in a wheelchair, both legs amputated above the knee?

"Carmichael? What did you do?"

"Executive officer," he said in a dull voice, not meeting Arch's eyes.

"And you?" Arch marched over to Harlan Dyle, whose minor injuries and weak nerves were getting him drummed out of the Navy.

Dyle didn't look up from the paper he was writing on. "Supply officer."

Arch stood in the aisle and turned in a slow circle. So many intelligent, educated men, whose talents would be wasted due to scars and missing limbs and persistent tremors.

They had no hope, nothing to cling to. Neither did Arch.

Wait, what was he thinking? He pressed the heel of his hand to his bandaged forehead. He knew better than that, but he'd never truly put it into practice.

As a youth, he'd put his hope in his wealth. As a man, he'd put his hope in his career. Both had failed him.

What would it be like to put his hope in G.o.d, not just for moments of decision or turmoil, but day to day? With the Lord, he'd been able to descend into the engine room during battle for the good of the ship. And he'd done his job.

But working for his father?

The night he and Lillian broke up, she'd said he was strong enough to handle it. He wasn't. He was weak. But with G.o.d . . . ?

Why wouldn't the Lord help him descend into Vandenberg Insurance . . . for the good of others?

Arch took another turn, studying the men around him, his two-dimensional vision filling with possibilities.

"Simmons!" He pointed at the man. "You're good with numbers, aren't you?"

"Well, yes."

"Of course you are. And Carmichael? You're good with people, a leader. And Dyle-all you need is a quiet s.p.a.ce to work. Am I right?"

The patients stared at him, baffled.

Arch couldn't help it-he burst out laughing. He could do this. With G.o.d, he could handle anything.

46.

Vermilion, Ohio

Sunday, June 28, 1942

The Avery family strolled home from church in the summer sunshine. Ed and Charlie led the way, then Dad and Mom, then Martin and Lucy carrying baby Barbara, and Lillian brought up the rear.

Lillian turned right onto Liberty Avenue by Glenn's Sohio Station, gazing behind her on Liberty toward the Ritter Public Library, where she'd spent many hours exploring distant lands and times through stories.

Two weeks she'd been home. Two weeks she'd been pampered. Two weeks she'd rested and relaxed. She'd helped Dad in the boathouse and Mom in the office. They'd gone sailing on Lake Erie, watched the regatta on the Vermilion River, and enjoyed a fancy meal at Okagi's. While people with j.a.panese ancestry living on the West Coast had been sent to relocation camps, those living in the rest of the nation remained free.

As much as Lillian loved her home, two weeks was enough. Pampering was like a drug, sedating and habit-forming and incapacitating, and she needed to wean herself off.

Her brothers' laughter drifted back, mixed with her parents' chatter and Lucy's whining.

Lillian studied the storefronts in brick and in brightly painted clapboard, the solid bank building on her right and cozy Hart's Drug Store to her left on the corner of Main.

Mr. Hart had always encouraged her, and he'd trained her well when she'd worked for him in high school. But his son, Jim, had just graduated from pharmacy school at the University of Michigan, and Lillian wouldn't have a job in Vermilion.

Everyone insisted she'd have no trouble finding work anywhere she looked. All she'd have to do was show the article from the Boston Globe.

But where did she want to go? Lillian followed her family up Main Street toward Lake Erie.

Could she return to Boston? Could she face the scene of the crime? No matter where she went, G.o.d would be her sure refuge.

She did have ten job offers in Boston, including one from Morton's, the lovely store on Winthrop Square. She still had an apartment, she had friends, and Jim and Dan would be in town, at least for a while.

And she wouldn't have to worry about seeing Arch.

The familiar ache twisted inside her. Where would he go? Back to Connecticut to work for his father? Surely he wouldn't have to do that. A man with his attributes could land any job he wanted.

The ache hollowed out. Since he and Jim were no longer friends, she'd never find out what happened to him.

Lucy stopped on the sidewalk and hefted her daughter higher on her shoulder. "Mom, would you please carry the baby? My arms are going to give out."

"May I?" Lillian gathered the month-old infant in her arms.

"Watch her head. Keep the sun out of her eyes."

"I know." For the baby's sake, she bit back the testiness in her voice. "h.e.l.lo, Miss Barbara. It's your Aunt Lillian again."

That sweet little face squinted at her from under a lacy bonnet.

Lillian laughed. "I know. I look like Mommy, I sound like Mommy, but I'm not Mommy. You'll just have to make do." She nestled her niece on her shoulder and continued down the road.

Lucy stuck to her side. "You're wearing that bracelet again. I think you've worn it every day since you came home."

"I have." The sunlight warmed the coral and sparkled on the emeralds.

"But Mom said Arch gave it to you."

"The night we broke up."

Lucy's eyebrows sprang high. "Isn't that a bit . . . macabre? Are you pining for him?"

"No, that's not it." Lillian patted the baby's back. "The morning I left Boston, I looked at it one last time. I planned to hide it away forever. Seemed a shame. It's so lovely. Why should it be abandoned because of a painful history? It has intrinsic beauty and worth, and it deserves to be worn and loved."

She could still feel Arch's fingers as he fastened the bracelet around her wrist, still see him longing for someone to see his intrinsic worth and love him for who he was, rich or poor.