1
Boston Navy Yard; Boston, Massachusetts
Tuesday, March 18, 1941
On a platform by the bow of the USSEttinger, Mary Stirling prepared supplies no one would notice unless they were missing.
While nautical pennants snapped in the sea breeze and the band played “Anchors Aweigh” for the ship-launching ceremony, Mary set down a box containing rags, a towel, a whisk broom, and a first aid kit. Then she nestled a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.
Something crinkled. Odd.
Mary picked up the bottle in its decorative tin shield that prevented shattering. Yesterday, she’d tied red, white, and blue ribbon around the neck. Now the ribbon didn’t lie flat, the bow was lopsided, and the foil around the cork seemed loose and wrinkled, as if someone had taken it off and replaced it.
Why? Scenarios zipped through her head, each more ludicrous than the one before. “Too much Nancy Drew in junior high,” she muttered. And too many spy and saboteur stories in the press lately. With the United States clinging to neutrality in the war in Europe, tensions between isolationists and interventionists had become sharper than the prow of theEttinger.
Mary stroked the sleek red hull of the new destroyer towering above her. “Into the wild Atlantic you go.”
“That is a bad year.”
Mary smiled at the French accent and faced her roommate and co-worker at the Boston Navy Yard, Yvette Lafontaine. “I doubt theEttingercares about the champagne’s vintage.”
“She should.” Yvette narrowed her golden-brown eyes at the ship, then lit up and grasped Mary’s shoulders. “But you looktrès magnifique.”
Mary knew better than to argue. “Thank you for helping me choose the hat. I love it.” The shape flattered her face, and the fawn color blended with her brown hair and the heavy tweed coat she wore. It would also go well with her spring coat—if winter ever ended.
Yvette fingered the puff of netting on the brim. “I still prefer the red one.”
“Not red.”
“Sometimes a woman needs to ... to accent, not match.” The glamorous brunette tapped Mary’s nose. “You listen to me. We French know fashion, wine, food, and love. Obviously we do not know war.” Her voice lowered to a growl.
Mary puckered one corner of her mouth in sympathy. Poor Yvette had been studying at Harvard when the Nazis trampled her country in May and June of 1940. Almost a year ago. Stranded in the States after graduation, Yvette took a job at the Navy Yard.
“I’ll see you at the apartment. I must find Henri and Solange.” Yvette trotted down the steps.
“See you later.” Mary spotted her boss, Barton Pennington, next to the platform. She leaned over the railing draped with red, white, and blue bunting. “Mr. Pennington!”
He smiled up at her and folded his gloved hands over his broad belly. “Ah, Miss Stirling. All ready?”
“Yes, but...” She held up the champagne bottle. “The foil is loose and the ribbon is disturbed. It looks like someone tampered with it.”
Mr. Pennington gave her the amused fatherly look he wore whenever she fussed over something trivial. “I’m sure it’s nothing but rough handling.”
“Very rough.” She smoothed out the wrinkles and her worries and settled the bottle in its bucket.
“You’ve done a great job again. And look at all the people.” Mr. Pennington gestured to the crowd. At least a hundred naval personnel and shipyard workers milled about.
Nausea seized Mary’s belly. But why? None of the people looked at her. None of them had come to see her. She hadn’t put herself on display. Yet logic and panic never listened to each other.
“I—I’m all done, Mr. Pennington.” Mary gripped the banister and scurried down the stairs, each step quelling the nausea.
“I’ll see you after the launching.”
Mary waved over her shoulder and headed toward the back of the crowd to watch the ceremony. To one side, a cluster of shipyard workers praised President Roosevelt’s newly signed Lend-Lease bill to send billions of dollars of aid to Britain. To the other side, another cluster of workers denounced the legislation as nothing but warmongering.
Although Mary certainly didn’t want American boys to die in another European war, the images of bombed-out London wrenched her heart. The United States had to do something or Britain would fall.
A laugh filtered through the noise, a familiar male laugh, tickling at her memory.
