More applause, more flashbulbs, and as soon as Agent Sheffield released her shoulder to join the applause, Mary gave everyone a gracious nod and returned to her seat.
No nausea. No mortification. No fall. She’d survived.
Quintessa took her arm. “You were wonderful. Hard to believe you’re the same girl who faked illness and stayed home from high school graduation so you wouldn’t have to cross the stage.”
Mary closed her eyes against the memory. How many good things in life had she missed due to fear?
She set her jaw and opened her eyes. “Never again.”
43
Saturday, December 6, 1941
Jim strode up Monument Avenue, past dozens of people out for a Saturday stroll. The only outrage he’d heard in Boston was over the American League’s Most Valuable Player vote. Joe DiMaggio of the New York Yankees with his 56-game hitting streak had been selected over Ted Williams of the Boston Red Sox with his .406 batting average, and it was wrong, all wrong.
Never mind that in the past two weeks the USSAtwoodand two more American merchant ships had been sunk. Dozens of men killed in an undeclared war, and no one seemed to care.
He paused in front of Mary’s apartment building. The survivors of theAtwoodhad been distributed among the destroyers escorting Convoy ON-39 to Halifax. Back in Boston this morning, they’d been granted thirty-day survivor’s leaves while awaiting new assignments. Jim had accompanied Homer Udell to the hospital. The man was morose, but he was stubborn and smart and hardworking. In time, he’d flourish, same as Lillian had.
Lillian now had a job, thanks to Mary’s tip. Starting in January, she’d work at Dixon’s Drugs here in Charlestown. It would be good to have her here, even better to see her happy.
First things first. Jim had waves to make, first with Quintessa, then with Mary.
His feet thudded up the stairs, and his finger felt like lead on the doorbell.
The door opened. Mary stood there in a deep blue dress, her dark hair loose on her shoulders, her eyes like stars.
“Mary.” Her name tumbled out of his mouth, perfect in its simplicity.
“Oh, Jim.” She clapped her hand to her chest. “You’re alive. I heard about theAtwood, heard—thank God, you’re alive. Arch?”
“He’s fine.” All he wanted was to hold her. He needed her, needed her peace and gentleness, and he moved forward to claim her.
But she stepped back and called down the hallway, “Quintessa! He’s here. Jim’s here.”
A bedroom door flew open, and a blonde bullet aimed for him, wrapped her arms around him. “Thank God, you’re all right. I was sick with worry. When I heard ... and then...” Sobs heaved Quintessa’s shoulders.
He had no choice but to embrace her. “I’m all right.”
But he wasn’t, not with Mary walking away down the hallway. Not now. Not when he needed her most.
“I was beside myself,” Quintessa said. “First what happened with Mary, and then your ship. Too much to bear.”
“Mary?” Over Quintessa’s head, he pinned his gaze on Mary. “What happened to you?”
She flapped her hand and stepped back. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing?” Quintessa rolled halfway out of Jim’s embrace and wiped her eyes. “You tracked down the saboteur, got him arrested, saved two men’s lives, and were almost killed. I don’t call that nothing.”
“What?” Concern for Mary mixed with pride in whatever she’d done, plus a zing of satisfaction that he had an excuse to keep her in the room. “Come on. Like it or not, you’re telling me the story. Let’s sit down.”
He shrugged off the overcoat over his new dress blues, marched into the living room, and plopped onto the couch. Quintessa snuggled beside him and clutched his arm.
Inside, he groaned. How could he have that long emotional talk when the girl was already a wreck? That would be cruel.
Mary hovered beside the couch, twisting her hands together. If only she were the one snuggled up to him.
Jim pointed to the armchair in the bay window. “You’re not getting off the hook. Remember, I was there the day this whole case started. I’ve heard all about your investigation until recently. Don’t you think I want to know how it ended?”
