Mary sat, the afternoon sun lighting the edges of her hair. “Don’t you think we want to hear how you survived the sinking?”
He chuckled. “Trying to deflect attention from yourself. I know your tricks, young lady. Besides, my father taught me manners. Ladies first.”
Over the next half hour, Jim prodded her with questions, and she revealed the details, relaxing before him, returning to the easy camaraderie of their friendship. He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and Quintessa broke her hold on his arm.
All he noticed was Mary. Her feminine gestures, her sweet voice, and her measured words. Her modesty and intelligence and courage. Her care for others and her persistence in the face of opposition. She’d used her gifts as God intended, her sails hoisted and filled, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
His love for her pressed against the bars of his rib cage, longing to escape, to reach her.
“There. My story is told.” Mary sat back with a satisfied look. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Yes, your turn.”
Jim glanced over his shoulder.
Quintessa leaned back against the couch cushion, her arms folded over her stomach, her gaze unswerving. Dissecting him.
She knew he loved Mary, didn’t she? Would this make the big talk easier or harder?
“Whatisyour story, Jim?” Quintessa’s lips bent into a tight smile.
He shrugged. “I can’t say much due to censorship. A U-boat torpedoed us. The ship was lost along with fifty-two good men. But Arch and I survived, and we’re back.”
“That’s all you can say?” Blonde eyebrows lifted.
“And the water was cold. Really cold.”
Mary gasped and sprang to her feet. “Oh goodness, the time. I have to get to the church.”
Jim frowned. “On a Saturday afternoon?”
“The Christmas pageant.”
“That’s tonight?” He’d actually made it back in time, but not in a way he ever would have wished for. “I’d better let you ladies get ready.”
“Yes, you’d better.” Quintessa took his arm and hustled him out the door. “Are you coming?”
“Yes. Arch went home to Connecticut for a few days, but I’ll see if any of the other men want to come.”
“See you there.” Quintessa shut the door on him.
Yep. She knew he loved Mary, all right.
While the choir sang “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” from up in the gallery, Mary trudged down the aisle of Park Street Church, one hand supporting her pillow belly, the other clinging to Ed Fanarolli’s arm, her Joseph.
Hundreds of eyes watched her, burning her like welders’ torches.
Her gaze latched onto Jim. He sat on the aisle with Quintessa and several other men in navy blue. A dozen emotions whirled inside her, topped by the intense relief that he’d survived, the release of the burden of worry she’d carried for almost two weeks.
Jim grinned at her, meant to be encouraging, no doubt, but only a piercing reminder of their past friendship and a future that could never be.
Quintessa watched too, her eyes round and cool, as they’d been all afternoon. She was jealous and with good reason. She must have detected Mary’s love for Jim. Mary had talked to him for over half an hour. How could she conceal her feelings that long? She’d failed, and now her best friend thought she wanted to steal her boyfriend.
This was why Mary had avoided spending time with the two of them. This was why Mary needed to leave Boston. Now.
“No room at the inn. No room at the inn. But please use my stable.”
While the choir sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” Mary disappeared into the stable, the curtain door dropped, and she wiggled the pillow out from under her robe.
