Mary tensed at the chilliness in Gloria’s eyes, a look she’d seen from the diehard isolationists at work, those who said, “Fine. Let Britain fall. Just leave us out of it.”
The chill transformed to worry. “Do you think the war in the Mediterranean will distract Hitler from what we’re doing? Not only are we sending supplies to his enemy, but we just set up bases in Greenland. Won’t he see that as aggressive?”
“That’s the idea.” Arch squeezed Gloria’s shoulder.
Jim leaned his elbows on the table. “Not aggressive, necessarily, but strong. And smart.”
Mary traced the lines of her artfully folded napkin. “It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? If we come between U-boats and their prey, eventually something will happen. If it’s big enough...”
The silence and solemnity around the table answered her question.
“All this heavy talk depresses me.” Gloria sprang to her feet. “Please, Arch.”
“Shall we dance?” He stood and led her to the dance floor.
“Shall we join them?” Jim offered his elbow. “Although I doubt this song will lift anyone’s mood.”
Mary took Jim’s arm and tuned her ears to the band, which played “I’ll Never Smile Again.” She laughed. “I don’t suppose that song’s good for morale.”
“No, but it’s good for dancing.” He pulled her into his arms at a friendly distance, appropriate for conversation.
Mary followed his lead in a foxtrot. “Back to my original question—how’s life on board ship?”
“Cramped, stuffy, and smelly.”
“Is the food all right?”
“Excellent. The Navy’s famous for feeding sailors well.”
“And you and Arch share a cabin. That’s wonderful. Is it better than on the battleship?”
Jim tilted his head and peered at her with one eye, like a comical detective. “I see what you’re doing, Miss Stirling.”
“You do? What am I doing?”
“This is how you do your spy work. You ask lots of questions and listen with that intent little look on your face as if every word were fascinating, and your victim keeps talking and talking.”
“You make me sound sinister.” The thought tugged up the corners of her lips.
He rocked her into a turn. “Not sinister, just modest. I’ve noticed you don’t talk about yourself if you can help it. Why is that?”
Mary glanced away, at the swirling mass of dancers, the men in tailored suits, the women in colorful spring dresses thanks to the unseasonably warm weather.
“Come on.” He squeezed her hand. “’Fess up.”
The warmth of the room pressed on her. “I don’t like attention.”
“And why isthat?”
The teasing look in his hazel eyes coaxed up a teasing smile in response. “Gloria didn’t come for heavy conversation, and I didn’t come for psychoanalysis.”
A shift in the musical tempo, and the band transitioned into “You Turned the Tables on Me.”
“The song inspired me.” Jim swung her around. “I’m turning the tables and interrogating you.”
“Must you?”
“I must. Favorite color?”
