“Blue.”
“I can tell.” He glanced at her dress. “You wear it a lot.”
“You’re very observant for a man. And what’s your favorite color?”
“I’m a Navy man. Of course it’s blue, but you’re being naughty and trying to flip things around again and I won’t have it. Why’d you choose secretarial school?”
Giggles fluttered in her throat. She’d never been called naughty before. “I’m too squeamish to be a nurse and not authoritative enough to be a teacher, but I can type like lightning and I was second in my class in shorthand.”
“Second? Why not first?”
Why had she bragged? Mary’s step faltered. At graduation, the top student was presented a plaque up on stage. “I ... I let her win. She wanted it more than I did.”
“You failed deliberately?”
She stared at the knot of his black tie, stark against his white shirt. “Yes.”
“Out of kindness, or modesty, or...”
Fear. “Yes. All of those, all mixed up.”
“Hmm.”
Mary couldn’t bear to see his expression. Would it be pity? Or disgust? Or confusion?
“There’s definitely a saboteur at the Boston Navy Yard.”
“What?” Her gaze jerked up to him, to warm eyes and an understanding smile.
“You. Sounds like you sabotage your own success to avoid attention. Am I right?”
A sour gelatinous mass formed in her throat, but she swallowed it and nodded. “I suppose.”
“There. You survived my psychoanalysis. Now for my spiritual advice—don’t hide your candle under a bushel.”
She smiled her thanks, even though that advice ran counter to the spiritual theme of her life, avoiding the evils of putting herself above others.
“Now for the fun part of the evening.” He grinned at her and whipped her around in a wild circle.
She laughed and held on to his broad shoulder. She’d have to be very careful not to fall for this man.
6
Saturday, April 26, 1941
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a blonde on my arm.” Jim scratched at his upper lip as they stepped out of the orange El train at the Park Street station.
“Don’t scratch. You’ll undo my artwork.” Mary swatted his hand. “I worked hard to make it halfway realistic. Besides, if I can resist scratching under this wig, you can control yourself too.”
Jim rubbed at the dark eyebrow pencil marks staining the tips of his fingers. “Still have my mustache?”
“For now. But if you keep it up, you’ll blow our cover.” Her accent sounded for all the world like some gun moll in a gangster movie.
“Unlikely.” Not only was Jim new to town, but the contrast of his gray civilian suit, fedora, and fake mustache to his usual dress blues would throw off anyone but his shipmates.
And Mary? He couldn’t help but laugh again. She wore the curly blonde wig Arch had bought for a roast at the Academy, a red suit borrowed from her roommate Yvette, and a giant red disc of a hat perched on the side of her head. Only her soft eyes and the notebook in her hand would identify her as Mary Stirling.
That notebook was why they wore disguises. While everyone expected Mary to take notes at the Navy Yard, why would she do so on a Saturday stroll downtown? She didn’t want to draw attention to her detective work. Better to play the role of lady reporter.
