“What about—”
“Bauer didn’t start it. Get out of here. Come back tomorrow when you’ve cooled down.”
Grumbling, Kaplan crossed the catwalk, and the men returned to work.
Mary backed up and took down every detail in her notebook, her pulse thrumming in her veins. Both Bauer and Kaplan thought they were being framed. How curious.
George O’Donnell ambled over to Fiske, about ten feet from Mary. “I tell you, Frank, those warmongers are bound and deter—”
“George, why are you here?”
O’Donnell stepped back, dark eyes narrow. “Chatting with the boys.”
“About the war, the draft, all that.”
“Of course.”
“You’re slowing down work.”
O’Donnell stood still, his gaze fixed on his old friend. “I guess I am.”
With a brisk nod, Fiske walked away.
Mary frowned. Was that a reprimand of O’Donnell’s actions—or approval? How very odd. She recorded every word in her book.
By the time she’d finished, her heart rate had almost returned to normal, but energy coursed through her. Agent Sheffield hadn’t seen that fight or heard those words. In fact, if he’d been around, none of it would have happened.
A smile tugged the corners of her lips as she crossed the catwalk to the dock. Who said amateur detectives were useless? Who said pride played a role? She wasn’t undermining the FBI but aiding it.
She strode across the wharf toward Building 39. This investigation made her feel as if she were doing some good. This weekend she’d type up her most recent notes, and she’d turn them in to Agent Sheffield on Monday. He wouldn’t be pleased that Mary was still involved, but he’d be pleased with the information she presented.
She hummed “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” as she strolled along. As of September, she’d sing in the choir on Sunday mornings, even if Bertha and Edith Wilkins had to prop her up between them. They treated her more like a third Wilkins sister than a girl young enough to be their great-granddaughter. At choir practice, they giggled like schoolgirls. On several occasions, poor Mrs. Gunderson had needed to hush them.
Three naval officers in summer whites passed Mary, smiled, and tipped their caps.
She smiled back. Oh, how she missed Jim. The shakedown cruise was supposed to last about a month—any day now. Arch had mentioned a possible sailing weekend at his parents’ seaside Connecticut home. That would be wonderful.
The air felt lighter, cooler, and her step more buoyant. A whole weekend together. Maybe things would change. Even if they didn’t, even if her romantic dreams fizzled and died, a whole weekend enjoying Jim’s company and friendship would be delightful.
Her music, her friendships, the thrill of confronting her lifelong fear—how it all filled her sails.
19
Stonington, Connecticut
Saturday, August 30, 1941
“Little more to port.” Jim grasped the helm above Mary’s hand, guiding her, his bare arm brushing hers. Heat rushed through him.
Thank goodness he’d decided not to stand directly behind her and help her steer with both hands. If he had, he’d throw common sense into the balmy breeze, wrap his arms around her, and nuzzle in her sun-warmed neck. Scare the poor girl half to death.
Instead he stood behind her right shoulder, far enough away to look suave, but near enough to help and too close to ogle her figure. He was still aware of every curve in that dark blue swimsuit covered with little white spots, as orderly and feminine as Mary herself.
Up by the mast of the Vandenberg yacht, wearing swim trunks and deck shoes, Arch adjusted lines. He called forward to Gloria, who lay in the sun in a skimpy swimsuit, a giant hat clamped over her face.
“How’s this, Jim?” Mary glanced over her bare shoulder, her dark hair sweeping back in the wind.
Jim schooled his face not to erupt in a goofy grin. “Good. Almost time to change tack.”
