Just when Mary didn’t want her face observed, but she obeyed and sat on the couch.
“He’s a good man, isn’t he? He always was, but I was young and stupid and only wanted a handsome, charming football player, so I never looked twice at poor Jim. But now I know the worth of a good man.”
All Mary had to do was nod, but her swollen throat made the act torture.
Quintessa leaned back in the chair, looked out the window, and fiddled with the lace curtain. “When I think of how Jim used to look at me with complete and utter adoration—oh my. Feelings like that, feelings so deep, don’t truly disappear.”
No, they didn’t. Mary’s vision blurred. She’d seen his face when Quintessa’s name was mentioned. His feelings for her hadn’t changed. They never would.
“Mary?” Vulnerability softened Quintessa’s voice. “Do you think he could care for me again?”
Something green and cruel and selfish inside wanted to say no, but she couldn’t lie, couldn’t be cruel to the one person who had offered her friendship when she was an outcast, couldn’t envy the one person who had always encouraged her, a person who had been miserable for two years and deserved happiness again.
Yet her voice didn’t work. She traced the rim of the glass, cold to her fingertip, and she forced herself to nod.
Quintessa’s face lit up. “Do you really think so? That would be marvelous. I knew I should take a chance and come to Boston, take a chance on Jim. Maybe he’ll take a chance on me.”
And Mary’s chances dribbled away.
25
Off the Coast of Newfoundland
Tuesday, September 30, 1941
Thank goodness Jim never got seasick.
Since the gun director sat high on top of the bridge superstructure, the motion there was the greatest. Swaying a good twenty degrees from side to side, Jim scanned out the porthole with his slewing sight for ships on the horizon.
TheAtwoodstood on Condition Three, with only one gun and the director manned, and with assistant gunnery officers trusted to control the weaponry. This close to Newfoundland, the Royal Canadian Navy and US Navy aircraft helped deter U-boats.
Jim glanced to both sides at Task Unit 4.1.5—four other American destroyers, theBabbitt,Broome,Leary, andSchenck. All but theAtwoodwere “four-stackers” built during the last war. Along with four funnels, the older destroyers had lower fuel capacity, which might cause problems if they faced storms. Or battle.
“There! Straight ahead.” Juan Dominguez, the director pointer, looked through his prismatic telescope, his white “Dixie cup” cover perched on the back of his head.
Jim trained his telescopic sight on the horizon, where a line of dark shapes emerged. “I see them. Our first convoy.”
Convoy HX-152, fifty-five cargo ships steaming from Halifax, Nova Scotia, escorted by the HMCSAnnapolis, one of the old US destroyers transferred to Canada a year earlier under the destroyers-for-bases deal with Britain.
Dominguez adjusted a dial on his telescope. “They’ll be ours for over a week, huh, sir?”
“We’re supposed to reach the MOMP on October 9.” At the Mid-Ocean Meeting Point south of Iceland, British warships would relieve the Americans and escort the ships the rest of the way to Liverpool.
“Then we get to see sunny Reykjavik.” Dominguez tipped up his brown face. “Work on my suntan.”
Jim laughed. “I doubt we’ll get off the ship much. Word is the citizens of Iceland aren’t so keen on the American invasion.”
“They invited us, didn’t they?”
“Only under British pressure.” He gave Dominguez a mock scowl. “Let’s not make them long for Nazi occupation.”
“Not me, sir.” The pointer raised one hand as if taking an oath. “Nothing stronger than milk for me, and I’m true to my girl. Mama would know if I strayed. She’d know, and she’d swim all the way from Los Angeles to whip me.”
“She would too.” Bert Campbell, the director trainer, looked up from his telescope next to Dominguez’s. “Once, back when we were with the Pacific Fleet, Juan and I had liberty in LA. Saw that woman light into him for cussing. Ain’t never heard him cuss since.”
Dominguez nudged his buddy. “Watch your grammar too. She’ll get you.”
Nothing like the camaraderie of men who served together. Jim smiled and studied the cargo ships ahead, their shapes becoming more distinct each minute. “Let’s see if I remember. Mostly British ships, some Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish, Greek, and one American ship heading to Iceland.”
