She glanced up to the sailboat painting over the radiator for inspiration. She’d bought it to honor her New England home, for the peaceful blues and the zip of red on the lighthouse in the background. The boat leaned into the waves, its sails plumped with wind, and spray leaped behind it. Although she liked her life quiet and orderly, the sense of exhilaration and boldness spoke to her.
“Why is that, little boat?” she said.
“You must not talk to yourself.” Yvette Lafontaine stumbled in from her bedroom, her brown hair tousled and bathrobe askew. Mornings were the only time she didn’t look glamorous.
“You talk plenty to yourself when you’re fully awake,ma petite amie,” Mary cooed to her in her best French accent.
Yvette fumbled with the coffee percolator. “Your French is horrible, but that is fine. You have other charms.”
Ah yes, her charms. Mary arched one eyebrow. People complimented her clever mind, her kindness, and her quiet ways. If only men found such things enchanting.
Mary shifted her notebook and clipboard, straightened the jacket of her dove gray suit, and turned into the drafting room. She loved this part of her job, visiting the various departments and collecting reports for Mr. Pennington.
Rows of drafting tables filled the room, with draftsmen hard at work crafting plans into blueprints. Mary poked her head into the naval architect’s office. “Mr. Winslow?”
He coughed, pressed something between his lips, and drank some coffee. “Miss Stirling. You’re early.”
“Sorry to startle you.” Never before had she seen the man flustered.
Mr. Winslow stood to greet her, his slight build wrapped in an expensive suit, his brown hair sleekly styled, his every move full of the patrician elegance expected of the heir to the Winslow Shipbuilding Company fortune. Even though he’d forsaken it to work at the Boston Navy Yard. “Good morning, Miss Stirling. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you.” She shook his manicured hand, feeling large and clumsy.
“I have your weekly reports.” He swept them from his desk and handed them to her. “By the way, have you seen Mr. O’Donnell? I have a project for him. If the man spent as much time on his work as he did on his confounded politics...”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.” She made a note in her notebook.
“Thank you.” Mr. Winslow returned to his desk.
Not the best time to ask her usual questions about his wife and little boys. Perhaps the architect was flustered because of all the bad news from London, his wife’s childhood home.
Mary headed outside under the graying sky and shivered. She should have brought her coat. Spring hadn’t quite arrived. Oh well. Her rounds wouldn’t take more than an hour.
She quickened her pace toward the docks, past all the men hard at work. When she’d started working at the Boston Navy Yard in 1937 at the height of the Depression, men lined up outside the gate looking for sparse work. Now with the Navy building destroyers to replace those they’d traded to Britain, the shipyard bustled with activity.
At Dry Dock Two, she crossed the gangplank to a destroyer under construction. While the Navy Yard built some ships on traditional shipways and launched them down the ways into the harbor, they built some ships deep in the dry dock, then flooded the dry dock to float the ships for launching.
This destroyer’s keel had been laid, then the bulkheads set in place, dividing the ship into compartments. Then equipment was lowered into position and decks placed on top like lids. This destroyer had its first layer of decking.
Mary worked her way down the ladder.
“Let me help you, Miss Stirling.” A work-roughened hand reached up to her.
“Thank you.” She took Ira Kaplan’s hand, hopped to the steel deck, and smiled at the scaler. “Have you seen Mr. Fiske?”
The young man took off his cap, ran his hand through black curls, and jutted his angular chin toward the stern of the ship. “I saw him over there a few minutes ago, talking to Bauer. Glad of it. Need to keep an eye on that Kraut. Everyone knows he’s trouble.”
Sharp opinions ruled at the shipyard, but Mary stayed above the fray. “Thank you for your help.” She picked her way over cables, lines, and tools.
Since Heinrich Bauer had emigrated from Germany only four years earlier, he prompted many rumors. Mary angled herself into the welder’s line of sight. “Excuse me, Mr. Bauer?”
He raised the leather welding mask that protected his face from sparks. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Fiske. Have you seen him?”
“Over there,” he said in a heavy German accent and pointed to starboard.
Although she’d worked with him for almost four years, she knew nothing about him. “How are you doing?”
