The men stared each other down, and Mary held her breath. What sort of message had passed between them? What was that about?
Mr. Winslow’s hands dropped to the handle of his desk drawer. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be shaking? I’m not accustomed to such accusations.”
“Of course not. A gentleman like you.” Agent Sheffield planted his hands on his knees, grunted, and stood. He reached across the desk to shake Winslow’s hand, blowing cigarette smoke in his face. “As you said, always a pleasure.”
Mr. Winslow drew away and choked back a cough. “Yes. A pleasure.”
Mary capped her pen. She’d never seen such bad manners from the FBI agent, as if he were deliberately trying to annoy the patrician naval architect. He’d succeeded.
“Come along.” Sheffield motioned for Agent Hayes and Mary to follow him.
Mary turned back to give Mr. Winslow a polite farewell. “Good-bye.”
“Yes. Good-bye.” His smile stretched over his teeth. In his open desk drawer, his hand clenched a small object.
For a man who insisted he wasn’t guilty, he sure acted guilty. And yet the idea of Weldon Winslow rigging and installing a bomb seemed ludicrous. Unless he had help.
Mary followed the agents into the hallway.
“What do you think?” Agent Hayes asked.
“I think...” Sheffield glanced at Mary, then leaned closer to Hayes, his voice low. “I think a spring wound this tight is bound to pop.”
Whatever did he mean by that? Mary resisted the urge to write it down, but she memorized it.
Both Winslow and O’Donnell did act tightly wound, but when—and how—would they pop?
29
Saturday, November 1, 1941
“Ever since we said good-bye, I couldn’t wait to say hello.” Jim rehearsed his line as he strolled past the Bunker Hill Monument toward Mary’s apartment, his head ducked against the rain.
In the gleam of the street lamps, raindrops shimmered in the puddles. Surely Mary was at home on a rainy Saturday evening. Perhaps he should have called first, but he wanted to surprise her. Since she wouldn’t have gone to work today, she wouldn’t know theAtwoodhad come into port this afternoon.
After the ordeal of their first convoy escort, Durant had given all the men liberty tonight except a skeleton crew. Jim couldn’t shake the images of Ozzie Douglas’s mangled hand and of those three bodies in the water when they’d returned to the sunken freighter. At least they’d been able to save the other three sailors—Norwegians who didn’t speak a lick of English.
Tonight he could talk with Mary. The other officers praised Jim’s actions that day and said he’d done the right thing. Even Mitch Hadley and Dick Reinhardt were impressed. But the accolades sat wrong, like an ill-fitting uniform. Mary would listen. She’d understand.
He headed down Monument Avenue. If it weren’t for the rain, he wouldn’t even need his overcoat. After the North Atlantic, forty-five degrees felt balmy. Besides, he felt warm inside. In just a minute, he’d hold Mary in his arms and give her the hello he’d imagined all month.
He broke into a jog. At her building, he glanced up to the window. A dark figure, silhouetted by golden light, parted the curtains. Jim waved and grinned. She waved, and the curtains dropped.
Jim took the stairs two at a time and raised his hand to knock. Excited feminine chatter on the other side of the door made him pause. Didn’t sound like Mary or Yvette, but it did sound like his return was welcome.
“Ever since we said good-bye,” he murmured, “I couldn’t wait to say—”
The door flung open. “Hello, Jim.”
A beautiful blonde stood in his path, everything about her as dazzling as in his memories. “Quintessa?”
“Look at you, poor thing. Out in the rain without an umbrella.” She sprang forward, pulled him into the entryway, and took off his cover. “But don’t you look wonderful?”
Jim smoothed his hair as if the gesture would smooth his thoughts. “When—when did you get into town?”
“Over a month ago. The day you left, would you believe it?” Her eyes danced, all green and gold. “But I’ve had a swell time. I’m working at Filene’s, and it’s the best job I’ve ever had. I haven’t been this happy in ages.”
“Filene’s? You have a job? Here?” He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This was the longest Quintessa had ever aimed conversation his direction. She’d never been rude, just focused appropriately on Hugh.
