An intelligent man sticking his oars into the current, fighting the flow. Why were these women making assumptions, putting words in his mouth, assigning thoughts to his silence?
The earth rocked beneath him. He’d prefer a good storm at sea.
If he didn’t compliment Quintessa, she’d feel insulted. “You look nice. Are you ready?”
“Oh, I am. What a treat. A night out with not one, but two handsome officers.” She sighed and gave Mary a sympathetic look. “Next time, when you’re feeling better, you can join us and keep Arch company.”
Mary curled up with her book again, covered her mouth with her fist, and coughed. “We’ll see.”
Where was the Mary he knew? The Mary who couldn’t wait to discuss the sabotage case with him? The Mary who wanted to know all about his life at sea while respecting the limits of censorship? The Mary who loved a night on the town and an afternoon exploring the city?
A cavity formed in his chest, aching. Why hadn’t he said anything when he had the chance?
“Are you coming?” Quintessa stood by the door, pulling on her gloves, a quizzical look on her face.
With a nod, he joined her. Because he’d failed to walk the path he’d chosen, that path had closed and another had been marked out for him.
He had only himself to blame.
32
Monday, November 10, 1941
A month from today, two destroyers were scheduled to be launched and two more laid down, so Mary had four ceremonies to coordinate.
At her office desk, she broke into a coughing fit, then waited for the light-headedness to pass. Perhaps she wasn’t well enough to return to work, but a week away had put her behind schedule. Besides, work would take her mind off Jim. How she missed him as her companion and sounding board.
If only she could follow Jim and Quintessa’s wishes and double-date with them. At least she’d enjoy Jim’s company. But she wasn’t mature enough or strong enough. In time, she’d accidentally reveal her feelings, and the pity, awkwardness, and attention would be unbearable. No, she’d keep her distance.
Mary reviewed her checklist. The sponsors had already been arranged. Today Mary would order the flowers for the sponsors and write the first drafts for the ceremony programs. By the end of the week, she needed to deliver the final programs to the printer.
She opened her planning notebook to find the florist’s telephone number and blinked her eyes from the heaviness.
Thank goodness her fever had dissipated along with her feverish delusions. A whole week with nothing to do but read and pray helped her sort out her thoughts and intentions.
Had she been prideful in joining the choir? Not at all. She was using her gifts to glorify God, and somehow he’d even see her through the Christmas pageant.
What about with the investigation? No, she was doing good work for a good purpose and trying to stay invisible for her own safety.
With Jim?
Mary sighed and rested her eyes. What was wrong with hoping the man you loved could come to love you? Misguided, perhaps, but not prideful.
All she’d done this year was change direction, tack into the wind. She could still smell the salt air from that day sailing. She could still feel the resistance at the helm as she changed tack and the sails luffed and jangled. She could still hear Jim’s deep voice in her ear: “When the sails start luffing, you can’t let the noise and motion distract you. You have to keep moving.”
That’s what was happening in her life. She’d changed directions, tried new things. Some luffing was to be expected. She couldn’t get distracted. She had to keep moving.
And her next move would be away from Boston. While home last week, she’d called a long list of shipyards on the Great Lakes, far from destroyer bases. Several asked for her resume and a letter of recommendation. This morning she’d worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Pennington. He’d objected but promised to write a letter today. Tomorrow she’d send everything out in the mail.
The phone rang, and she picked it up. “Mr. Pennington’s office, Miss Stirling speaking.”
“Ah, Miss Stirling. Agent Sheffield here. I’m glad you’re back at work. May I speak to Mr. Pennington, please?”
“Yes, sir.” Mary transferred the call to her boss’s line. Since her call to the florist would have to wait until they got off the phone, she rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and organized her notes for the launching ceremony programs.
“Miss Stirling?” Mr. Pennington stood in his office doorway with concern on his face. “Agent Sheffield has requested your shorthand skills again. This is the third time, and I don’t like how he puts you in the middle of danger.”
“Oh.” Mary chewed on her lips. Would her boss’s worries keep her from an exciting new assignment? “What did you tell him?”
