Winslow’s mouth and eyes went hard. “If you were at your desk more often...”
“It could be anyone here.” O’Donnell swept his arm in the direction of the drafting room. “You, any of the draftsmen, that French girl who’s always around here. For crying out loud, it could be the janitor. We don’t lock this room.”
“The French girl,” Agent Sheffield said. “Yvette Lafontaine? You mentioned her before.”
Mary’s breath turned solid in her lungs. Why must he accuse Yvette again? And why did Agent Sheffield remember her name?
“Yeah, some froufrou foreign name like that. She wants us in the war, you know. Wants us to fight her country’s battles. Why should we? We need to protect ourselves first.”
Mary turned the page in her notebook and coughed.
“What exactly are you doing, Miss Stirling?” O’Donnell asked.
“Me?” Her face tingled as the blood drained out.
“She’s an excellent stenographer,” Agent Sheffield said. “I asked her to transcribe today’s proceedings. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why would I? I have nothing to hide.” But his dark eyes scrutinized Mary’s notebook.
“We have what we came for.” Agent Sheffield stacked the blueprint and the original and rolled them up. “Mr. Winslow, let’s go back to your cozy cell.”
“Good.” O’Donnell jutted out his chin. “He wants you to think someone else altered his drawings, but remember, he’s the one who got caught making bombs.”
“Possessing a bomb, Mr. O’Donnell. He got caught in possession of a single bomb. If you’re going to spread gossip, get your facts straight.” Agent Sheffield opened the office door. “Miss Stirling, I’ll expect that transcript tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.” She attempted a benign smile, but her lips trembled. Her cover had been smashed to pieces. From now on, she’d have to be far more careful.
33
Saturday, November 15, 1941
Jim picked at his patty melt and fries while Quintessa chatted over lunch. She told humorous stories of her stint in Filene’s children’s department, the improvements she’d made, how she loved working with the children and their mothers, and how the managers were thrilled with her sales numbers.
She was beautiful and animated and engaging. So why wasn’t Jim engaged? In high school he could listen to her for hours, enraptured. Why not now? She wasn’t selfish either. She asked about his work and family and friends. But he couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d had plenty to say to Mary, plenty he longed to say to her right now. Could he talk to Quintessa about his decision with the depth charges? About his doubts and challenges?
Even if he could, he didn’t want to.
When he invited Quintessa to lunch today, he had one purpose. TheAtwoodwas shipping out this afternoon, and Jim wanted to choose once and for all among the three paths that lay before him.
Quintessa laughed about something, and Jim smiled and sipped his Coke, as fizzy as her laugh.
The first path was a broad lazy river. Without any effort, he could float into a relationship with Quintessa Beaumont. She already talked as if she were his girlfriend, although he’d never asked her on a real date or even held her hand. If Quintessa had arrived in March rather than November, he’d have jumped at the opportunity. But she hadn’t.
The second path felt like a sneaky, dark alley. He could back out of both ladies’ lives. When he returned from this tour, he simply wouldn’t visit their apartment. Maybe he could get transferred to another ship. An easy path, but cowardly.
The third path looked steep and rocky with an unknown destination. He could pursue Mary and pray she fell for him. The path of the fool.
Jim took a bite of his patty melt and studied the gorgeous woman across the table from him. Sunlight slanted through the window beside him and lit up her hair. Every word was bright, every gesture sparkled. She was dazzling.
Yes, dazzling. When you fired a gun at night, the flash destroyed your night vision and blinded you. That’s what Quintessa did. But Mary had an illuminating glow, like the moon, which allowed him to see more clearly.
Jim’s fingers coiled around the crust of his sandwich, and his eyes slipped shut.Oh Lord, I miss her. I missMary. Please show me the right path. Not the pathQuintessa chooses for me, not the path Mary chooses forme, not even the path I desire, but the oneyou want me to travel. Because right now, none ofmy options appeal to me.
“Jim?” Quintessa tilted her head. “You’re so quiet. Are you all right?”
“Hmm?” He schooled his face into neutrality. He couldn’t lie to her, but the truth required more work and thought and prayer. Whichever path he chose affected other people and could alter friendships and bruise hearts.
“Are you feeling all right?” She glanced at his plate and smiled. “You’ve crushed that sandwich crust to crumbs.”
