“It seems you aren’t having a splendid afternoon.”
I clench my eyes and grit my teeth into a smile. Mr. Hollywood is behind me, witnessing another ruckus. He takes the cans I’m holding against the display and places them back in their proper spots before straightening another few that might fall. “Are you sure you’re okay, Miss?”
“Oh yes, I’m swell. Today has been a day for the birds, that’s all.” And now I’m staring at this man like a hungry lion waiting for supper. I don’t stare at men like they are gods of the Greek world. I don’t believe in drooling over sweet talk or perfect smiles. Plus, if I did, and I met him here of all places, Dad would close the door on the subject and the guy quicker than I could accept a date.
With nerves firing through me like short circuits, I pull my hands away from the display, hoping it’s safe to move without causing more damage. Then I watch Everett’s gaze float across my left hand.
“Say, I’m new around here. By any chance, would you have any interest in joining me for dinner? Maybe you could share a few tips about this island?”
I suppose this is how it’s done. This is how a man asks a woman out. I wouldn’t know because of the relentless fear that half of this base has for Dad, but I am certain Lieutenant Anderson isn’t familiar with Commander Salzberg. Not yet anyway.
I can’t help but allow my distraught stare to fall to the floor between us.
“Lieutenant, it’s kind of you to ask, but I don’t think—”
“You are already someone’s girl,” he says, assuming what I was about to say.
I lift my head and stifle a soft laugh. “Oh, no, I’m nobody’s girl, but I’m afraid you might not find my company to be in your best interest.”
It isn’t hard to understand the reason his dark shaped eyebrows are almost touching each other. “I apologize for not understanding, but I’m sure you have a good reason.”
It isn’t a good reason at all. I would love nothing more than to jointheEverett Anderson for dinner, but I would have to break rules—rules I have chosen not to flirt with before.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“That would be lovely,” I reply.
It would.
6
July 1941
In the afternoons,when I walk my bicycle down the street from Audrey’s house, I sometimes imagine Mom still sitting on the front stoop waiting for me to come home from school. She would have the newspaper held open in front of her, wearing her tinted circular sunglasses and a floral print dress, looking every bit the part of a Naval lieutenant’s wife on the outside.
Mom and Dad were in a loving relationship, but Mom had an aversion with the Navy’s lifestyle. Despite her desire to live differently and frustration toward specific military rules, she would always tell me: “When we love someone, we will move mountains with them and for them.”
I never asked if she felt like she loved Dad more than he loved her, but the thought crossed my mind from time to time. If she was unhappy living here on base, I don’t understand why he never considered changing careers. She was never quiet about her opinions within the confines of our home, but never spoke out of turn when in public. In fact, I recall spotting a certain flare in her eyes when we were around others, and she would agree with statements I know she didn’t want to comply with. There were times her right eyebrow would lift into the slightest arch, as if she wanted to argue a point but wouldn’t dare.
Dad tells me I’m just like her whenever I dispute his beliefs on a specific subject. Mom never backed down. Her determination was a force to bear, and her strength and courage were something I could only hope I too possessed. But, when Dad compares me to her, I know he’s suggesting that my powerful will and argumentative nature would be my downfall, resulting in a similar outcome like the one that befell Mom. On the contrary, some might say the same about him. Every man living on base spends their days preparing for the unthinkable, when so many countries are at war.
I gasp when entering through the front door of our house, not expecting to see Dad sitting upright on his favorite chair with a cold scowl. The sun’s glare leaking in through the bay window spears his left eye, but he refuses to blink. He’s angry. It’s obvious.
“You’re home early.” The less I say, the easier these conversations are, so I turn to hang my satchel on the coat hook.
“According to the hospital staff, you should have been here over two hours ago,” he says, peering down at his watch to highlight his statement.
I weave my fingers together and squeeze my knuckles through frustration. “Dad, I think we need to have a talk.”
“Pardon me?” His response doesn’t allow me enough time to complete my sentence.
I pull my heels off, one at a time, reveling in the desirable expansion of my toes after scrunching them into the narrow tips of my shoes all day. I’m stalling to recenter my thoughts. Nothing I say will go over well with him.
Dad cups a hand over each of his knees and waits for my response with a clear look of impatience.
“I am twenty years old, which means I’m at an age where I could consider marriage and living elsewhere. While you continue to treat me like a child, I think you should understand the facts. I choose to live here because I don’t have the heart to leave the three of you, knowing you have no one to take care of the house and prepare your meals while you’re at work all day.”
We have gone around in circles with this conversation in the past, but I never seem to get my point across. It’s a cycle of arguments without a solution. Dad tilts his head to the side and juts his chin out.
