Anchor In The Storm Part 4

"Yeah, he likes kids. Never had any of his own. Never married, you know, but he dotes on his nephew. That's why I'm here. Me and his nephew go way back. Used to run with a bad crowd, but he never gave up on us."

Yes, she'd like working here, indeed. "Thank you, Albert."

She continued around the perimeter, envisioning improvements. Signs, better lighting, and pleasant displays up front. Strip away some of the posters on the windows to let in the sun and show off the wares. But not for a few weeks.

First, she had to win over her boss with hard work.

At the rear of the store in front of the prescription counter, she studied the last row of goods, the proprietary medicines. She'd receive the most questions about them.

Laxatives, antacids, liver pills . . .

"Miss Avery!" Mr. Dixon hissed from behind the counter.

She spun around. "Yes?"

His jowly face went pale, but fire lit up his eyes. He jerked his head to the door. "Come here this instant."

What had she done wrong? Her stomach squirmed, but she went to her boss.

He glared at her prosthesis. "What's wrong with your leg?"

Jim had told Mr. Dixon, hadn't he? She cleared her throat. "I lost it in an accident when I was five, but-"

"That's an artificial leg."

"Yes, sir, but-"

"You didn't say you were a cripple."

A sick feeling wormed around her windpipe. "I-I thought my brother told you."

Mr. Dixon's upper lip curled. "He failed to mention that. How am I supposed to get by with a cripple?"

She couldn't lose confidence, not now. "I've worked in pharmacies since high school, and I'm used to being on my feet all day. My references can vouch for me. I work as hard as any other pharmacist. Harder, in fact."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Don't you see? A drugstore represents good health to the community. How can someone so . . . so . . . disfigured represent good health?"

Lillian's eyes tingled, but she kept her chin high. "On the contrary. I represent overcoming adversity. Patients say I give them hope."

A deep grumble emanated from his throat. "I can't have you out front. You'll scare the customers away. Stay behind the counter."

Lillian gripped the hem of her white coat. Behind the counter? She'd only be half good behind the counter.

Mr. Dixon marched to his counting tray. "Finally get this position filled. Finally, and now I have to start looking again. Now we're at war. All the men will be drafted."

That sick feeling clamped her windpipe shut. He wanted to replace her, and she hadn't even started.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" He gestured to the shelves. "Learn your way around."

"Yes, sir," she choked out and headed for the farthest shelf. Thank goodness she'd trained herself not to cry, because her eyes burned.

She poked around the shelves, willing her brain to learn the layout, all very orderly. It wasn't hopeless. It couldn't be. As always, she'd be cheerful, work hard, and find a way to make herself indispensable. A month from now, he'd forget he ever wanted to replace her.

Lillian swept her hand down the shelf, memorizing the medications, and she paused.

Phen.o.barbital, one-half grain, in five-hundred-tablet bottles. Ten bottles.

"My word," she whispered. Why on earth would the store need over five thousand tablets of the sedative?

She opened her mouth to ask, then shut it. Asking questions today didn't seem wise.

Probably a simple ordering error, an extra zero. Poor Albert had meant to order one bottle and ordered ten. Mr. Dixon must have hated that.

He hated everything. A dark wave plunged through her, but she wrestled it back. No, he loved children and he had given Albert a chance.

If only he'd give her a chance too.

5.

Boston Navy Yard How could Arch's palms sweat when the temperature was below freezing?

He and Jim strode down the pier at the Boston Navy Yard toward their new destroyer.

"What a great a.s.signment." Jim grinned in the morning suns.h.i.+ne. "We're serving together again, and in Boston."

"Yes, great." Arch tried to return the grin. Yes, he was glad of those things as well, especially with the intriguing Lillian Avery in town. But why a bucking little destroyer that could snap like a twig? Why the frigid U-boat-infested North Atlantic? Some said U-boats were on their way to the East Coast, but the Navy hadn't said a word about inst.i.tuting coastal convoys.

"The USS Ettinger." Jim paused beside the Gleaves-cla.s.s destroyer, same cla.s.s as the Atwood. "We saw her launching almost a year ago, the day I started falling in love with Mary."

Arch barked out a laugh. "Took you a while, old pal."

Jim knocked on his temple with a gloved fist. "Tough noggin."

Perhaps thick skulls ran in the family. When Arch flirted with Lillian, she shut him down like a leaky boiler valve. But when he didn't flirt, she relaxed. How long would it take her to trust him? He wasn't used to waiting for a woman's affection, but Lillian was worth the wait.

Jim hiked up the gangway, and with a steadying breath, Arch followed. He needed Jim's friends.h.i.+p now, his cheer and his faith.

The gangway bounced and jangled underfoot, and the tremors returned to his hands. He gripped his seabag with both hands to make it stop.

The deck of the Ettinger resembled the Atwood-the bridge superstructure and two funnels, with two 5-inch guns at the bow and two at the stern. Only this deck wasn't tilted at a grotesque angle and covered in flames, spilled fuel oil, and mutilated bodies.

Arch slammed his eyes shut and mumbled a prayer. He couldn't make a bad impression today.

On the quarterdeck, Arch and Jim faced aft and saluted the flag, then saluted the officer of the deck.

"Ensign James Avery, reporting for duty, sir."

"Ensign Archer Vandenberg, reporting for duty, sir."

The officer, a tall, trim man with sandy hair, took their orders. "Welcome aboard. I'm Lt. John Odom, first lieutenant. The captain's on the bridge. Palonsky, escort Mr. Avery and Mr. Vandenberg to the captain."

"Aye aye, sir." The seaman marched toward the bridge superstructure. He glanced over his shoulder at Arch and Jim. "Say, you fellows don't look as dry and dull as the other officers. Something tells me you like a good laugh."

And something in Palonsky's eyes told Arch that if they gave this man any slack, he'd turn it into a vaudeville show. "Nothing wrong with a good laugh-after your work is done."

"And done well," Jim said with as stern a look as his face could muster. Which wasn't very stern.

"Yes, sir. Aye aye, sir." Palonsky sauntered down the deck with an exaggerated swing to his arms. "I'll do my job well, sir. Only laugh during liberty, sir. Anything else, sir?"

"Carry on, Palonsky." Arch glanced at Jim, whose face contorted with restrained laughter. At least one man on this s.h.i.+p would be entertaining.

The men entered the bridge superstructure and climbed the ladder to the pilothouse.

A wiry little dark-haired officer accepted their salutes and their orders-Lt. Cdr. Alvin Buckner. Despite his size, he had a forceful air about him, like Humphrey Bogart, but with a b.u.t.ter-smooth patrician voice. A fellow New Englander.

"Very well." Captain Buckner examined their orders. "Both of you served on the Atwood. A shame. I know Captain Durant. I'm pleased to hear he was given command of a cruiser."

"Yes, sir," Arch said. "We're pleased too. A fine man."

"Yes." Small dark eyes bore into Jim. "Mr. Avery, you've already served in gunnery. You'll be my a.s.sistant engineer under Lt. Emmett Taylor."

Poor Jim, a.s.signed to the deep bowels of the s.h.i.+p.

"And Mr. Vandenberg." That riveting gaze turned his way. "We need an a.s.sistant first lieutenant. You'll serve under Lt. John Odom."

"Thank you, sir." Arch gave the first genuine smile he'd felt all day. The first lieutenant and his a.s.sistant supervised the deck gang in the open air.

"Get settled in your cabin and report to duty at 1000. You are dismissed."

None of the warmth they were used to with Captain Durant, but what did that matter?

Jim and Arch trotted down the ladder to the wardroom.

"I'm jealous," Jim said. "While I slave in the engine room with the 'black gang,' you'll work on your suntan."

"That's why tourists flock to Boston in January-the sun."

"Why else?"

They crossed the wardroom and filed down the narrow pa.s.sageway into officers' quarters. A typical cabin, with a double bunk, two lockers, a sink, and a desk. Spartan, simple, and right.

Arch plopped his seabag on the lower bunk as always, since Jim liked the top bunk. Why did the cabin seem smaller, more restrictive? Why did the overhead press down on him?

His breath quickened, ragged and shaky. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he pull himself together?

"Say, buddy. You all right?" Jim shrugged off his overcoat. "You look pale. Are you coming down with something?"

That was it. Surely, that was it. "I-I might be."

Jim chuckled. "Buckner won't like it, but you'd better see a doctor."

"Yes." His forehead did feel clammy. "I will."

"Nothing wrong with you." Dr. Blake hunched over Arch's chart and scribbled in it. "Your exam is normal. It's all in your nerves."

Arch tried not to s.h.i.+ver while sitting in his skivvies on the exam table in the Navy Yard dispensary. "I'm fine most of the time, but sometimes I shake. And I have a hard time sleeping. The nightmares."

"The sinking was back in November. You should be over it by now."

Arch's lips pressed together. Didn't he already know that?

The Navy doctor pulled a prescription pad from his desk drawer. "We don't usually see such weakness of nerves in officers. It's concerning."

Weak? Arch squared his bare shoulders. "Sir, I a.s.sure you I can perform my duties. I'm stronger than whatever this is."

"I hope so." He ripped a prescription from the pad. "Give this to the nurse. She'll give you some pills to help you sleep. Be careful. They're habit-forming. And don't drink while taking them."

"I'm not a drinking man, sir."

"Too bad." Dr. Blake raised a wry smile. "You might have licked this by now. Wine, women, and song are quite effective. The sailor's favorite remedy since the dawn of time."

Arch returned the smile. "Right now I'll have to settle for song."

"Sing a lot, then. I see no reason to intervene at this time, but if this continues . . ." He tucked the prescription pad in a desk drawer. "I'd hate to survey you out of the Navy with our country at war."

Arch's face went ice-cold. Surveyed out? He could lose his commission? After going against his father's wishes and attending the Naval Academy? After graduating near the top of his cla.s.s? After serving with distinction on the Atwood? He could be discharged because his hands shook?

Nonsense. "It won't come to that, sir."

The doctor gave a noncommittal grunt and left the exam room.

Arch put on his dress blues. He'd earned the right to wear this uniform. He loved everything it stood for. He loved the Navy life. He couldn't return to where he'd been, to the superficial sn.o.bs using other people for personal gain. Lord, help me lick this.

He knotted his tie. If he couldn't lick it, he'd hide it.

6.