The Sea Before Us Read online

  “Then you must be calm and strong for him. You must be ready.”

  Ready, prepared. As Wyatt had said. Dorothy rested her forehead in her palms. “Oh dear. Poor Wyatt. He was only being honest with me, telling me how others might see the situation. And I—I was cruel to him.”

  “He will understand. He knows how much you love your father, yes?”

  “I won’t see him again. He has new orders. It’s for the best though.”

  “For the best? Do you not want to apologize?” The chair creaked as Johanna sat down.

  Dorothy raised her head. “I do, but it’s best we don’t see each other again. I’m afraid he might be . . . infatuated.”

  A dimple formed in Johanna’s cheek. “And you love Lawrence.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t love him. I . . . I suppose I’ve been infatuated. I hardly know Lawrence. In fact, I know Wyatt better, and he knows me better. We talk about everything.”

  “But he is not attractive to you?”

  That would be a lie. Dorothy stood and circled the room. “He isn’t the right sort of man for me. He’s a quiet, steady sort, and I need an exciting man.”

  “Why?”

  Dorothy stopped by the mantel and blinked at her friend. Wasn’t it obvious? “Because I love excitement and fun and novelty.”

  With a small smile, Johanna rested her chin in her hand. “Yet I’m your friend.”

  “Oh yes. You’re the dearest of friends.”

  “I am quiet and steady and not exciting at all.”

  She stared at her friend, one of her closest friends, and she couldn’t disagree. Yet something was missing in the argument. “I like quiet friends, but a quiet husband? I’d become frightfully bored, and then I’d be mean and snippy and ruin the poor man.”

  Johanna’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “You are too sweet to do that.”

  Was she? She’d been snippy to Wyatt when he’d only been honest. It must have been difficult for him to raise his concerns, knowing it might anger her. And still he’d spoken. A man of integrity.

  Dorothy groaned and faced the mantel, graced with photographs of Johanna’s parents, brothers, aunts, and uncles—all trapped in Hitler’s Germany, probably sent to one of those hideous concentration camps. Dorothy’s concerns were trivial and petty in comparison.

  She traced her finger over a heavy ornate silver picture frame, so lovely. The Katin family had been quite wealthy in Germany, and the treasures Johanna’s grandmother had brought with her spoke of old continental charm.

  One photograph was propped loose against a frame. Dorothy held it up. “Oh dear. Was the frame broken in an air raid?”

  Pain ripped across Johanna’s face. “I sold it last week.”

  “Sold it? Why?” Every item in the flat was a family heirloom.

  Johanna stirred her tea, although she certainly hadn’t added sugar. “The doctor must be paid.”

  Dorothy scanned the flat—where were the silver candlesticks that normally sat on the table? “How much have you sold?”

  “I am fine.” She sipped her tea but didn’t meet Dorothy’s gaze.

  “No, you are not.” She breathed hard. What if Hitler had his way and annihilated Europe’s Jews? All that would remain of the Katin family would be Oma, Johanna, and these priceless objects. Once they were sold, they could never be recovered. Johanna would lose her heritage along with everything else.

  “I won’t have it.” Dorothy marched to the table and wrenched open her handbag. “You must never sell another heirloom. Never.”

  “Oma is more precious to me than—”

  “Yes. The doctor must be paid.” Dorothy pulled out the envelope stuffed with her pay for the month of April. If she were frugal, the remaining cash from her March paycheck would cover expenses until she was paid again at the end of May.

  Dorothy set the envelope in front of Johanna.

  Her eyes stretched wide. “No, I couldn’t. I can’t.”

  “You can and you will.” Dorothy’s voice quivered. “You mustn’t sell your heirlooms. I won’t hear of it. Consider it a loan, if you must, but you will never, never sell another piece of your family again. Do you hear me?”

  Johanna covered her mouth with her hand, and her face crumpled and turned red. “I—I’ll pay you back.”

  “I know you will.” Dorothy swiped at a tickle on her cheek, and her finger came back damp.

  So much loss in this war. Too much loss.

  Weymouth, England

  Under a clear blue sky the British motor launch zipped toward the nine ships of US Destroyer Squadron 18 moored in Weymouth Harbor.

  Sitting next to Wyatt in the boat, Jack grinned. “Finally get on an American ship again where we’ll understand the lingo.”

  Wyatt nodded and screened his eyes against the early afternoon sun, but he couldn’t work up any enthusiasm after the Slapton Sands disaster.

  The HMS Seavington had taken her load of survivors to Portland, and the crew had been sworn to secrecy. Nine German E-boats had attacked Convoy T-4, sinking two LSTs bound for Exercise Tiger and seriously damaging a third. Jerry Hobson hadn’t been there, thank goodness, but hundreds had perished—possibly over seven hundred.

  Secrecy was required. Not to cover up the disaster, but to protect the security of Operation Neptune and to blind the Germans to the extent of the damage they’d wrought so easily.

  Blame whipped around like the winds in Weymouth Harbor. The Army blamed the Navy for not training the soldiers how to wear life belts and how to abandon ship. The Americans blamed the British for not sending enough escort ships with the convoy, for not notifying the Americans when one of the escorts returned to Plymouth after being damaged in a collision, and for not alerting the Americans about the E-boat sightings. And the British blamed the Americans for using the wrong radio frequency.

  Too many cooks indeed.

  Jack nudged Wyatt. “All right, buddy. You’ve moped long enough.”

  Wyatt lifted his face to the breeze. “It’s a lot to handle. Slapton, Dad’s letter, Dorothy.”

  “Ready to tell me about her?”

  Exercise Tiger had allowed him to postpone this talk. “I started to ask her out, told her I wanted to take in a big show in town, and she offered to find me a date.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Mm-hmm. Then she said maybe I shouldn’t date English girls. They might not want to leave the country.”

  Jack’s cheeks puffed up with air. “She certainly let you know where you stand.”

  “Yep. She can’t leave her father. I know that. I should’ve thought of that.”

  “Well, now you know. Still friends?”

  The motor launch slowed and drew alongside the destroyer USS Oglesby. “Would be if I hadn’t been a jerk. A few days later I said something stupid. Hurt her feelings. She’ll be glad not to see me again.”

  Jack whistled. “You really know how to burn bridges.”

  He was an expert at that, and his chest seized.

  “Sorry, buddy. That was below the belt.”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “Still . . .”

  The two Wren coxswains heaved the launch to, grabbing lines tossed down from the Oglesby, and they beckoned for Wyatt and Jack to board their new ship.

  “Thank you for the ride, ladies.” Wyatt tipped his cover to the Wrens, slung his sea bag over his shoulder, and climbed the rope ladder.

  Jack followed. “Maybe your brothers . . . ?”

  Wyatt dropped him a skeptical look. He appreciated the effort, but it was impossible.

  “Okay, your dad’s right. It’ll take a miracle. But miracles are God’s specialty.”

  Too bad he didn’t deserve a miracle. Wyatt gripped the manila line as he climbed. But who did? Who deserved mercy or grace or miracles? No one. They were God’s to give. Hadn’t Job asked why he should receive good from God’s hand and not evil? So why was Wyatt willing to receive evil from God’s hand and not good?

  He haul
ed himself onto the deck and straightened his navy overcoat and his attitude. Lord, I’ll accept whatever you give me.

  On the quarterdeck Wyatt and Jack faced aft and saluted the national ensign, then saluted the officer of the deck. “Lt. Wyatt Paxton, reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Lt. John Vale, reporting for duty, sir.”

  The officer of the deck reviewed their orders. “Very well. I’m Lt. Grover Ellis, the executive officer. Captain Adams is in the wardroom. Report to him.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” They headed forward, past sailors on duty in good old US Navy dungarees and white “Dixie cup” covers.

  “Smells good,” Jack said. “It was fun serving on the British ships, but it’s good to come home.”

  It was. The Oglesby was a Gleaves-class destroyer, same as the USS Coghlan, the ship they’d served on together in the Aleutians. Wyatt pointed to the array of radar antennae on the mast. “Looks like you’ve got some new toys to play with.”

  “So do you.” Jack pointed to the Bofors 40-mm antiaircraft guns.

  “Hope we won’t need those.” But the way the Luftwaffe had been bombing the southern ports almost nightly diluted his hope.

  In the deckhouse they went down the ladder and entered the wardroom.

  Two officers sat at the table, and Wyatt and Jack saluted, reported for duty, and presented their orders.

  “I’m Lt. Cdr. Edwin Adams, captain of the Oglesby. Welcome aboard.” The captain wasn’t much older than Wyatt, with jet-black hair and a strong-featured face.

  “I’m Lt. Wayne Holoch, the gunnery officer.” He had a wide, friendly grin and eyes full of laughter. Wyatt would enjoy working with him.

  Wyatt and Jack stashed their sea bags in the corner and joined the officers at the table.

  Captain Adams looked over their orders. “We’re glad to have you here. As liaison officers, you’ll report to both Commander Marino and to me. Here on the Oglesby, you’ll be considered full members of the crew.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Wyatt and Jack said together.

  “You bring unique knowledge of targets and communications, as well as experience from the amphibious exercises that we lack.” The captain shook his head. “Can’t believe they couldn’t get us over here in time.”

  “Exercise Fabius is coming up,” Jack said.

  “That’s the only full-scale rehearsal we’ll get.”

  Wyatt’s stomach soured. What if the Germans attacked during Fabius as they had during Tiger? And what about on D-day itself?

  If a handful of little E-boats could cause such destruction, what would happen when the full strength of the German naval, air, and ground forces rained down on the Allies?

  “Very well, gentlemen.” Captain Adams gave them a welcoming smile. “Get settled in your cabin, and then go meet the men. Mr. Paxton, I see you have a courier mission this afternoon, so don’t linger.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Wyatt rose and followed Jack to their cabin.

  That sickening feeling persisted. Faced with enemy opposition, would Wyatt be able to protect the ship’s crew? The troops storming the beaches? His own brothers?

  He plopped his sea bag on his bunk. Lord, help me. I can’t do it on my own.

  27

  Hampshire, England

  Was Johanna right? Late that afternoon, Dorothy leaned her temple against the window of the railway car as it chugged south from London.

  All her life, Dorothy had gravitated toward quiet girls for friends. Gwen had become livelier, but how much of that had been due to Dorothy’s influence? Not only did quiet girls keep Dorothy’s more outrageous impulses in check, but she enjoyed drawing them in to her fun, encouraging them to try new things, and watching them grow in confidence.

  Could it be the same with a husband?

  Her sigh fogged the window, blurring Hampshire’s scenery. No, it couldn’t. Mum and Papa had been so ill-matched.

  Papa liked solving crosswords and feeding ducks. He’d tried to make Mum happy by taking her to Edinburgh and France, but it was never enough for her.

  Over the years Mum had grown disdainful and she’d turned to her friends for stimulation. Over the years Papa had grown aloof and he’d turned to his sons for companionship.

  Dorothy had watched, excluded and helpless. She’d hated seeing Mum so unhappy, hated seeing Papa treated so poorly, hated watching their love turn to distant contempt.

  She refused to make the same mistake.

  The train pulled into Cosham Railway Station just north of Portsmouth.

  Valise in hand, Dorothy ducked out of the railway car and headed down the platform toward the bus stop. She climbed the stairs to the little bridge and crossed the tracks. Underneath, two trains departed, one in each direction, and the wind ruffled the hem of her skirt.

  Down on the far platform, a tall American naval officer walked amongst the travelers who’d disembarked from the eastbound train. Her breath caught. If it weren’t for the slump of his shoulders, she’d think it was Wyatt.

  Then the man glanced up at the bridge and stopped. “Dorothy?”

  “Wyatt!” She scrambled down the stairs as fast as she dared. “Oh, Wyatt, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I was abominably rude, and you were only trying to help.”

  “What? I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

  “You?”

  He stepped to the far side of the platform away from the passersby. “I shouldn’t have talked that way about your dad. I had no evidence. Not one bit. And it doesn’t fit his character. Can you forgive me?”

  The devastation in his blue eyes melted her. The poor man, always seeking forgiveness. “Of course I do. Besides, you were right.”

  “Right?” His eyebrows sprang to the rim of his officer’s cap. “Your—your dad?”

  “No, no. I don’t think he’s guilty, but you’re right about how it looks to others.” She lowered her voice, even though the last passengers were departing the station. “My friend Johanna says there’s gossip at the office about him.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Do you suppose—I doubt it’s possible with us down here—but would you be willing to keep investigating? Please?”

  His mouth shifted to one side. “Are you sure you want to keep digging? What if the rumors are true?”

  She pulled herself taller. She’d had plenty of time to think on the train. “If he’s guilty, we’re ruined already. The truth will come out, whether or not we investigate. And if he’s innocent and no one investigates, the embezzler will drive the company to bankruptcy. The only chance to save the company and my father is to find the embezzler.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.” Wyatt nodded a few times, gazing over her head. “It’s a long shot, but I’d like to check out the Edinburgh office. Don’t know how I could get up there.”

  “I think—” Her throat clamped shut, and she swallowed hard. “Recently I suggested Papa and I take a trip to Edinburgh. We used to love it so, but we haven’t been there for years—1937, ’38 perhaps. Papa refused. He said he never wanted to go back. Do you think . . . ?” The swelling in her throat rose to her tongue.

  Wyatt switched his attaché case from one hand to the other. “Hard to say. He’s grieving. Maybe it just hurts to see the old places.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Listen, Dorothy. I’m sorry about this. I got involved because I wanted to help your family. I hate to think I could destroy it.”

  “He—he’s all I have left.” The swelling rose to her eyes and shoved tears to the surface. Bother. She lowered her valise to the platform and groped in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  “Hey, now.” Wyatt patted her shoulder in an awkward manner.

  Something about that fumbling masculine compassion shattered a barrier inside her. Grief yanked at her facial muscles, and she slapped the handkerchief over her mouth. But a hideous little sob erupted, and she swayed toward that manly comfort.

  “Hey, now. There, there.�
�� His attaché case thumped to the ground, and he gathered her in his arms.

  What on earth was she doing? How could she fall apart like this? And in public? She pushed back against his solid chest. “I need to—”

  “No, you need to cry.” He gently pressed her head to his shoulder, knocking her cap askew. “My mama says women need to cry every once in a while. Washes away all the weakness so you can stay strong. Always let a lady cry, she says.”

  Everything British in her rebelled. What would her mother say to see her like this?

  Nothing. Her mother would say nothing. Her mother was dead.

  So were Art and Gil. And poor Papa was drowning in his own grief, unable to see Dorothy’s.

  Another sob welled up, and another.

  “That’s it. Atta girl.” Wyatt rubbed her back.

  She couldn’t stop the tears any more than she could stop the war. With both hands, she flattened the handkerchief over her eyes and mouth to muffle her sobs and to spare Wyatt’s coat.

  For three years she’d held herself together so she could hold Papa together.

  So alone. No one to lean on.

  A deeper sob ripped up. No, she’d been alone longer than that. Papa only cared about her brothers, and Mum cared only about . . . ? If Dorothy were honest, Mum had cared only about herself. Her brothers had loved her, but they’d gone away to university and then the Navy. She’d been so alone.

  “There now. I’ve got you.”

  In Wyatt’s arms she felt small, but safe and hidden. And not alone.

  Her eyes opened in the light muted by the handkerchief and Wyatt’s embrace.

  He caressed her back, his movements firm but respectful, and his murmurs sent soothing waves through her entire being.

  A magnetic impulse told her to relax fully, to wrap her arms around him, to lift her face to him. Bésame mucho.

  What was happening to her?

  “All better?” he asked.

  She held her breath. Indeed, the tears had stopped. The timing couldn’t be better. “Yes. Yes, thank you.” Her voice trembled. She backed away, set her cap right, and patted her face with her damp handkerchief.