When Tides Turn Page 2

  Bentley leaned his hip on the desk and picked up Dan’s compass. “I think this manual will make a difference.”

  “I know it will.” Dan kept telling himself that, his gaze fixed on the compass in Bentley’s hand. Kept telling himself his work was vital to the war effort.

  Stay the course.

  He could hear Admiral Aloysius Howard’s voice in his head. Howard had good reasons for placing his protégé in the ASWU, but Dan felt like the war was passing him by.

  “Say . . .” Bentley grinned at Dan and patted the manual. “Birthing this baby was a long, hard labor, Mama. You look beat.”

  Dan allowed one corner of his mouth to inch up. “I’ve never been called a mama before.”

  “Yeah? Well, you still look beat. You ought to take a long, hard rest this weekend. Or go out and celebrate.”

  A groan rumbled up his throat. “Apparently I’m celebrating. My brother and sister insisted on a night on the town.”

  Bentley’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Sounds swell. Where are you going?”

  He shrugged. “Jim’s best friend, Arch, is back in Boston. He’s the one who lost his eye in battle.”

  “You told me. Out of the Navy, huh?”

  A cold chill crept up his chest. “Yes. He has a new job in Boston, so they want to welcome him back. It’s only right that I pay my respects. Besides, he’ll probably marry Lillian.”

  Bentley gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “Ah, it’s good for you, Mr. Avery. All work and no play—”

  “Makes Dan a dull boy.” He plucked the compass from his ensign’s hand. “But it might make Dan an admiral.”

  The sounds of Jack Edwards and his orchestra playing “Moonlight Cocktail” floated through the Terrace Room in the Hotel Statler. Dan sat squished with five other people around a table built for four, trying not to bump elbows with Quintessa Beaumont.

  “Nice new stripe.” Arch Vandenberg pointed to the shoulder boards on Jim’s dress whites, which boasted a thick and a thin gold stripe for Jim’s promotion to lieutenant, junior grade.

  Jim’s face scrunched up. “Say, buddy, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m not.” Arch wore a well-tailored gray civilian suit and a smile. Only a slight droop in one eyelid hinted at his injury and his glass eye.

  Dan gave him the direct gaze the former officer deserved. “Tell us more about your new position.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful.” Lillian entwined her fingers with Arch’s. “He’s opening the Boston branch of Vandenberg Insurance, and he’s hiring wounded servicemen.”

  “After they’re discharged, of course.” Arch winked at her. “I’m here for a week to scout locations for the office and to find an apartment. Then I’ll train with my father for a month in Connecticut before I set up the Boston branch.”

  Mary Stirling, Jim’s girlfriend, patted Arch’s free arm. “We’re glad you’ll be here to stay.”

  “Mary?” Quintessa peered out at the dance floor. “Notice anything odd about Yvette?”

  Dan frowned. Quintessa had barely spoken this evening, and now she’d changed the subject. Neither behavior was normal for her. And who was Yvette?

  Mary glanced in the same direction. “Yvette? No. Why?”

  “She doesn’t act like a woman in love. She’s looking all around the ballroom, not into Henri’s eyes.”

  A pretty brunette danced with a dark-haired civilian. Oh yes, Yvette Lafontaine. The ladies’ fourth roommate.

  Lillian’s lips twitched with laughter. “Why, Quintessa? Do you sense a mystery?”

  “Poor baby.” Mary’s light blue eyes danced. “Lillian and I both solved mysteries lately, and you haven’t.”

  Dan’s hands tensed in his lap. Both ladies nearly lost their lives in the process.

  Quintessa’s laughter bubbled up. “I am jealous. I admit it. Now, hush, everyone. Hi, Yvette! Hi, Henri!” She sprang to her feet, kissed her roommate’s cheek, and faced the table. “You all know Yvette, of course. This is her boyfriend, Henri Dubois. He’s a draftsman at the Boston Navy Yard. Henri, you know Mary and Lillian. These are Lillian’s brothers, Jim and Dan, and her boyfriend, Arch Vandenberg.”

  Dan blinked. How could any man follow an introduction like that?

  “How do you do?” Henri said in a French accent.

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” Dan stood and shook Henri’s hand. The man had a good firm handshake, and confidence shone in his dark eyes.

  “Will you join us?” Mary said. “We can make room.”

  “No, thank you.” Yvette circled her arm around Henri’s waist. “We are here for a romantic evening.”

  “Oh, good.” Quintessa returned to her seat. “I’m glad to hear it. Are you all right?”

  Yvette exchanged a glance with Henri, and her brow puckered. “It is nothing, I am sure. I feel . . . all evening I’ve felt—”

  “Don’t, my love.”

  Yvette pulled away a bit. “Nonsense. They are my friends. I feel as if someone is watching us.”

  A leg brushed past Dan’s shin. Quintessa jerked and glared at Lillian, who wore a smug “we know who was watching them” expression.

  Just like Lillian to kick someone under the table. He’d felt that foot under the dining room table in Vermilion countless times.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Henri bowed slightly and gestured back to the dance floor. “My love?”

  Before Dan could blink, Jim and Arch stood and ushered their girlfriends to the dance floor too.

  Leaving Dan alone with Quintessa. His stomach squirmed. Since when had Lillian danced? The traitor. Yet it was good to see her happy. And he admired how she never allowed her artificial leg to slow her down.

  Dan pulled his notepad and pen out of his breast pocket so he could plan the coming week’s work. It wouldn’t take long before someone asked Quintessa to dance. Too bad she didn’t have a boyfriend—but not a low-down heel like that Clifford. Still burned him up that a married man deceived both his wife and a nice girl like Quintessa.

  Beside him, Quintessa shifted in her chair. She was a beautiful woman, and she wore a yellow dress with sparkly gold pins and things. Everything about her was as golden and sparkling as sunshine on the ocean.

  Just like Joanie. Women like that needed lots of friends and social activities and attention. Good thing Admiral Howard talked sense into Dan before Joanie ruined Dan’s second year at Annapolis and his naval career.

  “You know, Dan. It would be polite if you asked me to dance.”

  He winced, but at least Quintessa’s voice was teasing instead of demanding. “You wouldn’t enjoy it.”

  She laughed. “I doubt you’re that bad of a dancer. What are you working on?”

  “Plans for the week.” He flipped a page.

  Quintessa folded her arms on the table and leaned closer. “You know what they say—all work and no play—”

  “Second time today someone said that to me.” He met her gaze. A mistake.

  Light green eyes like phosphorescence in a tropical sea. “Maybe you should listen.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Remember, we’re at war. The men at sea don’t get to play.”

  She rested her chin in her hand. “You’d like to be at sea, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s where I belong. My ship went to the Pacific without me. I should be there.”

  “The Vincennes.”

  “Yes.” No one could ever accuse her of being a dumb blonde. She was extremely intelligent and remembered details most ladies couldn’t be bothered with. “A good ship and a good crew. They screened the Doolittle carrier raid on Tokyo in April and participated in the Battle of Midway in June.” Two of the greatest naval events in modern history.

  “And you weren’t there.” She released a sympathetic sigh. “But how about your work here? Do you enjoy it?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I enjoy it or not. It’s my duty, and it’s important to the war effort.”

  “It must be terribly fascinati
ng if you can’t take five minutes to dance. What are you working on?” She edged closer.

  Blonde curls brushed his shoulder, and perfume tickled his brain, feminine and mesmerizing.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she said.

  Dan forced himself to look at his notebook. He’d been doodling without realizing it. A sailboat. Again.

  Quintessa smiled at him, much too close. “Designing sailboats, just like your dad.”

  His stomach hardened. “I’m nothing like my father.” He ripped the page from the notepad.

  “Oh! Don’t. It’s very nice. May I have it?” She held out her hand.

  Dan paused, staring at the slim fingers. Then he grunted. “Fine. I don’t know why you’d want it, but—”

  “Oh, thank you.” Quintessa plucked the paper from his hand and studied the sketch. She giggled. “Strong lines. All black and white. Just like you.”

  “I’m glad I amuse you.”

  “You do. And I know exactly what your sketch needs.”

  She did?

  Quintessa fetched her purse from under her chair and slipped the paper inside. “Wait and see. Now, back to work. No dillydallying. We’re at war.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But his plans for the week had seeped out of his brain.

  The last chords of “Who Wouldn’t Love You?” played, and the rest of the party returned to the table.

  Quintessa raised her hands in front of her, fingers wiggling. “I have an announcement. I’ve been dying to tell you.”

  Dan tucked his notepad away. One of those blonde curls would fit perfectly around his finger.

  “What is it?” Mary asked.

  Quintessa grinned. “On Monday I’m joining the WAVES.”

  Expressions of surprise exploded around the table.

  Dan’s jaw drifted lower. “The women’s naval reserve?”

  “Yes. I’m so excited. I want to do something for the war effort. I want to contribute. And the WAVES will be fun.”

  Fun? His jaw set. “You do realize it’s the real Navy. Hard work, discipline, not much time for fun.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” Her cheeks darkened to the shade of a ripe peach. “I meant the work itself will be fun.”

  Dan clamped his lips between his teeth. She was smart, but she was too glamorous, too lovely, too sparkling for the military. “Face it, the Navy’s no place for . . .” How could he say this without offending her? “Well, you even have a princess name.”

  “Dan!” Lillian kicked him in the kneecap.

  He grimaced, but he deserved the kick. Why did he always have to be so brusque? Just as well he stayed away from women. He was always hurting their feelings.

  Dan shot her an apologetic look. “I’m . . .”

  She wasn’t looking at him. Color high, jaw forward, eyes darting around. Then her gaze snapped to Dan, sparks replacing sparkles. “All right, then. Call me Tess.”

  “Nonsense.” Mary reached across the table and grasped her hand. “You’ve never had a nickname. You are Quintessa. It’s who you are.”

  Quintessa got a faraway look. “The quintessence of everything my parents wanted in their only child. A princess. Not anymore.”

  “Don’t let my brother discourage you.” Lillian knifed him with a glance.

  “She’s right,” Dan said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not? It’s true. Quintessa is only good for selling blouses, but Tess—Tess can do something worthwhile.” Her chin rose, showing strength and determination that only added to her beauty.

  But Dan’s stomach sank. Too bad the Navy would turn her down.

  3

  Monday, August 3, 1942

  Tess Beaumont set the pot roast on the kitchen table, keeping her expression neutral, even though her insides bounced around.

  Mary, Lillian, and Yvette watched her, concern etched on each face. They knew Tess’s plan for the day.

  “It smells wonderful.” Lillian trained her big hazel eyes on Tess, not the pot roast.

  “Thank you.” She took her seat.

  Mary fiddled with her fork. “So, how was your day, Quin—”

  “Tess. Just Tess.”

  Mary sighed. “Lifelong habits take time to break.”

  “I know.” Tess gave her roommates a perky smile. “I’ll help you.”

  “And how was your day—Tess?” Mary asked.

  She served up some pot roast. “Ran errands, went to the recruiting office, did a load of laundry, made dinner.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Tess couldn’t contain her excitement one more minute. “I did it! I filled out my application for the WAVES.”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  “You did?”

  “When do you start?”

  Tess laughed at her friends’ expressions. “If they take me, I’ll start in October.”

  “If?” Yvette asked.

  “Well, I meet the basic requirements for an officer, but there were an awful lot of girls, and I still have to take a test and a physical. They’ll contact me soon.”

  Mary’s smile fell. “But you have your heart set on leaving Filene’s.”

  Tess motioned to the pan, encouraging her friends to help themselves. “If the Navy turns me down, I’ll go to the Army. If the WAAC turns me down, I’ll take a job at the Navy Yard. I’ll learn to weld or rivet. I want to do something for the war effort. I don’t want to be a princess. I want to be useful.”

  Lillian groaned and tucked a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. “Don’t listen to that brother of mine.”

  “I won’t.” But she really wanted to prove Dan Avery wrong. He saw her as she was—frivolous and selfish. She wanted to become a selfless person whose work provided worth.

  Yvette glanced at her wristwatch and sliced her roast.

  It was Monday, the evening the French expatriates and refugees met at Robillard’s Bakery. “Do you have your meeting tonight?” Tess asked.

  “Oui.” Yvette dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

  Tess’s observations and Madame Robillard’s questions and Yvette’s suspicion that she was being watched rolled into a ball in her head. How many times had Yvette invited her to these meetings? Tess had never attended. How rude of her.

  “May I join you?”

  “Pardon?” The brunette arched one elegant eyebrow.

  “If I’m going to join the Navy, I should learn more about the war, the situation abroad.”

  “Oh yes. Please come. My friends will be happy to meet the daughter of the famous Philippe Beaumont.”

  “Thank you. It’ll be fun.” Even if boring old Dan didn’t think much of fun, Tess did.

  Tess sat at a little round table with Yvette and Henri, facing the back of the bakery. Solange Marchand, Yvette and Henri’s good friend, sat on the far side of the room, glaring at them. Tess had never seen the blonde wear so much makeup or such a tight-fitting dress.

  She leaned close to Yvette and lowered her voice. “What’s wrong with Solange?”

  “She thinks she is in love with Henri and that I stole him from her.”

  “Impossible.” Henri traced one finger along Yvette’s forearm. “You cannot steal what already belongs to you. I have loved you forever.”

  The devotion in Henri’s dark eyes looked genuine, but Yvette glanced around the bakery at the two dozen people greeting each other in French.

  Tess settled back and smoothed the skirt of her caramel-colored suit. She might not have a real mystery, but she could still play sleuth and use her powers of observation and intuition.

  Next to Solange sat a slender man in his thirties with blond hair and an eager look. He said something to Solange, but she inched away and talked to the elderly lady on her other side.

  A man in his fifties stood in the back of the room next to Papa’s painting of the Pont Neuf. “Bonsoir.”

  “Professor Louis Arnaud, our leader,” Yvette whispered to Tess.

  Professor Arnaud had a long face and slee
py eyes. Despite his deliberate manner of speech, Tess had a hard time understanding all his French due to his extensive vocabulary. At least she kept up with the news. The Germans had invaded France in May 1940. After the surrender, the Nazis occupied northern France but allowed a puppet government for southern France in Vichy.

  The professor described how the Nazis had rounded up thousands of foreign Jews living in Paris. He described how Resistance members assassinated Nazi officials, which led the Germans to kill fifty French civilians for each murdered Nazi. And after British commandos raided Boulogne in April, the Nazis executed a hundred civilians.

  The blond man at Solange’s table stood. “The Resistance does right. We must confound the Boche at every turn.”

  “Jean-Auguste Fournier,” Yvette whispered. “Now watch.”

  Tess gave her roommate a curious look, but Yvette motioned her toward the conversation.

  Madame Robillard stood and clasped her hands before her chest. “Jean-Auguste, please. We must think of our sons and daughters in France, our grandchildren—” Her voice cracked.

  “My apologies, madame.” Jean-Auguste bowed his head. “I get angry when I think of Germans ruling our land, but you are right. We must be careful. For every Nazi who dies, fifty good Frenchmen—and women—die. We cannot allow that.”

  “Nonsense!” A middle-aged man with a dark mustache sprang to his feet. “Jean-Auguste, you blow with the wind. That is what the Boche want—they want to scare us so we do not fight. But we must fight.”

  “Who’s that?” Tess whispered.

  “Pierre Guillory.” Yvette’s golden-brown eyes narrowed at the scene. “Dockworker.”

  “Non, Pierre.” Madame Robillard fluttered her plump hand at the man. “My boys, they send letters through our contacts. It is not so bad in Paris. They have jobs. They have enough food. The streets are safe. We must not listen to troublemakers.”

  “I am not a troublemaker. I am a patriot. I took German bullets to my leg in the trenches in the Great War. I almost died from poison gas.” Pierre slapped his chest. “And now? The streets are only safe because the citizens are terrorized. That is not freedom. That is tyranny.”