How could Tom have found me so quickly?

He raises his head, and my heart stops for a moment, the breath knocked out of me.

“Helen?” John says, his brow furrowed.

I grip the railing, glancing out over the water. For one utterly terrifying moment, I consider what it would be like to jump overboard and take my chances with the sea.

But the man turns before I truly consider it, and there’s a flash of something on his features—an expression I’m intimately familiar with—and then it’s gone, and I realize it isn’t Tom at all.

Only a stranger with a similar manner of carrying himself.

The surge of relief hits me so quickly I could almost cry.

Man after man hops on the ferry, some big, some slight, but none of them are Tom.

We cast off, pulling away from the dock, the water slapping the side of the boat.

Suddenly, it’s all too much, and I lean over the railing, sickness overtaking me.

When I’m finished, a square piece of fabric enters my line of sight, and I take it wordlessly, surprised by the fine cloth, the initials painstakingly embroidered in the corner. Did a girlfriend make this for him? A fiancée?

I clean myself up discreetly before facing John.

“Thank you.” I hope my cheeks aren’t too red, my embarrassment great indeed.

“Of course. Have you been sick throughout the pregnancy?”

“In the beginning, but then it went away. Lately, it’s come back with a vengeance. The sea isn’t making it easier.” I grip the railing as the boat rocks once more.

“They say it helps if you focus on a steady point,” John suggests.

“Helps with what?”

“The seasickness.”

“And if there is no steady point?”

The weather has kicked up considerably in the last few hours, the wind wailing, waves battering the ferry, the crest rising higher and higher.

“Then you plant your feet and hope for the best.”

The water tosses the boat to and fro.

“Hold on to the railing. I’ve got you,” John shouts.

The boat jolts, and I lurch forward, John lunging to catch me.

Suddenly, we slow until we’re at a near crawl.

I grip the railing more tightly, dread settling in my stomach like a ball of lead.

“Why are we slowing down?” I ask John.

What if Tom has come after us?

“Let me see if I can find out what’s going on. Will you be fine if I leave you here by yourself?”

I nod.

Around me, people have taken notice of our decreased speed as well, murmurs and shouts rising from the crowd.

There’s open water all around us, and I scan for the Helen, to see if Tom has flagged down the ship, but all I can see are the riotous waves that look like they could consume us.

What have I done?

Footsteps echo behind me, and John’s voice—

“One of the propellers broke. That’s what slowed us down. With only one left, the trip will take hours longer than we thought.”

I lean over the side of the ferry and lose the rest of my breakfast.

Twelve

Elizabeth

It’s late in the morning by the time we’re on the road. Silence fills the car as we drive to the first of the veterans’ camps, and suddenly, I can’t take it anymore, the need to fill my head with something other than my worry overwhelming.

I stare out the window. “What a strange little place. You could almost stand in the middle of the road and put both of your arms out and touch the water.”

Sam chuckles. “Somehow I can see you doing just that. You’d probably cause an accident.”

“You know, I’m not only a troublemaker. I have other qualities. Besides, it’s hardly my fault if men can’t keep their wits about them in front of a pretty girl.”

“I thought we already settled the matter of you being more than ‘pretty.’ And you’re right. Men do utterly absurd things when women are involved.”

“Perhaps men do utterly absurd things on their own and merely like to use women as a convenient excuse for their foolishness. Are you speaking from experience, pray tell?”

He grins. “I might be.”

“I can’t fathom the woman who’d get under your skin.”

He shoots me a curious look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t take you for the romantic sort.”

“Whereas, let me guess, you fall in love weekly.”

“Only on Tuesdays. Mondays I’m far too busy, and falling in love on a weekend is too prosaic.”

“And Wednesdays?”

“Oh, I’m usually bored with them by Wednesday, and on to the next one. It’s a very delicate balance.”

“I see that. And who was the last man you fell in love with? The fiancé?”

His tone is mild, but I detect a note of interest there buried beneath the layers of insouciance.

I pause, as though I’m conjuring a man up from legions, when really the answer is so simple it twists my heart.

I shake my head. “No, not him. Billy.”

There’s only the slightest pang when I say his name now, as time affords.

“Billy?”

“William Randolph Worthington III.”

He snorts. “Billy.”

“Yes, Samuel. Billy to his friends.”

“And naturally, you were very good friends.”

“As a matter of fact, we were. After a fashion.”

“And you loved him?”

“Everybody loved Billy.”

“But he, what, bored you a day later?”

I give him a tight smile. “Something like that.”

“What really happened?”

“Why do you care?”

“Maybe I want to pass the time.”

“What time? This place is so small, we’ll be there in a minute.”

“So entertain me for that minute.”

“Have I ever told you how much I hate being ordered about?” I retort.

“You didn’t need to. Your manner fairly screams it.”