And once she had thought that someone was talking about Nick. The man had been half delirious and he was talking about his buddy who'd been killed beside him on the deck, but when she asked him about it later, the man's name had been Nick Freed. And he wasn't the Nick she knew. And the man died in her arms two days later.

It was the night of Thanksgiving when her uncle finally turned to her, unable to stand it any longer. “Why don't we call the War Office and find out?”

She shook her head. “If something happens to him, we'll read about it in the papers.” It would be worse to know where he was, she would be tempted to write to him and she was determined not to. And if he was wounded, sooner or later she'd know it. And if the head of Burnham Steel had been killed, the papers all over the country would carry items about it. “Let it go, Uncle George. He's all right.”

“You don't know that.”

“No, I don't.” But she had her hands full enough with the men that she knew weren't. She was working twelve-hour shifts now, right alongside the nurses.

“They ought to give you a goddamn medal when this bloody war is over.”

She bent and kissed his cheek, smiling, and then she stood up and looked at her watch. “I have to go, Uncle George.”

“Now? Where?” They had just finished Thanksgiving dinner and the girls had gone to bed a little while before. It was nine o'clock at night and she hadn't gone out in months.

“We're shorthanded at the base, and I said I'd go back.”

“I don't want you driving out there alone.”

“I'm a big girl, Uncle George.” She patted his arm.

“You're crazy.” Crazier than he knew, crazy with fear and longing and aching. Crazy from wondering if Nick was dead. Day after day she listened to the tales, wondering if the dead man beside the man she tended had been Nick, or if he'd even been there at all. There was a constant look of anguish in her eyes. And on Monday morning George Crockett took matters into his own hands and for the second time in a year he called Brett Williams.

“Look, I've got to know.”

“So do we.” Brett Williams wondered at the old man. He knew who he was or he wouldn't have taken the call. But he wondered why he wanted to know. Maybe he had been a close friend of old man Burnham's. “We haven't heard a thing.”

“But you can find out, for chrissake. Call the White House, the State Department, the Pentagon, someone.”

“We have. It's such a mess over there that they have very inaccurate records. Men have drowned, gone down with the Hornet, they're in hospitals all over the place. They say it'll be another month or two before they know much more.”

“Well, I can't wait that long,” the old man growled.

“Why not?” Brett Williams had had enough and they were shouting at each other. For a month now he'd been a nervous wreck not knowing where the hell Nick was. And Johnny had called him too, almost every day. And there was nothing to say to the boy, or this old man on the West Coast. Hillary had even called. She was actually worried that Johnny would lose his father. She was ready to give his son back now. “If we're sitting here, chewing our nails, goddamn it, so can you.”

“My niece can't. She'll worry herself to death if we don't find out where he is.”

“Your niece?” Brett looked blank. “Who in hell is she?”

“Liane Crockett, that's who.” She hadn't been that in thirteen years, but in the heat of the moment he forgot that.

“But—” And then slowly he understood. “I didn't realize before he left. … He didn't say anything to me. …” He wondered if the old man was telling the truth, and yet knew he had to be. Otherwise, why would he be calling?

“Why the hell should he tell you? Anyway, she was married at the time, but she's a widow now—” He faltered, wondering why he was telling this man, but it was a relief to tell someone. It was killing him to watch Liane dying behind her walls. “Look, we've got to find him.” And then he grabbed a notepad and a pen. “Who have you called?” Williams reeled off a list of names. He was beginning to like the old man. He had guts and he obviously cared about his niece, and Nick Burnham. He began trying to think who they could call that they hadn't, and the old man made a number of invaluable suggestions. “Will you do it, or shall I?” He knew full well that it didn't matter. Burnham Steel and Crockett Shipping were equally important.

“Let me give it another try, and I'll call you back.”

And two days later Brett did. He didn't have much. But he had something. “He was on the Enterprise when she was hit, Mr. Crockett. And apparently he was wounded pretty badly. We don't know much more than that except that he was shipped to Hawaii. And they just found out this morning that he was at Hickam.”

“Is he still there?” The old man's hand shook on the phone. They had found him … but was he still alive? And how badly had he been wounded?

“They shipped him out last week on the USS Solace. It's virtually been turned into a hospital ship, and it's heading for San Francisco. But, Mr. Crockett …” He hated to dampen his hopes, but they all had to be realistic, even the unknown niece, maybe most especially she. He didn't realize that she knew nothing of her uncle's inquiry. George had wanted to wait till he had concrete news. “We have no idea at all what condition he's in. He was critical when he got to Hickam and we don't know how he was when he left, and apparently on those ships … a lot of them don't make it.”

“I know.” George Crockett closed his eyes. “We'll just have to pray.” He was wondering if he should wait, or if he should tell Liane. But maybe she'd find herself looking into his face at that damn hospital. He opened his eyes then. “How did you find out?”

Brett Williams smiled. “I called the President again and told him you had to know.”

“He's a good man.” He grinned. “I voted for him in the last election.”

Brett Williams smiled. “So did I.” But it was a moment of relief in a sobering time.

“Do you know when the ship is scheduled to dock?”

“They weren't sure. Tomorrow or the day after.”

“I'll keep an eye on it from here, and as soon as I know something, I'll call you.” He hung up and called the Navy after that. The Solace was due to come in at roughly six o'clock the next morning. It gave him a lot to think about that afternoon before he saw Liane again. And when she came home at ten o'clock that night, she was pale and exhausted.

He watched her eat a sandwich and drink a cup of tea, and he thought of telling her then, but he just couldn't. What if Nick had died on the ship? And then he thought about it some more. What if he hadn't?

She was still awake when he knocked on her bedroom door an hour later. “Liane? Are you up?”

“Yes, Uncle George. Is something wrong? Don't you feel well?” She was wearing a pale-blue nightgown and she looked very worried.

“No, no, I'm fine, dear. Sit down.” He waved her to a chair and sat down on the bed, and she felt an instant chill run through her. She had the feeling that he was going to tell her something she didn't want to know. Her last shred of hope died as she watched him. “I have something I want to say to you, Liane. I don't know if you'll be angry or not.” He took a breath and went on. “I called Brett Williams a few days ago.”

“Who's that?” And then suddenly she remembered, and she felt her whole body grow stiff. “Yes?” It was like falling down a dark hole and dying as she waited.

“Nick was in Guadalcanal.” He tried to tell her quickly. “He was wounded … pretty badly, they think. But he was alive at the last report.”

“When was that?” She spoke in a whisper.

“Over a week ago.”

“Where is he?”

Her uncle watched her eyes as he spoke. She was in pain, but she was alive again. “On a ship coming to San Francisco.”

She began to cry softly and he went to her and touched her shoulder.

“Liane … he may not make it on the ship. You've seen enough of that to know.” She nodded, and looked up at him.

“Do you know which ship he's on?”

He nodded. “The Solace. They're coming in at six o'clock tomorrow morning, in Oakland.” She sat very still as she closed her eyes and thought. Six o'clock … six o'clock …in seven hours it would be all over … she would know…. She looked up at her uncle again. “We'll find out as soon as they arrive.”

“No.” Her voice was strong as she shook her head. “No. I want to go down there myself.”

“You may not even find him.”

“If he's there, I will.”

“But, Liane …” What if he was dead? He didn't want her to face that alone. And then he had a thought. “I'll go with you.” She kissed his cheek softly.

“I want to go alone. I have to.” And then she smiled at the memory of Nick's words so long ago. “I'm a strong woman, Uncle George.”

“I know that.” He smiled through damp eyes. “But that may be too much for you.” She shook her head, and a little while later he left the room. And all that night she sat in the dark and watched the clock, and at four thirty she showered and got dressed. She wore a warm coat, and when she left the house at five o'clock, there was a thick fog swirling around her.





“They've got you working down here now, Liane? I think you work harder than I do.”