The Sky Beneath Her(66)
“Not as good as Mom.”
“Better. She took risks that I didn’t like.” He drew in a breath. “I loved her like family, but she was hardheaded.”
“She knew what she wanted.”
“She did.” Another pause. “But you aren’t her. You don’t have to live her life to be a success.”
“I’ve been chasing my mother all my life.”
“You don’t have to. Do you know all the divers had something nice to say about you? All they saw was kindness and potential.”
“Did they notice that I’m still uptight about getting under the water?”
“We all should be. The ocean isn’t kind to anyone who underestimates its power.”
“Still freaks me out a lot.”
“Give it time. You’re a natural. I’d bet once you get in the water, you’ll realize that you’ve arrived home. You ready to dive tomorrow?”
The boat cut through smooth waters. “Will the dreams of me drowning go away?”
He frowned. “You get those?”
“Not as often anymore. But yes, I still have nightmares.”
My attention drifted to the shore and the docks and houses on the sound. “I couldn’t get in a pool until two years ago. Water terrified me. But I slowly started to miss it. So, I began swimming laps at the gym pool.”
“Respect the water, and you’ll be fine.”
“That’s what I keep saying.”
“You need to dive.”
No wiggle room to back out. “I will.”
“Good.” He maneuvered the boat up to a spot in the center of the Currituck Sound and cut the engines. “Ready for dinner?”
Bracketed by the mainland and Outer Banks, we weren’t close to any dock. “Here?”
“Sure. Thought it would be fun.”
“Is this a date?”
His sunglasses reflected my comical expression and hid his eyes. “What do you think?”
“Honestly, I’m not really sure.”
He opened the cooler and pulled out a couple of wrapped sandwiches. “Me either.”
It was good for now. But he would move on when this project was finished. And I had no desire to chase anyone around the world again. But I liked where I was in this moment. “Are there fries in that cooler?”
“No, but there are bags of chips.”
I beamed. “You had me at ‘chips.’”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gertrude
Thursday, April 23, 1942, 8:30 a.m.
One day until the Oceanus is torpedoed
I woke from a brief morning nap to terrible stomach cramps. My entire body twisted into a knot that strangled the breath out of me. Breathing in and out, I rose from my bunk and tried to straighten. My stomach convulsed. I gripped the side of the bunk and kept breathing in and out. Finally, the cramp passed, and I was able to uncurl and inhale deeply.
I checked my gown and was relieved I wasn’t bleeding and that my water hadn’t broken. I said a prayer of thanks. It wasn’t time for the baby. I had at least another month.
“You cannot come now. You must wait. It’s not safe yet.”
The baby went very still suddenly, and I wondered for a brief second if something had happened to the child. I waited, and when the child kicked, I relaxed.
I carefully removed my gown, poured water into a pitcher, and dabbed a clean cloth into the water. I wiped the cloth over my distended belly, which looked as ripe as a fresh peach. I washed the sweat from my body. I stepped into underwear and then a skirt with a drawstring that rested above where my waist had been.
I wasn’t the prettiest girl in Vienna, but there was a time when I’d taken great pride in my appearance. There weren’t many young men in my district, so I’d been a little surprised when Alfred entered the bookshop on a cold Thursday in October. Alfred carried himself with a bearing few men possessed. He didn’t approach the counter but stood back, examining a novel.
“May I help you?” I asked.
He didn’t look up. “Have you read this novel?”
“Yes. But I think it might be too romantic for your tastes.”
He lifted his gaze and then slid the book back onto the shelf. Without looking up, he asked, “And who are you?”
“Naida.”
“An unusual name.”
“I’m named after a Greek river god. My uncle is fond of the classics.”
He met my gaze and studied me closely. “It’s lovely.”
I was flattered. He was one of the most beautiful men.
Uncle Eric came out of the back room and introduced himself. “Can I assist you, Herr Gruber?”
I was surprised my uncle knew his name.
“I’ve heard you carry rare books,” he said.
“From time to time we have a few,” Uncle Eric said. “May I ask how you found us?”
“Word travels. Show me what you have.”
My uncle hesitated and then moved behind the counter and reached to the shelf underneath. He presented the German author Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s title The Sorrows of Young Werther, originally published in 1774. Sigrid had sold him the book days before.