Yesterday's Tides, page 1
Books by Roseanna M. White
LADIES OF THE MANOR
The Lost Heiress
The Reluctant Duchess
A Lady Unrivaled
SHADOWS OVER ENGLAND
A Name Unknown
A Song Unheard
An Hour Unspent
THE CODEBREAKERS
The Number of Love
On Wings of Devotion
A Portrait of Loyalty
Dreams of Savannah
SECRETS OF THE ISLES
The Nature of a Lady
To Treasure an Heiress
Worthy of Legend
Yesterday’s Tides
© 2023 by Roseanna M. White
Published by Bethany House Publishers
Minneapolis, Minnesota
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-4064-1
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Cover model photography by Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images
Author is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
To Aunt Pam,
who loved Ocracoke long before I discovered it.
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Roseanna M
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Today
MAY 11, 1942
OCRACOKE ISLAND, NORTH CAROLINA
The first light of sunrise turned the water of the Pamlico Sound to gold, the clouds to rose, and the dark to morning, promising Evie Farrow that today would be just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow. Just like every other day on this tiny island in North Carolina’s Outer Banks. She could fight it, or she could embrace it.
But there was fighting enough going on in the world, and Evie had always preferred the way of peace. So she drew in a long breath filled with her favorite perfume—yeast, sugar, and cinnamon—and slid the still-warm sweet rolls into her basket. She paused one moment more to stare out the window of the kitchen, toward the view of the sound that had always, always soothed her. Later, she’d walk its shores. Perhaps even circle around to where the Atlantic joined its tamer sister with heightened waves and currents. She’d take her familiar path. She’d search for shells and sea glass. She’d pray for everyone she loved most.
Too many of them were on the other side of that ocean now. Too many of them were caught up in the war that made the ocean a harbinger of enemies instead of friends. But then, they had always been capricious, those waters. They stole as often as they gave. But she loved them.
A light hand touched her arm, and Evie spun around, smiling at Grandma See, who held out a cup of steaming coffee. Evie touched her fingertips to her mouth and then lowered them away from her in the second sign she’d ever been taught. Thank you. She slid her fingers into the familiar handle and lifted the mug for a fortifying sip.
Grandma See smiled, too, and made a series of quick hand movements. Her usual morning greeting: Time to race the sun.
Evie chuckled and leaned over to smack a kiss onto the familiar feathery-soft cheek. “I’m going, I’m going.” No need to sign those words—though Grandma See wouldn’t hear them, she could read them well enough, and knew to expect them. It was their daily script.
With the basket’s handle looped over her arm, Evie stepped out into the spring morning. Just as she had done yesterday, just as she would do tomorrow. Walked the familiar path toward the Coast Guard station, as she’d done every morning for the last six years. As she would likely do for six more, for ten more.
Forever.
She drew in a long breath and reminded herself, again, that she’d chosen this. Chosen to make Ocracoke not half her home, but her whole home. She’d chosen to relegate her other ties to visits and holidays.
So why did she find herself missing so much lately?
A silly question. How could she not? The biggest part of her heart was stuck an ocean away.
“Morning, Miss Evie.”
Evie’s gaze swept over, upward a few feet, to where her closest neighbor stood on her porch, her own mug of coffee in hand. Evie frowned. Miss Marge wasn’t usually out this early. “Morning, Miss Marge. How’d you sleep last night? Your back still bothering you?”
At the mere mention, the old woman rubbed at her lower back and heaved a sigh even the doves on the newly strung electrical wires probably heard. “Gave up—you know I ain’t much these days. Figured I’d sit out here on the pizzer for a little while, then maybe stretch out on the couch. You hear them noises last night?”
Evie didn’t slow her pace, but she did change her trajectory and aim for the porch’s steps, shifting her coffee to her already-burdened arm so she had a free hand. Ever since Mr. Mack had died last year, Miss Marge was always hearing noises, and she refused to believe they could all be from the antics of the neighborhood’s feral cat colony. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” She reached into the basket and pulled out one of the cinnamon rolls, sticky with icing.
That sticky icing on her fingers was one thing that would change, and soon. According to the report on the radio last night, sugar would soon be rationed. Then what would she offer to the boys at the station? She’d have to get creative. Or start bringing them something savory instead. Thanks to the local chickens and hogs, she had plenty of eggs and bacon. Her garden would soon be producing vegetables. Her lips twitched as she considered what they’d say if she showed up with a lovely French quiche instead of pastries.
“Here, Miss Marge. Something to enjoy with your coffee.” She handed over the roll with a smile.
Miss Marge’s eyes lit up, making Evie chide herself for letting three days slip by since her last baked good–laden visit. The lady didn’t get around well enough anymore to spend much time on her feet in the kitchen. “Well, I do thank you, Evie girl. You inn ladies are the best bakers on the island.” She closed her eyes and held the roll under her nose for a long whiff. Then opened them again, worry within the rheumy depths. “You be careful walking alone, now. Won’t be hardly daylight under the trees yet, and there are Germans in those woods, you know. Pretty young thing like you can’t be too careful.”
Evie frowned and reached out to tuck one of Miss Marge’s wispy gray curls back under her faded kerchief. Last month it had been an escaped bobcat supposedly prowling the woods, having swum to the island from . . . somewhere.
There was no use arguing with her—or trying to reason her into seeing that there could not possibly be Germans here. No point in reminding her that Ocracoke was probably the safest place in the world to live—and that Evie was hardly a “young thing” anymore. She may still have three years to go before she hit thirty, but she’d lived enough life to feel as ancient as the live oak at the corner, gnarling its way heavenward.
No point in saying any of that. But she’d be whispering an extra prayer for sweet Marge as she walked. “I’ll be careful. And I’ll stop by again later, okay? You try to get some rest after your breakfast.”
Armed with Miss Marge’s nod, Evie left the porch and returned to the road, picking up her pace now to make up for the detour. She always tried to arrive at the Coast Guard station in time for the shift change, so both groups of men were there.
A hum found her throat as she walked, “Sunrise Serenade” seeming an appropriate companion as daylight won a few more degrees. She saluted a few more early risers with her coffee mug, though the greetings they would shout later in the day remained unsaid in deference to the sleepyheads around. A few fishermen—stragglers, those—were hurrying toward the docks that wreathed Silver Lake. A few housewives were scattering corn for their chickens. But mostly she had the walk to herself.
Her to-do list wanted to crowd her mind, all the things she had to tend for the sake of the inn: checking the reservation book, sending out reminder postcards, maybe placing a few advertisements in mainland magazines to try to get more guests, like Stanley Wahab was doing for his new hotel. Then she had to make up some more sachets of yaupon tea for the two checking out today to take home with them, air out the garret room for next week’s hunting party—if they came—and hopefully still find some time to spend in her studio.
But all those thoughts were for later. Now was for the sweet silent prayers of morning. The call of the birds. The ever-present lap of water on shore. The distant rumble of . . . thunder?
She paused and looked out toward the horizon, but the clouds were only puffy, isolated things that she could see. That didn’t mean a storm wasn’t just over the horizon, of course, but the meteorologist had predicted clear skies today. Which meant it might not be thunder. It could be something far more sinister—and increasingly familiar.
Her prayers tripping over themselves now, Evie turned her stroll into a run. From hard-packed road to loose sand, up the weather-worn wooden steps, and into the Coast Guard station a few minutes later, Evie dashed. She slid her now-empty mug onto the porch banister and came to a panting halt inside the doors, where the expected well-ordered bustle was indeed underway.
She nabbed one of the Coasties by the arm. “Herb! Was that an explosion?”
“Hey, Evie.” Rather than stop, Herbert O’Neal took her hand and tugged her along with him. “Must have been. Torpedo Junction living up to its name. We’re preparing for a search and rescue.”
Evie’s stomach tied itself into knots. She bit back the words that wanted to spring up—Be careful! There are German U-boats out there! They were unnecessary, and if she gave them utterance, she’d sound like Miss Marge. These men were trained to be careful . . . and were well aware that it was the U-boats wreaking such havoc on their shipping lanes. Lately, it seemed like at least once a week the islanders were hearing those rumbles, sometimes seeing plumes of smoke from out at sea.
Who had died this time? What ship lost? One of theirs? Or had one of the ships that England sent over to help protect America’s vulnerable East Coast struck a blow against the Krauts this time?
And how many of the Coast Guardsmen would come back from this mission? Thus far the U-boats hadn’t targeted the Coast Guard cutters, but could they really assume they never would? In the best of times, theirs was a dangerous job. No one knew that better than she did.
In these times . . .
Herb was sending interested glances at her basket, so she opened it up again so he could snitch a roll. He was part of the daylight shift, which meant he’d be on the cutter heading out to investigate the explosion. He’d need all the fortification he could get.
She wouldn’t let herself say Be safe. But she did give him a tight smile and said, “Go with God, Herb.”
He nodded. “Always. You be praying, Evie girl.”
“Always.” Even when it didn’t seem to help. Always the Lord was with these men, she knew that—but He didn’t always deliver them safely home again. Sometimes He took them Home instead.
She tried to remember that it was better for them. That they died with a purpose. She tried to remember her great-grandmother’s voice as she whispered her own prayers, beads in hand, assuring Evie that death was just a veil between heaven and earth. A curtain. So thin, so delicate. Not something to fear, because the life after was just as real—far more real—than the life now.
Sometimes those words were easier to cling to than at other times, like this. When she wanted to know that all these men who were friends and brothers and fathers and grandfathers to her would be here still tomorrow, clamoring for their breakfast.
She slid her basket onto the usual table and then stepped out of the way as the horde of hungry Coasties descended. They all mumbled their thanks around full mouths as they took off again for their various tasks.
Evie drifted over to the station keeper, who stood, silver-haired and back straight as ever, looking out the broad windows with binoculars raised. “Any idea who it is out there, Liam?”
First Class Boatswain Mate Liam Bryan didn’t even glance down at her. “Morning, Evie. Hard to say.” When she sighed, he lowered the binoculars and sighed along with her. “We didn’t intercept any Maydays. Must have happened too fast. Blasted U-boats.”
She folded her arms, clasping hands to opposite elbows. Feeling the warmth from the palm that had been cradling her coffee seep into her skin made her that much more aware of how frigid the waters would be, should any of her friends fall into them. Not quite winter-cold, but a far cry from end-of-summer warm. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
Liam angled a crooked grin down at her. “Well now. You’ve got friends in high places overseas, don’t you? Ask them if they can get Hitler in line.”
She snorted a laugh and let her hands fall to her sides again. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Always were a thoughtless little thing.” He added a wink and reached out to tweak her nose, like he’d been doing since she was a tot. “I’ll never forget the first time your mama brought you here. The way your brother was into everything, but you . . . You just climbed up on Johnson’s lap and snuggled right in, like he wasn’t a bear that kept us all in line from sheer terror.”
Evie let her lips tug up. “Teddy bear, maybe.”
“With you, maybe.” But he chuckled and shook his head, then sighed. “I miss those days right about now. When we only had the weather and the currents and the shoals to worry over. Accidents. Not this.”
They’d had another war, too, in those days. But it hadn’t touched them here on Ocracoke like it was doing now. Not most of them.
A shudder coursed through her. Not every islander had remained unscathed from that Great War. She’d been too young to really remember much of it directly, but the stories still haunted the inn like the Howard Street Ghost was rumored to haunt the Howards.
She took a step back. “I’d better get out of the way and back to the inn. The guests will be up soon, wanting breakfast.”
Liam nodded. “We were all talking last night after the rationing announcement. Most of us won’t have much call for our sugar allotment. Figure we’ll send them your way, if you keep delivering it back to us in the form of pastries.”
“Well now.” She gave him a grin and executed a perfect naval salute. “You have yourself a deal, sir.”
When she reclaimed her coffee cup from the railing a minute later, empty basket now on her arm, the morning was already bright and steady, that magical gold of dawn faded. Every day, she marveled at how quickly it turned from rainbows and fire to regular light.
Another metaphor for life, wasn’t it? She’d had her flash of fire and gold, too, but that was long gone. Now it was day. An island day that would have its clouds and its sun and eventually its dusk and night. Nothing out of the ordinary, no matter how splendid and special that daybreak had seemed.
That was all right. More than all right—it was what she had chosen. An everyday life. An island life. One in which she would shine as brightly as she could for her neighbors, for her family. She’d gather her shells and sea glass. She’d pray those bits of ocean into baubles and jewelry. She’d do what she could to make life a little sweeter for the people around her. She’d live until she didn’t anymore.
Reaching up, she touched a hand to the necklace she always wore. The blue-green glass, the swirls of silver, the circle of white gold. The reminder of her flash. Of her yesterday.
A few minutes later, as she turned onto the lane toward the Ocracoke Inn again, a shadow settled over her spirit so completely that she came to a halt, breath balled up in her chest. She looked around for whatever had cast it, but it couldn’t be blamed on a cloud or a tree branch getting between her and the sun.
It wasn’t physical.
Struggling to pull air into her lungs, she rubbed a hand over her chest and let her vision go unfocused. It had been years—years—since she’d felt this, at least this strongly. This urgency, this darkness. This warning. As a child, it had come upon her all too frequently, but with age and its doubts and its reason, it had lessened. Weakened.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and that was all it took to be back in her great-grandmother’s arms, to hear her whispering prayers for protection over her. To see the worry in Mama’s eyes as Evie cried over what no one else could see. To feel the warm surety of her brother’s fingers woven through hers.
