It’s difficult to remain upbeat when you’ve been dead for over a decade, but Helen Monroe prided herself on keeping both a stiff upper lip and her best foot forward. Her daughter had always told her life was to be enjoyed. But what about death?
And this pesky place in between?
Although the realization that her plane was about to crash was the most horrifying moment of her life, Helen found it bittersweet. The panic had given way to a certain peace that settled around her like a soft woolen shawl. She was certain it was the arms of Bud Monroe, the love of her life who’d passed away in 1987.
But there had been no reunion. Not yet.
Ever since 9/11, the following message had played repeatedly in her head: Your mission in this world is not yet complete. Wait for orders. Keep calm and carry on. So Helen continued to do what she’d done for most of her life: nurture others.
First at Ground Zero, and then aboard the USS New York.
But things were about to change. Helen felt it in the sultry pre-dawn Florida air. She smelled it tangled up with the scent of fresh marine paint, diesel fuel, and something burning below in the galley. Whatever it was smelled better than those noxious scents back in New York City. Helen had learned to remove all unpleasantness from her existence and only embrace the scents of life these days—which would include a pan or two of burnt cookies on the mess decks. Devil take her if Helen hadn’t burned her share of cookies over the years.
Since that fateful September morning when she’d boarded the plane to fly across the country and meet her great grandchild, Helen had patiently awaited her orders. And now—now she knew on a visceral level—who would deliver them. One of the WRNS had come to save her. Lieutenant Gwyn Pritchard, Women’s Royal Naval Service.
Helen hadn’t worn a Wren uniform since the end of World War II when she’d traded it in to become a war bride and follow Bud around the world as a U.S. Marine officer’s wife. And she’d never looked back. Well, except to visit now and then and ensure she could obtain decent tea—heavens, but the Yanks knew nothing about brewing a proper cup of tea. But she’d never regretted leaving her mother country to spend the rest of her life loving Bud Monroe, their five children, and nine grandchildren.
So welcoming Gwyn aboard New York yesterday had brought a smile to her old, withered face. Helen hadn’t thought about her days as a Wren in a long, long time, having served in a different war. But she and Gwyn would be bound by the code of women in uniform. Sisters-in-arms—or perhaps more like grandmother-and-granddaughter-in-arms.
For the better part of the new century Helen had waited for what she was supposed to do to join Bud in the next world. Initially the backhoes at Ground Zero had searched the rubble for survivors, and then for bodies, artifacts, and personal possessions. Eventually the rescuers went away. But in 2003 they returned. This time they scooped her up, along with eleven of her spiritual cohorts, and they’d traveled. By truck, by train, and by barge. That’s when she knew what her purpose would be.
More than half a century since she’d served in the Navy, this Wren would be going to sea in a Navy ship.
Literally.
It would be for her adopted country. But that was fine with Helen, because the USS New York transported Marines. And Bud had been a Marine when she’d met him. Oh my, how dashing he’d looked in his dress uniform with all his medals and such. Maybe the reason she’d moved into a Navy transport that carried Marines was to bond with him in some way.
Helen had adjusted splendidly to the USS New York, even though it intimidated her with all its electronic do-dads and gee-gaws. Nothing like what the Allies had sailed during the war. She didn’t know the first thing about modern technology, but she’d felt at home immediately and knew it was where she was meant to be.
She’d even battened down the hatches when Hurricane Katrina threatened to destroy the ship while it was being built in New Orleans. Helen had helped the firefighter and police officer spirits—all military veterans such as herself—organize the other spirits on board. They watched over it when the levee broke, flooding the workers’ homes and putting construction behind schedule. Helen had believed that was why they had been asked to stay in this world.
Unfortunately, they were still here waiting for orders.
But now with the arrival of the young Wren, Helen would have someone with whom she could share her joy of the Navy. Not that there hadn’t been plenty of women in uniform aboard New York since the ship had been commissioned, but none had possessed the obvious gift Gwyn did. None had radiated that certain glow—or waved at her—assuring Helen that Gwyn Pritchard could see her.
And would help the spirits get to the light.
* * *
The Chief of Naval Operations.
That’s all Nick could think about as Simon and Trudy took him “down in the hole” on the official tour of the engineering spaces on Monday. Okay, so Trudy’s dad was only equivalent to the U.S. Navy’s Vice CNO, but he was still big. Really big.
The Second Sea Lord and High Minister of the whole fecking Royal Navy.
Sounded like something from a Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta.
Why would they send a Yank to be her new boss? And why did it have to be him? Nick reminded himself Simon was technically her boss and he was only her intermediate supervisor. Which meant, one way or the other, Trudy would answer to him.
Nick Nikolopoulos of Brooklyn.
Great.
Nick tuned back in to Simon’s droning. “We’ve two Crossley-Pielstick 200 medium-speed diesel engines, rated at 23,904 horse power, with two independent shafts and a five-bladed fixed-pitch propeller,” Simon said proudly indicating the Atlantic’s engines. “She’s also fitted with a 450W KaMeWa bow-thruster, giving her a maximum speed of eighteen knots and a range of 8,000 miles.”
Nick snapped his attention back from wondering how a corkscrew curl that had escaped Trudy’s bun would feel wrapped around his little finger. It was a good thing he was familiar with the information Simon shared, because Nick felt like he was back in Sister Regina’s Latin class. Trudy’s hair was turning him on right smack in the middle of the engine room. He fantasized about rivers of it cascading over him, burying him in its glory. A waterfall of soft, fragrant curls flowing over him.
What the feck was wrong with him?
Here he was, an ambassador from the United States Navy for the next year, and within twenty-four hours he was jonesing for his assistant? And going without sex for the past eight months was not an excuse to go after Trudy. The little devil on his shoulder whispered in his ear that just because Nick hadn’t been able to trust his fiancée, didn’t mean he couldn’t lust after his assistant. He brushed away the thought and brought his attention back to his boss.
Simon introduced him to the leading hands, the chief petty officers, and the rest of the stokers. “I’m going to assume the engineering hands are called stokers because they stoked the fires in the old days,” Nick said.
“Spot on, Yank. Can you tell us why you call your engineering mates snipes?”
“Sure. When steam engines first came aboard our ships, an engineer named Frank Snipes demanded equal treatment for his hands. They were being harassed by the deck crew, who’d worked the sails for ages and didn’t like the change to steam. The engineering mates became known as ‘Snipes’ men,’ and eventually plain old snipes.”
“That’s fascinating, Yank.” Trudy turned toward him and caught her boot on the decking, propelling her right at him.
Nick reached out to catch her and found himself in a close encounter with her green cat eyes. He yanked his hands away as if that innocent contact had burned him while she righted herself and apologized.
“No problem,” he said. “You okay?”
“I am,” she said with a smile in her voice.
Nick was in deep shit. He now knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that Trudy Ashcroft measured up. At six-foot-four, it was a rarity for Nick to stand with a woman who could look him in the eye. Brooke had been almost a foot shorter than him, but that’s just how it was. It’s not like he chose a girl because she was tall or short. But he had contorted his body more times than he cared to remember in order to look at a woman on her level—or kiss her.
Damn it all. Just acknowledging that Trudy’s bee-stung lips had been in kissable range, with neither party craning a neck, bending a knee, or standing on tiptoe, Nick realized they would be a kissing match made in heaven. Which, he knew—without any rational part of his brain working at this point—would make them an even better team in bed.
Nick Nikolopoulos from Brooklyn and the daughter of the Second Sea Lord and High Minister of the whole fecking Royal Navy.
In bed.
Together.
And that’s when he had to leave the engine room, pleading a trip to the head.
* * *
In the pre-dawn Florida darkness, Gwyn’s eyes darted around the New York’s pier as she hissed into her mobile phone, “But what if I don’t want it, Mum?”
“It’s a gift, Gwyn. It’s not like you can choose to have it or not.”
“I know you love having the sight, but I don’t.”
“Save your breath to cool your porridge, dear. Who said I asked for it? It was a bit frightening for me at first. I was terrified when I realized I could dream about what was going to happen to people. And then those things occurred. It took time for me to accept that my purpose in life was to help people stay safe. But I never asked for it.”
Sweat dripped between Gwyn’s shoulder blades—and she hadn’t even jogged yet. Her mobile slipped in her hand. “Look, Mum, I already know my purpose in life. I’m an engineer in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Well, perhaps you should tell that to the civilians roaming the decks of the New York.”
Gwyn sighed in resignation. “Okay, tell me more about this gift, Mum.” She hoped she looked like every other sailor who had left the ship to go for a morning run, and then stopped to ring a friend where the reception was good. She doubted the others had rung up Wales to ascertain whether or not they had a gift for clairvoyance or any other such nonsense.
“If you ask me, I believe you’re being used,” her mother said.
“What do you mean, used?” Gwyn glanced around again, ensuring no one could hear her.
“Perhaps the spirits need help crossing over. They might need assistance passing to the other side and you’ve been chosen to help them.”
“Oh, God,” Gwyn mumbled, gripping her temples between her outstretched fingers, and shaking her head from side to side.
“Now don’t go sour, dear. It doesn’t become you. Tell me what you’ve seen.”
“Well, I’ve counted nine people who look like they don’t belong. That includes an old woman, a tourist in a Hawaiian shirt, a very serious businessman, a commercial pilot, and, I think, a flight attendant. There are several firefighters with FDNY on their jackets and I’ve seen a young boy, Mum. That really freaked me out. Do you think he was on one of the planes?” Gwyn swallowed hard and rubbed her face. “He’s about six or seven years old, but he acts like he’s younger because he seems so scared. He has a stuffed puppy dog with him. And once he actually played with the dog. But mostly when I see him, he’s frightened.”
“Alright, pet, I’ll tell you what. I have a positive feel about this. I think you’ve been targeted because of your family. Remember Grandmother Llewellyn? She had powers too.”
“Cripes, Mum, I don’t want to hear this now. I want to know what to do about seeing these spirits.” Gwyn turned and scanned the area again, taking in the starboard side of the ship and the joggers who, having completed their workouts, were headed to the brow.
“Don’t worry, love, you’ll get it all sorted. I don’t believe you’re in danger. See if you can communicate with them. Find out if they can hear you. Start by asking their names.”
“Great. My first day on the job and my boss will think I’m mental. How about I try it in a few days? Thanks for all the advice, although I’m still not too keen about striking up conversations with ghosts.”
Gwyn sensed a presence, glanced around, but saw no one. “Look, I have to go. I’ll call again as soon as I can get off the ship. Love you. Cheers.” She thumbed off her mobile, executed an arse-about-face, and slammed into the solid brick wall of Gunny Connor’s chest.
He raised his hands to reassure her he wasn’t trying to touch her. “Whoa, ma’am. Are you okay?”
“Quite,” she spit out.
“No, I don’t mean from smacking into me. I mean from… Sorry, but I kind of overheard.”
“Bloody hell, what did you overhear?”
“Well,” he drawled. “If I’m not mistaken, it sounded like you were on the hotline to Ghostbusters.”