The Doughty Women: Susan - What Lies Before Us: The World War 2 Sisters, #2

By Sierra Rose

This is book 2. 

The Doughty Women: Susan 

Susan Doughty is a Government Girl residing in Washington, D.C. in May of 1942. Sharing an apartment with two friends at the height of the war effort, she treks off to work every day at the Federal Bureau of Investigation in what has been, until now, a humdrum job. 

While she worries about her sister, famous war correspondent Kit Doughty, currently stationed in London and recently married, Susan finds herself yearning for her own adventures. Because, by comparison, her existence seems very tame, very safe. Humdrum. 

Alas for Susan. A wish once made cannot be easily unmade. 

Her promotion at work, from the fingerprinting division to one more secretive involving sabotage and foreign agents, comes with a new boss. Matthew Crowley is tightly wound, buttoned-up, and greets her with a criticism—either of her performance or her appearance—almost every day. Which does not make for the most harmonious of relationships. 

Enter Dexter Mulrooney, a handsome, charming Irishman oddly enough in the same line of business. Secret agent. Operative. Spy. He and Susan have barely begun enjoying a possible relationship when he inexplicably disappears. On some spook-like activities, Susan can only assume. 

Just about the time she finds that one roommate, Clara Dunlap, is involved with a married man, and that the soldier lover of the other, Betty Draper, has gone missing in North Africa, her life is further complicated by that fact that she is being stalked. 

Be careful what you wish for, Susan Doughty. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Shadows Publishing
• Release date: Feb 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524242671

Book preview

Cover Artist: Book Cover By Design

Description: C:\Users\chrissy\Documents\Banner The World War sisters large downsized.jpg

The Doughty Women:

With Valor Above All

What lies behind us and what lies before us

are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

~ OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

l

THAT IS THE MOST ROMANTIC story I’ve ever heard.

Romantic? Sure, it’s romantic, since the guy was lucky enough to make it back alive. What if he hadn’t? So now what, Sue? What’s going on over there?

Wait a minute, wait a minute...still reading the letter...

Susan Doughty, svelte figure wrapped in her favorite cherry-red ensemble, had been joined at lunchtime by two of her fellow wage-earners at the War Department, Clara Dunlap and Betty Draper.

The Three D’s, they called themselves, having become friends over the past half-year or so in their employment as Government Girls. There, for the duration of the national emergency, they would take over the positions of men released to the draft or reassigned. At the end of the war, those who returned would be entitled to reclaim their posts, while those who had so ably filled in would be forced out.

They had chosen a table in busy Haverton Grill, located on one of Washington, D.C.’s side streets. The Haverton was a favorite meeting-place for nearby office workers, serving as a magnet to pull from many blocks’ worth of the surrounding area.

Lord knew, with war time on and war fever spreading, Washington was the city to be in, and, by association, this upper-class eatery was the place to be seen. Enough so that, during peak hours, diners might be packed cheek-by-jowl and enjoying every minute of it. Life was exciting, life was a hoot, and you could find much of what you were seeking at the Haverton.

Music, for instance, pouring forth from a giant and colorful Wurlitzer jukebox: the fun, toe-tapping rhythms of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and Chattanooga Choo Choo; the purely entertaining Deep in the Heart of Texas; for the  sentimental, like those on leave or those about to be sent away, Moonlight Cocktail, The White Cliffs of Dover or Tonight We Love.

Here, the atmosphere, with its red vinyl banquettes, splashy floral-papered walls, Formica-topped tables, and sleek Venetian blinds, was jumping. Hardly the spot to show up for a business meeting or an intimate, glamorous tête-à-tête. Clearly none of that was transpiring today, given the buzz of spirited conversation all about, and the occasional burst of laughter, and the energetic calls from one end of the room to another.

Well, come on, for Pete’s sake, chided Clara impatiently. You’ve had enough time to read the Gutenberg Bible by now. Don’t keep us in suspense any longer.

All right, all right. Hold your horses. By force of habit, Susan pushed back a stubborn lock of curly blonde hair while perusing the several sheets of thin onionskin that her sister used for personal correspondence. Suddenly she let out a small shriek.

What? What?

She’s married! Oh, my God, she and Lew got married!

Hastily she recited the details as listed in Kit’s letter: simple garden nuptials at the Colchester country estate of Tripton, in Maidstone; Lew, handsome and stalwart in his uniform despite the unwieldy cast on his leg, and Kit, wearing shiny white satin, a gossamer veil, and pearls; Hallie as maid of honor, Lew’s Uncle Simon as best man; and festivities following that included as many guests as were able to attend and as much substantial fare as ration books allowed.

The sound of a muffled sob drew Susan’s notice. What’s the matter with you? she asked blankly.

Clara had whisked a handkerchief out of her snazzy little shamrock green clutch and was wielding its lacy folds with vigor. Oh, I just love storybook weddings!

Even one an ocean away, agreed Betty, chuckling. Go on. Does she describe what her dress looked like?

H’mmmm, let’s see...yup. Family heirloom, on loan from Lew’s Aunt Tricia. She’ll send photographs when she gets a chance. Right now they’re honeymooning in—um—ha! Kit’s London flat!

Oh, bong! said Clara with approval. Till this silly war is done with, and they can head for the South of France, I’ll bet.

Susan looked from one to the other with somewhat dismayed affection. So different, these two, yet both such a vital part of her life.

Clara had been blessed with long ginger curls, a smattering of freckles, and green leprechaun eyes. As a bonus, she exuded bouncy warmth and cheer, an attitude that Everything’s right with the world (even if it weren’t), a farm girl’s sturdy figure favoring comfortable shirtwaists over tailored  suits, and the imagination to lasso elusive night fairies and stardust fantasies. In other words, a dreamer. One who was, today, wearing green and brown print crepe and a demure little veiled pillbox.

As for Betty, a graduate, so she claimed, of the school of hard knocks, pragmatism came much more readily and easily. Since the age of fifteen, she’d lived on her own, independently, supporting herself as a waitress or dancer or whatever came along. Until arriving at the Capitol, where the booming job markets had opened up a whole new world.

So she’d bought herself a business-like but form-fitting wardrobe, clipped her thick hair into respectable side rolls, and gone off to apply.

Recently, with the influx of population flooding the streets of Washington, the availability of housing had grown scarce; places were crowded to overflowing, and rent costs had shot sky-high. With an eye at conservation, the Three D’s, having worked together for a number of months, decided to share an apartment, as well.

So far, things were working out just peachy-keen.

Hey, there, girls, sorry it took me so long, the harried waitress apologized profusely as she skidded to a stop beside their table. Pad and pencil in hand, she paused for a quick smile all around. Busy as all get-out today. What can I getcha?

The tuna salad for me, Susan said immediately. Practically a standing order; it wasn’t even necessary for her to view the menu. And the fresh peaches with sour cream.

I’d like an open hamburger sandwich, was Betty’s order. And hold the onion.

Ditto for me, added Clara. Along with some cottage cheese and sliced tomatoes.

Got it, hon. Okay, comin’ right up. I’ll bring refills on that coffee, too.

Clara swirled a paper soda straw through the icy slush of her Coke, then picked up the dropped thread of their conversation. What d’you think your folks will say about Kit getting married without them there?

Oh, I’m sure they’ll be disappointed. But Dad and Mom understand the circumstances, too. It’s hard to tell when and where Lew will be sent back, once his broken leg has completely healed. He and Kit may as well have as much happiness as they can, while they can, before that happens.

My younger sister was the same way, Clara mused. Well, kinda. I mean, she never got the MIA telegram, of course, because her fellah was still here in basic. But once he got leave, they hitched up so fast it would have made your head spin. My mother hit the roof, said it wasn’t seemly to have such a quick wedding, and people would talk.

And did they?

Clara shrugged, adjusted a loosened pearl button on her bodice, and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. "Beats me. But Pamela, she spoke right up, said the future was too uncertain and she’d take what she could get. And let anybody talk that wanted to; she wasn’t in the family way like some others she could name."

Betty, who had never once mentioned the possibility of parents or any other close relations as part of her heritage, remained silent. Instead, as their servings arrived with a muted clatter of plates, she poured out a generous dollop of ketchup and dived right in. Much as she enjoyed these lunches, the relentless clock was ticking away the minutes before they would need to return to work.

You have another sister, too, don’t you? Clara, happily nibbling on a tomato slice rimmed in salt, asked with interest.

Sure do. That’s Lillian, our Registered Nurse. Susan had dissected the peach half into neat rows to dunk into its accompanying sour cream. Mmmm. Yum. Anyway, after the attack on Pearl, she’s been considering joining the Navy Nurse Corps. I don’t know much about it, myself, but she’s ready to do what she can for God and country.

Betty glanced up with a slight frown of concern. Overseas?

I wouldn’t be surprised. Lil is our youngest, and the most daring.

Seems to me that serving as a war correspondent isn’t the safest job in the world, either, observed Clara. Kit has lived through some sub-zero stuff over there, with a lot going on. In a way, I envy her; in another way, I’d be scared sick.

For a long moment, while someone keyed in a new tune on the jukebox called Chica Chica Boom Chic, and the Latin rhythm began engulfing the room, Susan thoughtfully surveyed her friend over the rim of her cup. And I’m the one who’s staying safely home, she said in a low tone.

Oh, now, Sue, you can hardly—

Sure I can. Kit has been in the thick of things for the past four years, seesawing all around Europe. Lil will be heading off to the four winds as soon as she gets a chance. And my brother Nate has already enlisted in the USAAF. So, after basic, he’ll be gone somewhere far away, as well.

Well, c’mon, you can’t all four be scootin’ off to the wild blue yonder. What would your folks do? Somebody has to—

Stay behind and keep the home fires burning? Yes, I make a good Biblical Ruth, don’t I? As in, Entreat me not to leave thee. Her upbringing as minister’s daughter had taught her well and thoroughly. A twinge of bitterness edged into Susan’s voice. "I agree that makes a lot of sense, Betty. Unless you don’t want to stay behind."

Silence lay heavily over their table, even in the midst of the raucous beat of the Rio band. Someone departed in a rush, slamming the door behind him; someone else accidentally dropped a cup that boke into several pieces on the floor; another someone decided to croon along with the music in a voice that sounded more hound dog than human.

Gee, Sue, do you really want to get involved in all that stuff? asked Clara quietly, surprised. Rotten weather, and bullets flying over your head, and no indoor bathroom or soft bed—I thought you preferred being sheltered and safe.

Oh—yes...and no. Exasperated with her own wishy-washiness, Susan shrugged. Don’t you sometimes feel the call to leap out into the unknown? Take chances in life, shoot the rapids, brave danger?

Her friends exchanged the sort of rueful look that said, Once in a while she goes off the rails, but we love her anyway. Then chimed in simultaneously, Sure, of course, all the time.

A heartfelt sigh. Okay. fine. Never mind, then.

Clara, ever the comfort-giver, reached across with a pat of the hand. Don’t you worry, Sue, she said easily. Your time will come. Anyway, don’t you feel satisfied with what you’re doing on that hush-hush work at the Bureau?

Sucking in a dismayed breath, Susan quickly glanced around at fellow diners, all of whom seemed to be absorbed in their own conversations and paying no attention to this one. Clara, she gasped out a reproach. It’s considered hush-hush for a reason. In other words, not to be discussed.

Um. Blushing a bright peony-pink that contrasted unflatteringly with her coppery hair and freckles, Clara attacked the soda straw with a vengeance. Sorry, Sue. That was a big oops. I just meant—

I know, honey. We have to be careful, that’s all. Loose lips sink ships, you know.

Speaking of the war, interceded Betty, looks to me like we’re kinda getting our asses kicked.

Ssshhh! Clara, scandalized, hissed like a goose."Don’t even think such an awful thing!"

Well, I can’t help what’s happening. I only point it out. Look at last month, with Corregidor falling, and 12,000 of our G.I.s taken prisoner. Then the Japs conquered Burma. Now the Krauts are forcing every Jew under their control to wear the yellow star. I mean, all you have to do is listen to the latest news broadcast and you’ll see what’s going on.

Not a very—

The world is going to hell in a handbasket, that’s all.

Oh, Betty. Now it was Susan’s turn to reach out, in sympathy. We haven’t gotten together enough lately even to catch up. Still no word from Quinn?

An unhappy shake of the head. The last I heard, he was in North Africa, fighting Rommel. Nothing since then...

They had met, prosaic, practical Betty and Pvt. Quinn Wainwright, at a local USO some six months ago. He was a laid-back Kentuckian