Along the Broken Bay Read online

  ALSO BY FLORA J. SOLOMON

  A Pledge of Silence

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Flora J. Solomon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542093637 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542093635 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542043236 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542043239 (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  To my rising stars: Rebecca, Maria, Michael, Lee, and Finn

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Some terminology used in the novel is meant to reflect the time and is not in any way a representation of the author’s opinions.

  Chapter 1

  THE PEARL OF THE ORIENT

  I view the formidable defensive arsenal on Corregidor Island, the Gibraltar of the East, and my chest swells with pride for my country, the United States of America.

  —Ray Thorpe, Corregidor, December 1941–May 1942

  Manila, Philippines, December 1941

  A tinny squawk from a loudspeaker woke Gina. “You inside! Lights out!” She reached for her husband but found his side of the bed empty. Ray, an army reservist called to active duty two weeks ago, was stationed on Corregidor, a small island off the tip of the Bataan Peninsula. She pulled his pillow closer and nestled it under her cheek to breathe in the scent of him.

  The squawk blasted again. “You inside! Lights out!” She opened one eye. The clock read 3:10 a.m. After sliding out of bed, she tiptoed in the pitch dark to the window and peeked from behind a blackout shade, seeing the dim glow of an army truck’s shielded headlights. The blackout drills were an unneeded disruption—a nuisance, in her opinion, and taken full advantage of by the criminal element in the city. Light from across the street flicked off.

  She tucked the shade around the window, then fumbled until she found the flashlight on the night table. With her hand covering all but a sliver of the beam, she walked down the hall to check on Cheryl. The five-year-old was curled on her side. A lock of hair draped across her cheek, and her baby doll lay on the floor where it had fallen. Gina smoothed Cheryl’s hair off her face, covered her with the Winnie the Pooh blanket, and picked up the doll and placed it at the foot of the bed. Nothing seemed amiss, and no sound came from the maid’s room off the kitchen.

  The house was too quiet with Ray gone; every squeak of the floorboards was magnified as she returned to their bed. She sat on the edge and lit a cigarette with a flick of a lighter, shielding the flame with the palm of her hand. Ray hoped to come home soon to attend the Junior League Christmas dance, and she’d had a dress made for the occasion—red, his favorite color, and slinky, his favorite style on her. She grinned, a half-hearted attempt to summon good humor. Gina wished he were there to share the cigarette. For twelve years she had slept with Ray by her side, and tonight her body ached for him.

  Gina slept until Isabella appeared with a breakfast tray she set on the table before removing the blackout shades on the windows. The room filled with light. Isabella, at age twenty-four, was a friendly, capable girl who had worked for the Thorpes since she was a teen. Gina yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “I’d like to sit on the lanai this morning, Isabella.”

  While Gina closed her eyes for another ten minutes, Isabella wiped the morning dew off the outdoor furniture with a towel she kept tucked in the waistband of her uniform and then retrieved the colorful chair cushions from the storage room. Finally she placed the breakfast tray, newspaper, and mail on the table. “Is there anything else, Miss Gina?”

  Gina reluctantly pushed the cover back. “Yes. I’ll be going to town this morning. Have Miguel check the car for gas . . . and oh, Isabella, I’m expecting a delivery for the Junior League. Please sign the chit for me.”

  As chairwoman of the Junior League’s fund-raising committee, a job that on some days kept her busy from morning until night, Gina relied heavily on Isabella’s help and believed for certain the household couldn’t function without her.

  After slipping on a cotton robe and satin slippers, Gina stepped onto the lanai that overlooked her yard and the neighborhood of red-roofed houses similar to hers, all oriented to take advantage of the views and the breezes off Manila Bay. Filipino gardeners were raking under the white oleander tree that shaded the yard and trimming the pink and purple bougainvillea bushes that defined the lot line between her and Vivian’s houses. Gina detected the scents of jasmine and gardenia, which reminded her of her father, a master gardener who lived in Seattle, Washington. She picked up the morning Tribune, then scanned the news:

  US secretary of state Cordell Hull expressed a pessimistic view of US-Japan relations. Months of discussions have not reached a stage where actual negotiations toward a peaceful settlement can take place.

  She put the paper aside. Tensions were rising between the United States and Japan, causing concern among the expat population. Weeks ago Ray had urged Gina to take Cheryl to Seattle and stay with her father until the threat of war with Japan was ended, but Gina had stubbornly refused. General Douglas MacArthur was preaching a reassuring message: with a newly bolstered army, recent shipments of heavy artillery, and airplanes equipped with the newest technology, Manila was the safest place in the Orient. Gina had confidence in the general.

  As she sorted through the mail, Gina saw a letter from her dad, and she smiled. Oftentimes, thoughts of him preceded the delivery of his letters, an uncanny occurrence. When she opened it, a picture fluttered out and landed close to her foot. She picked it up and saw it was of her tall, lanky father standing next to a child-size snowman. On the back he had written,

  To Cheryl from Grandpa Milo,

  My friend Mr. Snowman says hello.

  Love sent your way.

  Gina opened the triple-folded letter to see her dad’s familiar handwriting, a bit shakier now.

  December 1, 1941

  My Dear Angelina,

  Yes, we had snow here in Seattle, almost unheard of this early in the winter. It’s a soft, wet snow, and as I am writing this letter, Mr. Snowman is quickly melting into a puddle.

  I recently read unse
ttling news. The military has been evacuating wives from the Far East islands. That tells me one thing, my daughter: you are in dangerous territory. I worry for you and your family and encourage you to come to Seattle, where it is safer. Your company would be most welcome.

  Give my regards to Ray and my love to Cheryl.

  Love you,

  Dad

  Her dad had never been one to mince words. She knew he was lonesome. Gina’s mother had died before Cheryl was born, a sadness she had never completely reconciled. However, now, as close as both she and her dad desired to be, they were at an impasse where to reside—he not willing to leave his friends and garden projects in Seattle, and she and Ray not inclined to give up Manila’s rewards.

  The door to the lanai opened, and Cheryl, dressed in a blue school uniform, skipped to Gina for a goodbye kiss. Gina and Ray had wanted a houseful of children, rowdy boys and girlie girls, but the miracle had never happened. In her thirties now, she felt time was running out to give Ray a son. She handed Cheryl the picture.

  “A snowman? What’s snow?” Cheryl questioned.

  “It’s sort of like frozen rain. When there’s a lot of it, you can clump it together and make snowmen.”

  “He looks cold.”

  “Yes, snowmen are cold. They like it that way.”

  Cheryl studied the picture. It had been over a year since she’d seen her grandpa, but they had a bond that he kept strong through letters and pictures. “I miss Grandpa Milo. When can we go see him?”

  “Maybe this summer when school’s out. I miss him too. We’ll talk about it when Dad comes home.”

  Cheryl clapped her hands.

  Luisa, Cheryl’s young amah, called, “Time to go, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl waved the picture of Mr. Snowman. “Can I take this for show-and-tell?”

  “Of course. Be good, my love.” Gina kissed her daughter goodbye.

  At her dressing table Gina brushed her dark hair until it shone, then arranged it into a twist at the back of her neck. She applied light makeup to brighten her cheeks, eyes, and lips. From the many colorful linen and silk dresses, skirts, and blouses hanging in her closet, kept tidy by the laundress, she selected a favorite rose-colored dress that complemented her coloring. She slipped on jute wedge-heeled shoes that were comfortable to wear and then accessorized her outfit with matching enamel-and-brass earrings and necklace, a variety of gold bracelets, and a vintage square-cut opal ring.

  Inspecting her image in the full-length mirror, she posed with her hip jutted out and a bigger-than-life smile like when she was onstage. She sometimes missed it, the excitement traveling around the world with the Follies Musical Revue Inc., basking in the applause and accolades lauding her sultry voice and smooth dance moves. Loving the lifestyle, she’d thought she would be a chanteuse forever, but then, while she was in Manila, Ray had appeared in the audience of the Alcazar Club, where she was working—he handsomely blond, blue eyed, and the life of any party. Their casual dates had quickly moved to a romance. Never believing she could love anything more than traveling, singing, and dancing, she’d been blindsided when she’d fancied the stability of marriage and a family with this remarkable man.

  Gina mused for a while. She wanted Ray home . . . they’d hardly been apart since the summer they’d met, when he’d delighted in showing her the hot spots in town. A native of California and a UCLA grad, Ray had spent his boyhood summers in Manila visiting his grandparents, his grandfather a cofounder of Wittig and Thorpe Civil Engineering, a company that had ridden the wave of the Americanization of the Philippines in the early twentieth century. Ray had taken over the company and had carried his grandfather’s stellar reputation forward.

  Gina put her hand-beaded party shoes into a tote, and before leaving, she gave Isabella dinner instructions for her to pass on to the cook.

  The area underneath the house served for storage, laundry, and a car park. Gina’s maroon LaSalle roadster gleamed, but Miguel, the houseboy, continued to polish it. He babied the car like it was his own. “Her all gassed up. You want the top down?”

  Gina glanced at the clear sky. “Yes, that would be nice.”

  Miguel lowered the top. “Be careful on Dewey Boulevard. Big accident! A tree is over the road. You drive around it.”

  Gina slid into the driver’s seat. “Dewey’s wide enough to land an airplane. Someone drinking too many palm toddies?”

  “Maybe. Many weddings at the hotels last night, soldiers and their ladies. Big doings in the mansion by the bridge. Many Bentleys and Mercedes. Pretty cars.”

  It was a short drive to the city center. From the top of the Jones Bridge, she had a view of the busy port area filled with foreign freighters, tankers, and island steamers that stevedores loaded with everything essential for the smaller islands dependent on regularly scheduled deliveries. Crowding the waterway and lining every inch of the riverbank were bancas, outrigger canoes, a popular source of transportation around the Philippine archipelago of seven thousand islands. Cascos, flat-bottomed dinghies, housed gypsy families who supplied Manila’s shops with woven bags, sandals, pottery, and colorful beads that Gina bought to give to friends or wear for fun.

  Progressing over the bridge, she passed by the art deco architecture of the theater district before arriving in the business quarter, where forty years of American investment had brought modernization to the flourishing area. She slowed to carefully steer through masses of autos; two-wheeled, pony-drawn taxis called calesas; families on bicycles; jaywalking pedestrians; and even dogs, every vehicle, person, and animal claiming their right-of-way. White-gloved traffic directors stationed at intersections did little to lessen the chaos. She scooted into a parking spot.

  The commercial district bustled with men going about their business in the banks, office buildings, and posh restaurants; women lingering in front of shop windows; and masses of soldiers and sailors seeking a good time. A bevy of young Filipino girls ambled toward her, giggling at their conversations and wearing traditional dresses with huge puffed sleeves made from finely split pineapple fibers, the trains of their long skirts tucked into their waistbands. Gina relished the colorful vivacity of this area.

  She entered her destination, Chan’s Tailor Shop, a storefront that sat behind the more significant buildings. Chan kept the wealthy women of Manila dressed in copies of the latest Parisian fashions, and Gina owned several of his creations. The tinkle of a bell announced her arrival. Mei, the tailor’s wife, wearing a peacock-blue silk dress, came through a curtain from the back room. “Good morning, Missy Gina,” she chirped. “I get dress, you try. Here, please.” She held the curtain for Gina to pass by.

  Chan sat hunched over a clattering sewing machine while two of his four sons worked at large tables with bolts of colorful shantung silks and paper patterns. As with everywhere in this city, the radio was playing, and an announcer droned on about the American-Japanese negotiations. Gina tuned it out.

  In the dressing room, Mei helped her slip into the red silk dress, zipping up the back and smoothing the neckline and sleeves. “It very pretty on you.”

  Gina turned to face the mirror and admired the dress, which draped perfectly over her generous bust, small waist, and rounded hips. She loved the jewel-tone color and snug fit. Ray would be pleased.

  “For the Christmas dance?”

  “Yes. Ray’s coming home, if the army will let him. It’s not a sure thing.” However, Gina was counting the days until they would dance the night away at the festivities—and later she would dance just for him. The image of the intimacy made her vision go dreamy.

  Chan came into the room, and Gina stepped into the hand-beaded shoes she’d be wearing with the red dress. He checked the fit around her bust and hips, the lay of the neckline and cap sleeves, and then marked the correct hem length with tailor’s chalk. He took a step back. “Beautiful. You be the prettiest lady in the room. Good advertisement for me.”

  Gina struck a pose, flirting a bit and standing with attitude. “Go
od ad that I am, do I get a discount?”

  Mei chuckled.

  “Yes. Free delivery. You my favorite customer.”

  Gina smirked—she and every other woman in the Junior League, all like herself, with money to spend and time on their hands. “My Junior League friends got your number, Chan. You’re a flatterer.”

  “Yes, me a flatterer. It comes cheap. You enjoy new dress. My son deliver to you this afternoon. Merry Christmas.”

  For all the lighthearted banter, there was always a sadness about Chan. Mei had confided to Gina one day when Chan was especially sad that in 1937, soldiers of the Imperial Japanese Army had entered his Chinese village near Peiping and wantonly raped and murdered the men, women, and children quietly living there, including many members of Chan’s large extended family. Chan, Mei had said, had no love for the Japanese and greatly feared an invasion.

  Christmas was a favorite holiday in this country, and the Junior League dance was the highlight of the season for Gina and her sorority sisters. She walked to Heacock’s mezzanine, where she was lunching with three. Carols played over the department store’s speakers, and lights twinkled on Christmas trees, raising her sense of well-being. Her sisters were waiting, sipping the first Christmas martinis of the day, candy canes hanging from the rims of the stemmed glasses. “Flyovers,” heavyset Stella said as Gina took her place at the table.

  “What about flyovers?” Gina asked, thinking that war talk intruded on every milieu these days.

  Blonde and bespectacled Vivian, Gina’s next-door neighbor and best friend, drawled in her confident, debutante Atlanta, Georgia, way, “It’s tonight. Another practice drill. A big to-do over nothing . . . a war on our nerves, that’s all it is. The Japanese wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack us, and we don’t want a war with them.”

  Gina said in jest, “At least not until after the Christmas dance. I’ve got a new dress I’m dying to wear.”

  Edith missed the humor and snapped, “Don’t be so shallow, Gina. I would die to get to the United States, but my mother is living with me, and she’s too sick to travel. Ed and I sent our kids to my sister in Chicago. It’s one worry off my mind, but I feel so damned guilty.”