Dancing in the Rain (22 page)

Her attempt to smile wrenched his heart. Never before, not even the day she had learned of Ed’s death, had he seen such hopelessness on her face. “Oh, Dwight, I know what you’re trying to do,” Carolyn said, her voice filled with sadness. “It won’t work. I feel like I’ll never be happy again.”

He knew that feeling, too. But he also knew how to cure it. Whether she recognized it or not, Carolyn needed him, just as he needed her. It was up to him to make her understand that together they could find happiness. “I could help, if you’d let me.”

The furrows between her eyes deepened. “What do you mean?”

He wouldn’t take her to the table where she had refused him the last time. Instead, he led her toward the tent’s sole window. Perhaps the sight of the rain would remind her of those magic moments they had spent in each other’s arms.

“You know I love you, Carolyn,” he said slowly, willing her to listen, willing her to give them both a chance at happiness. “If you marry me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy.” When she started to speak, he shook his head, needing to finish his declaration. So much hung in the balance: her happiness, his, their future. Surely she would see that marriage was the answer. “I may not always succeed the first time, but I’ll keep trying until I do make you happy.”

Carolyn was silent for a long moment, and he could see the indecision on her face. Surely that was a good sign. In the past, she had refused immediately. Today she hadn’t. That must mean that she was considering his proposal. But then she spoke.

“I can’t.”

Dwight clenched his teeth. “Can’t or won’t?” He understood that she felt loyalty to Ed. Carolyn wouldn’t be the woman he loved if she didn’t. But loyalty was one thing. Throwing away happiness was another.

“Is there a difference?”

“I think so. I’ve told you I’ll wait until you’re ready. Believe me, Carolyn. I’ve thought about this.” Dwight frowned, remembering how often he had thought about her refusal. “I can see no reason why you
can’t
marry me.”

Carolyn stared at him for a long moment, those blue eyes that he had once thought as deep as the summer sky now filled with pain. “Then I guess the answer is that I won’t.” Her voice was firm, leaving him no glimmer of hope. It was not the answer he wanted. Even worse, there was a finality in her tone that said she would never change her mind.

“How can you do this?” he demanded, trying to push back the pain of Carolyn’s rejection. This was worse—so much worse—than Louise’s elopement. Louise had hurt his pride; Carolyn was breaking his heart. “How can you throw away our chance at happiness?” Carolyn was the only woman he would ever love. Dwight knew that if she refused to marry him, he would spend the rest of his life alone.

“Happiness needs a firm foundation,” she said, her lips quivering and her eyes filling with tears. “We don’t have one.”

Dwight shook his head. She was wrong. He had to convince her of that, for everything worthwhile depended on her. “You’re mistaken, Carolyn. Love is our foundation, and it’s stronger than anything on earth.”

Her mouth tightened, and she thrust her chin forward defiantly, though tears threatened to tumble down her cheeks. “The answer is still no.”

She wasn’t going to listen. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, she was going to destroy their chance at happiness because of some misguided sense of loyalty.

“All right.” Dwight knew when he was defeated. Anger, frustration, and a pain worse than any he had ever experienced welled up inside him. He looked at the woman he loved and shook his head slowly. “I’ve asked you to marry me three times. I won’t do it again.”

Dwight reached for his saddlebag, unable to bear the thought of everything Carolyn was throwing away. When he reached the tent flap, he turned and faced Carolyn one last time. “If you ever come to your senses and realize that you love me enough to take a chance on happiness, you know where I am. But next time you’ll be the one who holds out her heart and risks having it stomped on. I won’t do that again.”

Chapter Thirteen

S
he ought to be happy. Carolyn unpinned her cap and laid it on the small chest that served as both a nightstand and a dressing table. Though no one was certain why General Ludendorff had stopped the western offensive that had begun on the first day of spring, there were no complaints. The respite, even if it was a temporary one, was the answer to many prayers.

Carolyn bent at the waist and began to brush her hair. Like the rest of the staff, she was thankful for the lull in the shelling which meant that there were no men waiting in the cold rain for triage. Carolyn was equally thankful that Theo was safe. As the battle had raged, she had checked the map someone had pinned to a mess tent wall and had been relieved to see that her brother’s company was further north, away from the worst of the recent fighting. Though Carolyn knew that no trench was completely safe, the fact that Theo had not been in combat helped to allay her fears.

She winced as the brush tangled in her hair. Though lessened, nothing could stop her from worrying, for Theo had written again of his premonitions. This time he told her he was having nightly dreams of being in the midst of great, unending darkness.
There’s no pain,
he wrote,
just a void darker than the blackest night.
When she had read his words, Carolyn’s heart had begun to thud with dread, and it had taken every ounce of strength she could muster to remind herself that Theo’s last fears had been unfounded. This, she told herself, would be another false alarm. Her brother was safe and away from the fighting. She should be, if not happy, at least content.

Carolyn finished brushing her hair, then began to gather her laundry. The sun was finally shining. That and the thought of dry, clean stockings would surely be enough to lighten her spirits. Yesterday she had received a long, newsy letter from Helen, in which her friend insisted that she was bored being home and that the thrill of knitting booties quickly faded. As she had turned the pages and read of Helen’s newfound domesticity, Carolyn had smiled.

Her life was on an even keel, as good as it could be until the war ended. Carolyn ought to be happy, and yet she was not. The reality was, she was unhappier than she had ever been. The first sharp pain of Ed’s death had faded, replaced by a constant ache that sapped her energy and left her feeling drained, no matter what she did. Martha would say that this was the normal progression of grieving. But it was not normal, for the ache that refused to disappear had nothing to do with Ed. This pain and the accompanying lassitude were all because of Dwight.

It was absurd! Carolyn bundled her soiled aprons into a laundry bag, giving the pouch an extra punch. She had done the right thing when she had refused Dwight’s proposal. Of course she had. She couldn’t marry Dwight; she couldn’t even consider it. Carolyn frowned as she looked at her uniforms, trying to decide which needed to be laundered. Perhaps she should have been one of those Indian women she had read about who climbed onto their husbands’ funeral pyres. Perhaps that would have been easier than living with the guilt and the sense that she had failed Ed. Carolyn didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t continue this way. She couldn’t continue to dream of Dwight each night and to find herself spending the days looking outside, hoping for a glimpse of him approaching on his horse. He wouldn’t be back; there was no question about that. So why did she keep looking for him?

“Why are you inside?” Margaret demanded as she opened the tent flap. “The sun is out, and we have no new patients. This is so close to a miracle that I want to believe it’s the end of the war.”

Carolyn chose not to respond to Margaret’s question. Instead, she nodded slowly as she considered her tent mate’s final sentence. “How I wish that were true! I want to go home.” Carolyn had never been homesick, not in the usual sense. This longing to be back in Canela was different. Even more than the people and the familiar places, she missed the simplicity and, yes, the innocence, of life before the war. Though her mind knew that she could not go back in time, Carolyn’s heart refused to believe it.

“It won’t be the same, you know.”

Carolyn blinked in surprise. She knew she hadn’t voiced her thoughts. How had Margaret sensed them? “My sisters and brother and I will be together again,” she countered. At home the bluebonnets would bloom; Spanish moss would drape the tree branches; life would continue as it had for generations.

Margaret’s blue eyes filled with sympathy as she shook her head. “You’ll all be different than you remember. The war has changed everyone. And …” Her face darkened, and she swallowed deeply before she finished her sentence. “Not everyone will be going home.”

Carolyn looked at her hands and the ring that she still wore. Perhaps it was foolish, but she had been unable to remove Ed’s ring. The gold band with its modest diamond was all that remained of him other than Carolyn’s memories. Though she did her best to keep them alive, the memories continued to fade a bit each day. Carolyn feared that if she no longer wore his ring, Ed would disappear completely. She couldn’t let that happen.

“At least the killing would be over,” she said quietly. And maybe if she were home, she would be able to build a new life, one that held no dreams of handsome doctors and country homes where hazel-eyed children played on an old swing.

Margaret was silent for a moment. Then she flashed Carolyn an impish grin. “What do you miss the most?”

Carolyn recognized the ploy for what it was, an attempt to raise her spirits. Though she doubted this or anything else would have permanent effects, she was willing to play the game. Anything was better than thoughts of dreams that would never come true.

What did she miss most besides a normal life? “Being able to fill the bathtub with hot water and sit in it for an hour. Maybe that would soak off all this mud.” Carolyn wrinkled her nose as she looked at her mud-caked stockings. Though the nurses had complained about the limited laundry and bathing facilities in Goudot, in comparison to the conditions here, the base hospital at Goudot was a first class hotel.

When Margaret laughed, Carolyn countered with a question of her own. “What about you? What do you miss most?”

Margaret’s reply came quickly. “Dancing.” She smiled, obviously remembering her life before the war. “I loved those dances that Vernon and Irene Castle invented.” With a quick pirouette, Margaret began the Castle Gavotte. “Did you ever learn this one?”

“Yes.” Carolyn closed her eyes, trying to block the pain. Margaret’s question was innocent. She had no way of knowing that dancing was yet another thing Carolyn did not want to remember, for it reminded her of Dwight. Sadly, everything reminded her of Dwight.

“What’s wrong?” Art Webster demanded.

Dwight turned a startled look at the man who sat across from him in the staff lounge. Art was the only physician who had been in Goudot longer than Dwight, and while the two men were not close, they kept the same hours and frequently ate breakfast together. This morning, though the dining room was relatively crowded, they had been the only people at a table for eight. They had eaten in silence. If Art had wanted to speak to him, why hadn’t he done it then, not now when anyone could see that Dwight was reading and would not welcome an interruption?

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dwight replied.
Nothing that he intended to discuss with Art.
He had no intention of telling Art that coming here was a bit like probing an open sore, for each time he entered the room, he remembered the times he and Carolyn had been here together. “Why do you ask?”

“Let me think.” The sarcasm that tinged the other doctor’s voice was as unexpected as his question. “It could be that every nurse who’s assigned to you cringes in fear of your wrath.”

“That’s not true.” What was true was that the newly arrived nurses seemed to lack the common sense that God gave a grasshopper. If Dwight was sharp with his demands, it was merely because that seemed to be the only way to get the nurses’ attention.

“Isn’t it?” Art’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “If that’s not the reason, perhaps it’s because the patients say you’re so distracted when you examine them they’re afraid you’ll miss something critical. One man said you wouldn’t notice if his good leg fell off.”

“That’s not true!” Dwight was a good doctor, an excellent doctor, in fact. Just because he had once—only once, mind you—begun to examine the wrong leg didn’t mean that he was preoccupied.

Art shook his head, as if in sympathy. “If you don’t believe those reasons, shall we consider the fact that the book you’re reading is upside down?”

“It is not!” Dwight looked down at the book that he’d been holding for the past half hour. To his chagrin, though his finger marked a passage, he could not read it, for the book was, as Art had pointed out, upside down. “Oh.”

“Look, Dwight.” This time there was no sarcasm in the other doctor’s voice. “I don’t claim to know you well. No one here does. But it appears to me that you’re pining for that spunky nurse.”

Dwight started to deny the allegation, then realized the futility of it. “If your diagnosis were correct,” he said. “Not, of course, that I think it is. But if by some possibility it were correct, what would you prescribe?”