When the Clouds Roll By (11 page)

He held it out to her. “You left this at the hospital. I tried to catch you before you got away, but . . .” His words drifted into silence.

Stepping between them, Mama took the coat from Samuel and gave Annemarie a confused stare. “You went to the hospital this morning? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I hadn’t planned to go.” Now, she wished with all her heart she’d never stepped through those doors. She swallowed a sob and spun around, only to be mocked by the benevolently smiling angel atop the Christmas tree.

Behind her, Mama spoke to Samuel, her tone bristling. “Clearly there is more to my daughter’s distress than leaving her coat behind after a visit to the hospital she never intended to make. And now, your appearance at my front door, your eyes reflecting no small amount of—what do I see there? Remorse? Guilt?”

“Mama, please.” Shoulders drooping, Annemarie turned once more to face them. “It isn’t Samuel’s fault. He only thought to help.”

But she could see her mother was right. Self-reproach did indeed darken Samuel’s gray gaze. Doffing his cap and mangling it between clenched fists, he edged forward. “Annemarie, I’m so terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered. I should have realized—”

“Realized
what
?” Petite though she was, Mama could roar like a tigress when her child was threatened. “Did something happen with Gilbert?”

The tears Annemarie had fought so hard to suppress now gushed like the Arkansas River at flood stage. “He broke our engagement, Mama! It’s over between us.”

“Oh dear, oh my dear!” Mama tossed the coat onto a chair and drew Annemarie into a fierce embrace, one hand caressing Annemarie’s back with long, firm strokes. “This is what you feared all along, isn’t it? Well, it’s his loss. And he’ll come to regret this foolishness in time, I’m certain.”

Annemarie pushed away from her mother’s embrace and swiped angrily at her wet cheeks. Oh, how she hated tears, hated giving in to such feminine frailty. Stiffening her spine, she inhaled a quivery breath. “No, Mama, I don’t think so. The war has changed Gilbert, changed all of us. There’s no going back to the way things were.”

Samuel hung his head and whispered out a tired sigh. When he looked up again, understanding showed in his eyes. No, more than understanding, a kind of kinship, as if he’d traveled the same road and lived to tell about it. His voice barely a whisper, he said, “I’m so sorry, Annemarie. I’d hoped—prayed—”

“It’s all right, Samuel.” She went to him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressed her cheek to his. “Just please keep being Gilbert’s friend. And mine. I have a feeling we’re both going to need you more than ever in the days to come.”

12

G
ilbert slumped in his wheelchair as his mother stood over him with knife and fork and sawed a serving of Christmas turkey into bite-size pieces. Bad enough when a nurse or orderly assisted him with his hospital meals. But to sit here helpless while his mother babied him like a two-year-old as his entire family, two house guests, and the servants looked on? Now his humiliation was complete.

His mother rested the silverware upon the edge of his plate. “And how about some gravy on your potatoes and dressing?”

How about you take your seat and leave me alone?
“Yes, thank you, Mother.” The polite words nearly strangled him.

Marguerite brought the gravy boat from the sideboard. “Let me, Miz Ballard. You sit yourself down and enjoy your dinner.”

And thank you, Marguerite.
Gilbert stabbed a piece of turkey and tried to ignore the patronizing glances as he chewed.

Uncle Bob Carnahan, Mother’s brother from Little Rock, started a basket of rolls around the dining table. “Sure is good to see you up and about, Gil. I was just saying to your Aunt Betty the other day how I still remember the day you climbed the big ol’ holly tree in our backyard.”

Aunt Betty splayed a hand across her bosom. “Scared us half to death when you came crashing down—must have been a good twenty feet or more! Thank the Lord for your hard head. Why, you were out cold so long we feared the worst.”

Gilbert could think of nothing more appealing at the moment than being “out cold.” The miserly doctor had doled out barely enough morphine pills to get Gilbert through his forty-eight-hour Christmas pass. His mother and Thomas had brought him home from the hospital yesterday shortly after noon, with instructions to have him back by 1300 hours tomorrow.

At least on Friday they’d finally moved him to a semi-private room in the officers’ wing. Now, instead of trying to sleep through the snores and coughs of two dozen ward mates, he only had to listen to one old colonel complain about his gout.

But Friday was a day he’d just as soon forget. Not even those endless hours in a French field hospital and the unremitting torture of having his wounds irrigated and dressed could match the agony of watching Annemarie march silently out of his life.

Somehow, he made it through dinner, despite a clumsy teenage cousin nearly dumping a bowl of green beans into his lap. Finally, Marguerite served dessert, something he could handle without extra assistance. In addition to the traditional pumpkin, Samuel’s mother had contributed two sweet and tangy rhubarb pies made with fresh stalks of rhubarb she’d carried in her satchel all the way on the train from Fort Wayne.

While the ladies retired to the parlor for coffee and conversation, Thomas suggested the men fetch their coats and take advantage of the sun’s warmth on the westerly facing front porch. Gilbert suspected the idea had less to do with soaking up a few weak December rays than avoiding Mother’s disapproving glare while Thomas smoked one of his Camels.

“I’ll pass, thank you. I’m ready for a nap.” Gilbert struggled to turn his wheelchair in the direction of the study at the other end of the hall, where Hank, Marguerite’s husband and the family’s butler, had set up a bed for him. His head ached. His arm ached. His stump ached. And he just wanted to be left alone.

“Here, let me.” Samuel gripped the chair handles and rolled Gilbert toward the study. Once inside the room, he kicked the door closed behind them and parked Gilbert near a window where pale sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains.

Gilbert unfastened the top button of his uniform blouse. Mother had insisted he wear the scratchy thing—had to parade her war-hero son for the visiting relatives. “I can handle it from here. Your mother just got to town. Go spend some time with her while you have the chance.”

“She’ll be here for a week. I’ll have plenty of opportunities.” Hands folded behind his back, Samuel stared out the window behind Gilbert’s head.

The man’s stoic silence began to grate on Gilbert’s nerves. He slapped the wheelchair arm. “Stop it, will you? I swear, you could give hovering lessons to my mother!”

“Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” Samuel turned to go, then paused, chin tucked to his chest. “Really, I’m sorry—”

“Not another word. I’ll put up with pity and condescension from anyone but you.” Gilbert forced air between his teeth. “And for God’s sake stop blaming yourself. It was my choice—
mine
—to end it with Annemarie. I told you all along that was my intent.”

Samuel’s shoulders lifted with a shudder. He spun around. “And I’ve told you all along you didn’t have to do it. How can you give her so little credit? Do you think she’d have stayed with you only out of pity or obligation? Can’t you see how much she loves you?”

“How many times do I have to say this? She’s in love with the man I was before the war. I’ve changed. Everything’s changed.” Gilbert gripped the wheel and jerked his chair toward the bed. “Get out, will you? This conversation is over.”

Behind him, he heard Samuel’s frustrated sigh, and then the quiet click of the closing door. His glance fell on the amber bottle on the bedside table. How many pills were left? Three, maybe four. He’d swallow them all at once if he thought it would put him out of his misery. At best, he’d enjoy a few hours of opiate-induced nirvana. At worst, his mother would find him and panic. He’d be carted back to the hospital and put on suicide watch, if they didn’t ship him straight to an asylum.

Pain radiated through his skull while images blistered the backs of his eyeballs—enemy machine guns mowing down wave after wave as his men stormed from the trenches, a blast of artillery fire taking out six infantrymen in one startling burst, German flamethrowers incinerating a whole platoon.

And then the whizzbang with his name on it.

He shoved his mangled left fist against his temple and forced down the howl of angry terror searing his throat. Maybe he
was
crazy—or if not, he soon would be.

He checked the clock and counted the hours—close enough. He downed a pill, maneuvered himself onto the bed, and gave himself over to the arms of Morpheus.

With the Jones Restaurant Supply order complete and out for delivery and the factory partially shut down between Christmas and New Year’s, Annemarie welcomed the freedom to devote herself to her own pottery creations. The constant motion of the wheel soothed her, carrying her thoughts away until she lost all track of the passing of time. The smooth, wet clay sliding beneath her fingers was like balm for the burning hole in her heart.

Papa hadn’t even said a word when she’d excused herself after their quiet Christmas dinner to spend a few hours in the workshop. After her painful last visit with Gilbert, it had taken nearly the whole weekend before she recovered her senses enough to think of anything else. Then, when she’d finally shown her parents the money Thomas had collected from sales of her ceramic pieces, Mama had clapped her hands in delight, and Papa had nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose I’ll have to get with the times,” he’d said, “before Ouachita Pottery runs us clean out of business with their fancy wares.”

Even so, it was small consolation.

By early January, Annemarie had two full crates of new pieces to deliver to the Arlington, including the special orders Thomas had given her before Christmas. She rode to the hotel with Papa and a factory worker in one of the Kendall Pottery delivery trucks, and they made short work of unpacking the items and putting them on display.

Thomas stood by to supervise. “Fantastic work, Annemarie. These’ll be gone before you know it.”

She smiled her thanks, a bubble of pride swelling her chest. “With the extra time to work over the holidays, I’m even closer to perfecting my ‘Ouachita sunrise’ glaze.”

“Definitely a customer favorite.” Thomas stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. His voice fell to a murmur. “We missed seeing you over Christmas.”

Annemarie took a few steps away from her father. “I hope you and your family had a pleasant day.”

“With a houseful of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and a bad-tempered brother who scarcely said three words to anyone the entire time he was home? ‘Pleasant’ doesn’t quite describe it.” Thomas’s left cheek dimpled in a crooked frown. “Everybody seems to be tiptoeing around the subject, but we all think he’s a fool.”

“Don’t hold it against him, Thomas. I don’t.”

“Are you kidding? How can you forgive him for dumping you?”

“Do I have a choice?” An aching knot tied itself around Annemarie’s throat. “I suppose it was inevitable. We hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year—even longer when you count his semesters away at West Point. We fell in love as kids who thought the world was safe. We grew up to find ourselves in a world at war.”

“Yeah, yeah, Gil spouts pretty much the same rhetoric. The world’s changed. He’s changed. We’ve all changed.” Giving a huff, Thomas fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and lit up, blowing a curl of smoke toward the ceiling. “I need to get back to work. I’ll give you a ring in a week or so and let you know how your stuff is selling.”

Watching him stride across the lobby, Annemarie felt another tiny piece of her heart tear away. Thomas had his faults, but he was a good son, a loyal brother. He would have made a charming brother-in-law, something Annemarie as an only child had looked forward to.

As it was, now she could look forward to a long and lonely spinsterhood working in her father’s factory. At least she had her potter’s wheel—and now her father’s blessing, grudging as it might be. Perhaps one day she’d fulfill the dream of having her own shop, right here in downtown Hot Springs.

A sudden memory stabbed her—the one and only time she’d dared to put such notions into words, in a letter to Gilbert at West Point. At the time, she thought his reply romantically chivalrous. Now she sensed a touch of his mother’s condescension creeping in:
“My darling, once we’re married you’ll have no need of such pursuits. I intend to keep you far too busy as the beautiful and charming Mrs. Gilbert Ballard.”

Papa dusted off his hands and drew his arm around her. “Ready to go, Annie-girl?”

Swallowing against the twinge beneath her heart, she turned to study the neatly arranged ceramic pieces. “If it’s all the same to you, Papa, I’d like to nose around town for a bit, maybe do a little shopping. I won’t be long, I promise.”

She walked with her father and his helper as far as the truck, then crossed to the other side of Central Avenue and strolled past shops, cafés, and office buildings. Pausing before a vacant storefront, she imagined her ceramic creations filling the display window, her name in crisp gold and black lettering painted on the door. A tiny thrill of hope lifted her heart, and for the first time since Gilbert’s rejection—since Wilson declared war on Germany, if she were completely honest—she could look ahead to a future filled with possibilities.

The midmorning sun peeked over Hot Springs Mountain, brightening the bathhouse rooftops and warming the top of Annemarie’s head. One ray pierced the dusty glass and illuminated a placard in the display window, partially hidden beneath a strip of crumbling butcher paper. She made out the words FOR LEASE, CALL FOR DETAILS, the name Ralph Patton, and a number.

Ralph Patton.
She engraved the name across her mind, determined to place the call at her first opportunity. Probably a bit premature, but how would she know unless she asked?

A streetcar bell clanged behind her. If she hurried, she could catch a ride up Whittington Avenue and get off a block from the factory. Before she could reach the corner, Samuel Vickary exited the trolley, and her heart flip-flopped. She hadn’t seen him since his awkward attempt to apologize on that day she’d just as soon forget.

She’d almost decided to forego the streetcar and scurry off in the opposite direction, but then his eyes met hers. He froze for a second, one foot in the street, the other on the curb, until a motorcar horn blasted a warning and propelled him out of harm’s way.

With an embarrassed grin, he ambled toward her. As usual, he was without his overcoat, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

Annemarie offered her hand in greeting. “How are you, Samuel? Did you have a good Christmas with your mother?”

“She enjoyed her visit very much. You look well. I hope your holidays were . . .” Dropping his gaze, he toed a crack in the sidewalk.

Annemarie released a flippant laugh. “There’s no need to guard your words with me, Sam. We’re friends, remember?”

He gave her a sad-eyed smile. “Thank you. Lately, I’ve been feeling like the ultimate heel. Gil’s even banished me from his presence.”

Annemarie gave her head a quick shake. “Then he really is a fool.” A frosty gust of wind blew a bit of torn newspaper past them, and Samuel shivered. “As are you, Samuel Vickary. Why on earth will you not dress properly when you venture out on a winter’s day?”

“I hadn’t expected to be lingering on the sidewalk talking to a pre—” He clamped his mouth shut. His cheeks blushed a rosy shade of pink.

An unexpected fluttering began beneath Annemarie’s breastbone. His flattery, though interrupted, touched a part of her soul that hadn’t stirred in months. She hooked her arm through his and nudged him into a brisk walk. “There’s a charming little bakery right up the street. We can warm up with coffee and scones.”