When the Clouds Roll By (21 page)

At the sound of a loud
a-hem
, Annemarie jerked out of Samuel’s arms. With startled gasps, they both swung around to face the intruder.

“Thomas!” Annemarie tugged at her bodice with one hand and shoved her unkempt hair off her shoulder with the other.

“Obviously I’m interrupting something.” Wearing a contemptuous frown, Thomas glanced from Annemarie to Samuel and back again. “I thought you were opening a shop, not making time with the local chaplain.”

Indignation shot up Annemarie’s spine. “I resent your suggestion of anything improper.”

“Oh, do you?” Thomas gave a harsh laugh. “Seems it was only yesterday you were engaged to my brother. Didn’t take you long to move on.”

Samuel stepped forward. “Gilbert had every chance to set things right with Annemarie. He made his choice.”

Thomas doffed his bowler and slapped it against his leg. “I know . . . I know.” With a pained exhalation, he strode across the room to examine a display cabinet where Annemarie had already set out some of her ceramic creations. “It’s just hard to watch my brother throwing his life away, you know? Wasting it on self-pity and redheaded nurses.”

Despite every promise to herself that Gilbert would no longer hurt her, the memory of seeing him with Mary McClarney at the Emerald Club that night jolted Annemarie like a jab to her midsection.

Jealousy? No. She truly believed she’d moved beyond such raw emotion where Gilbert was concerned. But, like Thomas, she hated seeing the man she once loved—the friend she’d grown up with—forego the life he’d worked so hard for. She carried no ill will toward the young nurse. Miss McClarney was probably an innocent victim in this sad turn of affairs, little more than a plaything, a distraction for Gilbert as he coped with war’s ravages on both his body and his spirit.

She felt Samuel’s hand upon her shoulder, and he cast her a concerned half-smile. She wanted to reassure him but questioned whether her feelings toward him weren’t her own way of dealing with Gilbert’s rejection.

Thomas spoke again, interrupting her thoughts. “I didn’t stop by looking to pass judgment. I saw the door open and thought I’d see how the shop was coming along.” He paused to peruse his surroundings, then gave a brisk nod. “Looks like you’ll be opening soon. I’d be happy to bring over your pieces from the Arlington anytime you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” Annemarie walked behind the counter and retrieved the small sign she’d ordered from the printer:

ORIGINAL CERAMIC DESIGNS

BY ANNEMARIE KENDALL

STUDIO AND SALESROOM LOCATED ON

CENTRAL AVENUE

ACROSS FROM FORDYCE BATHHOUSE

She handed the placard to Thomas. “You’d offered to keep a few pieces on display. Choose any you’d like.”

“My pleasure.” Thomas heaved a groan and pulled Annemarie into his chest for a hug. “Still love you like a sister. You know I wish you every happiness, don’t you?”

“I do.” Annemarie kissed his cheek. “And I wish the same for you
and
your brother.”

With a tip of his hat to Samuel, Thomas marched out the door.

Annemarie turned toward Samuel, and the look on his face nearly ripped her heart in two. He shoved his hands into his pockets with a tired shrug. “What have we done, Annemarie? What have we done?”

What have I done?

Gilbert rolled onto his side, the silver-framed portrait of Annemarie cradled in shaking hands. Darkness shrouded the room—his own bedroom at long last, now that he could manage the stairs. Not expertly by any means, but at least he no longer felt like
quite
such an invalid.

Still a cripple, though. Still impaired. Still . . .
less
.

A knock sounded outside his door. “Gilbert, darling?”

He groaned and slid the picture frame beneath his pillow. “What do you want, Mother?”

She nudged open the door. “Aren’t you feeling well, son? I thought you were going out again.” Disapproval crept into her tone. “It’s so rare these days to find you at home on a Friday evening.”

“Slight change of plans.” Could she detect the slur in his voice?

“Not another headache? Oh, darling . . .” Sweetness and sympathy once again, his mother strode to his bedside. She hovered over him to stroke his temple. Her thick, bejeweled fingers felt cold against his skin, and he longed for Mary’s soothing touch.

Mary, Mary.
He would think only of his sweet, giving Mary.

Except he wouldn’t be seeing her tonight after all, thanks to that witch Mrs. Daley changing Mary’s schedule at the last minute.

“Shall I have Marguerite bring dinner to your room?”

“Not hungry.” He wanted to slap his mother’s hand away, beg her to leave him in his misery.

“I am quite concerned for you, Gilbert.” Pouting, she settled her bulk onto the edge of the mattress. “You cannot disguise the fact that you have been drinking more heavily since returning home.”

“What of it?”

“Besides the fact that overimbibing is unhealthy, it is unbecoming for a man of your station.” She sniffed. “As are certain other activities in which you have indulged of late.”

Gilbert clenched his jaw. Of course, she referred to his relationship with Mary. He should have known neither Thomas nor their inscrutable driver, Zachary, would be able to keep his secret for long.

Although Mother would be even more displeased to know the spunky Irish nurse was the most virtuous of her son’s indulgences. Pure as new-fallen snow, Mary remained the one shining light in this dark valley through which he traveled. Though he’d pressed for more—
begged
for more—she granted him only her kisses, her caresses, her inexhaustible trove of empathy and understanding.

And if he couldn’t be with Mary tonight . . .

“Get up, Mother.” He elbowed her in the spine until she rose, then swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his prosthesis.

“You’re coming down to dinner then?” She fluttered her hands in a vain attempt help.

“No. I’m going out after all.” He tugged at his trouser leg until it slid down to cover the infernal contraption attached to his thigh. Though the artificial leg gave him a semblance of normalcy, it remained a source of perpetual discomfort. “Hand me my crutches, will you?”

His mother complied but with no small amount of disdain. “Are you seeing her again?”

“No, Mother dear. I’m safe from her wickedness for tonight.” Casting his mother a withering glance over his shoulder, he snatched up his tweed jacket and hobbled to the door, every footfall shooting pain through his skull.

At the landing he paused to work his arms into his jacket sleeves, then checked the inside pocket for his vial of morphine pills. Almost empty, thanks to yet another killer headache. He reminded himself to contact his supplier first thing in the morning. In the meantime, he’d have to settle for a night of poker, cheap cigars, and free-flowing booze. Although if he kept this up, his income from the part-time job Thomas had finagled for him wouldn’t suffice.

Why are you doing this to yourself, Gilbert?

The question caught him up short, nearly pitching him headfirst down the staircase. He wasn’t sure whose voice echoed through his head—Samuel’s, Mary’s, Annemarie’s?

God’s?

As if God cared. Where was God when the artillery shell exploded? Where was God when Gilbert’s blood poured from his severed thigh? Where was God the day Gilbert looked down from a hospital window to see his sweetheart walking away on the arm of his best friend?

Why was he doing this to himself? Because if he were bad enough, vile enough, contemptible enough, maybe he’d convince Annemarie and everyone else that she truly was better off without him.

And maybe, in the process, he’d convince himself.

23

W
hy you thought you needed me to check your work, Jack, I’ll never know.” Annemarie tapped the ledger page with her pencil. “And I daresay your handwriting is oceans more legible than mine!”

Jack Trapp looked sharp in his crisply starched shirt, paisley tie, and gray pinstriped vest. He nudged his chair back and shot Annemarie a self-satisfied grin. “Army life’s good for something, I suppose. Clerking for army muckety-mucks taught me plenty about bookkeeping, filing, and the like.”

“And if it kept you away from the front lines and safe from harm, all the better.” Annemarie returned his smile with a twinge of sadness for all the men who weren’t as fortunate.

Like Sam. Like Gilbert.

Shaking off such melancholy thoughts, she retrieved another invoice from the stack they’d been working through. “What do you hear from your sister Joanna? Is she still in Paris?”

“We had a letter just yesterday. The Army Signal Corps is keeping her busy while the bigwigs iron out the peace treaty. Hopefully she’ll be home by summer.”

“She’s so brave to have volunteered.” If not for Papa needing her at the factory—and the fact that Annemarie’s French was atrocious—she might have joined her neighbor for an overseas adventure. Serving her country as a Hello Girl, as the wartime telephone operators were called, would have been so much more exciting than filing invoices and inventorying supplies.

And maybe in France she could have made her way to Gilbert when he needed her.

Why, oh why, couldn’t she let such thoughts go? He’d made his choice. And she’d made hers. Every moment she spent with Samuel, she found herself falling ever more deeply in love. At least she prayed it was love. She only knew she hadn’t felt so happy and alive since those halcyon days before Wilson declared war on Germany and Gilbert sailed away on a troop ship.

She handed Jack the next invoice. “I’ve explained before about the Mountain Valley Water account, haven’t I?”

“Yes, a standing order for ceramic jugs to be filled monthly.” Jack flipped to another page in the ledger and made an entry. “I’ve been making myself a list of reminders—which orders are due when, payroll schedules, customer contact names . . .”

“You are the picture of efficiency.” Annemarie checked the time—nearly noon—and bounced up from her chair. “And I am about to be late meeting Sam for lunch.”

Jack stood and helped her on with her light spring coat. “Last-minute planning for the grand opening of your shop?”

A shiver raced up Annemarie’s spine. “I can hardly believe it’s only a few days away. Next Monday will be here before I know it!” She found her hat and handbag and hurried to the door. “Remind my father he promised to bring the car for me at my shop this evening. I’ve told him a thousand times already, but he still won’t remember.”

“You bet. Thanks again for your help this morning.”

“As if you needed it. Why, I’m already ancient history in this office.” With a jaunty nod, she scurried out.

Putting all thoughts of the factory behind her, she made it to the corner just as the trolley arrived. She climbed aboard and found a seat only seconds before the car lurched forward with a clang. The March breeze carried a whisper of early-spring blossoms as it toyed with the curl she could never keep in place. She dearly loved springtime—the palest shades of green peeking out through the trees, poking up through the lawns. Tulips and jonquils nosing through fragrant mulch, dogwoods and redbuds dotting the mountainsides with hints of color . . .

The most splendorous season of all, a time for new beginnings.

“Central and Reserve,” the conductor called, and the trolley ground to a stop.

Annemarie stepped to the pavement and marched up the hill toward the imposing array of red brick and Swiss chalet-style buildings comprising the Army and Navy Hospital. Hurrying up the steep flight of steps from Reserve Avenue, she glimpsed Sam waving to her from the administration building veranda. Her throat clenched, and she waved back with ferocity.

He met her on the pathway in front of the building, where he swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly—a kiss for all the world to see, and she didn’t care. Releasing her, he offered a smile tinged with concern. “You’re late. I was worried.”

“Jack had some questions about the factory accounts, and the time slipped away.” She wished she could soothe away the doubt she constantly read in Sam’s expression, in the hesitant tone of his voice.

She wished for freedom from her own doubts and misgivings and prayed springtime would be a time of new beginnings for them both. Hooking her arm through Sam’s, she leaned into his shoulder. “I’m starved. Where are we going for lunch?”

Sam kissed her temple. “How does a picnic sound?”

“Delightful! The weather is perfect for a picnic.”

“Wait here,” he said, leaving her on the path. “I’ll be right back with the hamper.”

Annemarie couldn’t help but laugh at the picture Sam made as he bounded up the hospital steps like a schoolboy. On the veranda, he retrieved a picnic basket covered with a red gingham cloth—and by the looks of it, he’d brought enough for half the county. Nearly bent double by the weight, he was huffing and puffing like a freight train by the time he rejoined her on the path.

Annemarie wrapped her hands around the basket handle to help carry the burden. “I hope we’re not going far. What on earth have you packed for us?”

“Oh, just a few sandwiches and salads, some fruit and cheese, bottled spring water. The hospital kitchen was most obliging.” Samuel nodded toward a grassy area south of the building. “There, how about under that tree?”

“Perfect. Because I don’t think we can carry this thing another inch.” She groaned with relief when they deposited the hamper in the lacy shade of an elm tree just leafing out.

Folding aside the cloth, Samuel reached into the basket and brought out a fuzzy plaid blanket, which he spread at the base of the tree. He turned to Annemarie and bowed from the waist. “Your table, miss. May I seat you?”

“Why, thank you.” With a coy smile, she offered Samuel her hand as she gracefully lowered herself to the ground. “I do hope you’ll join me, kind sir.”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Samuel plopped onto the blanket next to her, and the light of laughter shining in his eyes made her heart soar.

If only it could always be like this—the past locked securely away, the war but a distant memory, their only thought the joy of being together. She reached for Samuel’s hand, and he pulled her toward him for a tender kiss.

Sometime later, the remnants of their lunch scattered across the blanket, Annemarie leaned against the tree trunk and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. Contentment seeped through her limbs like rich cream, and the world seemed softer somehow.

Samuel ran a finger along the back of her hand, his touch featherlight and dreamy. “What are you thinking?”

She turned a smile his way. “That I’d like to stay right here under this tree for the rest of my life.”

“Hmm. What if it rains?”

“It won’t. Rain is strictly forbidden.”

Samuel scooted against the trunk and rested his head near hers. “I hear summers can get mighty hot around here.”

“Nope. Not under this tree.”

“Hail? Sleet? Snow? I suppose you’re having none of those either.”

“Absolutely not.” She tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder, and he enfolded her under his arm. With a long, sad sigh, she asked, “Tell me why, Sam. Why can’t we make this moment last forever?”

“If I could make it so, I would.” His warm lips brushed her forehead, and she felt her growing sadness creep into him. He held her in silence for a long time, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with her own, until finally he nudged her to her knees and then stood to help her to her feet.

“Must we go?” She tucked her arms beneath his and studied his gaze, now dark and brooding.

“I have hospital calls to make, and you have a grand opening to prepare for.” He laughed gently. “Or have you forgotten?”

Somehow she had, for though their lunch plans had included going over last-minute details, not one word had been spoken about the shop. “Blame yourself for distracting me with this marvelous picnic. How could I think of anything else in such an idyllic setting?”

His languorous smile suggested her studio opening had been the furthest thing from his mind as well. He drew a teasing finger down the length of her nose before bending to gather up the picnic supplies. “I’ll meet you at the shop immediately after my last appointment this afternoon. I expect it’ll be shortly after four—five at the latest.”

Annemarie helped him fold the blanket. “I couldn’t do this without you, you know. You’ve made a lifelong dream come true.”

Their hands meshed as they drew the ends of the blanket together, and she was loathe to let him go. He looked ready to voice a reply but then swallowed and turned away to finish folding the blanket.

Always, always the specter of guilt rising between them—his, her own.

Dear Lord, You who make all things new, set us free from the past once and for all.

Pausing at the top of the hospital steps, Gilbert closed his fist around the railing until his arm shook. The curse he’d barely managed to suppress scalded his throat. He wished he were crushing Sam’s pious little neck.

“You coming, Gil?” Thomas looked up from a lower step. “You’re on the clock this afternoon, remember?” Then his gaze followed Gilbert’s to where Annemarie and Samuel were packing up the remains of a picnic. “Might as well accept it. Annemarie has moved on.”

Now Gilbert turned his rage upon Thomas. He shook the end of his crutch in Thomas’s face. “I don’t need your sass,
little brother
. Bad enough I have to work for you.”

“And you won’t be for long if you keep up that attitude.” Thomas glared. “So, are you coming with me, or are you going to stand there wallowing in self-pity over something you brought on yourself?”

Seething, Gilbert cast a final glance toward the couple striding along the path. Though it galled him to admit it, he knew Thomas was right. Gilbert’s first mistake was showing Annemarie’s photograph to Samuel aboard the
Comfort
. He’d seen the attraction in Sam’s eyes . . . the longing . . . even then. And having already determined he could never burden Annemarie with his disabilities, Gilbert had decided to take full advantage. He’d even told Samuel point-blank he had Gilbert’s blessing to pursue Annemarie’s affection.

Then why—
why
—did seeing them together make him want to rip both their hearts out and cast their writhing bodies off the nearest cliff?

He looked up to see Thomas striding toward the car without him. Well, good riddance. Gilbert had better things to do than sit at a cluttered desk in a cramped office poring over housekeeping staff schedules. Besides, Thomas would never fire his own brother, or their mother would never let him hear the end of it.

On the other hand, Gilbert didn’t look forward to another confrontation with Samuel and Annemarie. Before they noticed him, he sidled back inside the hospital and made his way to the wing where Mary would be working. If anyone could take the edge off his anger, it was she.

He skidded to a halt at the entrance to the ward. The eagle-eyed chief nurse Mrs. Daley
would
be making rounds at this hour.

“Lieutenant Ballard.” The woman with the steel-gray topknot pressed her knuckles against her narrow hipbones. “A word, if you please.”

“Ma’am.” He pulled in a long breath through his nose, then released it noisily as he followed the nurse to a more private corner.

Hands folded at her waist, Mrs. Daley shot him a one-eyed glare. “The hospital rumor mill is running rampant. Be warned, I will not have you sullying the reputation of one of my nurses.”

Gilbert’s chest rose, ready to explode. “Don’t—” He reined in his temper along with his tongue, then lowered his voice and tried again. “Don’t take this out on Mary. Please. She’s done nothing wrong.”

“Be that as it may, this hospital has standards that must be adhered to. I have already instructed Miss McClarney any further . . .
visits
. . . with you on hospital property will result in her immediate expulsion from the Army Nurse Corps.”

Jaw trembling, Gilbert nodded. “I understand. You have my word.”