When the Clouds Roll By (8 page)

“Of course it has. I don’t deny it. But don’t you think—”

“What I think—what I
know
—is that Gilbert needs time to heal. He needs time to find himself, to figure out how to live his life again.” Her voice shook. She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “And I have to be prepared for the possibility that I won’t fit into his life anymore.”

“That will never happen!” Mrs. Ballard pulled her into a fierce hug. “Gilbert needs you. He will always need you.”

Annemarie returned the hug briefly, then freed herself and stepped back. She fumbled in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief, but finding none, she used the back of her hand to brush away the wetness on her cheeks. “As I told you, I will always love him. I will be there for him as long as he wants me. But I won’t push him into marriage. Not now, not ever.”

While Mrs. Ballard fluttered her hands and stammered, Annemarie strode into the hallway and retrieved her things from the coat closet. She met Mrs. Ballard in the parlor doorway, and her heart twisted at the look of utter confusion skewing the woman’s features.

Mrs. Ballard stretched an arm toward Annemarie, her other hand clenched at her bosom. “Dear, dear, I’ve upset you. You mustn’t go until we’ve come to an understanding about this.”

“If you mean the wedding, there is nothing more to say.” Annemarie softened her gaze into an apologetic smile as she pulled on her coat and gloves. She dropped a kiss upon Mrs. Ballard’s powdered cheek. “Promise me you won’t bring it up again—to me or to Gilbert. If the Lord wants us together, He will work things out in His own good time.”

If
. . . In Annemarie’s mind that tiny word loomed like an insurmountable precipice.

She refused Mrs. Ballard’s offer to let Thomas drive her home, claiming a brisk walk would help calm her thoughts and give her a little time alone with God.

Then she walked out the front door and straight into Samuel Vickary’s arms.

9

T
he feel of Annemarie leaning against his chest, her gloved fingers digging into his biceps, disoriented Samuel for one glorious moment. He fumbled to regain his balance while making sure Annemarie had both feet solidly on the ground. “Steady, there. Are you all right?”

She laughed nervously and straightened, but her grip on Samuel’s arms held firm. “My fault entirely. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He tried to breathe, but the cold night air froze in his lungs. Or was it the nearness of Annemarie Kendall? Clarity returning, he patted her elbows and gingerly stepped back as she lowered her arms. “Headed home already?” His voice sounded as creaky as the porch board beneath his feet. “Surely you’re not walking?”

“It’s not far.” She smiled and adjusted her gloves. “And what are you doing outdoors without your coat again? Don’t you feel the cold at all?”

“I’m from Indiana, remember? This is nothing compared to the winters we have up north.” Grinning, he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. He’d never be cold again if he could spend the rest of his life basking in the warmth of Annemarie’s gaze.

This was certainly not going to happen, at least not in the way he’d insanely begun to let himself imagine. Friends—that’s all they’d ever be.

And a friend wouldn’t allow a young lady to walk unescorted this time of night. “Let me see you home. After Marguerite’s sumptuous cooking I could use the exercise.”

She tightened her lips, sending a quick glance toward the parlor windows. “Well, I . . . ”

How stupid of him. Naturally, Annemarie would be concerned about what Mrs. Ballard would think. Their being seen together along quiet streets after dark might be perceived much differently from two friends strolling the sidewalks of downtown Hot Springs in broad daylight.

“Forgive me. I was being presumptuous.” Samuel reached for the doorknob. “At least let me ask Mrs. Ballard if her chauffeur can drive you.”

“Nonsense. Zachary has probably already retired for the evening.” Straightening, Annemarie firmed her smile. “I’d be grateful for your company, but only if you will go inside and fetch your overcoat. I won’t be held responsible for your coming down with pneumonia.”

“All right, all right.” Barely able to conceal his pleasure, Samuel ducked through the front door and snatched his coat from the hall closet. Returning to the porch, he slid his arms into his coat sleeves and fastened two buttons. “Satisfied?”

Annemarie narrowed her eyes and tugged the collar up around his neck. “There, that’s better.” She marched down the porch steps and waited for Samuel to catch up. As they reached the street, she said, “Actually, I was hoping we’d have another chance to talk.”

“Were you?” A spring returned to Samuel’s steps. Keeping his eyes on the path before them, he asked, “Something in particular on your mind?”

“Gilbert, of course. It’s hard to speak freely in front of Mrs. Ballard.”

Samuel took Annemarie’s arm as they crossed at the corner. How many times would he have to remind himself her heart belonged to Gil? “How can I help?”

Annemarie turned her face toward the shimmering moon and heaved a desperate sigh. “Gilbert’s mother is utterly determined to go forward with wedding plans. I’ve tried to tell her we must wait until Gilbert says he’s ready, but she won’t listen.”

Samuel murmured an acknowledgement but walked on in silence. His thoughts careened back to Gil’s words this afternoon:
“Take her, Sam. Take her with my blessing.”
It was only the injuries talking, the fear and the pain. No man in his right mind would ever give up a woman like Annemarie.

“You do think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you, Samuel?”

He looked up, startled. “The right thing?”

“Insisting we wait.” A worried frown creased Annemarie’s lips.

“Waiting is definitely wise at this point. Gilbert has a lot of healing yet to do.” Even in the faint light of the moon, Samuel sensed more behind her questioning gaze—far more than a simple affirmation about the wisdom of delaying wedding plans. It was obvious she sought his assurance that she and Gilbert still had a future to look forward to.

They turned at the next corner and started slowly up a long hill, walking straight into the chilly north wind. Annemarie shivered and hunched her shoulders. “Happy as I am for Christmastime, I can hardly wait for spring!”

Winter, spring, summer, autumn—for Samuel the passing of seasons no longer seemed to matter. He sighed as dark memories crept in.

On his knees in a stubbly field, blood everywhere as he cradled a private’s limp body and shouted curses at God . . .

Perhaps someday he’d shed his guilt and find the courage to hope again. Perhaps someday the words from Scripture he’d leaned upon all his life would flame anew in his spirit and bring back the joy he once felt doing the Lord’s work, the joy he once felt in simply being alive.

For now, going through the motions would have to suffice. He’d have to rely on the
habit
of faithfulness, built upon years of prayer and study and service, while praying every day that God hadn’t turned His back on him for eternity.

“But whosoever shall blaspheme against the Holy Spirit hath never forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin.”

“Sam?”

Her use of the shortened form of his name made his steps falter. She’d stopped beneath a streetlamp, its hazy glow haloing her dark hair.

“I’m worried about you, too, you know.” She looked so solemn, schoolteacher-stern, her mouth twisted in an accusing scowl.

He tried to laugh, but it sounded weak and hollow in the night air, as if the sound had been swallowed up by the mountains reaching skyward around them.

“I’m serious. You may have survived the war without physical wounds, but you must have witnessed unspeakable horrors.”

If she only knew. . . . “Don’t be concerned about me. Gilbert is the one who needs you.”

She reached for his hand and pressed it between her own. “You said we were friends, didn’t you? So I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk, to unburden yourself about the war or—or just anything—well, if I can help in any way—”

He stared at their entwined hands and thought his heart would explode from his chest. With his last ounce of willpower he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and then shoved his fists into his coat pockets. “Your friendship is all I need,” he said, his voice scraping across paralyzed vocal cords. “Now I’d better see you on home before Mrs. Ballard realizes I’m missing and sends out a search party.”

“She would, you know.” A hearty laugh burst from Annemarie’s throat. She linked her arm through Samuel’s as they resumed their march up the hill.

And once he delivered her through her own front door and started on his way back to the Ballards’, he realized he’d never been so loathe for an evening stroll to end.

Mary McClarney tugged a wooly afghan from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her mother’s legs. “Warm enough, Mum? Another cup of tea?”

“Stop fussing, daughter, and sit yourself down. You’ve been flitting about this house like a nervous bumblebee ever since you came home from work.” Nell McClarney aimed an arthritic finger at the faded tweed chair nearby. “Now tell me what’s got you in such a dither.”

Mary crumpled into the chair. She knew better than to disobey a direct order from her mother. Mum may have weak lungs, but the same could not be said about her will.

Unfortunately, the chair placed the left side of Mary’s face directly under the glow of Mum’s reading lamp. So much for any hopes of keeping her mother from finding out about that little bit of unpleasantness at the hospital this afternoon.

Mum tossed the afghan aside and sat up. “Child! What’s happened to your cheek?”

“Now don’t get yourself in a state. It’s just a wee bruise.” Gingerly, Mary covered her swollen jaw with one hand.

“Wee! Why, it’s nigh on covering half your face! Now tell me, did you fall? Did someone—”

“It was an accident,” Mary blurted, wincing at the memory. “He didn’t—I mean—”

Her mother gasped. “Someone
did
hurt you! Oh, Mary, not one of them soldiers?”

“No—yes—” Mary moaned her frustration as she rose to fetch her mother a cup of warm water to soothe a sudden coughing spasm. “See there what you’ve done. I told you, it’s nothing to get worked up about.”

Nell McClarney sipped the water and glared at her daughter until the spate of coughing subsided. “I don’t know which upsets me more—your mottled face or the fact that you thought you could hide it from me.”

“I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t want to worry you.” Mary plopped into the chair and laced her fingers in her lap. “See, it’s these poor, poor fellas coming home from France. This young lieutenant, he was having a bad dream, and no telling who he thought I was—probably a German with a machine gun aimed at his head—”

“So he
hit
you?” Mum started to cough again, and Mary shoved the glass of water into her hands.

“You can see I’m none the worse for it, except for a bit of a bruise, and I’ll not say another word about it until you promise me you won’t get so riled.” Mary sat back and crossed her arms.

Drawing a steadying breath, Mum gave a reluctant nod. “I hope the lad had the decency to apologize, at least.”

Mary glanced away, unable to wipe the image of the restrained and sedated Lieutenant Ballard from her mind. Surely Mrs. Daley had overreacted. Men returning from the Great War should be regarded as heroes, not treated as raving lunatics destined to languish in asylums.

“Why, Mary McClarney, what do I see in those green eyes of yours?” Mum touched her hanky to the corner of her mouth and cleared her throat. “Would you be getting sweet on one of your patients?”

“Of course not! That wouldn’t be the least bit professional, now, would it?” Mary pushed out her lower lip, feigning indignation. She’d never hear the end of it if Mum knew how close she’d come to the truth.

Besides, war wounds and shell shock aside, a fine man like Lieutenant Gilbert Ballard would never give an Irish immigrant working-class girl the time of day. No, he was meant for the likes of the beautiful Miss Kendall. The potter’s daughter, though employed in her father’s business, bore all the markings of a lady, from the cut of her clothes to the pride in her posture. Miss Kendall clearly was no stranger to the ways of Hot Springs society.

And if that weren’t enough, she was an artist. Oh yes, Mary had heard talk of Annemarie Kendall’s exquisite ceramic creations. Nurses on the ward said those one-of-a-kind vases and bowls on display at the Arlington fetched a pretty penny from wealthy tourists who came to town for the baths.

Mary looked down at her work-worn hands. Now if she had a fine pair of kid gloves such as Miss Kendall wore, perhaps no one would notice how frequent exposure to soap and water had left her skin so red and chapped. With a resigned sigh, she reached for the bottle of hand lotion on the end table and massaged a generous dollop into her palms and fingertips.

Someday . . . someday she’d own a pair of stylish kid gloves. Someday she’d dress in fashionable clothes and walk the promenade on the arm of a handsome beau.

Stifling a yawn, Annemarie refilled Papa’s coffee cup and sat down to a steaming bowl of oatmeal.

Papa stirred cream into his coffee. “Up late again, were you, Annie-girl?”

“Just had a little trouble getting to sleep.” With a dismissive smile, she sprinkled her oatmeal with a meager half-teaspoon of brown sugar and a handful of raisins. She’d rather not get into a discussion of last night’s disturbing visit with Mrs. Ballard.

Much less the tentative friendship developing between her and Chaplain Samuel Vickary. Such a kind and likable fellow, though clearly those somber gray eyes cloaked an abundance of sorrow. And now, with both Gilbert and Samuel to fret over, Annemarie was at a loss as to how to help. While soldiers went through weeks and months of training for combat, while doctors and nurses studied wound care and surgery, who taught wives and mothers and fiancées and friends the skills they’d need to assuage a soldier’s broken spirit?