Lucy beamed. "Yes. In fact, I got five of them. The first came on Monday. The rest on Friday. I didn't do much yesterday except read them, over and over and over again."
"How wonderful! Was Richard able to tell you where he is?"
"Still in England as of the letters."
"I'm glad for you, dear." Ruth came over and gave her a tight hug. "You be sure and keep us informed how we can pray for him."
"I will."
As Lucy slipped into her choir robe, she thanked God for giving her this new church family. She had been a member of her old church for so many years that she'd feared she wouldn't fit in anywhere else after she moved across town. But God had blessed her with this congregation. They'd embraced her from the start, making her feel loved.
The rest of the choir—ten people in all—trickled into the choir room. Greetings were spoken. Others asked about Richard, and Lucy asked about their loved ones, some in the military and some, like Ruth's husband, employed at defense plants along the West Coast.
A few minutes before the start of the service, the choir stood in a circle, holding hands, and prayed for God's presence to be evident during the coming hour. Then they filed into the choir loft behind the pulpit.
Lucy glanced at her hymnal. Their first song was "Amazing Grace," one of her favorites. The words often brought tears to her eyes. They reminded her of the miracle of salvation, of God's unending love, and of the trust she could place in Him. Of the trust she must place in Him if she meant to walk in faith and obedience.
She looked up as Pastor Osborne stepped into the pulpit. That was when she saw Howard Baxter, seated in the fourth row. He nodded and gave a slight shrug, as if to say, Yeah, I'm surprised to be here, too.
She was glad. She hoped he would find nourishment for his soul. She prayed that others in the congregation would welcome him the way they had welcomed her a year ago.
* * *
A little over an hour later, having removed her robe and retrieved her purse and coat from the choir room, she found Howard in the fellowship hall, visiting with Pastor Osborne.
"Good morning, Mr. Baxter," she said as she approached the two men. "What a nice surprise to have you visit this morning."
"Morning, Mrs. Anderson. I was telling the reverend here that I really enjoyed the singing. The choir was in fine form."
"And I," the pastor said with a chuckle, "was about to say I hoped he found the sermon in fine form, too."
"Yes, sir. I enjoyed it. You were plainspoken and easy to understand. I like that."
Lucy looked at Pastor Osborne. "Mr. Baxter owns the market on Bannock."
The pastor nodded. "Yes, he told me. I believe I've been in there once or twice." His gaze was drawn across the hall. "Please excuse me. I see that Mrs. Johnson needs my assistance with that coffee urn." He lifted his hand toward the woman. "Hold on, Mrs. Johnson. Let me get that for you."
After the pastor strode off, Howard stepped closer to Lucy. "I'm glad I came this morning. Thanks for the invitation. It's a nice church and nice people, too."
Lucy didn't recall issuing an invitation, but she was glad she had, whether or not she remembered. How wonderful it would be if Howard found a relationship with Christ because of it.
"Quite a change we had in the weather," he said. "Spring's gotta be just around the corner."
"I'll be ready whenever it gets here."
"May I walk you home, Mrs. Anderson? It's right on the way for me, and I'd enjoy the company."
"That would be very nice. I'd be glad for the company, too."
He helped her on with her coat. Then the two of them made their way toward the exit, pausing now and then so Lucy could introduce the grocer to members of the congregation.
A few minutes later, they stepped outside. The sky was a glorious, cloudless blue, and the sun was warm upon Lucy's face. The promise of spring, indeed.
Lucy and Howard fell into step, their pace unhurried as they moved along the sidewalk.
After a brief silence, he said, "The kids at the high school are having a scrap-metal drive from now through the end of March. They've asked if they can use the vacant lot behind my store as a collection site. I told them it was okay."
Scrap-metal drives. Rubber salvage. Newspaper and used-fat collections. Tinfoil, aluminum, and tin cans. Nylon and silk. Even junk jewelry. There was always something being collected by one group or another. Lucy thought it a miracle there was anything left to salvage.
"One of my customers, Mrs. Wright over on Washington, she took the bumpers off her Buick and replaced them with wood. You should have seen those kids lugging the metal ones down the street yesterday."
At least Mrs. Wright has a car to take the bumpers off of. Oh, for such a luxury as an automobile and the gasoline to drive it somewhere.
Lucy was immediately ashamed of her ungrateful thoughts. God was faithful to Lucy. He always had been. She didn't want for any necessity of life, and she had much more than many others.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Anderson."
A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks. "I was feeling envious. Of Mrs. Wright and her car. It's been so long since I've gone anywhere except on foot or by bus. I'd love to just get into a car and take a drive."
"That's understandable." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you'd care to drive to McCall with me next Saturday. There's plenty of snow in the mountains and the lake may still be frozen over, but the roads should be in good shape. We could go up, have lunch at the lodge, then drive back before dark."
"You own a car?"
"I do. I don't drive it much though. Too busy working in the store. But I've got some part-time help that could come in and cover for me for a day. What do you say?"
"I don't know."
"Come on. It'd be fun. You need a break from working and worrying about that husband of yours."
"Well … I—"
He grinned. "Great. We'll plan to leave at nine in the morning. How's that sound?"
She shouldn't. She had many things to do on Saturday. The laundry and housecleaning and …
"All right, Mr. Baxter. I'll be ready."
Part II
March 1943
Chapter 14
Margo had a throbbing headache, and the atrocious pronunciations by the captain in the second row were not helping.
"Captain Denton." She closed the lesson book and pushed it to the corner of her desk. "Is it your hope to be able to speak the language like a native?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then I suggest you apply yourself to your studies with a bit more zeal, because as it stands right now, the Germans will shoot you the moment you open your mouth."
He frowned but answered with a respectful, "Sorry, ma'am. I'll work on it."
She rose from her chair. "That's all for today, gentlemen. Thank you."
The officers filed out of the classroom with little chatter, and a short while later, Margo was alone. Blessedly alone. She sat down again, leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes.
However would she survive this wretched war?
Every weekday, she looked into the faces of these young men—tragically young to be facing the dangerous missions before them, boys too similar to Clark with their smooth chins and close-cropped hair and swaggering bravado—who within days, weeks, or months of these classes would fly off this base and into the gun sights of the enemy. What good would her French lessons do them then? Knowing how to speak a second language wouldn't protect them from bullets and bombs.
"I don't want another one of them to die," she whispered. "Have mercy, God."
But in that sinful, selfish corner of her heart, she knew what she meant. She didn't want Clark to die. She wanted God to have mercy on her son—even if not on others.
A soft rapping intruded on her thoughts. "Excuse me, Mrs. King. May I speak with you?"
She straightened. "Colonel. Of course. Do come in."
Colonel Vance Rhodes, her immediate supervisor, was an impos
ing man, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders. His hair was sprinkled with gray, and his face was etched with the lines of both years and experience. He was the sort of officer who commanded the respect of all who knew him, including Margo.
The colonel entered the classroom, closing the door behind him.
Dread shot through her and with it a vision of Clark. The army wouldn't ask her boss to deliver bad news, would they?
"Mrs. King, I need you to take on another student."
She released a breath of relief. "Of course, Colonel. We have room in—"
"No, I need you to tutor this officer privately."
Margo raised an eyebrow in question.
The colonel nodded, as if agreeing with himself over what to do or say next. Then he turned, reached for a chair, drew it up close to the side of her desk, and sat down. "The officer is my son, Travis. He has only a short period of time to become as fluent in French as possible before he leaves for England. He took foreign language classes, including French, while in high school and college. My son's bright, and he learns quickly. That's why he was chosen to—" He stopped abruptly.
She saw the concern in his green eyes and didn't need him to say his son was being trained for some sort of secret—and dangerous—mission. She understood and empathized.
"He'll study as many hours as it takes," Colonel Rhodes added. "He'll do whatever needs done."
"I'm sure he will, sir." She glanced at her schedule. Tutoring privately meant losing the one free hour she had for lesson planning and correcting papers each day. But she wouldn't say no. "I can meet with your son at three o'clock in the afternoon. Starting today, if that's what you wish."
"I'll arrange it." The colonel rose. "He'll be here at fifteen hundred hours. Thank you, Mrs. King."
"You're welcome, Colonel Rhodes."
Margo watched as her supervisor crossed the room and disappeared into the hallway. If only my children's father could have been a man of integrity like the colonel, a man others admire.
She winced at the thought. Even now, all these years later, it shamed her to remember what a foolish girl she'd been. How could she have fallen for the smooth-talking ways of Bart King? Despite her youth and inexperience, she should have seen what he was—a liar and a cheat. She was forced to remember her foolish romanticism whenever she looked into the faces of her children and saw traces of their father there.
Margo sighed deeply. She feared for Clark's life as he fought in Africa, but sometimes she feared even more for Dottie. Her daughter was such a pie-eyed optimist and even more of a romantic than Margo had been. Dottie had little grasp on the realities of life. Even Dottie's faith seemed too … too simplistic.
Have mercy, God. Have mercy on us all.
V-Mail
To: Corporal Clark King, APO, N.Y.P.E
From: Margo King
Wednesday, March 3,1943
Dear Clark,
Your sister and I were relieved to receive your letter of February 6. I pray that you are still well, nearly a month later. The reports in the newspaper of fighting in North Africa have caused me many a sleepless night. I can only assume, since I have heard nothing to the contrary, that you are all right.
Dottie's friend Frances has volunteered to join the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps. I cannot say I approve of women serving in the armed forces, especially in combat areas. I've even heard, though I cannot vouch for the validity, that there are WAACs serving on General Eisenhower's staff in North Africa. To purposefully put women in harm's way seems wrong to me. I hope Frances will remain stationed in America. Perhaps she'll be assigned duty as a censor and will even read one of our letters.
At least I know Frances Ballard is a well-mannered and moral young woman. I suspect the same cannot be said for most women who would volunteer for the auxiliary, especially after some of the things I've read in the newspaper of late. Your sister strongly disagrees with me. She says those who join the WAACs want only to do their part to win the war. But Dottie, I fear, is naive to the ways of this world.
The grip of winter has finally broken here in the Boise valley, though there remains a great deal of snow on the mountains. I've seen yellow crocus surfacing in flower beds in the neighborhood. I'll soon be preparing my vegetable garden for planting
I continue to find satisfaction in my employment and have reason to hope that the work I do might be helpful, even if only in a small way. (See, it isn't necessary to join the WAACs to do one's part.) Today I was asked by a superior to give private lessons to an officer who, I suspect, will soon leave the country on some special mission. My new student is your age, handsome, and very determined. I liked him immediately. I can only hope he will return to his father as he is today, just as I pray for your safe return. He is the sort of young man I would like your sister to marry when this war is over and emotions are not running so high. Dottie can be foolish when it comes to matters of the heart.
Do you remember the Wickfields on the next block? Their youngest son, George, enlisted in the navy, and last week they learned his ship went down in the Pacific and all were lost. George was only eighteen. They have two more sons in service, but I don't know which branch of the military. My heart goes out to them.
Stay close to God, Clark. No matter what else is happening, follow His laws.
You're in my prayers.
Mother
Chapter 15
It hadn't been three weeks since Dottie wrote Greg about her pregnancy. It hadn't even been two. But she couldn't wait any longer to tell her mother. The weight of her secret was too heavy to bear.
"Mom?" She leaned through the doorway of the bedroom. "Is it too late to talk?"
Sitting in bed, her back propped with pillows, her mother looked up from the book in her lap. "No, dear." She removed her reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose between the thumb and middle finger of her right hand. "Come in."
Dottie drew a deep breath. God, You've forgiven me. Please help Mom forgive me, too.
"What is it?" Her mother patted the edge of the bed. "You look upset. Is it something at work?"
Dottie sat where indicated, then stared down at her clenched hands. "I have something to tell you, Mom, and I'm afraid you'll be the one who's upset."
"Oh, heavens. You haven't joined the WAACs like Frances, have you?"
"No, Mom." Dottie smiled a little. "I haven't joined the WAACs."
Her mother was visibly relieved by that bit of news, but her relief only served to increase Dottie's misery. She was certain her mother would ten times rather have Dottie serving in the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps than unmarried and pregnant.
"Honey?" Margo covered Dottie's hands with one of her own. "What's troubling you? Tell me."
"I'm pregnant," she answered in a small voice.
Her mother withdrew her hand. "What did you say?"
"I'm pregnant." Dottie met her mother's gaze.
There was a thick, lengthy silence before her mother asked, "Whose child is it?"
That was a question Dottie hadn't expected. Her mother knew she was in love with Greg. She knew the two of them intended to get married. How could she ask such a thing?
"Well?"
"It's Greg's baby, Mom."
"Greg." She nearly spat the name. "Did he force himself on you? We could have him arrested. The army frowns on—"
Dottie stood. "You know Greg better than that. You know he wouldn't do anything that would hurt me. He … he wouldn't … he—" She turned and left her mother's room, hurrying into her own, blinking away hot tears.
Margo followed seconds later. "I'm a good deal wiser than you, young lady, and I know men will do or say whatever they need to get what they want. Greg's no different from any other man in that regard. If he was, you wouldn't be pregnant."
"I'm as much to blame as he is." Dottie stared toward her bedroom window, but it was dark outside and she saw only her reflection in the glass. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "It only happened the one time."
Her mother grunted, a sound of disbelief.
"We know what we did was wrong. We know we should have waited for marriage. It's just that … he was leaving soon and—"
"Spare me your excuses."
So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus, Dottie reminded herself.
Only she was condemned. Not by God. She'd confessed her sin to Him, and as promised, He was faithful to forgive and cleanse her from all unrighteousness.
Her mother was another story.
"You'll pay for this act for the rest of your life, Dorothea Ruth. Mark my words. You won't have a moment's peace from it. Greg can't even marry you to give this child a name. Before long, everyone at church will know. Oh, the shame of it."
Dottie lifted her chin as she turned to face her mother. "It isn't your shame." She placed her hands protectively over her belly. "What we did was wrong. Greg and I both know it. Before he left for England, we got down on our knees and prayed for forgiveness. We didn't plan for it to happen, and we didn't plan to have this baby. But, Mom, the baby isn't a surprise to the Lord. God won't love it any less because of the circumstances of its conception, and neither will I."
"What if Greg is killed in the war? What if you have to raise this child alone?"
Dottie sank onto the bed, tears once again blinding her. "Then I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." Oh, God. Don't let me come to that bridge. Please, Father.
Softly, Margo said, "I should have done more to keep the two of you apart."
Dottie's heart ached. What she wanted, what she needed, was for her mother to draw her into an embrace and hold her tightly, but it wasn't going to happen.
"Do you think I was never young, Dottie? Do you think I don't understand the temptations of youth?"
Dottie brushed away her tears and looked at her mother, who stood stiffly in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed over her chest. Try as she might, Dottie couldn't imagine her mother as young or passionate or losing control of herself. She couldn't imagine her tempted to do wrong, especially not when it came to matters of the heart. Love, for Margo King, was a disciplined emotion.
The Victory Club Page 6
