"When did she leave?" Lucy asked gently.
"Some time during the night, I guess. She didn't say much after she got home yesterday. I knew she was upset, but I never imagined she'd do anything like this." His eyes flicked toward Dottie. "She told me what happened to your fiancé. I'm real sorry. I hope he'll be okay."
Dottie acknowledged his words with a nod.
Stuart raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. "I don't know where she'd go, if not to you two. Except for her sister, she doesn't have anybody she spends much time with. With Frances gone off to her WAAC training …" He left the sentence unfinished, punctuating it with a shrug. "I called her folks but she wasn't there. I knew she wouldn't be. She'd rather choke than tell her dad what she's doing, and I sure didn't tell him. I'm hoping she'll come back before he finds out."
"We'll help any way we can, Stuart." Dottie reached across the table and patted his arm. "Give Penelope a few days. Once she's had a chance to think things through, she'll come to her senses."
Dottie didn't believe what she said. She didn't believe Penelope would come back. Penelope had left her husband and children the same selfish, uncaring way Dottie's father had left his family …
Without a backward glance.
Without a second thought.
Her heart broke for Evelyn and Alan even more than for Stuart. Dottie knew what it was like to be deserted by a parent, to feel unloved, unwanted, and guilty of some unknown wrongdoing. She wished she could gather those precious children into her arms right now. She wanted to tell them that this wasn't their fault.
Anger, hot and bitter, swept through her like a fire. She wanted to slap Penelope Maxfield. She wanted to slap Bart King. She wanted to hurt them both for the hurt they caused others, for the wreckage they'd left in their wake.
Chapter 31
On Monday, the three remaining members of the Victory Club joined one another for their lunch break. Since the day was pleasant and bright, Lucy suggested they sit outside.
"Do you suppose Stuart's heard anything from Pen yet?" Dottie asked.
Lucy had wondered the same thing. "I hope so. He looked awful when he left your house yesterday." She removed the wrapped sandwich, dill pickle, and cookie from her lunch box and placed them on the bench beside her.
"You're assuming she'll bother to contact him." Margo's words were laced with disgust. "What sort of woman walks out on her family that way?"
"A lost one," Dottie answered. With a look of chagrin, she added, "When Stuart told us she'd gone, I remembered how I felt when my father left us, and it made me angry. So angry I wanted to—"
"It's worse when it's the mother," Margo insisted.
"Is it?" Dottie asked. "I don't think so, Mom. The pain is the same."
Realizing she had no appetite, Lucy returned her still-wrapped food to the lunch box, leaned her head against the building at her back, and closed her eyes. "We should have seen how unhappy she was. Maybe we could have helped."
Margo harrumphed. "You can't rescue the world, Lucy."
"Maybe not, but Penelope's our friend. We could have tried to do something if we'd known."
"She didn't want us to know." Dottie sighed. "I wonder how much any of us actually knows about another person. We keep secrets, even from ourselves."
Lucy was glad her eyes were closed. Otherwise, Margo and Dottie might have guessed her guilty secret.
Oh, God. How do I stop my thoughts from turning to Howard instead of Richard?
She loved her husband. She wanted nothing more than to have Richard home with her, for them to build a life together, to have a family together. So what were these feelings she had for Howard Baxter? It couldn't be love. Yet it was something more than friendship.
Lust?
No. Impossible. She didn't think about Howard in that way. Not at all. Still …
"Lucy? Are you listening?"
She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry, Dottie. I guess I drifted off. I didn't sleep well last night." She yawned, giving her words credence.
Besides, they were true. She hadn't slept. She'd spent the night tossing and turning, punching her pillow, getting up, pacing the floor, going back to bed. She'd tried to pray, but her prayers rose no higher than the bedroom ceiling.
Dottie stared at her, as if trying to ascertain the cause of Lucy's restless night.
Afraid her friend would see the truth in her eyes, Lucy straightened abruptly. "Do you mind if we talk about this later?" She grabbed her untouched lunch and stood. "I really need to get back to my desk."
I'm pathetic. I'm no better than Penelope. I'm running away, too.
With a halfhearted wave, she hurried toward the two-story wood-framed building that housed her office.
But I'm not like Pen. I haven't left Richard. I write him almost every day. I pray for his safety. I'm anxious for him to come home. Oh, God, let him come home soon.
She arrived at her desk, slid her lunch box into the bottom drawer, then reached for the top form in the In basket and rolled it into the typewriter. Better to keep busy. Better to fill her mind with dates and numbers, requisitions, and military jargon rather than her own untrustworthy emotions.
Does Richard have a woman friend in England?
Her fingers stilled above the keys.
Is he holding another woman in his arms while she cries because the man she loves is away at war?
Of course not. Of course he hadn't. He was there to fight a war.
But he wasn't always in the air. He might work with some of the WAACs stationed in England. Or he might have met one of the local women who lived near the base.
If he had a woman friend, did he feel guilty about it? Did he need to feel guilty about it?
If it could happen to me …
She swallowed a hard lump in her throat and resumed typing.
V-Mail
To: Mrs. Margo King and Miss Dottie King, Boise, Idaho, U.S.A.
From: Corporal Clark King
Thursday, March 15, 1943
Dear Mom and Dottie,
I hope this letter finds both of you well and in good spirits. I guess you know from the newspapers that the fighting was bad in northern Africa last month, but everybody believes we've shown the Nazis what we're made of. Finally. None of the guys I serve with will be surprised if we're in Italy before the end of summer. I sure hope so.
You'll never believe who I got to see a couple of weeks ago. General Eisenhower. A few of us were sent by our commanding officer to Algiers on military business, and that's where we saw him. I'm mighty glad he's the man leading this army. The men over here trust him. We don't feel that way about every officer, but we do about General Eisenhower.
I got a letter a week ago from Anna Crawford. Do you remember her, Mom? She's Stella Crawford's daughter. The Crawfords live over on Walnut. We went to school together, and sometimes her family came to church. Not often, but sometimes.
Well, Anna went to college over in Oregon, and then she got a job in Portland after the war started. Her little brother, Bobby, got my address from Dottie (thanks for doing that, sis), and when she found out he was writing to me, she decided she would, too. She sent me her picture so I'd know what she looks like now, and all I can say is, Wow! Amazing what five years can do for a girl! You wouldn't recognize her. I'll guarantee that.
I've been on the lookout for Greg, but if he's in Africa, he's nowhere near where we are. I'll keep watching for him, Dottie. If he gets here, I'll take good care of him.
The weather's improved some in the last month, but I still wouldn't give you two bits to live here. Give me the mountains of Idaho any day of the week.
I love you both, and you're in my prayers, just like I know I'm in yours. Give my best to the folks at church and be sure and thank them for their prayers, too. There have been some dark times since we got over here, and that's when I'm the most aware it's the prayers of the saints that are getting me through.
Clark
Chapter 32
Stuar
t Maxfield sat in the dark, sipping beer from a bottle and listening to the tick-tick-tick of the kitchen wall clock.
Five days. His wife had been gone five days, and not a word from her. He'd called all her friends. No one had seen her. No one had heard from her. He'd visited every place she liked to go—the park, the movies, the soda shop, the five-and-dime. Nothing. At last, he'd gone to see her parents, as much as it pained him to do so.
It hadn't been easy to stand before her coldhearted father and admit that Penelope had left him.
"So, she finally ran off, did she?" David Ballard had scowled as he leaned back in his chair. "That girl never had much sense."
"Sir, I was hoping you or Mom Ballard might know where she is." Stuart had looked from his father-in-law to his mother-in-law.
"She hasn't called us," Julia Ballard answered softly.
"Well, I promise you, if she does, she'll get a piece of my mind." David had muttered a foul curse. "She won't get a dime from us, Julia. Do you understand me? Not a dime if she comes crawling to us for help."
Stuart figured Penelope would rather chew glass than ask her father for help. He couldn't blame her. He felt the same way. Besides, he didn't think Penelope was coming back.
Man, it hurt to admit that. Hurt in his chest and all the way down to his gut, as if he'd been sucker punched. Hurt worse than the constant pain in his back that he'd lived with since falling off that ladder more than a year ago.
He'd never loved anybody but Penelope. From the first time he saw her, he was a goner. Sure, he had been only a teenager at the time, but it didn't matter. He loved her, and that was that.
He'd thought she felt the same.
He'd thought wrong.
Stuart expelled a deep breath, then drained the last of the beer. Afterward, he rose from the chair, walked to the trash container near the back door, and dropped the brown bottle into it.
"What now?" he asked the darkness.
He had two confused little kids to take care of and no idea how he was going to do it. He needed a job of some sort, but that wouldn't be easy to find. Not with his physical limitations. He couldn't stand for long periods of time, and he wasn't supposed to lift too much weight. Not yet.
"You're coming along nicely," his elderly physician had said last week. "Give yourself time, Mr. Maxfield, and I believe you'll be able to do everything you used to do."
But Stuart didn't have time. He had kids to feed and bills to pay.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, cursing his fate. Since the day of his accident, he'd felt less than a man. He'd felt it whenever Penelope looked at him. He'd felt it whenever he heard about one of his old school friends or work buddies going off to war. He'd felt it whenever he went out during the day, and the only other males in sight were old men and small boys.
But half a man or not, he couldn't—wouldn't—fail his children. He'd do whatever he had to do to take care of them.
"I just never thought I'd have to do it alone, Pen," he whispered. "I thought we were in this together."
V-Mail
To: Miss Dorothea King, Boise, Idaho, U.S.A.
From: PFC Gregory Wallace
Friday, April 2, 1943
My darling Dottie,
I guess you must have heard the news by now that I was wounded. I'm going to be all right, so I hope you're not too worried. I don't want you to worry, Dottie. I love you too much for that.
If you don't recognize the handwriting on this letter, it's because my eyes are bandaged, so I asked one of the nurses here in the hospital to write down what I want to say. I bet you wish I did that more often. You can probably actually read this one.
They've taken real good care of me since I came here from the field hospital. The army doctors are the best, and the nurses try to make things easier on the guys, making us laugh even. I hear there was some movie star who came through here last month, but I forget now who it was. Who knows? Maybe somebody else will come before I leave.
They tell me I'll ship out for the States in another week or two. Can't be soon enough for me. I'm eager to get back to you. Your letter, the one where you told me something real important about our future, caught up with me just before I was wounded in battle. It's hard, knowing what you must be going through there on your own. But you aren't really alone. We both know that. When I get back to the States, we'll get married. I'm more sorry than I can say for causing you hurt because of my actions. I know, even when we're forgiven, we sometimes have to live with the consequences of our actions. Still, I wish you weren't having to deal with this without me by your side.
I'm praying this letter won't take as many weeks to reach you as yours took to reach me. I'm praying it'll get to you before I get there myself. I hope when you read it you'll understand all the things I don't have the words to say or don't want somebody else writing for me. I think you will. You've always seemed to know my heart even before I know it myself.
Dottie, I love you. I think about you all the time. Thinking about you is what's getting me through the long days in this hospital and through the sleepless nights when I'm wondering about tomorrow. Sometimes the wondering about the unknown tomorrows is worse than any fear I felt in battle. I know we're not supposed to do that. I know it doesn't add one second to our lives. Funny, how I tell you not to worry and then do it myself.
I'll be home soon.
Love,
Greg
Chapter 33
Lucy! Lucy; are you home? It's me. Dottie."
Lucy hurried to answer the persistent knocking, not sure if Dottie's voice sounded alarmed or joyous. When she pulled open the door, she had her answer. Glowing was the only word to describe her friend. Absolutely glowing.
"He's coming home," Dottie said, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips. She clutched a V-Mail in her left hand.
"Come in and tell me."
Dottie slipped past Lucy, making a beeline to one of the kitchen chairs and sinking onto it as if her legs wouldn't support her another instant. "He wrote this letter on April 2. Can you believe it? It got here in three weeks. He said he was supposed to ship out in a week or two. That must mean he's already on his way back to the States." Her eyes twinkled with happiness. "He must be on a ship right now."
"Oh, Dottie. I'm glad for you." Lucy leaned down to hug her friend, then sat on the chair next to her and rested her forearms on the table. "I'm so, so glad."
"Do you suppose they'll send him to another hospital before they let him come to Boise?"
"I don't know." She hesitated before saying what Dottie must already know. "I suppose it depends on the extent of his injuries."
"I've prayed that God will amaze the doctors and nurses by healing him completely. Especially his eyes. I've asked God to give him perfect vision when they remove those bandages."
"I hope God will heal him, too. For both your sakes."
Dottie's smile faded. "And for the baby's sake, Lucy. I want Greg to be able to see his son or daughter."
"Of course you do."
Dottie placed a hand on her abdomen. "It'll break my heart if he can't see the baby." Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she gazed out the window. "Why do you suppose God allows evil things like war to happen?"
I wonder, too, Lord. Why do You allow it? Why do You allow the wicked to do harm to the innocent? Why don't You stop them?
If God spoke, Lucy couldn't hear. "That's a question people have wrestled with for ages, Dottie. I certainly don't know the answer." She rose from her chair, feeling restless. "Would you like some tea?"
"You needn't bother. I—"
"It's no bother. I'd like some myself."
As Lucy bustled about the kitchen—filling the teakettle with water and setting it on the stove, taking down the cups and saucers from the cupboard—her thoughts churned.
There was a small, ugly corner of her heart that remained jealous of Dottie. Greg was coming home. He might be blind, but he would be home with her. Before very long, Dottie wo
uldn't be alone. She would have Greg's arms to embrace her. She would have the comfort of his presence in the morning when she awoke.
I want the same. I don't want to be alone anymore. Why must I be alone?
She didn't have to be alone. Not completely.
Howard …
Did the devil smile as that name whispered in her mind?
For two weeks, Lucy had shopped at Safeway instead of the Bannock Street Market. For two weeks, she had carefully avoided walking anywhere near Howard's business. For two weeks, she'd done what she thought—no, what she knew—was the right thing to do. And for two weeks, she'd felt more lonely than ever before. For two weeks, she'd been too tired to read the Word, her thoughts too disjointed to pray. She'd felt alone and abandoned—by her husband and by her God.
The kettle whistled, the sound sharp and piercing. Lucy pulled it from the burner.
"What's troubling you, Luce?"
"Nothing." She glanced over her shoulder, trying to look serene. "Nothing out of the ordinary, at least."
She should ask Dottie to pray for her. She should ask God to keep her from temptation.
But she didn't.
* * *
Lucy entered the market a few minutes before the store closed, knowing it was less likely any customers would be there. She was right.
Howard stood behind the counter, writing in a notebook. He looked up as she approached. She suspected he'd been about to tell his last-minute customer that it was closing time.
His eyes widened when he saw who it was; then he straightened, laying down the pen. "Lucy."
"Howard."
There was a world of unspoken sentiment in their greeting, a confession of right and wrong, temptation and resistance, longing and regret. It wasn't until then that Lucy realized Howard wouldn't have pursued her if she stayed away. He wanted her—that she knew—but he would let her go.
The Victory Club Page 12
