Dottie nearly asked who the man was. Then she remembered that Saturday in March when she went to Lucy's apartment. She remembered the man—Mr. Baxter—who was with Lucy. She remembered the sparkle in Lucy's eyes and the way the two smiled at each other.
"The grocer," she said softly, answering her own unspoken question.
"Yes." Lucy met her gaze. "Last night I told him I couldn't see him anymore. If we kept on the way we were, I … I would have … my sin wouldn't have been only in my heart. I know it." Her breath caught on a sob. "Oh, Dottie, it hurts. It hurts so bad."
Dottie felt way out of her depth. What should she say? What counsel could she give?
"I never meant to hurt anyone. I love Richard and would never … I didn't mean … I … I—" She broke off suddenly and let the tears fall. "I haven't been able to pray. Not really. When I do, I don't feel like my prayers go anywhere. I quit the choir because I felt so guilty." Her tone grew harsh. "It was easier to quit the choir than to quit what I was doing. I feel so far from God. I feel more alone than ever before."
This was something Dottie understood. "If you ask God, He forgives you. No matter what we've done, our Father forgives when we ask and repent. He's right here beside you. He hasn't gone anywhere. He's here."
"I know." Lucy choked back a sob. "I know."
"You did the right thing, Luce. It wasn't the easy thing, but it was the right one. It'll get better. You'll see. It'll get better."
Dottie slipped an arm around her friend and drew her close. Together, they wept.
Chapter 42
You did the right thing, Luce. It wasn't the easy thing, but it was the right one."
As a moonless night fell over Boise, Lucy sat on the stoop of her apartment, wrapped in a bulky sweater to ward off the chill. Her eyes were puffy and her nose stuffed from her latest round of tears.
"It'll get better. You'll see. It'll get better."
Would it? Would she stop hating herself for her weakness, for her wrong decisions, for her sinful nature? Would her guilt ever ease? Would a night come when she slept once again in peace?
She hugged her legs to her chest and looked upward. Stars pinpricked the black canopy of sky. It was four-thirty in the morning in England. Perhaps Richard was up, beginning his day, and looking at the same sky. Perhaps he could see that same bright star she stared at now.
"If you can see that star, darling, please know I'm sorry. Please know I love you."
Ah, but those were just words. Anyone could say "I love you" and still be unloving. Real love was an action, a day-in and day-out way of living. A conscious choice. Had she shown love for Richard when she'd given her thoughts, her attention, her affection, to another man?
"No."
Father God, I'm a fraud. How will I face Richard when he comes home again? Why didn't I listen to Your voice of warning? Why did I choose momentary comfort over doing what's right? Why did I listen to the enemy's lies instead of Your truths?
Satan was a liar and the father of lies. She'd heard that from the beginning of her Christian walk. But only now did she understand what it meant. The devil took the truth and twisted it, making it palatable while lacing it with poison. He'd taken a friend—and that's what Howard was in the beginning—and then told her to ignore the warning signs when things began to change between them. He'd taken her loneliness and told her she deserved something better, something different—different from what tens of thousands of other wives, girlfriends, parents, siblings, and friends felt.
Pride. Selfishness. The pursuit of happiness rather than the pursuit of righteousness.
"You did the right thing, Luce. It wasn't the easy thing, but it was the right one."
Looking again at the bright star above the eastern horizon, Lucy stood.
"Richard, if you can see that star, I hope you'll know I'll never be foolish like this again. I hope we'll have many years together so I can prove my love for you in a thousand ways. I don't expect I'll be a perfect wife, but I promise I'll never again betray you with my heart."
V-Mail
To: Corporal Clark King, APO, N.Y.P.E.
From: Margo King
Wednesday, May 5, 1943
Dear Clark,
Today the mailman brought us four of your letters. You can't imagine how wonderful it feels when I see your handwriting on those envelopes. After dinner, Dottie and I sat in the living room and took turns reading them aloud to each other. We had to guess what you wrote in a few places because the censors had been busy with their scissors. It used to be they never cut anything you said. Are you being more open in what you say, or are they being more careful about what gets through?
You'll be pleased to know that Dottie and I have become creative in the kitchen. We observe meatless Tuesdays and Fridays and have invented several new casserole dishes that we intend to feed you when you return to the States. We eat lots of eggs. Those are never in short supply at the market. But we do miss having coffee, butter, and sugar on a regular basis. Neither of us cares much for fish, but we make do when we have to, usually on Fridays. We've even started having creamed chipped beef on toast once a week. I understand you GIs call it SOS. A cry of distress seems applicable since I find it, at best, merely tolerable. But Dottie likes it.
No one has heard a word from Penelope Maxfield in the weeks (almost a month) since she left town. Stuart is still looking for a job that he can physically handle, but hasn't found one yet.
The big news here, of course, is that Greg is scheduled to arrive in Boise tomorrow. He's been honorably discharged from the army and is coming home for good, Purple Heart in hand. Dottie and Greg plan to marry as soon as they get their blood tests and the marriage license. It will be a small affair at our church with Pastor Danson officiating. I'm sure Dottie will write you all about it when she can.
Your sister doesn't know yet where she and Greg will live after they're married. I've invited them to stay with me. God alone knows what Greg will do for a living if he doesn't regain his eyesight. Dottie seems oblivious to the difficulties that await them.
But perhaps I'm wrong about that. Perhaps your sister understands how hard it will be but has a greater understanding of God's mercy and grace than I do. You and Dottie have always been joyful in your faith, and it has occurred to me lately that I've often tried to steal that joy away from you because I didn't share it.
Pastor Danson said something in his sermon on Sunday that has stayed with me all week. In the book of John, Jesus told the Pharisees, who were accusing Him of breaking the Sabbath rules, that He does only what He sees the Father doing. "Jesus lived His life to please the Father," Pastor Danson said, and then he added, "The Pharisees followed the law in such a way that they missed God's heart."
Clark, I think that's what I've done all these years. I've been a believer who followed every dot and tittle of the law but who missed God's heart. I hope you and your sister will forgive me for the mistakes I've made because of it.
I'm out of space and must close. I pray for you every day, Son, and I love you dearly.
Mother
Chapter 43
It had been a gray and frigid January morning when Dottie last stood on this depot platform, saying good-bye to the man she loved. Four months ago. That was all. Only four months, and yet enough time for a young soldier to go to England, to Africa, to be wounded and hospitalized, and finally to sail back to America again.
Four months that seemed a lifetime.
On that Thursday afternoon in May, the day of Greg's much anticipated return to Boise, the sky was dotted with puffy, white clouds, and the sun was warm on Dottie's shoulders. The trees sported green leaves that waved gently in the breeze. Other people crowded the platform, but Dottie paid no attention to them. She had eyes only for the bend in the railroad tracks where, any moment, she expected to see the train come chugging into view.
Hurry, Greg. Hurry.
She pressed her pocketbook against her abdomen—and the child her body nurtured within—and
hoped the full skirt of her dress would conceal the evidence of her pregnancy for a short while longer. It felt dishonest to stand here with her future in-laws and not say anything about her and Greg's wedding plans. His parents knew, of course, that the two planned to marry. They just didn't know how soon, nor the reason for their necessary haste.
Dottie wished her mother was with her. A few weeks ago, she wouldn't have wanted it, but something had changed between them. Dottie had a hard time defining what that something was. Was it because Margo King at last accepted her daughter's pregnancy and plans to marry or was it something more than that?
Last night, the two of them had sat in their living room, reading Clark's letters aloud. Her mother had smiled—even laughed a few times—at some amusing incidents Clark related. She'd seemed … peaceful? Margo King peaceful?
Dottie was pulled from her reverie by the longed-for sounds of the approaching train. The yellow engine rolled into view, and Dottie's heart leapt for joy. Nancy Wallace, her future mother-in-law, took hold of Dottie's right arm, the touch both giving and taking comfort.
Amid squeaks and clanks, the whoosh of escaping air, and voices rising in expectation, the train rolled to a stop. Dottie looked from one railcar exit to another as passengers disembarked.
The waiting, the watching, was agony.
Soldiers and sailors and airmen. Those arriving. Those departing. Mothers with young children in tow. Old men with gray hair and bent shoulders. People embracing. People laughing. People crying.
Scarcely able to breathe, Dottie covered Nancy's hand on her arm and held on tight.
What if Greg wasn't on this train? What if something had gone wrong? What if he'd fallen ill on his way to Boise and had been taken back to that hospital in the East? What if … ?
Then she saw him, standing on the step of the last car, a thin figure in a too-large, light brown uniform. Her chest tightened at the angry scar that sliced the left side of his handsome face from forehead to jawline and the white bandages that covered his eyes.
As a fellow soldier helped Greg from the train, Dottie's heart went to its knees.
Oh, Father. Oh, Jesus. She broke free of his mother's grasp and pushed her way through the crowd on the platform. "Greg!"
He turned his head at the sound of her voice. A smile—oh, that wonderful, familiar smile—curved his mouth.
"Greg!"
A moment later, she was in his arms, pressed close against him, her tears dampening his uniform.
"Hey, princess," he whispered near her ear.
She breathed in, his scent both familiar and foreign. "Oh, Greg. Oh, Greg. It's really you. You're home at last. Oh, darling. You're here. Oh, Greg. Oh, Greg."
"It's me, sweetheart. I'm home. Let's get married."
Dottie hadn't expected to become a blubbering fool, but she couldn't help herself. All she could do was cry and say his name, over and over again.
He pressed his face against her hair, and she felt his warm breath on her scalp. "It's okay, Dottie. It's okay. I'm home. Everything's going to be all right."
"Greg, darling."
"Son."
At the sound of his parents' voices, Greg lifted his head away from Dottie's. "Mom. Dad."
Dottie withdrew from his embrace and watched through tear-blurred eyes as Greg was hugged by his mother, then his father. She hated to admit it, but she didn't want to share him with anyone. Not even with his parents. Not even for a few moments. She wanted him all to herself. She was greedy for his touch, for his kisses, for the sound of his voice in her ears. Greedy to be reassured that he was real and not a dream.
"How was your trip?" his mother asked.
"Long." Greg's voice was laced with fatigue, saying far more than his one-word reply.
"Let's get you home," his father said.
"Sounds good to me."
The soldier who'd helped Greg from the train stepped forward. "This is his gear." He passed a duffel bag to Ken Wallace.
"Thanks, Dan," Greg said. "You've been a big help."
"Glad to do it, buddy. You take care of yourself." The soldier leaned toward Greg and, in a stage whisper, said, "Your girl's every bit as pretty as you said she was. You're one lucky guy." He gave Dottie a nod and a wink as he spoke. Then he climbed onto the train, disappearing into the passenger car.
Greg extended his hand, as though searching for something, a tellingly helpless gesture that brought tears back to Dottie's eyes.
"I'm here, Greg." She took hold of his hand and squeezed his fingers. "I'm right beside you."
I'll always be right beside you.
Chapter 44
Margo was supposed to be grading the tests on her desk, but she found it impossible to focus her thoughts.
She glanced at her watch. Unless something delayed the train, Greg had arrived in Boise by now.
She rose from her desk chair and walked to the window. Young airmen moved about the base, some in Jeeps, some on foot. So young. How many, after they left here, would come back like Greg, wounded, broken? Worse, how many would never return at all?
Margo envied Nancy Wallace having her son back. She was sorry Greg was blind, but at least he was alive. At least he was home. Clark was still over there, fighting, in danger.
But Clark wouldn't want her to be envious, would he? Clark would want her to trust God—for this day, for each tomorrow.
You and Dottie have always been joyful in your faith—she'd written last night. I've been a believer who followed every dot and little of the law but who missed God's heart.
Grace. Mercy. Trust. Faith. They were words she had known, heard, read, and repeated for many years. But she suspected her son and daughter understood their meanings better than she.
She drew a deep breath and released it slowly.
God, I don't want to miss Your heart. Reveal it to me. Help me to understand.
She hesitated. This kind of prayer was foreign to her. It was so … personal and … intimate. Yet she had to go on. She didn't want to go back to her old ways.
Father, I don't want to be a Pharisee, caught up in the rules and the law. I want to obey You out of love, not fear. I want to love You like the woman with the expensive perfume. With extravagant abandon. Help me to be extravagant in my worship.
She turned and leaned against the windowsill, her gaze moving about the classroom. She thought of the many different men—boys, really—who had sat at these desks during the past year. How many of them might she have impacted for Christ had her attitude been different?
So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.
How was it possible, she wondered, to be a Christian—to belong to Christ Jesus—for so many years and miss the meaning of that verse? No condemnation. None. Not for getting pregnant out of wedlock. Not for being so unlovable that her husband divorced her. Not even for being an imperfect mother.
How had she managed to recognize God's holy nature but miss the expansiveness of His love?
She recalled another Scripture, the one Dottie alluded to a couple of weeks before. Jesus asked the woman caught in adultery, "Where are your accusers? Didn't even one of them condemn you?" And when the woman answered, "No, Lord," He said, "Neither do I. Go and sin no more."
Jesus didn't condemn the adulteress, and He didn't condemn Margo King. Amazing!
A soft tapping drew her gaze toward the classroom doorway.
Lucy stood in the opening. "Ready?"
Ready for what? Margo straightened away from the windowsill.
"It's five o'clock. We'd better hurry if we don't want to miss the bus."
Incredulous, Margo looked at her watch. "Is it that late already?" She went to her desk and gathered the exam papers, then shoved them unceremoniously into an old leather briefcase. From the bottom drawer, she retrieved her lunch box and purse. "It's a good thing you came by," she said as she walked toward the door. "No telling how long I would have stood there woolgathering."
"Thinking about Dottie and
Greg?"
"Yes. And other things besides."
Lucy lifted her eyebrows in question, waiting for elaboration.
Margo shook her head.
Her friend graciously accepted the refusal by changing the subject. "I hope Dottie will be able to come with you to the Victory Club meeting on Saturday."
"We're going to continue?" Margo glanced at her companion. "I thought you'd lost heart about our little club. Ever since Penelope left, I—"
"No," Lucy interrupted softly. "I haven't lost heart. I just got off track for a while. We're told that where two or three are gathered in Jesus' name, there He is. Well, there are still three of us and still many things we can do to help others."
Margo might have asked what their next project would be, but they were joined by several other women headed for the bus stop, and the opportunity vanished.
Chapter 45
Hands clasped, Dottie and Greg sat beside each other on the top step of the Wallaces' front porch.
Greg faced forward, as if staring at the street through the bindings that hid his beautiful brown eyes from Dottie's view. He'd lost weight since she last saw him. His uniform was a size or two too large. His coal black hair was mussed on the crown of his head, poking up at odd angles above the white gauze.
Dottie longed to unwrap the bandages from his beloved face. She longed to smooth his disheveled hair. She longed to stroke his cheeks with her fingertips and to kiss the scar with her lips and tell him how handsome he was. No scar would change that. Being sightless wouldn't change that. Nothing would ever change that.
"Let me stay," she pleaded softly.
"No, Dottie. I need to do this alone. It's my responsibility."
The Victory Club Page 15
