On that night, Dottie hadn't excused herself, gone into the bathroom, and donned a pink negligee, a gift from her mother.
Let us build something new together, Greg and me, something wonderful based on our love for You rather than something tainted by our past sins.
On that night, she'd been introduced to intimacies that were rightly shared between a husband and wife, something that was meant to be beautiful. Her experience had been one of darkness, furtive whispers, and belated shame.
Please, God. Don't allow shame to become part of this night as we begin our marriage.
Drawing a shaky breath, Dottie turned from the mirror—and the memories—and opened the bathroom door. Greg waited where she'd left him, at the small round table near the window overlooking Main Street. He straightened in his chair as she approached.
He's nervous, too.
The realization surprised her. He'd seemed confident since his return home. He'd been strong with his parents, strong with her mother, strong with the pastor. But now …
It's because he can't see me.
With sudden clarity she understood, and her heart tightened like a fist in her chest. Greg couldn't see his bride, and because of it, he felt less than whole, less than a man, less than her husband.
She took his hand and drew him up from the chair. With tender fingers, she touched the bandage that wrapped his head and hid his blinded eyes. "May I?"
For a moment, he didn't respond. She feared she'd made a mistake, but at last, he nodded.
Slowly, carefully, she removed the gauze binding. His skin was pale and pasty where it had been bound, his thick hair matted against his scalp. He kept his eyes closed, and she wondered what she would see if he opened them. Whatever it was, it wouldn't make any difference to her. He was beautiful.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed his closed eyes, first one eyelid, then the other. Next, she traced the scar down the length of his face with her fingertips, following with her lips upon the damaged flesh. Finally, she pressed her cheek against his chest. "I love you, my darling husband."
His arms tightened around her. "I promise to never again make you regret loving me."
"Oh, Greg." She lifted her head and stared at him. "I've regretted many things. I've regretted the wrong choices we made. But I've never, ever regretted loving you."
"I'll be a good husband, Dottie. I'll do everything I need to do to take care of you."
"I know you will. I've never doubted it."
He framed her face between his palms and smiled before leaning down to kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. Straightening, he whispered, "I may not be able to see you with my eyes, Dottie, but I can see you with my heart. I'll always be able to see you with my heart."
With those words, her fears were wiped away.
Chapter 49
It was nearly midnight before Margo closed the novel she was reading, set it on the coffee table, dimmed the lamp, and headed for bed. Her nighttime routine was completed in short order—hanging her clothes in the closet, slipping into her cotton nightgown, brushing her teeth, washing her face.
Then, by the pale light of a quarter moon, she slid beneath the covers on her bed and willed herself to sleep.
It didn't work. She kept thinking about Dottie.
Her daughter's wedding had been simple, heartfelt, beautiful. As she observed the ceremony from the front pew, Margo had felt Dottie's joy. The dour thoughts she'd entertained about men and matrimony only a few short weeks before were banished for good, and she was able to love her son-in-law with a full heart.
Tomorrow, Dottie and Greg would return from their one-night honeymoon and take up residence in Dottie's girlhood bedroom. For how long? That would depend on Greg's recovery. He was fiercely determined to be a productive member of society.
She sighed and rolled onto her side, drawing her knees upward as she hugged a pillow to her chest.
Her daughter married.
Her son away at war.
Her world turned upside down.
For more than twenty years, Margo had poured everything into raising her children well. Despite herself, despite her mistakes, her wrong attitudes, and her bitter heart, she'd succeeded. Clark and Dottie were wonderful children who'd become wonderful adults. They were bright and hardworking. They were caring and giving. Most important, they were strong in faith, having a love for God that anyone could see.
So what now, Lord? What's next?
She was forty-three. Was that too old to have a life beyond the one she'd had thus far? Was there a new path the Lord wanted her to travel?
Dottie would make her a grandmother in the fall. Perhaps that would be the next important role she had to play.
Is it, Lord?
Margo rolled onto her other side and stared toward the window.
The branches of the tall spruce at the corner of the house were idle on this calm night. Between the tree limbs, she saw stars twinkling against the backdrop of an ink black sky, the sliver of moon already having traveled beyond her view.
Forty-three and fast approaching her next birthday. Not old, but no longer young either. She'd heard more than one preacher say from a pulpit, "God has a plan for your life." What did that mean now that her children were grown?
What's Your plan for my life, Lord?
Margo sighed again, sat up, plumped the pillows at her back, and turned on the bedside lamp. She reached for her Bible, and when she opened it, a slip of paper fell onto the bedspread. On the paper she'd written Romans 9:31-32, altering the words slightly by putting her name into the Scripture, making it personal, wanting never to forget the meaning for herself.
She read it aloud. "But Margo, who tried so hard to get right with God by keeping the law, never succeeded. Why not? Because she was trying to get right with God by keeping the law instead of trusting in Him. Margo stumbled over the great rock in her path."
Her restlessness dissipated. God had it all in control.
Father, You set me free from a bondage of my own making. Thank You. I've caught sight of Your grace at last. Now please show me what to do with my newfound freedom. What is Your plan for me?
She drew the Bible to her chest and closed her eyes, waiting, hoping to hear His voice speaking to her heart.
Dottie won't need me any longer. Not really. She has Greg, and that's as it should be. Clark is a grown man now. He won't come home to live with me when the war is over. That's as it should be, too. So what about me? What does my future hold?
As if in a dream, she saw herself standing on a diving board, high above a large swimming pool. No, it was more like the sea, stretching to the horizon. She felt the wind in her hair and the sun on her cheeks. She glanced down … down … down at the water so far below. One step would take her beyond the board. One step, and there would be nothing to stop her fall into the crystal blue sea of her unknown tomorrows.
Nothing except You, Jesus.
She threw wide her arms and took the plunge.
Part V
June & July 1943
To: Stuart Maxfield, Boise, Idaho
From: PFC Frances Ballard
Tuesday, June 1, 1943
Dear Stuart,
I've lost count of the number of times I started this letter. I've wasted a lot of paper, trying to get the words right. Only I'm not sure what the right thing to say at a time like this is. Maybe I shouldn't even be writing to you, but it seems unfair not to.
I talked to Penelope a few days ago. She's in San Diego, working in a clothing store. She tried to pretend things are going great for her, but I don't think that's true. Perhaps at first she had a good time, being on her own and doing as she pleased. I don't think that's the case any longer.
Stuart, I may be the baby in my family, but I'm old enough to know my sister can be plenty selfish. This isn't the first time she's done something without thinking it through. Penelope's always been a bit reckless. I love her to death, but my eyes are open.
I guess she's got a fe
w good reasons for being the way she is. I don't have to tell you our dad's a hard man, and all his girls have paid for it, one way or another. Mom, she just pretends things aren't the way they are. She's made up some fantasy family. Penelope, she just tries to prove she doesn't care, even though she does. Me? I don't know. It's easier to figure out people other than myself. Maybe I ran away, too, only I joined the WAACs.
I'm not trying to make excuses for my sister leaving you and the kids the way she did. Really, I'm not. She was dead wrong to do it, and I told her so.
I've got a question for you. I don't want you thinking she asked me to ask you this, because she didn't. Maybe she won't. But if she did ask, would you let her come home?
I told her she needed to at least call you, that she couldn't just disappear the way she did. She didn't say she'd call, but I think she might.
I don't know how much longer I'll be stationed here on the East Coast. I've applied again for an overseas posting, and I think there's a good chance my transfer will come through this time. Before that happens, if there's anything I can do to help, I hope you'll let me know.
Your loving sister-in-law,
Frances
Chapter 50
Would I take her back? Stuart laid aside the letter from Frances. Would I let Pen come home if she wanted to?
It was a tough question, one he'd been asked before and still didn't have the answer to. He wasn't sure what he felt for his wife now. Loathing? Longing? Yes, both of those. And regret. Loads of regret.
"Hey, kids. Come on. It's time to leave for Miss Dottie's."
In seconds, Alan and Evelyn scurried down the hallway, carrying their overnight things in small canvas bags.
It was a huge relief to Stuart, knowing his children enjoyed being with Dottie, Greg, and Margo. It made it easier to leave them each afternoon before he went to work at the movie theater. He couldn't say his job was exciting—taking tickets at the door; selling popcorn, drinks, and candy; cleaning up the mess left behind after the moviegoers went home—but at least he was earning his own way again.
Stuart winced as he lifted Evelyn and her bag and held her in the crook of his left arm. Then he grasped Alan's hand in his right, and the three of them left the house. The day was warm and sunny, a perfect summer day, the kind that brought families outdoors on a Saturday afternoon. Dads played baseball with their sons. Little girls sold lemonade from their homemade stands on street corners while their mothers kept a careful eye on them.
It made him think of Penelope and what they and the children might have had.
One thing Stuart's work afforded him was lots of time to think, especially between the hours of midnight, when the last show was over, and two in the morning, when he was done mopping up. During those hours, he thought a lot about his wife, about their marriage, about his mistakes and her mistakes, about the sad-funny turns life took.
Penelope, he'd come to realize, didn't believe there was anything wrong with his back. She thought him lazy … and worse.
"My little sister's doing something to help end this war while you sit around on your behind and drink beer and sleep." The memory of her voice as she hurled those angry words at him rang painfully in his ears. "You don't have to be in the service to do something to help, you know. You could work in a defense plant. You could volunteer for rubber drives. You could do something!"
Why didn't he understand before? Penelope believed that he faked his injury. She thought him a coward. The evidence was there—in her attitude, in her words, in her response to him—but he hadn't seen it. Maybe he hadn't wanted to see it. For that matter, maybe she'd had cause to think it.
Stuart had been an avowed supporter of the Neutrality Act. He'd spoken against Roosevelt's Selective Service and Training Act. He'd wanted the U.S. to stay out of Europe's problem. That was truly how he had viewed the war in the beginning. It was Europe's problem. Even Pearl Harbor hadn't changed his mind immediately. He'd thought guys like Lucy's husband, who enlisted right after the attack, were idiots, and he'd said so to his wife. Wait to be drafted, was the position he'd taken.
Now he thought differently. Now he realized there were times a nation had to draw a line in the sand and stand up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves. But Penelope didn't know he'd changed.
He looked at his daughter. Evelyn grinned as she watched the activity all around them—the birds in the trees, a neighbor mowing his lawn, a dog chasing a squirrel. Stuart shifted his gaze to his son, who walked with gusto at his side. His children were happy, cared for, loved. Yet, for all Stuart did to fill the empty place Penelope had left behind, they were without their mother, and they missed her.
Do I want her to come back?
Sometimes Stuart hated Penelope for what she'd done, running out on her kids. He might have failed in plenty of ways, but he hadn't left his kids. He hadn't deserted his wife and left her to cope on her own. He hadn't disappeared without a word, leaving her to wonder if he was alive or dead.
Yes, sometimes he hated Penelope. But sometimes he loved her, too. How was that possible? To love and hate at the same time.
What would I do if she asked to come back?
He wished he knew the answer.
Chapter 51
Lucy tied a ribbon around a small jar of preserves and placed it into a box beside a crocheted baby blanket and a pretty yellow apron. The box also held a Bible and a collection of meatless recipes from the ladies' circle at East Boise Community Church.
"That's the last one," Lucy told Margo, Dottie, and Greg as she surveyed the ten boxes covering the tabletop and counters of the King kitchen. "When did you say Bobby Crawford's coming for them?"
Dottie glanced at the clock above the stove. "In about an hour. He and some of the other kids from church are taking the boxes straight from here to that shelter west of Twenty-Seventh Street."
"Alone?" Margo asked, her expression disapproving. "That's not a safe area of town. All those drifters living in tents and shacks. I'm not so sure—"
"Pastor Danson's going with them, Mom." Dottie placed her hand over her mother's. "Bobby and the others will be perfectly safe. Besides, those drifters are the people who need these things the most."
The frown on Margo's forehead eased. "You're right. May God help me stop judging others."
Lucy smiled. Whatever God was doing in Margo's heart, it made a world of difference. There was a new softness in her appearance. She smiled more easily. She seemed more patient, with herself and with others. Even when she let irritation show, as she had a moment before, she was quick to acknowledge her error.
There's always hope for change, isn't there, Father? You're always working on us because You love us.
Greg touched Dottie's arm. "I'm going to tag along with Pastor Danson, if he doesn't mind."
"He won't mind," Dottie replied, smiling at him even though he couldn't see the smile for himself.
The past month had done wonders for Greg. His wife's and mother-in-law's good home cooking had added much needed weight to his waistline. The bandages had been removed from his eyes two weeks ago, and the absence of the white gauze made him appear less injured, less fragile. Although the doctors at the VA hospital weren't optimistic that his sight would return, Greg wasn't discouraged by the news. At least not that Lucy could tell.
Rising from the chair, Lucy placed her hands on the small of her spine, arching backward, stretching her tired muscles. "I don't know about the three of you, but I'm exhausted."
"Lucy?" Dottie looked up. "Have you realized how much good you've accomplished with the Victory Club?" She pushed her chair away from the table and rested both hands on her rounded belly. "Do you realize how much hope you've brought into the lives of others?"
"I didn't do it alone."
"But it was your idea. All of this was your idea."
The doorbell rang, and Lucy turned toward the sound. "Maybe Bobby's early."
"I'll get it," Greg said as he stood. He left the kitchen, moving wi
th more confidence than he had upon his return to Boise.
It wasn't long before Alan and Evelyn barreled through the living room and into the kitchen. Alan headed for Margo and an anticipated goodie. Evelyn launched herself into Dottie's waiting arms. In the children's wake came Stuart, Greg right behind him.
Dottie spoke her husband's name softly, something she'd done often throughout the afternoon. He stopped behind her chair, put his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down to kiss the side of her throat.
Watching the tender scene, Lucy was swamped by those old, troublesome feelings of aloneness.
Dottie had her husband home from the war and he was never going back. Stuart's children adored her, and she would have a baby of her own soon. Dottie wasn't orphaned. Her mother was alive to talk to when she needed advice. She wasn't alone. She was surrounded by love.
I'm so jealous I could scream.
Feeling small and petty, Lucy looked away so Dottie wouldn't see the raw emotions on her face. "I'd better get home. Empress is going to think I've deserted her, as much as I've been gone lately."
"Are you sure?" Margo said. "You're welcome to join us for supper."
Lucy was in danger of bursting into tears of self-pity. "Thanks, Margo. That's kind of you, but I need to get home."
Oh, Lord. Get me out of here. I don't want them to see me feeling sorry for myself when I have so much to be thankful for.
As if in answer to her prayer, Stuart said, "If you're headed home, Lucy, I'd be glad to escort you as far as the theater. Just about every airman from the base seems to be in town today, looking for a good time. You shouldn't have to make that long walk home alone."
Lucy wasn't overly concerned about randy young airmen bothering her. She'd learned in the past year and a half how to deflect their less-than-subtle overtures. However, Stuart's offer gave her the excuse she needed to leave quickly, and she took it.
The Victory Club Page 17
