I loved you, Lucy. I still do. You've got a husband serving overseas, and I shouldn't wish he was out of the picture. I can't say I like myself much, wishing that.
So I'm closing the store and moving back to the Midwest where my family came from. Starting over won't be nearly as hard as staying here, near you but not having you in my life.
There's a part of me that loves you, even more because you're the kind of woman who remained true to her husband. I hope somehow you'll know that.
I'm going to leave this letter in the store. An old friend will finish closing things down after I'm gone and get the building ready to sell after the last of the stock is gone. I'll ask him to give this letter to you if you ever come by. If you don't, I'll tell him to burn it.
As I close this letter, I think I can honestly write that I hope the God you believe in gives you what you want most—Richard and his children and a good life together.
Howard Baxter
Chapter 59
Dottie handed Stuart a glass of lemonade, then sat on the sofa beside Greg.
"I really appreciate you still looking after Alan and Evelyn at night." Stuart stared into the glass. There were dark half-moons under his eyes, and his face had an unhealthy pallor. "Pen says she's not strong enough to be responsible for the kids yet."
"We're glad to do it, Stuart."
He lifted his gaze, meeting Dottie's. "It was easier when she was gone."
"Oh, Stuart." Her heart ached for him.
"She's indifferent to the kids. I can understand that she and I've got problems, but why can't she show them some affection?" He rubbed his forehead. "I wish she hadn't come back."
Greg found Dottie's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Give it some time, Stu. She hasn't been back all that long."
The sound of children's laughter drifted to them through the back screen door. Stuart straightened on his chair and turned his head in the direction of the kitchen. "They don't laugh like that at home. Pen snaps at them if they make a sound." He took a quick gulp of lemonade. "She snaps at me, too."
"Do you think it would help if I went to see her?" Dottie asked. Penelope hadn't exactly welcomed her earlier in the week, but Dottie was willing to try again if Stuart thought it would do any good.
"I don't know. I'm not sure anything will help what ails her." Stuart set his glass on the coffee table, then stood. "I'll be by to get the kids in the morning."
"Why don't you sleep in?" Dottie suggested. "We'll take them to church with us and bring them home afterward." She pushed herself up from the sofa. "Is that all right with you?"
"Sure. They like your Sunday school." He gave her a weary wave. "I'll let myself out. See you tomorrow."
After Stuart left, Dottie and Greg went out to the backyard to watch the children playing in the sandbox. Greg settled onto one of the loungers. At nearly eight months pregnant, Dottie preferred the height and stability of the wooden deck chair beside it.
"If only Pen and Stuart knew the Lord," she said softly, more to herself than to Greg.
"No one comes to Jesus unless the Father draws them. That's what the book of John says."
"But it's also the Father's will that none should perish." She leaned her head against the back of the lawn chair and stared at the blue August sky. "If I was smarter, I'd know the right thing to say to them both."
"Dottie, you can't coerce someone into faith with the excellence of your words. They have to want it in their hearts."
"I know. But Penelope is so hurt, so lost and confused. More so now than before she ran off. Something awful must have happened to her in San Diego." She sighed deeply. "Stuart's a wonderful father and a good man. How can she not see that? With faith and love, they might be able to salvage their marriage, but if they go on the way they are now …" She left the sentence unfinished, ending it with another sigh.
"Dottie Wallace, you have a tender heart." Greg's soft-spoken words caressed her. "It's one of the things I love about you."
A smile curved her lips as she looked over at him. He wore dark glasses to hide his sightless eyes. She thought they made him look like a movie star. Even the scar on his face gave him a rakish look that she found appealing. "What else do you love about me?" she asked.
He chuckled. "Fishing for compliments, are we?"
"Uh-huh."
"Come over here, beautiful. Sit with me, and I'll tell you all the things I love about you." He waved her closer with his hand.
It was her turn to laugh. "We'd break that lounger if I did. I'm getting too fat."
"Hey, that's one of the things I love about you."
"Are you agreeing that I'm fat?" She playfully slapped his hand. "Creep."
"Angel cake."
"Stooge."
"Butterfly."
"Gooney drip."
"Princess."
It was his pet name for her that brought the banter to a halt. She couldn't resist him any longer. She pushed herself up from the chair and stepped to the lounger.
"Scoot over," she said, her voice husky.
Greg turned on his side to give her more room. When she reclined beside him, he draped his arm over her belly and patted it.
"Reasons why I love you. You're beautiful. I thought so the first minute I laid eyes on you."
"And?"
"You're the mother of my baby."
"And?"
"You have a tender heart."
"And?"
He kissed the curve of her neck. "You love me back. No matter what I've done, you always love me back."
"I couldn't help it if I wanted to."
Greg put his mouth next to her ear and whispered, "Just what I wanted to hear."
As if in response, the baby moved within, trailing an elbow or a knee from one side of Dottie's belly to the other. Greg laughed when he felt it.
A frisson of joy raced through Dottie. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for blessing me so.
Chapter 60
Saturday evening. Stuart was at work. The children were with Dottie. Penelope was alone and bored.
Restlessly, she walked from the bedroom to the living room. All was tidy. There wasn't even any sign of the bedding Stuart used to sleep on the sofa every night when he got home from the theater.
She wasn't sure if she should be relieved or insulted that her husband preferred to sleep on that lumpy sofa rather than to share a bed with her. The arrangement was her idea at first, but she thought he would object. He didn't.
When Penelope had returned, things were different between them, and she didn't know what to do about it. Or if she wanted to do anything about it.
Stuart didn't need her the way he once had. She used to hate the way he hung around, wanting to be near her, saying he loved her. She felt as if his words were smothering her. Now he said nothing, and that didn't seem right either.
As for the children, while they seemed glad to have her at home, it was their father they went to when they wanted or needed something. She was more guest in the house than mother.
Her friends were different, too. Dottie was married and large in her eighth month of pregnancy. Margo seemed softer around the edges in some indefinable way. And then there was Lucy. Penelope hadn't seen Lucy yet, but she'd heard about Richard.
Stuart had suggested more than once that Penelope should pay a visit to Lucy. "She'd like to see you. She needs her friends."
"She hasn't come to see me, has she?"
Although he answered softly, there was a hard edge to his words. "Her husband's missing in action, Pen. He could be dead. Maybe you should think about her instead of yourself for a change."
That's totally unfair, Penelope thought as she went into the kitchen. I do think about others.
She walked to the counter near the telephone and picked up the shopping list and ration book Stuart had left for her. He'd not only written down the foods she was to buy but also the color of stamps and the points each item required: One pound of butter, eight points, red stamps. A twelve-ounce can of whole-kerne
l corn, twelve points, blue stamps. One can Morrell's pork loaf, five points, red stamps. Point free: one box Wheaties, two cans preserves, one jar peanut butter, two loaves sliced bread.
She supposed she should go to Safeway before it got any later. Besides, she had nothing better to do.
"Saturday night," she muttered, still staring at the list, "and nothing better to do than go grocery shopping."
What a sad state of affairs.
* * *
"Hello, beautiful." The stranger who slid onto the bar stool next to Penelope was good-looking in a dangerous kind of way. His dark gaze slid down the length of her and back again."What's your name, sweetheart?" He sounded like Bogie when he said that.
She met his gaze, waiting a few moments before answering, "Penny." No one had called her that since she was twelve. But she was tired of being Penelope. Tired of being Pen. She wanted to be someone different.
The stranger reached out and fingered a lock of her red hair. "Not quite a copper penny, huh?" His smile sent a quiver through her. "Do you come here often, Penny?"
"No." She took a cigarette from her purse and held it to her lips, waiting for him to light it, which he did with practiced ease. After taking a drag and blowing it out, she asked, "How about you? Is this your regular watering hole?"
"First time, actually. I'm just passing through Idaho on my way to the coast."
He was about thirty-five or so. He had all of his limbs. No obvious injuries. She wondered why he wasn't in uniform, then decided it didn't matter. She'd met plenty of sailors while in San Diego, and they weren't always a lot of fun. They had to follow too many orders.
"Lucky you," she replied. "I'd like to be just passing through, too." Penelope hadn't found happiness in California, but she was convinced she would never find it in Boise either. There had to be some place better than this. There had to be a better life than the one she was stuck in now.
As if reading her thoughts, the stranger leaned a little closer. "Really? Maybe we could pass through Boise together."
Her pulse quickened. Her mouth went dry. A rush of adrenaline caused her hands to tremble as she took another drag on the cigarette.
"My name's Ned. Ned Carter." He pointed at her drink. "Can I buy you another one, sweetheart?"
Penelope had stopped in the bar after doing the grocery shopping. The two shopping bags—with their pound of butter, can of corn, pork loaf, cereal, bread, preserves, and peanut butter—were on the floor beneath her stool. She should take those bags, leave this smoky bar, and go home. Only she didn't want to go home. Not yet. Not while Ned Carter was looking at her that way, his eyes promising excitement and adventure.
"Sure," she said. "You can buy me another drink, Ned. The evening's young."
V-Mail
To: Mrs. Richard Anderson, Boise, Idaho, USA
From: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson
Monday, July 19, 1943
My beloved Lucy,
My location has changed since I wrote my last letter to you. We are getting ready for a major push, and by the time you receive this letter you'll have read about it in the newspapers. It will long since be over. I have no doubt of the ultimate outcome, but I know many will be laying down their lives. That's the way it is in war. It's pitch-black outside, hours before the dawn, but there's a lot of activity going on at this base. Mechanics are working to get planes ready for the flights we'll be taking soon enough. I should be sleeping, getting what rest I can while I can, yet here I am, wanting to put these words on paper. Needing to put them on paper. Honey, I love you, and whatever the next day or days bring, whatever happens to me now or in the future, that will still be true. Some believers say those who've gone on to heaven can see us down here on earth. But how could there be no sorrow or tears in heaven if those who have passed on can see all the horror and heartbreak down here? I don't know. But, Lucy, I hope it's true. I hope if I die that I'll be able to see you from heaven so I can pray for you. And if I don't come back, I want you to make a new life for yourself. You'll grieve, but don't stay there, Lucy. "Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning." It's time for me to close. When you read these words, Lucy, remember that I held you in my heart as I wrote them.
Always,
Richard
Chapter 61
Limbo, Lucy had read, came from a Latin word that literally meant "on the border of hell."
Truly, that's how she felt. She didn't know if Richard was dead or alive, and therefore, she didn't know whether to hope and rejoice or despair and mourn.
Standing before the bedroom closet, she pressed one of her husband's shirts against her face and breathed deeply, hoping to find Richard's scent trapped in the fabric. But it was gone. It had been too long since he wore these clothes. It had been too long since he was with her, since he held her in his arms, since she inhaled his combined scents of soap and woodsy cologne.
"Richard," she whispered, dropping slowly to her knees. "Richard."
She couldn't remember his voice. Once she'd known the deep, warm sound of it better than her own. Now it was gone, lost in a mist of distant memories.
"Richard."
Outside this bedroom, outside this apartment, there were people going on with their lives as if there were no war, no hurt and dying, no soldiers missing in action, no innocent civilians trapped in a world of bombs and invaders and terror. In Boise on this Saturday night, there were young men courting young women, wooing and winning hearts. Even with the news, these men, these boys, believed—at least subconsciously—that they were invincible, that they would be among the survivors.
But here, inside this apartment, inside this room, Lucy knew different.
Lying on her side, curled into a ball, the shirt still pressed against her face, she prayed the only way she could. "Oh, God, please."
Chapter 62
When Margo got out of the shower early Monday morning, she was met by the enticing scent of bacon frying in the skillet. She was surprised because neither Dottie nor Greg was usually up at this hour.
Half an hour later, dressed in a short-sleeved, two-piece rayon suit, she walked into the kitchen. Dottie was setting breakfast on the table as she entered.
"Hi, Mom." Dottie pulled out a kitchen chair. "I hope you're hungry. I made bacon and waffles."
Margo kissed her daughter's cheek. "I am hungry, dear. Thank you." She sat. "What has you out of bed at this hour?"
"The baby wouldn't let me sleep. Whenever I recline, he thinks it's time for athletic exercises." She patted her belly as she turned toward the stove.
Margo smiled. "I remember what that's like."
Indeed, she did. It seemed only yesterday that she awaited the births of her children, and now one of them was about to make her a grandmother.
Lord, how brief my time on earth will be. An entire lifetime is just a moment to You, God. Human existence is but a breath. Lord, help me treasure every moment I have with those I love.
"Penny for your thoughts," Dottie said as she set a breakfast plate and a glass of orange juice on the table.
Drawn from her reverie, Margo looked up. "Just that I'm glad you and Greg are staying with me. You won't live here always. No married couple should live with their parents if they can help it. But I'm selfishly glad you're with me now."
"Me, too." Dottie sank onto a chair next to her. "I … I'm glad things have … changed. You know. Between us."
"So am I," she whispered.
Someday she would tell her daughter how God's extreme grace had softened her heart, how He'd lifted her sense of guilt and condemnation and, in so doing, she'd been able to stop judging others, including Dottie and Greg. Someday, but not yet. This daring way of walking in faith, this freedom in the Lord, was too new, and Margo was still finding her way.
Mother and daughter smiled at each other, and it was enough.
In a comfortable silence—so different from those that used to stretch between them—Margo ate her breakfast, then carried her syrupy p
late and empty juice glass to the sink.
"Just leave the dishes, Mom. I'll take care of them after Greg's eaten."
Margo glanced at her watch. "Thanks, honey. I am running late. I'll have to dash for the bus as it is."
"When you see Lucy," Dottie said, "send her my love, will you?"
She gave her daughter a sad smile of understanding. Lord, show us how we might help our dear Lucy. "Of course I will."
The prayer stayed in her heart as Margo brushed her teeth. It stayed with her as she hurried to the bus stop, pocketbook clasped beneath her arm and lunch pail in hand. It stayed with her as she bid good morning to Jeb Pratt. And it was still there, several stops later, when Lucy climbed aboard the bus, looking pale and wan.
A lump formed in Margo s throat. "How are you, dear?" she asked as her young friend settled onto the seat beside her.
Lucy gave a pathetic shrug. "I'm not sure." She looked at her hands folded in her lap. "I received a letter from Richard on Saturday. "
Empathy stabbed Margo's heart.
"He wrote it the day … the same morning he … the morning his plane went down." She lifted her gaze. "I want to believe it means he's still alive, Margo. Do you suppose it does?"
Not knowing what to say, Margo put an arm around Lucy's shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze.
"God willing," Lucy said softly, answering her own question. "God willing, he's still alive."
Tears stung Margo's eyes, and rather than let Lucy see them, she turned to stare out the bus window. Whenever trouble came, a Christian was to let it be an opportunity for joy, an opportunity to develop endurance and a strong Christlike character. How hard that was to put into action.
Trouble came to everyone on earth at one time or another. Margo had allowed trials to build high walls in her life. She hoped Lucy wouldn't do the same. Margo would do everything she could to help her friend avoid the same mistakes she'd made.
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