by Myra Johnson
When the Clouds Roll By
Other books by Myra Johnson
One Imperfect Christmas
Autumn Rains
Romance by the Book
Where the Dogwoods Bloom
Gateway Weddings (anthology of above 3)
A Horseman’s Heart
A Horseman’s Gift
A Horseman’s Hope
When the Clouds Roll By
Myra Johnson
When the Clouds Roll By
Copyright © 2013 by Myra Johnson
ISBN: 978-14267-5356-5
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopying, recording, or otherwise— without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in association with the Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc.
Scripture quotation in the Acknowledgments taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™
Scripture quotation on page 59 taken from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Johnson, Myra.
When the clouds roll by / Myra Johnson.
1 online resource.— (Till We Meet Again ; one)
Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed
ISBN 978-1-4267-7785-1 (E-book Adobe PDF,)—ISBN 978-1-4267-7786-8 (E-Book, ePub—ISBN 978-1-4267-5356-5 (Book—Paperback / Trade Paperback) 1. Veterans—Fiction. 2. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 3. Arkansas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.03666
813'.6—dc23
2013017374
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 18 17 16 15 14 13
This story is dedicated to the memory of my mother. I’ll always remember those long car trips to visit the grandparents, and all the old songs you sang to while away the miles. “Till We Meet Again” was my favorite.
Till We Meet Again
There’s a song in the land of the lily,
Each sweetheart has heard with a sigh.
Over high garden walls this sweet echo falls
As a soldier boy whispers goodbye:
Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu
When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you.
Then the skies will seem more blue,
Down in Lover’s Lane, my dearie.
Wedding bells will ring so merrily
Ev’ry tear will be a memory.
So wait and pray each night for me
Till we meet again.
Tho’ goodbye means the birth of a tear drop,
Hello means the birth of a smile.
And the smile will erase the tear blighting trace,
When we meet in the after awhile.
Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu
When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you
Then the skies will seem more blue
Down in Lover’s Lane, my dearie,
Wedding bells will ring so merrily
Ev’ry tear will be a memory
So wait and pray each night for me
Till we meet again.
Music by Richard A. Whiting, lyrics by Raymond B. Egan
Acknowledgments
Our family first vacationed in Hot Springs, Arkansas, in the mid-1980s, and the city remains one of our favorite getaways. Once a year, we enjoy a week of kicking back and relaxing in our lakeside timeshare condo (which we almost never trade for an alternate location!). We’ve ridden the Ducks, those amphibious landing crafts from World War II, and laughed while the drivers gave their version of Hot Springs history in touristy spiels laced with humor and the occasional grain of truth. We’ve walked Bathhouse Row and toured the Fordyce, restored to its original glory. We’ve visited the Alligator Farm, purchased bowls and vases from Dryden Pottery, sampled spring water at the Mountain Valley Water Company, hiked up Hot Springs Mountain all the way to the observation tower. And for years I told myself someday . . . someday I’d write a novel set in Hot Springs.
Well, here it is, truly a labor of love. My only regret is that it wasn’t until 2010 that I discovered the Garland County Historical Society, a treasure trove of books, registries, documents, photographs, and myriad other memorabilia preserving the story of Hot Springs and the surrounding area. I am immensely grateful to Liz Robbins, Mike Blythe, Orval Allbritton, Gail Ashbrook, Clyde Covington, and all the staff and volunteers at GCHS who assisted in my research. A special thanks to Mike for reading a draft of the manuscript and pointing out discrepancies. Although I strove for accuracy, in some instances the specific details were elusive; in others, I plead forgiveness for any errors or assumptions made for the sake of storytelling.
I must also thank my intrepid agent, Natasha Kern, for believing in this story and finding just the right home for it with Abingdon Press. Natasha, you are an encourager of the first magnitude! I treasure your wisdom, expertise, guidance, and friendship, and I bless the day you signed me as your client!
Ramona Richards, my editor at Abingdon Press, deserves thanks as well. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to benefit from your insight, knowledge, and experience.
And where would I be without my band of cohorts in Seekerville (www.seekerville.net)? Audra, Cara, Debby, Glynna, Janet, Julie, Mary, Missy, Pam, Ruthy, Sandra, and Tina—twelve of the finest Christian authors you’ll find anywhere, not to mention the greatest friends ever! Thanks for your love and prayers, for bearing me up through disappointments and celebrating with me in times of joy. You’re the best!
A special thanks to our church choir friend and antique car aficionado Steve Benson, who invited us and our grandsons to his warehouse for an up-close-and-personal look at his amazing collection. What fun to actually see and touch early-twentieth-century vehicles similar to what my characters would have driven!
To my beautiful daughters, Johanna and Julena, bless you for believing in your mom, because you have truly blessed me with your love and encouragement. I couldn’t be prouder of my girls!
My husband, Jack, deserves the biggest thank-you of all. In the 30 years I’ve been pursuing a writing career, his support has never wavered. He never complained (much) during the lean years when postage expenses and conference costs far outweighed any income my writing generated. Now that he’s semiretired, he has assumed many of the household duties, including laundry, cooking, and grocery shopping, so I can spend more time at the computer. He is also my first reader, my sounding board, my research assistant, my number one PR man, and absolutely my very best friend! I love you, sweetie!
Finally, dear readers, thank you for sharing this journey with me. I hope you enjoy When the Clouds Roll By.
Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing
to God with gratitude in your hearts.
—Colossians 3:16 (NIV)
1
Hot Springs, Arkansas
November 11, 1918
If perfection existed this side of heaven, Annemarie Kendall had just achieved it.
A thrill dancing up her spine, she rotated the tall, teardrop-shaped vase and examined it inch by beautiful inch. When she wasn’t busy keeping books for the family pottery business or putting together Red Cross comfort kits for the boys serving in France, she found immense satisfaction in creating her own works of ceramic artistry.
Certainly not her father’s preferred use of her time, as he’d told her often enough, but Annemarie aspired to more than utilitarian bowls, urns, and butter churns—the mainstay of Kendall Pottery. Someday . . . someday . . . visitors who came to Hot Springs for the baths would also take home a one-of-a-kind piece of her ceramic art as a lasting reminder of their stay in this scenic and charming city.
For the past few months, Annemarie had been experimenting with a crystalline glazing method, striving for the perfect blend of ingredients, timing, and technique. With this vase, she’d achieved her vision—a design reminiscent of a Ouachita mountain sunrise, the view she’d awakened to nearly every morning of her life here in Hot Springs.
Her smile widened, her cheeks warming with the glow of victory. Her ears hummed with imagined celebratory cheers—
Except the cheering wasn’t coming from inside her head. Beyond the workroom walls, the sound grew louder, the eruption of excitement drawing Annemarie’s attention from the vase she so tenderly cradled.
Suddenly the door from the adjoining factory slammed open.
The vase slammed against the stone floor.
“Annemarie!” Her father blew into the room like a late-season tornado. “Annie-girl, have you heard the news?”
A thousand shimmering shards scattered at her feet, Annemarie barely comprehended his words. She stood frozen and held her breath—along with the shriek that begged for release.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .
With a stubborn lift of her shoulders, she turned to face her father. What news could possibly have Papa—and the entire factory, so it seemed—in such a state of jubilation?
Unless . . .
“It’s over, Annie-girl! The war is over!” Papa lunged toward her, his work boots grinding the pottery fragments to powder. He scooped her into his beefy arms and twirled her around the shop.
“What? What did you say?” Annemarie’s heart slammed against her breastbone. She pounded her fists upon her father’s thick shoulders until he released her. “Papa, is it true?”
“You heard me, girl! Kaiser Wilhelm has abdicated. They’ve signed the armistice. Our boys will be home before you know it!”
Head spinning, Annemarie stumbled backward and braced herself against a worktable. Tears choked her. She pressed the back of her fist against her mouth. Dear God, so much suffering, so many lives lost. How she’d prayed for this day—the Great War over at last! “Oh, Papa. Praise God!”
“Praise Him indeed!” Papa enfolded her in his arms, with gentleness and care this time, and let her sob into his grimy muslin shirt that smelled of sweat and smoke and clay. “There, there, Annie-girl, you’re not the only lass weeping tears of joy this day. The Lord willing, Gilbert could be home by Christmas!”
Annemarie straightened and sniffed away her tears. Finding a handkerchief in her apron pocket, she dabbed at her cheeks with a trembling hand. “I almost forgot. A letter came this morning. I haven’t even had a chance to open it.”
“A letter from your sweetheart and you forgot?” Papa clucked his tongue.
Her happy smile faded. It pained her to admit the letters she’d so looked forward to this past year now evoked more distress than delight. She wrung her hands and swallowed the bitter lump of guilt. “I . . . I was working at the wheel when Morris delivered the mail. He said there was a letter from Gilbert, but my hands were covered with clay, and . . .”
Papa’s disgruntled sigh spoke louder than words. His gaze slid to the pottery fragments littering the floor before he skewered Annemarie with a disapproving glare. If Papa weren’t so anxious to learn the latest word from Gilbert, she’d surely be in for yet another lecture concerning the “abominable waste of time and money” spent upon her “art.”
He was right, though. She had no business concerning herself with anything so frivolous when brave soldiers lay wounded or dying on the Western Front. She prayed the Lord’s forgiveness for her selfishness.
“Well, go on, now. Get the letter and let’s hear what our Gilbert has to say.” Papa pushed the factory door closed and then plopped onto a stool and propped one elbow on the worktable.
Her face burning with remorse, Annemarie tucked in her chin and strode through another door to the front office. Sorting through the mail on her cluttered desk, she retrieved Gilbert’s letter and hurried back to the workroom, careful to sidestep the broken vase. She would not mourn over pottery shards, not when Gilbert—her dear Gilbert, the boy she’d loved since childhood—would soon be in her arms again.
Letter in hand, she scooted a stool close to her father’s. She slid a stubby, clay-stained fingernail under the envelope flap and tugged out the single page. The thin, cream-colored sheet crackled beneath her fingers as she unfolded the letter. As usual, the censors had already done their damage. Though as an officer Gilbert was particularly careful to avoid specifics, smudged ink and the occasional blacked-out word interrupted his spidery scrawl.
Smoothing the wrinkled page, Annemarie cleared her throat. “Shall I read it aloud?”
“Oh, no, no.” Papa chuckled and waved a hand. “I’m sure it’s full of personal stuff between you and your sweetheart. Just tell me the important parts—how he’s mending, when he expects to ship home.”
Annemarie stifled another frisson of worry. Wanting to shield both her family and Gilbert’s from further concern, she hadn’t shared how utterly impersonal Gilbert’s latest letters had become—a coolness that had nothing to do with concerns over censorship. The letters he’d written as a West Point cadet, and even during the early months of his deployment to France, had been filled with declarations of love, how he strove every day not only to honor his father’s memory but also to do both Annemarie and his country proud. It wasn’t long, however, before the tone of his letters had darkened. While she knew he did his best to protect her from the ugliness of war, clearly he had been changed by it.
Then in August, word had arrived that Gilbert had been wounded. An artillery explosion had taken his left leg and shattered his left arm from wrist to shoulder. He’d nearly lost an eye and for eight days had feared permanent deafness. His first letters after evacuation to a French field hospital, dictated to the chaplain on duty, were terse and factual, which she’d attributed to the fact that Gilbert chose not to share too personally through a stranger.
Yet when he’d recovered enough to take up pen and paper himself, Annemarie could no longer deny the truth that lay beneath his deceptively courteous words. Her dear Gilbert, once bold and ambitious, full of life and love and great plans for their future, now seemed dispirited, desolate, defeated. Annemarie couldn’t begin to fathom the horrors he’d endured, but surely with time he would recover both physically and emotionally. She prayed night and day for his healing—as well as for the strength within herself to stand strong at Gilbert’s side as the wife he would need in the months and years ahead.
Slowly, determinedly, Annemarie perused the letter, dated Sunday, October 6. “Still in the hospital . . . constant headache but some vision returning to my left eye. . . . They say I’m one of the lucky ones—if you can call it that. So many wounded, so many dead and dying. More every day. Will this blasted war never end?”
Annemarie’s heart broke to realize Gilbert had penned these somber words only weeks before the armistice. With trembling fingers, she brushed away a tear. Her father reached across the space between them
and patted her knee as she silently read on. “Waiting for the next transport home—possibly December. Don’t know where I’ll end up yet. Probably a military hospital somewhere like _____.”
The name was obliterated, but wherever it was, Annemarie would find a way to get there as soon as possible. She looked up with a hopeful smile. “He’s getting better, Papa. He may be home next month! He says—”
The jangle of the telephone interrupted her. Papa hefted his bulk off the stool and hurried to the front office to answer. “Kendall Pottery Works, Joseph Kendall speaking.”
Within seconds, Annemarie discerned the caller was Evelyn Ballard, Gilbert’s mother, and it sounded as if she’d received a letter as well. Annemarie rushed into the office and hovered at her father’s elbow, waiting to hear what news Mrs. Ballard’s letter contained.
“Of course, we’re as thrilled as you, Evelyn,” Papa was saying. “What a homecoming that boy will have! Here, I’ll let you speak directly with Annemarie.”
A dark tress had worked loose from Annemarie’s bun, and she tried in vain to tuck it back into place. The arrogant Evelyn Ballard, with all her wealth and sophistication, never failed to intimidate Annemarie. She could feel the woman’s critical eye upon her even through the telephone line. Hesitantly, she accepted the earpiece from her father. “Good morning, Mrs. Ballard. It’s wonderful news, isn’t it?”
“Oh, my dear, it’s simply the best! I’ve already made some calls, and thanks to my late husband’s military connections, I’ve arranged for Gilbert to continue his recuperation at the Army and Navy Hospital right here in Hot Springs. We’ll be able to visit him every day until he’s discharged.”
“Really? I’m so glad!” Annemarie drew her lower lip between her teeth. “How . . . how did he sound to you?”
Mrs. Ballard released a long and pain-filled sigh. “Oh, my dear, our poor lad has suffered so much. Of course, he is unhappy about his current state of disability and naturally concerned about the prospect of a lengthy recovery. But we cannot give up hope. We must encourage him in every way possible and keep him constantly in our prayers.”
