When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  Thomas tapped his cards on the edge of the table. “Your play, Sam.”

  “Right. Let’s see. Here are fifteen for two, fifteen for four . . .” He ran his thumb along the side of a card and stared at his hand.

  “You missed a run. That’s three more points.”

  “So it is.” Samuel moved his peg along the game board.

  Annemarie stabbed the needle through the fabric and straight into her finger. She let out a startled gasp and inspected the injury. A single drop of blood appeared on her fingertip.

  “Oh, dear, a war wound.” Mrs. Ballard gave a humorless chuckle. “And in peace time, no less. Marguerite!”

  Marguerite entered just then with a tray of hot drinks. Seeing Annemarie’s bleeding finger, she placed the tray on the table in front of the settee and reached into her apron pocket. “Now where did I put my hanky?”

  “Allow me.” Samuel stood at Annemarie’s side and tenderly wrapped her finger in his own pristine white handkerchief. “Better?”

  Annemarie lifted her gaze to Samuel’s and then quickly dropped it again, before those penetrating gray eyes read more into her expression than the gratitude she intended. “Obviously my domestic skills leave much to be desired.”

  “Which you more than make up for with your ceramic artistry.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “You’re kind to say so, but there are times when practicality must take precedence over art.”

  Samuel slid his hands into his pants pockets. “If that’s in a rule book somewhere, I’ve yet to come across it.”

  Mrs. Ballard waved her hand toward the cribbage table. “Did you finish playing your hand? Then pull a chair over, Samuel, and sit with us. You can explain much better than I what happened with Gilbert this afternoon. I know Annemarie is anxious to hear.”

  “Please, that’s really why I came.” Holding the handkerchief around her throbbing finger, Annemarie leaned forward. “They won’t tell me anything because I’m not family, but I’m going absolutely crazy with not knowing.”

  Samuel’s brows drew together. His lips flattened into a worried frown, and for a moment Annemarie feared he’d plead patient confidentiality or whatever you called it between a pastor and penitent. Then he gave a single nod. He drew his chair away from the game table and settled it near the end of the settee. Taking one of the steaming cups of cocoa, he sat back with a thoughtful sigh.

  Mrs. Ballard handed a cup and saucer to Annemarie. “Now, Samuel, about Gilbert . . .”

  About Gilbert.

  True, Annemarie deserved to be told, but Samuel dreaded bringing more tears to those soulful brown eyes. He stalled for time by taking a couple of tentative sips from the hot drink—not as sweet as he usually liked his cocoa, nor as strong, what with the Ballard family still doing their part to conserve.

  Thomas took a cup from the tray, then propped a hip on the arm of the settee next to his mother. “For pity’s sake, the man’s just returned from war. Gilbert’s never had a violent streak, but after what he’s been through, who wouldn’t be a little unhinged? If you ask me, I’d say they went a little overboard with the whole straitjacket business.”

  Annemarie gave a stunned gasp. She turned an open-mouthed stare upon Samuel. “Straitjacket! What happened?”

  “Thomas is exaggerating. It wasn’t an actual straitjacket, but—” Samuel set down his cup and scoured his palms up and down his pant legs, as if he could wipe away the memory of this afternoon. “A nurse startled Gilbert out of a nightmare, and he hit her in the jaw. When they couldn’t quiet him, they had no choice but to restrain him.”

  “That is utterly ridiculous.” Annemarie’s cocoa sloshed onto her saucer. “Gilbert would never hurt anyone—” She stopped herself with a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shut, and Samuel didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. The war had turned them all into killers.

  All of them, one way or another.

  Samuel clamped down on the fragment of memory and stuffed it away in the darkest corner of his mind. He relieved Annemarie of her cocoa before she spilled anymore and used the handkerchief he’d given her to soak up the hot liquid filling the saucer.

  Annemarie’s face crumpled. She heaved a regretful moan. “Oh, dear, you’ll never get the stains out of it now.”

  “Not to worry. It was an old one anyway.” Samuel resisted the urge to take her hand and soothe away the anguish distorting that lovely face.

  She straightened her spine, and while she fought for composure it seemed as if Samuel watched a different kind of war. Quiet, artistic, but such a strong, determined woman. He had no doubt she’d win this battle. She coughed softly. “The nurse—was she hurt badly?”

  “She’s fine, more surprised than anything.” As tactfully as possible, Samuel tried to explain the reasons for keeping Gilbert restrained and sedated. “It’s as much for his own protection as for the hospital personnel. You’ve heard the term shell shock, I’m sure.”

  Mrs. Ballard gave a haughty sniff. “Call it what you may, my son is not insane. He needs tender attention, not to be treated like a rabid animal.”

  “They’re doing all they can, I’m certain.” Samuel’s stomach knotted as he recalled the crazed look behind Gilbert’s eyes this afternoon. “The problem is this hospital doesn’t have the psychiatric resources of a military facility like Walter Reed or Fort McHenry, which is where many of the returning wounded are being sent.”

  Thomas stood and paced, his cup rattling against the saucer. “I’ll fight them tooth and nail if they push the issue about transferring him to another hospital.”

  “Is that a possibility?” Again, Annemarie looked to Samuel.

  He tried to reassure her with a smile. “I promise you, I intend to do everything in my power to make sure Gilbert can continue to be treated right here in Hot Springs.” He went on to explain about the additional surgery Gilbert required. “It’s all taking its toll—the pain, the fear of being permanently incapacitated. But as he begins to recover physically, I have every hope he’ll find relief from the mental trauma as well.”

  “I pray you’re right.” Annemarie examined the pajama top in her lap. “I suppose they’ll still be needing these, as long as there are wounded soldiers to care for.” She drew a shaky breath and finished sewing on the button she’d started on earlier. “War is a wretched, evil thing.”

  Samuel couldn’t agree more.

  While the ladies returned to their handwork, Samuel took it upon himself to carry the tray of empty cocoa cups back to the kitchen. One dim light glowed over the sink, and a thin strip of amber shone beneath the door to the servants’ quarters. As soundlessly as possible, he washed and dried each cup and saucer. As he placed them in the cupboard, it occurred to him how natural it felt, a normal, everyday chore that might be happening in any ordinary household anywhere in the world. As a boy he would help his mother clean up the kitchen after meals—and complain about it the entire time.

  Washing dishes, sweeping floors, raking leaves, chopping wood.

  Hot showers, hot meals, clean clothes, dry socks.

  Soft mattresses, downy pillows, warm blankets, a fire in the hearth.

  So much he’d taken for granted, until the war. Standing at the sink, he stared into his own face, reflected back by the darkness beyond the window. Where his eyes should be, he saw only black, hollow spheres, ghostlike, haunting.

  Would he ever feel normal again?

  Annemarie folded the last pair of pajamas and rose to lay them on the chair with the others. “A productive evening’s work. I’m glad I could help.”

  “I’m delighted you decided to visit.” Mrs. Ballard packed up the needles, spools, and leftover buttons into her sewing box. “You know, dear, I still think we should be moving ahead with wedding plans. I realize it would be premature to set a date quite yet, but—”

  “Quite premature.” Annemarie stifled an angry rebuff, thankful she and Mrs. Ballard were alone in the parlor. She couldn’t fathom how Gilbert’s mother could still
be so adamant about this. Was she completely oblivious to the long and difficult recovery that lay ahead for her son?

  “I know it will take time.” Mrs. Ballard crossed to Annemarie’s side and rested a hand on her arm. “But Gilbert will get better. Once he has his surgery and can be up and around again, why, I just know he’ll cheer up even faster with something to look forward to.”

  Annemarie glanced down at Mrs. Ballard’s hand, where a bejeweled ring glittered beneath the lamplight and reminded her all over again of the differences in their stature. The Kendalls were a working-class family, while Mrs. Ballard, who could trace her ancestry back to Virginia plantation owners, had known nothing but wealth and ease.

  It wasn’t that Mrs. Ballard was incorrigibly snobbish—she’d welcomed Annemarie into her heart without reserve. No, the woman’s greatest fault was an arrogant blind spot when anyone suggested a course of action other than her predetermined plans.

  “Mrs. Ballard—”

  “Mother Ballard.”

  Annemarie dipped her chin. “Not yet, Mrs. Ballard. And perhaps not ever.” At the woman’s surprised intake of breath, Annemarie faced her directly and clutched her hands. “Please understand. I love Gilbert with all my heart. But we must both accept the fact that the war has changed him, probably forever.”

  “Of course it has. I don’t deny it. But don’t you think—”

  “What I think—what I know—is that Gilbert needs time to heal. He needs time to find himself, to figure out how to live his life again.” Her voice shook. She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “And I have to be prepared for the possibility that I won’t fit into his life anymore.”

  “That will never happen!” Mrs. Ballard pulled her into a fierce hug. “Gilbert needs you. He will always need you.”

  Annemarie returned the hug briefly, then freed herself and stepped back. She fumbled in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief, but finding none, she used the back of her hand to brush away the wetness on her cheeks. “As I told you, I will always love him. I will be there for him as long as he wants me. But I won’t push him into marriage. Not now, not ever.”

  While Mrs. Ballard fluttered her hands and stammered, Annemarie strode into the hallway and retrieved her things from the coat closet. She met Mrs. Ballard in the parlor doorway, and her heart twisted at the look of utter confusion skewing the woman’s features.

  Mrs. Ballard stretched an arm toward Annemarie, her other hand clenched at her bosom. “Dear, dear, I’ve upset you. You mustn’t go until we’ve come to an understanding about this.”

  “If you mean the wedding, there is nothing more to say.” Annemarie softened her gaze into an apologetic smile as she pulled on her coat and gloves. She dropped a kiss upon Mrs. Ballard’s powdered cheek. “Promise me you won’t bring it up again—to me or to Gilbert. If the Lord wants us together, He will work things out in His own good time.”

  If . . . In Annemarie’s mind that tiny word loomed like an insurmountable precipice.

  She refused Mrs. Ballard’s offer to let Thomas drive her home, claiming a brisk walk would help calm her thoughts and give her a little time alone with God.

  Then she walked out the front door and straight into Samuel Vickary’s arms.

  9

  The feel of Annemarie leaning against his chest, her gloved fingers digging into his biceps, disoriented Samuel for one glorious moment. He fumbled to regain his balance while making sure Annemarie had both feet solidly on the ground. “Steady, there. Are you all right?”

  She laughed nervously and straightened, but her grip on Samuel’s arms held firm. “My fault entirely. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He tried to breathe, but the cold night air froze in his lungs. Or was it the nearness of Annemarie Kendall? Clarity returning, he patted her elbows and gingerly stepped back as she lowered her arms. “Headed home already?” His voice sounded as creaky as the porch board beneath his feet. “Surely you’re not walking?”

  “It’s not far.” She smiled and adjusted her gloves. “And what are you doing outdoors without your coat again? Don’t you feel the cold at all?”

  “I’m from Indiana, remember? This is nothing compared to the winters we have up north.” Grinning, he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. He’d never be cold again if he could spend the rest of his life basking in the warmth of Annemarie’s gaze.

  This was certainly not going to happen, at least not in the way he’d insanely begun to let himself imagine. Friends—that’s all they’d ever be.

  And a friend wouldn’t allow a young lady to walk unescorted this time of night. “Let me see you home. After Marguerite’s sumptuous cooking I could use the exercise.”

  She tightened her lips, sending a quick glance toward the parlor windows. “Well, I . . . ”

  How stupid of him. Naturally, Annemarie would be concerned about what Mrs. Ballard would think. Their being seen together along quiet streets after dark might be perceived much differently from two friends strolling the sidewalks of downtown Hot Springs in broad daylight.

  “Forgive me. I was being presumptuous.” Samuel reached for the doorknob. “At least let me ask Mrs. Ballard if her chauffeur can drive you.”

  “Nonsense. Zachary has probably already retired for the evening.” Straightening, Annemarie firmed her smile. “I’d be grateful for your company, but only if you will go inside and fetch your overcoat. I won’t be held responsible for your coming down with pneumonia.”

  “All right, all right.” Barely able to conceal his pleasure, Samuel ducked through the front door and snatched his coat from the hall closet. Returning to the porch, he slid his arms into his coat sleeves and fastened two buttons. “Satisfied?”

  Annemarie narrowed her eyes and tugged the collar up around his neck. “There, that’s better.” She marched down the porch steps and waited for Samuel to catch up. As they reached the street, she said, “Actually, I was hoping we’d have another chance to talk.”

  “Were you?” A spring returned to Samuel’s steps. Keeping his eyes on the path before them, he asked, “Something in particular on your mind?”

  “Gilbert, of course. It’s hard to speak freely in front of Mrs. Ballard.”

  Samuel took Annemarie’s arm as they crossed at the corner. How many times would he have to remind himself her heart belonged to Gil? “How can I help?”

  Annemarie turned her face toward the shimmering moon and heaved a desperate sigh. “Gilbert’s mother is utterly determined to go forward with wedding plans. I’ve tried to tell her we must wait until Gilbert says he’s ready, but she won’t listen.”

  Samuel murmured an acknowledgement but walked on in silence. His thoughts careened back to Gil’s words this afternoon: “Take her, Sam. Take her with my blessing.” It was only the injuries talking, the fear and the pain. No man in his right mind would ever give up a woman like Annemarie.

  “You do think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you, Samuel?”

  He looked up, startled. “The right thing?”

  “Insisting we wait.” A worried frown creased Annemarie’s lips.

  “Waiting is definitely wise at this point. Gilbert has a lot of healing yet to do.” Even in the faint light of the moon, Samuel sensed more behind her questioning gaze—far more than a simple affirmation about the wisdom of delaying wedding plans. It was obvious she sought his assurance that she and Gilbert still had a future to look forward to.

  They turned at the next corner and started slowly up a long hill, walking straight into the chilly north wind. Annemarie shivered and hunched her shoulders. “Happy as I am for Christmastime, I can hardly wait for spring!”

  Winter, spring, summer, autumn—for Samuel the passing of seasons no longer seemed to matter. He sighed as dark memories crept in.

  On his knees in a stubbly field, blood everywhere as he cradled a private’s limp body and shouted curses at God . . .

  Perhaps someday he’d shed his guilt and find the courage to hope again. Perhaps some
day the words from Scripture he’d leaned upon all his life would flame anew in his spirit and bring back the joy he once felt doing the Lord’s work, the joy he once felt in simply being alive.

  For now, going through the motions would have to suffice. He’d have to rely on the habit of faithfulness, built upon years of prayer and study and service, while praying every day that God hadn’t turned His back on him for eternity.

  “But whosoever shall blaspheme against the Holy Spirit hath never forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin.”

  “Sam?”

  Her use of the shortened form of his name made his steps falter. She’d stopped beneath a streetlamp, its hazy glow haloing her dark hair.

  “I’m worried about you, too, you know.” She looked so solemn, schoolteacher-stern, her mouth twisted in an accusing scowl.

  He tried to laugh, but it sounded weak and hollow in the night air, as if the sound had been swallowed up by the mountains reaching skyward around them.

  “I’m serious. You may have survived the war without physical wounds, but you must have witnessed unspeakable horrors.”

  If she only knew. . . . “Don’t be concerned about me. Gilbert is the one who needs you.”

  She reached for his hand and pressed it between her own. “You said we were friends, didn’t you? So I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk, to unburden yourself about the war or—or just anything—well, if I can help in any way—”

  He stared at their entwined hands and thought his heart would explode from his chest. With his last ounce of willpower he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and then shoved his fists into his coat pockets. “Your friendship is all I need,” he said, his voice scraping across paralyzed vocal cords. “Now I’d better see you on home before Mrs. Ballard realizes I’m missing and sends out a search party.”

  “She would, you know.” A hearty laugh burst from Annemarie’s throat. She linked her arm through Samuel’s as they resumed their march up the hill.

  And once he delivered her through her own front door and started on his way back to the Ballards’, he realized he’d never been so loathe for an evening stroll to end.