by Myra Johnson
“I could read to you if you like. Something to help pass the time?”
“Perhaps later. Maybe you could tell me what I’ve missed these past several days.” Samuel gave a low chuckle. “I feel like a grouchy old bear coming out of hibernation after a long winter.”
Mrs. Kendall perched on the edge of the chair. “Well, let’s see. . . . Things have been in an uproar in Berlin this week. The revolutionist Karl Liebknecht and his Spartacus League have been all over the papers. Then there’s a strike going on in Buenos Aires, and they’re talking a possible revolution there. Oh, and Attorney General Gregory just tendered his resignation—”
A tired groan vibrated Samuel’s throat. “That’s the kind of news I can do without. I’m far more interested in what’s been happening closer to home.”
“Well, then, let me think. . . .” Mrs. Kendall’s glance skittered across the walls like a moth looking for a place to alight.
Sudden anxiety knotted Samuel’s stomach. He pushed up on one elbow. “Is it Annemarie? Please tell me she’s well.”
“Annemarie? Of course. She’s perfectly fine, off to the factory as usual this morning.” Mrs. Kendall leapt to her feet and pressed her palms against Samuel’s shoulders until he lay back down. “Just rest now. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”
He didn’t go through four years of seminary—much less serve a year in the trenches— without learning to recognize certain signs. His tone low and insistent, he asked, “What is it, Mrs. Kendall?”
With a forced laugh she sank onto the chair. “I’m supposed to be tending to your needs, not the other way around.”
“I’m a good listener.” He gestured weakly. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you have a captive audience.”
Mrs. Kendall nodded and withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket. Already a trickle of moisture had slipped from the corner of one eye and into the fabric of her mask. “Both Annemarie and Joseph try to protect me, but the fact is there is nothing they can do. Because in the end, it’s between me and the Lord.”
She told him then about the weeks spent in this room awaiting the birth of her baby—weeks spent in worry and fear, weeks of pleading for a healthy child, weeks of bargaining with God. And then the grief, the unrelenting anguish when the baby was stillborn. “I blamed God, despised Him, wanted to die myself.”
“I’m so sorry.” A familiar heaviness settled over Samuel, the same smothering hopelessness he’d carried home from the war—the lives lost, the futility of it all. And, as always, he knew he had to shake it off and be the man of God others expected him to be. But just now, he couldn’t think of a single word of comfort to offer the woman who had braved not only the risk of influenza but the specters from her own painful past.
Instead, he blurted out a single question: “How did you survive?”
Mrs. Kendall looked up, surprise lighting her eyes. “Why, Jesus, of course. ‘A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.’ I may have felt alone in my loss, but Jesus was—is—always with me. He knows every heartache, every painful step I take.”
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.” The words from Isaiah sifted through Samuel’s thoughts. How many times had he quoted this same passage in letters he’d written to console grieving parents or widows? Cold comfort for a family whose loved one had been blown to smithereens by a grenade, or sliced in two by a blast of machine gun fire, or died a slow, agonizing death from the effects of mustard gas.
His chest ached. It grew harder to breathe again. He eased over onto his side, facing the wall. Rosebuds danced before his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to sleep some more.”
“Of course.” A hand reached across him to adjust the covers. “I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“Thank you.” Before the darkness closed in, before the dragon’s mouth gaped, he drew on his last remnants of strength to call to mind the face of hope.
Annemarie.
17
Well? How was it? Tell me everything!”
Mary offered little more than an annoyed sigh while checking a patient’s chart and measuring out the proper dose of medication. “Now, Lois, I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”
“Kiss? He kissed you on your first date?” The dark-haired nurse wedged herself between Mary and the counter at which she worked, forcing Mary to look her in the eye.
“Careful, now. Can’t you see I’m busy here?” Though she tried to sound cross, she couldn’t keep a smirk off her face.
“He did kiss you!”
Ah, if only. But Lieutenant Ballard—Gilbert, he’d insisted she call him—had been nothing but gentlemanly. Arriving promptly at six last evening, he’d sent his crisply uniformed chauffeur to the door. It rankled Mary’s mother that Mary wouldn’t allow her to step out to the car so Gilbert could introduce himself properly, but with the chill in the air, Mary had insisted Mum stay inside. They could always meet another time.
And another time there would definitely be! As if dinner at the Arlington weren’t enough to assuage the lieutenant’s lingering guilt, Mary could scarcely believe he’d asked her out yet again. She had agreed to accompany him next Friday to a dinner club where a popular singer would perform.
Mary gave her head a quick shake. She absolutely must keep her mind on her work before she gave her patient a dose of quinine when the order was for aspirin. Bad enough Gilbert had kept her out so late last night, what with today’s shift starting at the crack of dawn. Stifling a yawn, she nudged Lois out of the way and verified the label on another medicine bottle.
“Mary McClarney, you’re being a brat.” Lois stamped her foot. “I want details and I want them now.”
After dispensing two capsules into a small cup, Mary capped the bottle and turned to Lois with a sigh. “Honestly, there’s nothing to tell. We had a lovely dinner at the Arlington, and then he had his driver take us up the mountain to enjoy the view.”
Lois harrumphed. “I’ll just bet the good-looking lieutenant enjoyed the view.”
Mary bristled. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Mary. I’ve been around the block a few times.” Lois gathered up several used instruments in need of sterilization.
“I am not that kind of girl.” Mary glared at the other nurse before starting out the door with her tray of medications. “I assure you, all we did was talk.”
“All right, if you insist.” Lois followed on her heels, adding in a growling whisper, “Just don’t let Mrs. Daley find out you’re seeing a patient—”
“A former patient.”
“—or you’ll find yourself booted out of the Army Nurse Corps before you can blink twice.” Lois marched off in the opposite direction.
Mary didn’t doubt what Lois said was true. Mrs. Daley had strict rules about fraternizing with the patients. But even more worrisome was Mary’s own mother’s opinion of her spending the evening with a handsome, single army officer. Mary had expected Mum to be tucked into bed by the time she arrived home at half past eleven.
But no, there she sat sipping chamomile in the parlor, her Bible splayed open across her lap—open to Proverbs, chapter five, of course, Solomon’s advice to his son about loose women.
With a thrust of her hip, she pushed through the door onto the ward, refusing to give another thought to Gilbert Ballard—or to her sainted, if overly vigilant, mother—until she’d distributed medications and seen to her patients’ needs.
Even so, and despite what must be suitcase-sized purple smudges under her eyes, more than one patient commented on the secret smile curling her lips and the extra spring in her step this morning.
Annemarie shut off the engine of her father’s Model-T and hurried around to the passenger door to retrieve the box of carefully packaged ceramic pieces. Thomas had promised he’d explained to the people waiting on special orders that she’d been preoccupied nursing a sick friend back to health.
But wit
h Samuel getting stronger every day, Annemarie had finally made time over the weekend to finish up several ceramics projects. Throwing matching candlesticks had proven a challenge—more than once she’d had to pound the clay back into a ball, recenter it on the wheel, and begin again—but the glaze on the lamp base had captured her “Ouachita sunrise” vision like none before.
Thomas met her in the Arlington lobby and relieved her of the crate. “I was hoping you’d be by soon. The display case is looking a little sparse again.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t bring many new pieces, but I wanted to get those special orders to you as soon as I finished them.” Annemarie followed him into his office. “I’ll have more time to work now that Sam’s improving.”
“I heard he’s better. Dr. Lessman came by to check Mother’s heart the other day.” Thomas set the box on his desk and began unwrapping the pottery. “This is exquisite, Annemarie.”
The praise warmed her. She peeled away the newsprint cradling one of the candlesticks. “I hope your mother is well. We’re so appreciative of her arranging for Dr. Lessman to take over Samuel’s care.”
“Mother’s as healthy as a horse and stubborn as a mule.” Thomas quirked a brow as he set the other candlestick in the center of his desk. “You should come by sometime. Mother would love a visit.”
“You know I can’t do that.” Annemarie swallowed over the pinch in her throat. She plucked a scrap of newsprint off the rim of the lamp base.
Thomas crossed his arms and stared at the pottery. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Listen, Annemarie, you’ve got to do something, and soon, before it’s too late.”
She looked at him askance—as if she didn’t know to what he referred. “Do what, exactly? Gilbert made his choice. I won’t go crawling to him and beg him to take me back.”
“I know, I know.” Thomas raked stiff fingers through the patch of thinning hair atop his scalp—so unlike Gilbert’s thick mass of raven curls. Annemarie shut down the thought at once, while Thomas continued, “The thing is . . . I’m afraid Gilbert’s about to do something stupid.”
“You mean something even more stupid than breaking his engagement with me?” Annemarie narrowed her gaze, one foot tapping out a violent rhythm on the Persian rug. “Believe me, Thomas Ballard, I’ve imagined every possible act of retribution that wouldn’t get me thrown in jail—and a few that would. Gilbert deserves whatever trouble he gets himself into.”
She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. Uttering a gasp, she sagged against the desk and hung her head. “I didn’t mean that. Gilbert certainly doesn’t deserve what he’s been through already, and I wish him only the best. It’s just—”
“You don’t have to apologize to me. You’ve been a saint through all this. It’s Gil who’s acting the fool.”
Something in Thomas’s tone pricked her senses. She tilted her chin. “What exactly is he doing?”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but . . .” Thomas shifted his gaze toward the door, then lowered his voice. “He’s going out with someone.”
“Going . . . out. You mean with a woman?”
“Yeah, some little Irish girl he met at the hospital. One of the nurses.” Thomas examined one of the candlesticks and then carefully rewrapped it.
“One of the nurses.” Annemarie started to repack the other candlestick but didn’t trust it wouldn’t slip through her shaking fingers—or that she wouldn’t fling it across the room and shatter it against Thomas’s filing cabinet.
“I don’t know what he sees in her. I mean, she’s cute and friendly and all.” Thomas took the candlestick from her and toyed with it, as if his impulses mirrored hers. “Must be the guilt thing.”
“Guilt thing?” Annemarie cringed. She was beginning to sound like a parrot. But waging an inner battle between stoic indifference and raging jealousy—which she was quickly losing—she couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence of her own.
“She’s the nurse Gil decked that day. The first time he took her out, I think he was trying to ease his conscience. But they have plans again for next weekend. And he’s talking like he plans to see a lot more of her.”
“Well, if they’re compatible . . .” Annemarie turned away, one hand pressed to her abdomen as she calculated the most direct route to the nearest ladies’ lounge. This morning’s breakfast seemed none too inclined to stay down.
“Compatibility has nothing to do with it. If you ask me, it’s all about—” Thomas made a growling sound in his throat. “Well, never mind what I think it’s all about. Since when has my big brother ever listened to a thing I said? Now Mother, on the other hand—”
Annemarie glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. “Goodness, is it half past nine already? I must get back to the factory. Our supplier is delivering a large order this morning, and I really need to be there.”
Muttering a mild oath, Thomas rubbed his forehead. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Now I’ve gone and upset you.”
“No, it’s all right.” Annemarie stiffened her spine. She would not let this news reduce her to a bitter, whining harpy. “All I have ever wanted was Gilbert’s happiness, and if this young nurse makes him happy, then I’m glad for them both. I refuse to be otherwise.”
Lips quirked, Thomas gave his head a small shake. “This is exactly why you’re too good a woman for my brother. He doesn’t deserve you.”
Snippets of Samuel’s feverish rantings crept into Annemarie’s thoughts. “Don’t be so quick to judge him, Thomas. We weren’t there. We have not even the vaguest concept of what those men faced on the front lines.”
“And he’s not likely to let me forget, either.” Thomas stepped behind his desk and opened the center drawer. “Here, don’t leave without this,” he said, handing her an envelope. “Not as much as last time, but once you start producing again, I’m sure it’ll pick up.”
Accepting the envelope, Annemarie permitted herself a moment of self-satisfaction. It felt amazingly good to be valued, to have something to call her own.
And since she’d been rejected by the man she’d loved half her life, the honor of being paid for her artistic talents would have to suffice.
“Thank you, Zachary. I’ll call for you when I’m ready to leave.” Gilbert dismissed his mother’s chauffeur with a brisk nod and waited until the car pulled away from the curb before ringing the Kendalls’ doorbell.
A few moments later, Mrs. Kendall answered. “Good afternoon Gilbert. Do come in. Samuel has been looking forward to seeing you.”
Unlike Mrs. Kendall, judging from the coolness in her tone. At least Annemarie would be at the factory—precisely why Gilbert had scheduled his visit for midafternoon and fully intended to be gone by the time she returned from work.
He wheeled his chair into the entry hall, grateful his left arm had grown strong enough so he wasn’t quite as dependent upon others to steer his chair. “I’m deeply appreciative of how good you’ve been to Sam. I know it can’t have been easy, his being so sick and all.”
“We were happy we could help.” Mrs. Kendall led him past the parlor and staircase, then turned down a hallway toward the far end of the house. “Dr. Lessman says our worries of contagion should be over. Samuel’s temperature has been normal for several days now.”
“That’s good. I take it everyone else has remained in good health?”
“We have, thank you. We took every precaution.” Mrs. Kendall paused outside a door at the end of the hall. She tapped lightly. “Samuel? Gilbert is here.” Without waiting, she turned brusquely and hurried in the opposite direction.
From the other side of the door came Samuel’s weak voice. “Gil? Come in.”
He hauled in a quick breath and nudged open the door. “Hey, there, Padre.” Wheeling into the room, he found Sam propped up in bed with a book in his lap. Sunken cheeks and a wan complexion were the only outward signs he’d been ill. “Sitting on your fanny, getting waited on hand and foot. I should have you court-mart
ialed for dereliction of duty.”
Sam’s gaze darkened. He looked away briefly as he laid the book on the bedside table. “I’m a little stronger every day. I don’t plan to neglect my work any longer than absolutely necessary.”
The thought he’d offended his friend—yet again—tied Gilbert’s stomach in knots. He wheeled closer to the bed. “Hey, it was a joke, all right? You’ve been deathly ill. You deserve all the time you need to get your strength back.”
Glancing toward the window, Sam heaved a sigh. “What bothers me is taking advantage of the Kendalls’ hospitality for so long. They’ve been incredibly gracious.”
“That’s the kind of people they are.” Now Gilbert looked away, the weight of what he’d given up pressing upon him like a full marching pack.
“How’ve you been, Gil? I heard your surgery went well.”
“So they tell me.” Glad to move the conversation to a less threatening topic, Gilbert described his therapy regimen. “My arm will never be full strength again, but my physical therapist says it’ll be good enough for crutches while I get comfortable with my artificial leg.”
“How soon will you get your prosthesis?”
“They’re already fitting me for one.” He slapped the wheels of his chair. “Another couple of weeks and I can finally get out of this thing and on my feet again, in a manner of speaking.”
Sam chuckled softly. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you actually looking forward to something.”
Gilbert smirked, hoping to disguise the sudden surge of anger. Look forward to something? The only thing he looked forward to every day was his pain pills. All he could bring himself to say was, “Sure beats looking backward.”
Sam grew quiet for several seconds while he fingered a loose thread on his blanket. He peered up at Gilbert with a furrowed brow. “I know someone who hopes to look forward to a future with you. I wish you’d at least—”
“Don’t go there, Sam.” Gilbert gave the wheel of his chair a twist and angled himself away. “Anyway, I’m seeing someone else now.”
