When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  Gilbert’s glance slipped to where Annemarie’s fingertips peeked out from beneath Sam’s arm. They stood so close that not even the tiniest glimmer of daylight shone between them, and the sight ripped through Gilbert like machine gun fire. Celebrating, eh? So much for Sam’s denials. The padre had apparently moved in fast.

  Gilbert’s jaw muscles bunched. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Well, then, don’t let me keep you.”

  Samuel bent close to Annemarie’s ear. “Why don’t you get us a table? I’d like a moment with Gilbert.”

  A glimmer of concern danced behind her eyes, but she nodded and slipped her hand free. With what could only be taken as a warning glance over her shoulder—directed straight at Gilbert—she marched toward the restaurant.

  Samuel stepped closer, his gaze calm and steady. “You have nothing to be jealous of, Gil. There’s nothing more than friendship between Annemarie and me.”

  A guttural laugh scraped loose from Gilbert’s throat. “Jealous? Whatever gave you that idea? I told you in the hospital you two had my blessing.”

  “I didn’t believe you then, and I don’t believe you now.” Samuel exhaled sharply and drew a hand down his face. His tone became imploring. “Look at you—standing on two legs again, your strength returning. You and Annemarie can pick up where you left off. You can have the life together you’d always planned on.”

  If only . . . if only. Gilbert’s fingers tightened around the crutches, his left arm throbbing. He searched his heart, his soul, for even the faintest remnants of the man Annemarie had once loved.

  But that man no longer existed. He lay dead and buried in a shell hole on the Western Front. This Gilbert—the man now standing, however shakily, before his rival—struggled to feel anything these days beyond simmering rage and the constant ache of his war wounds.

  He feigned an indifferent smile, the effort making his cheeks twitch. With a nod toward the restaurant he said, “It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.” Then, mustering his remaining pride, he swiveled, recovered his balance, and prepared to limp away. “Nice seeing you, Sam. Glad you’re over the flu.”

  Before he’d taken three steps, Samuel caught his arm. Those piercing gray eyes snapped with determination. “Look me up next time you’re at the hospital. We should talk again.”

  “Why? So you can pray over my misguided soul? Sorry, Padre, too late for that.”

  “Gil—”

  He jerked his arm free and stumbled across the lobby before he drove his fist straight through Sam’s face.

  Reaching the door to his brother’s office, he banged it with the tip of his crutch. “Tom. Thomas!”

  Thomas jerked the door open. “I hear you, for crying out loud. And so does half the hotel, I imagine. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Zachary dropped me off after my therapy appointment.” Gilbert pushed past his brother and headed for the nearest chair. Flopping into it, he tossed his crutches to the floor. “We need to talk.”

  Thomas circled his desk and sat down, hands folded across his abdomen. “At home you do nothing but sit in the study and sulk. You rarely even take meals with Mother and me. And now you want to talk?”

  “Don’t give me your guff. I haven’t the patience for it.”

  “Or for little else, if you ask me.” Thomas’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Let’s have it, then. What’s on your mind, oh brother mine?”

  Gilbert swallowed. It galled him to no end that he needed Tom’s help—needed anyone’s help. The words nearly choked him: “I need a job.”

  Thomas’s mouth fell open. He stared for a full three seconds. “A job. You’re asking me for a job? I thought you were a career army officer.”

  The envelope in Gilbert’s breast pocket felt like a lead weight. Honorable Discharge from The United States Army. The papers had arrived three days ago, another dream up in smoke—quite literally. Sometimes he could still smell the stench of gunpowder and his own burning flesh. He fingered the brass button at the base of his throat. Why he still wore his uniform he had no idea. Habit, mostly.

  Or possibly to convince himself he was still a soldier.

  Gritting his teeth, he lifted his eyes to meet his brother’s. “Obviously I’m not much use to the army anymore, or at least that’s how they see it. So I was hoping there might be a job for me here at the hotel.” He grimaced and rubbed his aching stump. “Preferably a desk job.”

  Thomas had the decency not to laugh. “I can see you’re serious. I’m not currently aware of any openings, but let me look into it.” He laced his fingers atop his desk. “Are you . . . I mean, monetarily speaking . . .”

  “Am I broke? Not yet.” He thought of the wad of cash he’d traded this morning for the morphine pills now tucked away in an inside pocket. “But I . . . have expenses. Things I can’t expect Mother to pay for.”

  This time Thomas couldn’t suppress a snort. “I guess so, the way you’re wining and dining the little redhead from the hospital. Not exactly the class of woman Mother would approve of.”

  “Leave Mary out of this.” Gilbert gripped the chair arms, a surge of protectiveness tightening his gut. He could use one of those morphine tablets right now to take the edge off his guilt—not to mention his impulse to flatten his brother against the far wall. But he needed Thomas on his side. He needed that job.

  Inhaling a slow breath, he forced himself to speak calmly. “I’m just trying to make a go of civilian life, Thomas. Anything you can do to help will be appreciated.”

  “Apple pie á la mode—delicious!” Annemarie dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin. After complying with the Save On Sugar campaign during the war, enjoying a sweet dessert felt like a guilty indulgence. “Thank you for lunch, Sam. Although I should be treating you. It’s the least I can do to show my appreciation.”

  Samuel stirred cream into his coffee. “You can thank me by proving your ceramics shop a raging success.”

  A shiver raced up Annemarie’s spine. Could she really make and sell enough of her creations to turn a profit? Papa certainly had his reservations despite the returns she’d shown him from her sales through Thomas at the Arlington. And even though she’d promised to continue working half-days at the factory for the next couple of months, Papa had been even less thrilled about having to hire her replacement.

  It could turn out to be a good thing all around, however. Their neighbor Jack Trapp had done bookkeeping in the army, and now, home from the war, he needed work to help support his mother and younger sister. Annemarie had already suggested her father interview him. Perhaps she could begin teaching Jack the office routine as early as next Monday, and then get busy on a slew of new ceramic pieces to stock the display shelves she needed to install—

  Staring at Sam, she pressed two fingers to her temple and gasped a jittery laugh. “It’s only just dawning on me how much work lies ahead!”

  His lips bowed in an enticing smile as he reached across the table to touch her hand. “And you’ll have plenty of help.”

  Her skin tingled beneath his fingertips, her carefully guarded feelings betraying her. She resisted the impulse to tuck her hand into her lap.

  “What is it, Annemarie?” The tender look in Sam’s eyes spoke more than mere friendship. “We’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour, and you’ve said nothing at all about seeing Gilbert again. It must have affected you.”

  “Of course it affected me. I doubt there’ll ever come a day when seeing him doesn’t stir regrets over what might have been.” She moved her hand until it rested in Samuel’s palm. His warmth both soothed and exhilarated, blotting out all thoughts of Gilbert.

  Dear Lord, was Papa right?

  Samuel quickly pulled away and busied himself crumpling his napkin beside his dessert plate. “I nearly forgot. I have an appointment back at the hospital. We should go.” He signaled their waiter, who hurried over with the check. Laying some bills in the waiter’s hand, Sam edged his chair away from the table. “I’d offer to wait at the
trolley stop with you, but—”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” Annemarie’s heart dipped. She allowed Samuel to pull out her chair and help her on with her coat. “Will I see you this weekend?”

  “Just let me know when you want to get started at the shop, and Mother and I will both be there ready to work.”

  Mother and I. For the first time since Mrs. Vickary arrived in town, Annemarie wished she’d go back to Indiana.

  She walked with Sam as far as the front desk. After thanking him again for lunch—for everything—she veered down the corridor to see if Thomas could spare a moment. Now was as good a time as any to let him know her plans for the shop. She found his door ajar and peeked inside to see him riffling through a desktop card file, his forehead furrowed deeper than a freshly plowed field.

  Tapping on the doorframe, she peeked inside. “Thomas? Is this a bad time to speak with you?”

  He looked up with a start. “Never a bad time for you, Annemarie. Come in and have a seat.”

  “It’s just you looked so deep in thought.” She dropped into the chair across from him and laced her fingers atop her handbag. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes—no.” A sharp sigh sliced the air. “You’ll hear this sooner or later, so might as well be from me. Gilbert was just here asking me for a job. The army’s discharged him.”

  “Oh, no.” She squeezed her eyes shut to think how Gilbert must be dealing with yet another setback. As long as she’d known him, military life was all he’d lived, breathed, eaten, or slept. Peering expectantly at Thomas, she asked, “And are you able to help him?”

  “I’m going through staff positions right now, looking for any possibility of a vacancy—or rather, anything he’d be suited for.” One side of Thomas’s face skewed into a grimace. “Not easy to place a man whose sole work experience involves battle strategy, giving orders, and blasting holes through enemy lines.”

  Annemarie cast him a pensive smile. “Not much different from a business manager’s job, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Hadn’t thought of it like that.” Giving a tired smirk, Thomas set the card file aside. “Still, everyone’s scrambling for work these days. Several of our hometown doughboys have applied here already, looking to do anything from scrubbing floors to busing tables. We’ve hired as many as we can afford. Managerial positions, on the other hand, are few and far between.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll do your best for Gilbert.” Annemarie pulled her lips between her teeth. She cared about Gilbert’s struggles, prayed he’d find his way again. But he’d made it clear he was out of her life, and there wasn’t much she could do—that he’d allow her to do—to help. Instead, she needed to focus on her own future.

  Inching toward the edge of her chair, Annemarie cleared her throat. “Actually, the reason I stopped in is to tell you I’ll soon be taking my ceramics off display here.”

  Thomas jerked his chin up. “What? Why?”

  “Because I’ve decided it’s time to open my own showroom. I’ve just leased space in a vacant building down the street.”

  “Have you?” Looking stunned and yet full of admiration, Thomas rose and circled his desk to give Annemarie a kiss on the cheek. “Well, congratulations. If anyone can make a go of it, you certainly can. But the lobby won’t be the same without your lovely pieces on display.”

  “I was thinking about that. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I kept a few things here with a placard directing interested parties to my new shop?” Annemarie stood, her handbag clutched at her waist. “And, naturally, I’d encourage my customers to patronize the Arlington.”

  “Sounds like a fair exchange to me.” Thomas tugged on his earlobe. “You, uh, wouldn’t be in the market for a savvy business manager, would you? Because I could recommend someone . . . someone with a vested interest in your success.”

  “It’ll certainly be awhile before I could afford to hire—” Understanding dawned, and Annemarie’s stomach clenched. She held up one hand. “No, Thomas. Absolutely not. How could you even suggest such a thing?”

  He seized her outstretched hand and pressed it between his own. “He needs you, Annemarie. Yeah, he’s being hardheaded and stupid, but he’ll come around in time. He just needs a reason to believe you’re still there for him.”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere. Gilbert broke it off with me, remember?” Shock and anger choked her until she could barely speak. She took two steps backward, nearly tripping over the chair leg. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the factory.”

  “Wait. I’m sorry.” Thomas blocked the door. “Don’t leave mad, Annemarie. I’m just trying to help.” Pain creased the corners of his eyes. “This is my big brother we’re talking about—the guy I always looked up to. To see him return from the war a broken man—broken in spirit, broken in body—it hurts like you can’t even imagine.”

  Annemarie’s gaze softened. She gripped Thomas’s wrist. “I know exactly how much it hurts. I hurt for Gilbert as much as for myself. But I can’t fix him. You can’t fix him. The best we can do is love him and pray.”

  “Then . . . you do still love him?”

  “I never stopped.” Tears caught in Annemarie’s throat. Unable to say more, she gave her head a tiny shake and hurried from the office.

  Mary stood barefoot at the kitchen sink, the cool linoleum like balm to her aching feet. She’d just come off a seven-day shift and was more than ready to have another Sunday free so she and Mum could attend Mass tomorrow. She rinsed and wiped the last plate, set it in the cupboard, and then limped across the floor to collapse into a chair.

  Her mother padded into the kitchen. She’d already changed into her gown, robe, and slippers. “I told you I’d do up the dishes right after my bath. Why didn’t you wait?”

  “I don’t mind, Mum.” Mary offered a tired smile.

  “Poor lassie, working such long hours and then rushing home to see to the chores and fix our meals.” She pushed aside a stray lock of Mary’s hair before planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry as can be I can’t do more around here.”

  Mary listened with concern to the phlegm rattling in her mother’s chest and thanked the Lord yet again that they’d been spared the Spanish flu. Drawing on her last bit of energy, she rose to fill the kettle. “I’m for a cup of tea before bed. How about you?”

  “It would help my cough, sure enough. But you sit down and let me. I’ve strength enough to do that much.” Mary’s mother set out cups and then measured tea leaves into a strainer. “And while the kettle boils, perhaps you’ll tell me more about this young man of yours. All’s I’ve seen of him is a peek in the rear window of his automobile.”

  A guilty twinge squeezed Mary’s heart. She’d done everything possible to evade her mother’s questions about Gilbert. But as he pressed to see her more and more frequently, she knew she’d eventually have to own up to her feelings . . . and her fears.

  “He’s got a job now, part-time anyway. The army’s discharged him because of his disability.” And she only knew that much because he’d seemed unusually keyed up yesterday during another tryst in the hospital storage room—one of many they’d enjoyed of late. Normally he insisted on talking little and kissing often, but this time he’d poured out his anger over the loss of his military career in one breath, and in the next stated his brother had found him a part-time position managing schedules for the Arlington housekeeping staff.

  “I feel for all those poor lads trying to make their way in the world now the fighting’s done.” Mum leaned against the counter as she waited for the water to boil. “Still, I’d like to get to know the man who’s claimed my only daughter’s heart.”

  A shiver ran through Mary’s chest. She shot her mother a wide-eyed stare. “Oh, Mum, he has indeed! I’m falling in love for sure, but I’m scared witless it can’t last.”

  “Now why on earth would you think such a thing?” Mary’s mother strode across the room to cup Mary’s chin in her bony hands. “It’s the Ballard boy who
’s the lucky one. You’re as fine a girl as any man could ever want.”

  Mary couldn’t meet her mother’s gaze. If Mum knew how Mary had given herself to Gilbert time and again in that cramped little room—how she’d let him run his hands along her curves, devour her mouth with kisses, press his body against hers so tightly she could feel his aching need—

  “Mary, what’s wrong? Don’t lie to me, child. Has he taken advantage?”

  “No!” She ducked around her mother and made a pretense of checking the teakettle. Truth be told, she wondered who was taking advantage of whom. In a relationship with Gilbert—handsome and charming, a man of status and privilege, a decorated soldier—Mary had nothing to offer and everything to gain, because the one thing Gilbert wanted most from her she refused to give. Up to now she’d been able to forestall his passion with tender words and promises. Besides, more often than not, their stolen moments dissolved when Gilbert’s headaches raged and nothing would soothe him but her practiced touch.

  Her mother’s arm slipped around her shoulders. “Then what is it? Why can you not believe the man’s feelings are true?”

  Sighing, Mary swiveled into her mother’s embrace. “Because his heart belongs to another, and he’ll never be fully mine until he finally lets her go.”

  22

  Samuel’s visits didn’t usually take him to this section of the hospital, but after winding through hallways to find the room of a naval officer who’d requested pastoral counseling, he’d gotten turned around and found himself in a service corridor.

  As he approached the end of the hallway, a door clicked shut behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Nurse McClarney scurrying toward him. She moved with her head down, her hands busily working loose curls back under her cap. Then seconds later the door opened again and Gilbert hobbled out, his crutches click-clicking on the tile floor.

  Nausea curdled Samuel’s stomach. Before either of them noticed him he ducked around the corner and into a window alcove. Judging from differing sounds of their footsteps, he guessed Mary had veered left at the corner but Gilbert had turned right—the same direction Samuel had taken. Any second now, Gilbert would pass, and Samuel held his breath in hopes Gilbert would keep right on going.