When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  “Oh, no, you can’t take Mama’s side!” Annemarie raised both hands in protest. “Please, Sam, convince them I don’t need to go shopping.”

  “I’m afraid that’s beyond my powers of persuasion.” Samuel retrieved their coats and handbags, then ushered all three ladies toward the door. “Go forth and shop. I’ll lock up behind you.”

  He’d anticipated spending the rest of the afternoon in Annemarie’s company, but one look in her eyes just now and he knew the moment they were alone she’d plead for honesty about what he and his mother had really been talking about.

  His own story. Oh, God, would she still love him if she knew?

  The memories crashed in upon him like an artillery barrage, and he sank to his knees in the middle of the shop.

  “Please, God, make it stop! Make the killing stop!”

  “Padre! What are you doing? Get down!”

  “Give me your rifle, Private—now!”

  “No, Padre, you can’t!”

  “God’s deserted us. I’ll kill them all myself, every last one of them!” While enemy fire raged around them, Samuel grappled for control of the skinny kid’s weapon.

  The boy jerked backward then slammed against Samuel’s chest, his mouth open in surprise. He coughed once, twice, and blood gushed from his throat. The boy’s weight pulled them both down, down, down, into the blood-soaked earth.

  On his knees in the stubbly field, while bullets chewed up the trunks of trees already stripped bare, Samuel lifted his eyes to a heaven gone mute. Cradling the private’s limp body, he raised a bloody fist toward the sky and cursed the God who had betrayed them all.

  24

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “And what is your sin, my child?”

  The priest appeared little more than a shadowy form through the latticework of the confessional. Mary swallowed the tears threatening to choke her. “I’ve been free with my affections toward a man.”

  In the momentary silence, she pictured Father Francis’s grim expression. He’d been a friend to Mary’s family since they came to Hot Springs nearly twenty years ago. He’d taught Mary the catechism, presided over her First Communion. After Mary’s father was injured, Father Francis had provided both comfort and aid, seeing them through those difficult years with utmost patience and kindness.

  And now she’d let him down. “Father?”

  “I heard you, my child.” Father Francis cleared his throat. “Have you . . . committed adultery with this man?”

  “No! I mean, not in the way— Oh, Father, I’m so confused! Is it adultery if I have desired in my heart to—to—” Mary’s pulse throbbed at the mere thought of Gilbert’s touch, his kiss, his passionate embrace.

  The priest’s profile shifted slightly, his chin raised. “But you have not acted on these desires? You have remained sexually pure?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  His voice softened. “And are you in love with this man?”

  “Yes, Father.” Her reply came out on a moaning sigh.

  The priest’s shoulders shook with a soft chuckle. “My dear child, such desire is only normal when a man and a woman fall in love. And temptation does not become sin unless acted upon.”

  Both hands flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. She lifted her gaze to the mahogany ceiling of the small chamber. “Saints help me, if I could only be sure he returned my feelings!”

  An edge returned to the priest’s tone. “He has not said as much?”

  “Not in words, no, but I believe he does feel a special affection for me. And I’m so deliriously happy when we’re together.” She knotted the damp handkerchief she clutched into a twisted mass. “But afterward I feel so . . .” Ashamed. Dirty. Used.

  Father Francis heaved a groan. “It seems to me it isn’t penance and forgiveness you need so much as the wise counsel of Scripture. Meditate on Saint Paul’s letter to Timothy, where he instructed his young protégé to shun youthful passions, live a life of faith, and call upon the Lord with a pure heart. If you’re walking with the Lord, He will keep you on the straight and narrow path.”

  “I’m trying, Father, truly I am.”

  “Then go in peace, my child, in full assurance of our Savior’s love.”

  Mary bowed her head as Father Francis made the sign of the cross, but before she exited the confessional, he added sternly, “And one last thing, Mary Elisabeth Assumpta McClarney—talk to your mother.”

  She’d tried. Oh, she’d tried. But Mary feared shaming her mother even more than the good Father Francis. “You can’t play with fire and expect not to be burnt,” Mum had told her time and again whenever temptation led her astray. Whether as small a transgression as teasing the neighbor’s cat (Mary still bore the scar on her inner arm) or as foolish as wearing her frilly spring frock to Easter Mass during a late-season blizzard (she’d suffered the worst cold of her life afterward), Mary had to admit her mother’s admonitions were usually well-founded.

  But if Mum knew how close Mary had come to giving Gilbert everything—everything—he asked for, she’d lock Mary in her room for eternity and throw away the key.

  And giving up Gilbert wasn’t something Mary was prepared to do.

  Please, Jesus, she prayed as she hurried out to join her mother in the pew, grant Gilbert the strength to rein in his passions. And if he can’t, Lord, grant me the strength to keep saying no.

  Sitting in church with her parents Sunday morning, Annemarie barely heard the pastor’s message. Her thoughts raced ahead to tomorrow’s grand opening, only to spiral backward to yesterday afternoon. After seeing her mother and Ursula onto the trolley with their purchases—including the tiered day dress of lavender crêpe de Chine Annemarie had finally settled on—she’d returned to the shop for a final inspection.

  When she’d found Samuel still there, looking as surprised to see her as she to see him, her skin prickled with worry. He claimed he’d only stayed to do some last-minute tidying up—but for nearly three hours? Though he laughed it off as absentmindedness, he’d seemed unusually tired, distracted, even anxious. Something clearly wasn’t right.

  Well, she’d invited him to come for Sunday dinner after he concluded worship services in the hospital chapel. Perhaps by then she could pry an explanation from him.

  Then, while her parents stopped to greet Jack Trapp and his mother following the service, Annemarie found herself face-to-face with the daunting Mrs. Ballard. Though their families had belonged to the same congregation for years, Annemarie couldn’t shake the impression Gilbert’s mother used the church more as a social venue than for spiritual enrichment. When she attended worship at all, afterward she flitted from conversation to conversation with her socialite cronies.

  But today the woman had made a beeline straight for Annemarie. She pulled herself up to her full imposing stature. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  Annemarie tried her best not to recoil, as much from the cloying scent of expensive perfume as from Mrs. Ballard’s accusing stare. “Of course not. I’ve just been preoccupied.”

  “With your ceramics shop. I understand.” Mrs. Ballard’s expression turned patronizing. She rested a gloved hand on Annemarie’s arm. “Such a . . . courageous endeavor for a young woman such as yourself. I admire you, dear heart, truly I do.”

  Annemarie heard the but coming. But a shop is so plebeian. As Gilbert’s wife, you would have enjoyed a life of affluent elegance.

  And utter boredom.

  The sudden realization stabbed Annemarie through the heart, reminding her again how Gilbert had brushed off any suggestion of her continuing to work after they married. No matter that Scripture directed a man to leave his mother and father and cleave only to his wife. Any wife of Gilbert Ballard would also “marry” his mother—because Evelyn Ballard would have it no other way. Gilbert’s wife would be expected to participate fully in Hot Springs society, from decorating her husband’s arm at prestigious social events to serving on the boards of any number of reputable charit
ies—and strictly at the direction of her would-be mother-in-law. Annemarie realized long ago Mrs. Ballard served only in capacities where her generosity would be acknowledged—as in the quarter-page newspaper article covering her “selfless contribution to America’s wounded soldiers” in the form of twenty-five hand-sewn flannel pajama sets.

  Gathering her thoughts, Annemarie graced Gilbert’s mother with her most disarming smile. “Why, thank you so much. I do hope you’ll drop by for my grand opening. I’ll be displaying several new pieces featuring my ‘Ouachita sunrise’ motif.”

  Mrs. Ballard sniffed. “I do have a full calendar, but if I have time . . .”

  Thomas came up beside his mother, rolling his eyes in disdain. “She has time, I assure you. In fact, I shall personally escort Mother to your opening.”

  With an arched brow and a polite nod, Mrs. Ballard excused herself.

  Thomas toed the carpet. “Sorry about that. But you know Mother.”

  Indeed. “Do you suppose you’ll convince her to come tomorrow?”

  “If I have to hogtie her to the hood of the car.”

  They both laughed as they stepped through the doors into the midday sunshine, and Annemarie couldn’t stop herself from murmuring, “I do pity the woman who eventually marries you or Gil—” Heat climbed into her face. “That was utterly thoughtless. Please forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive when you’re merely stating the obvious.” Shaking his head, Thomas halted on the church lawn beneath the fringed shade of a pine tree. “Why do you think I’ve worked so hard at avoiding relationships?”

  “Oh, Thomas, you’re going to make some girl a wonderful husband someday.”

  “Provided we move to Timbuktu immediately after the wedding—and that’s contingent upon actually making it to the altar before Mother can scare her off.” He grinned at Annemarie. “If I could find a girl like you, I’d have it made. You never let my mother intimidate you for long.”

  Annemarie shivered. If he only knew! She clasped his hand, studying the neatly manicured nails, the faintest ink smudge on the finger where his fountain pen would rest. His were strong hands, caring hands, hands of a man who’d be gentle with his beloved’s heart. She prayed someday Thomas would know true love . . . the kind Annemarie was only just discovering in Samuel.

  She tilted her chin to meet Thomas’s troubled gaze. “You do understand it wasn’t your mother who came between Gilbert and me. If our love had been strong enough, nothing would have kept us apart.”

  “I know.” Thomas filled his lungs with air and then released it in a gusty sigh. “I just hope he isn’t setting up another unsuspecting girl for a broken heart.”

  Before Annemarie could reply, her parents caught up with her, reminding her they needed to get home to finish dinner preparations. As she bounced along in the backseat of the Model T, she lifted a prayer heavenward for Nurse Mary McClarney.

  “Go in peace, serve the Lord with gladness.” Head bowed, Samuel folded his hands as patients and visitors filed out of the chapel.

  With each day that passed, his hypocrisy grew. How could he stand here Sunday after Sunday—how could he proclaim Christ’s blessing and forgiveness on his daily hospital rounds—while he felt himself falling farther and farther away from the God he had pledged his life to serve?

  Father, forgive—

  “Fine sermon, Padre.”

  He looked up to see Sergeant King standing before him. Clad in a frayed green robe over striped pajamas, the grizzled soldier leaned heavily on a cane.

  At a loss for words, Samuel only smiled. He wouldn’t admit the message today was one he’d pulled from his files—a sermon written back when faith came easy and war remained a distant rumble on the horizon. He stepped off the dais and offered his arm to the sergeant. “May I walk you back to the ward?”

  “Be my pleasure.” Sergeant King shuffled alongside Samuel as they made their way along hospital corridors smelling of floor polish, disinfectant, and the competing aromas from the meal trays. “You met the new doc yet?” the sergeant asked. “Came onboard this weekend.”

  “I took some time off yesterday. Hadn’t heard someone new had come on staff.” They reached the sergeant’s ward, and Samuel held the door for him.

  “Nice enough guy, just transferred here from Walter Reed. Before then, he served in one of them field hospitals over in France.”

  The man had seen the worst the war could offer. Samuel felt for him. “What’s his name?”

  “Russ. Dave Russ, I think he said. You two could probably trade war stories.”

  “Russ?” Samuel swallowed. The name was similar, but the likelihood this was the same man . . .

  Sergeant King rubbed his forehead. “Nope, it’s Donald. Dr. Donald Russ.” He pointed across the ward. “There he is now. I can introduce you.”

  Recognition corkscrewed through Samuel’s belly. Though the doctor now sported a neatly trimmed beard, his tall, lanky frame and characteristic slouch were unmistakable. Hard to forget the man who’d practically carried Samuel through the final weeks of the war. If not for Dr. Russ’s staunch support and unfailing compassion, with one stroke of a pen he could have permanently ended Samuel’s career as a military chaplain.

  Maybe it would have been better if he had.

  In any case, he couldn’t face Dr. Russ. Not now. Not today. Haste sharpened his tone as he said, “I’ll have to meet him another time. It’s later than I realized, and I’m expected for dinner with friends.”

  Handing off Sergeant King to a nurse, Samuel hurried out, never slowing his pace until he exited the hospital and reached the promenade. His heart slammed against his ribs. One hand holding his side, he collapsed onto a park bench.

  Why was the past catching up to him now, just when he’d convinced himself he could put it all behind him and begin anew?

  Just when he’d finally allowed himself to fall in love again?

  Fool! He should have spoken with Dr. Russ at once, explained his need to keep the past in the past. The doctor, of all people, would understand. He knew exactly what Samuel had endured, the secret shame entombed in the darkest depths of memory.

  Breathing easier, Samuel made up his mind to meet with Dr. Russ privately first thing tomorrow. The man had helped Samuel before. Surely he would again. Head in his hands, Samuel tried once more to pray. Father, forgive me. Father, forgive me—

  He could get no further than those three words. It was one thing to trust that God heard and answered, helped and healed, when he prayed on behalf of others. But for himself, when his sin chafed like filthy rags beneath the façade of his chaplain’s uniform, would he ever know God’s peace again?

  “Where is Samuel?” Annemarie fussed with a place setting on the dining room table, her gaze drifting to the front door.

  Ursula Vickary set a basket of rolls on the table. “Someone probably caught him after services with a need to talk. You know Sam. He can never turn a hurting soul away.”

  Annemarie thought she detected the merest hint of displeasure—or was it concern?—in Mrs. Vickary’s expression. Dare she mention how she’d found Sam yesterday afternoon? She forced nonchalance into her tone. “He’s spent so much time helping me at the shop these past several days. I hope he hasn’t overtired himself. Did he seem all right when he left for the hospital this morning?”

  The hesitation before Mrs. Vickary answered spoke volumes. She moved to the window, her shoulders heaving with a worried sigh. “Samuel hasn’t seemed all right since his first letters home from France.”

  Annemarie joined Mrs. Vickary at the window. Clouds had drifted in, obscuring the sun and bringing a chill to the afternoon. “It’s horrible, isn’t it—how the war has changed the people we love.”

  “And our love will carry them through.” With another sigh, Mrs. Vickary patted Annemarie’s arm. “I’m going to help your mother finish in the kitchen. Stay here and watch for Samuel. He’ll be here soon, I’m certain.”

  Mrs. Vickary must have s
ensed Annemarie needed a few minutes alone. Best to use the time for prayer—for Samuel, for Gilbert, for all of them. She donned a thick wool sweater from the hall tree before stepping onto the front porch, where the March wind tugged at her skirt and blew wisps of hair across her eyes. She had a feeling Sam would be walking today—his usual mode of transportation whenever he needed to gather his thoughts. And he’d done a lot of walking since arriving in Hot Springs. She knew for a fact he’d taken his shoes in to be resoled at least once already if not twice.

  “I never knew how much I appreciated a good pair of shoes,” Sam had told her once. She hated the thought of his tramping all over France with blisters on his feet, wet socks, and boots either worn completely through or so caked with mud he could hardly lift his legs.

  Halfway down the block, she spotted him—arms swinging, eyes to the ground, walking with purpose. A sunbeam broke through the clouds just then, shining directly upon his golden head, and the sight made her heart lift with pure joy.

  “Sam. Sam!”

  He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his chest heaving from the climb up the sloping street. When his eyes met hers, his face exploded into a smile that nearly split his face in two—the look of someone who’d been away a long, long time and had finally come home. A look she hoped to see again and again and again, every day for the rest of her life.

  A look that convinced her beyond all doubt that she had fallen deeply, inexorably in love with Samuel Vickary.

  She broke into a run, the urgency to lose herself in his arms banishing all sense of decorum. She crashed into him, spinning them both in a dizzying dance. Before they toppled over, she found her footing and paused to catch her breath. “I worried when you were so late.”

  “I stayed to walk Sergeant King back to the ward.” He pulled her beneath his arm and kissed her temple. His glance slid sideways for an instant, tension lines flattening his lips.

  “Is he well?” she asked, though she suspected the elderly sergeant was the least of his concerns.