When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  “Yes, yes, fine.” Samuel looped his arm through Annemarie’s and they continued up the walk. “I’ve kept your mother holding dinner long enough. She’ll think I’m the worst of dinner guests and never invite me back.”

  Annemarie laughed with him, but several steps later, she tugged him to a halt. He faced her with a furrowed brow, one corner of his mouth curled upward, and she couldn’t keep the worry out of her tone. “You can’t fool me, Sam. I know you’re troubled about something. Is it Gilbert? The war? If you think I wouldn’t understand—”

  “I don’t want to talk about any of that right now.” His gaze caressed every inch of her face, as if he wanted to memorize each curve and angle. His hand found the base of her throat, his touch like a tender flame upon her skin. The lines around his mouth softened, and he drew her closer, closer. With his lips mere inches from hers, he whispered, “All I want—all I need—is to know you care for me.”

  “I do, Sam. I care for you more than words can express—more than I ever thought possible.” She melted against him, not caring if neighbors or passersby witnessed her brazenness, and sought his lips. He tasted of spearmint and coffee, his mouth softening against hers with a tenderness both sweet and urgent.

  He finally pulled away, but slowly, reluctantly, like a stubborn child told to pack up his toys and go home. Though she would happily forego dinner entirely to stay here locked in his arms, drinking up his kisses, she couldn’t shake the sense that he would never be fully present with her until he dealt once and for all with the demons from his past.

  25

  There, that should be a lot more comfortable.” The prosthetist helped Gilbert to his feet, then passed him his crutches.

  Gilbert tested his weight upon the newly refitted artificial leg. “I don’t feel the pressure points like before.” He took a few tentative steps. “Yes, definitely better.”

  “Good. As your stability improves, you can try using a cane and get rid of those cumbersome crutches.”

  Gilbert nodded across the room toward a rack of canes. “Mind if I give it a try now?”

  “Sure, see how it goes.” The prosthetist selected one and exchanged it for Gilbert’s crutches. “You’ll use it on your right side, opposite your prosthesis.”

  “That’ll help, since my left arm is the weak one.” Gilbert steadied himself as the prosthetist explained the proper sequence for forward movement. His first few steps were wobbly, but he quickly caught on.

  Once he felt secure on a flat surface, they moved to an area where he could practice on a short flight of stairs. By the time Gilbert’s appointment ended, he felt renewed confidence. Since he now looked less like a cripple and more like a whole man, maybe the pitying stares would end.

  Maybe Annemarie—

  White-hot pain blazed through his skull. Rage, jealousy, hate—it all mixed together in an emotional tornado that sucked the breath from his lungs. Forgetting everything he’d just been told about which leg to move with the cane, he stumbled and pitched forward.

  The prosthetist grabbed his arm. “Easy, there. Gotta take it slow, okay?”

  Just as suddenly the maelstrom subsided, leaving in its wake only shame and self-loathing. Gilbert found his balance and averted his face before the man could notice the wetness sliding down his cheeks. He shook off the beefy hand supporting him. “I’m fine . . . fine.”

  Or he would be, once he replenished his morphine supply.

  Before his emotional state collapsed further, he exited the clinic and found his way to the hospital administration building. From the lobby he telephoned Thomas at the Arlington to say his appointment was over. As usual, Mother had Zachary otherwise occupied for the day.

  “It’ll be another ten minutes or so. I’m in the middle of something.” A sneer crept into Thomas’s tone. “But I’m certain you can find something—or should I say someone—with whom to occupy yourself.”

  Gilbert bit back a snide reply. “Just get here when you can. I’ll be watching for you.”

  There’d be no rendezvous with Mary this morning. At a quiet dinner last night, she’d made it clear she could no longer compromise her position at the hospital—nor her reputation. If Gilbert wanted to court her properly, he could call at her home, meet her mother, and treat her with deference instead of stealing kisses in dark closets and pressing for more than she was willing to give.

  So he’d been a cad. He admitted it. But he’d made up his mind to honor Mary’s request as best he could. She was all he had now, and he needed her. Needed her under whatever terms she named.

  Using the cane had tired him more than anticipated. On the veranda outside the hospital entrance, he limped to the far end and then rested against the railing while he waited for Thomas. It was quiet here, a peaceful calm settling over the spring morning. After yesterday’s chilly gloom, the sun had ventured out again, and it was turning out to be a grand St. Patrick’s Day, perfect for Annemarie’s opening—

  He slammed the lid on such thoughts and turned his focus to Mary. She would surely know how to celebrate the Irish holiday. With her gorgeous red hair, she’d look divine in a frock of emerald green. If he behaved himself, called on her like a gentleman, maybe she’d—

  An unmistakable voice drifted down from the veranda one floor above him. “. . . happier than I’ve been since before the war. Annemarie’s the best thing to ever happen to me. When I’m with her, I can forget for a while, pretend I’m . . . normal. Human. Alive.”

  “But if you love her, Samuel, then you owe her complete honesty.” Another man’s voice, also vaguely familiar. “Don’t let this haunt you for the rest of your life. Let Annemarie know your struggles. Let her help you come to terms with what happened so you can accept forgiveness and put the past behind you.”

  So the pious chaplain had a secret, did he? Gilbert’s nerves sang. He slunk deeper into the shadows.

  The echo of an open palm slapping wood cut through the morning stillness. “Because of my weakness, my reckless stupidity, a man is dead. Do you suppose Private Braswell’s parents would forgive me if they knew I was responsible?”

  “It was war, Sam. War. You weren’t the first man to snap under pressure, and you sure won’t be the last.”

  A face to go with the voice began to emerge in Gilbert’s mind—Dr. Russ, his attending physician aboard the Comfort. When had Dr. Russ come to Hot Springs? And what did he know about Samuel that Samuel was trying to hide . . . or hide from? If it could hurt Annemarie—

  “Gil. You ready to go or not?” Thomas strode toward him, impatience firming his jaw.

  “Didn’t see you drive up.” Gilbert shot a quick glance overhead. The voices had faded, as if the men had taken their conversation farther along the veranda.

  “Well, get a move on, will you? I don’t want to be late for Annemarie’s grand opening.”

  An event for which Gilbert needed no reminders. Thomas had tried to convince him to tag along, but the awkwardness would have been unbearable. “You have time to drop me off at the hotel first, right?”

  Thomas smirked. “As you wish, milord.”

  “I can do without your sarcasm, thank you.” Gripping his new cane, Gilbert did a quick mental review of the prosthetist’s instructions, then stepped out. It felt amazingly good to stand erect again, to walk with restored confidence.

  “A cane, eh? Looks like you’re making progress.” Thomas fell in step beside him, surprise lighting his eyes . . . and perhaps a touch of admiration?

  “Progress. Right.” How long had it been since Gilbert could honestly say his little brother looked up to him? Hard to garner respect from others when he had so little for himself.

  Was it too late? Too late to reclaim the honor he craved from his family, from his peers?

  From Annemarie?

  An idea slithered into his brain, coiled around his heart, sank its fangs deep into his wounded pride. Thomas, his mother, Samuel, even Annemarie had called him a fool for giving her up. Annemarie still loved him, h
e’d swear to it. She’d only turned to Samuel because Gilbert had pushed her away.

  Because she believed Samuel to be the honorable man Gilbert was not.

  If she were to learn otherwise . . . if Gilbert could unearth the details of this wartime secret Samuel so desperately wanted to keep buried . . .

  Annemarie had been Gilbert’s once. If he had his way, she would be his again.

  When a door opened and a nurse wheeled a patient onto the veranda, the doctor motioned Samuel around the corner. “I mean it, Sam. You’ve spent as much time with shell-shocked doughboys as I have, maybe more. It happens to officers, enlisted men, ambulance drivers—doesn’t matter how much training we’ve had.” A hunted look crept into Dr. Russ’s eyes. “Everybody’s got a breaking point, and in this war, way too many of us found ours.”

  Samuel studied the doctor’s face. “You? When?”

  Dr. Russ replied with a harsh laugh. “Why do you think I transferred here from Walter Reed? Once we left France and I wasn’t triaging more patients in a single hour than stateside doctors handle in a month, I thought I’d be fine. Then a couple weeks ago I cracked, couldn’t deal with fixing one more botched amputation, couldn’t explain to one more wife or mother why her soldier gets the shakes every time a door slams or a car backfires.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Dr. Russ sighed. “I didn’t tell you my sob story to belittle yours. I just want you to know you’re not alone in this. And you don’t have to be.”

  “If we were only talking about a bad case of shell-shock, maybe I could believe you. But what I did—” Samuel’s gut cramped. Images exploded behind his eyes. “The men depended on me to keep up their morale, to be an example of steadfast faith through the horrors of war, and I failed them. I failed God.”

  “The unforgivable sin. Yeah, you’ve talked about it plenty.” Stepping closer, Dr. Russ slid his hands into the pockets of his white coat. “You may think you deserted God, but I guarantee God has never left you. He’ll see you through this if you’ll let Him, and your faith will be all the stronger for it.”

  With all his heart, Samuel wanted to believe Dr. Russ’s words. He’d heard them before, during the long, dark nights immediately following Private Braswell’s death. When the nightmares rocketed Samuel out of his hospital bed in a clammy, guilt-induced sweat, Dr. Russ would sit reading Scripture to him until the panic abated. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me . . .

  But even when Samuel had recovered enough to resume his duties, he’d watch yet another ambulance disgorge its gory cargo and have to bite down on the inside of his lip until it bled to keep from screaming curses at God all over again. If not for Dr. Russ’s calm assurance, if not for his constant reminders of how much these soldiers needed Samuel to be strong for them, to pray with them, to speak God’s blessing upon them in their final hours, he might have taken the easy way out. A pistol wouldn’t have been hard to come by. One shot to the temple and his troubles would be over. After all, it should have been Samuel who died, not the innocent young private.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sam.” Dr. Russ stiff-armed him, jolting him out of the past. “Don’t go there. Promise me.”

  Samuel’s vision cleared. He offered a weak smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve long since realized suicide isn’t going to solve anything, just speed me on my way to eternal judgment. And I have too much to atone for before I meet my Maker.”

  Dr. Russ flashed a doubtful smirk. “Not by my reckoning. Or God’s either, if I know my Bible. How does the verse go? ‘There is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus.’ ”

  “Romans 8, verse 1.” Samuel braced his forearms on the railing and heaved a pained sigh. “But how do I dare believe I’m in Christ Jesus after denying Him as I did?”

  Leaning in beside Samuel, the doctor grinned beneath his whiskers. “Seems to me denying Jesus puts you in real good company. And just look what the Lord did with Peter and Paul after His forgiveness restored them.”

  Samuel stared at his clasped hands. If he closed his eyes, he could still imagine them drenched in Private Braswell’s blood. But hadn’t Saint Paul’s hands been stained with blood as he’d gone about persecuting anyone who spoke in the name of Christ? And what about King David, who lusted after Bathsheba and then schemed to have her husband, Uriah the Hittite, killed in battle? The Lord still called these men, forgave them, used them mightily.

  “Trust me, Sam. This burden of guilt is Satan’s doing, not God’s.” Dr. Russ clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man. God’s man. Don’t let Satan—or anyone else—convince you otherwise.”

  “A part of me knows you’re right. And I’m trying to keep the faith.” Samuel stood erect and faced the doctor. “It’s just . . . when the past breaks into the present, as it seems to do with such alarming regularity . . . it’s all I can do to hold myself together and keep my eyes on the Lord.”

  “It’ll get easier with time, I promise.”

  Samuel couldn’t suppress a sardonic laugh. “Exactly the words I’ve used to counsel others.”

  “Then heed your own counsel and believe it.” Dr. Russ glanced at his watch, then looked up with a sly grin. “Say, don’t you have somewhere else to be this morning?”

  Annemarie’s grand opening! Samuel checked his own watch—five minutes to ten. He’d planned to be at the shop in plenty of time for the ribbon-cutting ceremony, which meant he’d have to race like the wind if he didn’t want to miss it entirely.

  Adrenaline surging, he glanced around for the quickest way down to Central Avenue. Then, pausing, he seized the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for the talk. You’ve helped more than you know.”

  “Anytime, Padre. Now get a move on. You wouldn’t want to keep your sweetheart waiting.”

  Annemarie hated to keep Mayor McClendon waiting, but she couldn’t bear to start the ribbon-cutting ceremony until Samuel arrived. He had as big a stake in her shop as she did—perhaps more, since he and his mother were her primary investors.

  Pacing on the sidewalk outside the shop, she peered down the street in the direction of the hospital. “Do you see him yet, Mama?”

  “Your young eyes are better than mine, dear. Give him another minute or two.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Kendall.” A middle-aged man tipped his bowler hat. “I’m afraid the mayor has other appointments this morning. Unless we begin immediately . . .”

  “Of course, of course.” Worry collided with disappointment as Annemarie returned her attention to the small crowd gathered in front of her shop. She should be delighted so many friends and members of the local business community had come out to support her, but without Sam here, her enthusiasm waned.

  Then, as she strode to the shop entrance to stand beside Mayor McClendon, she heard a commotion behind her. The crowd parted, and Samuel burst through. He made his way to her side, his eyes speaking apology.

  “I worried you wouldn’t arrive in time.” Annemarie entwined her hand in his and squeezed. “But you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

  The man in the bowler hat coughed discreetly. “Are we ready now, Miss Kendall?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Annemarie squared her shoulders and turned to face the gathered friends, business owners, and dignitaries. She’d prepared a brief speech and introductions, but all rational thought vanished, and at first she could only laugh in happy amazement.

  One hand still locked in Sam’s, the other resting at the base of her throat, she finally regained her composure and prayed her voice wouldn’t crack. “Forgive me, but I still can hardly believe this day has arrived. I have so many people to thank. My father, Joseph Kendall, for teaching me everything he knows about the pottery business.”

  Looking sharp in his Sunday-best suit, Papa winked at her, his gaze filled with pride.

  “My mother, Ida Kendall, for her patience and understanding when my pottery skills far outpace
d my aptitude for domesticity.”

  Mama gave an exaggerated nod of agreement, and laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “My good friend Thomas Ballard, who provided my first public venue by displaying my creations in the Arlington Hotel lobby.”

  Thomas tipped his hat. “Our loss, your gain.”

  “And last but certainly not least, Army Chaplain Samuel Vickary and his mother, Mrs. Ursula Vickary. This venture has become a reality thanks to their encouragement and generous financial backing, and I will be forever indebted to them—or at least until the shop turns a profit,” she added with a laugh.

  Samuel’s grip tightened, and he cast her a meaningful smile. Next to him, his mother beamed.

  An alderman handed the mayor a huge pair of gold-plated scissors. The mayor held them out to Annemarie. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s.”

  They turned toward the shop door, where a broad pink ribbon had been draped across the entrance. Annemarie placed her hands next to the mayor’s on the scissors, and together they snipped the ribbon. As it parted, the crowd burst into applause and cheers.

  Proudly, Annemarie opened her shop door to admit her first patrons. Mayor McClendon and his entourage stayed only long enough to partake of cookies and cider while touting the current city hall agenda to anyone who would listen. Annemarie doubted they gave her ceramic works much notice. Her visitors from the Central Avenue business district lingered a bit longer, but after congratulating her and perusing the displays, they gradually filtered out.

  Soon everyone had gone except Annemarie’s parents, Sam, Mrs. Vickary, and Thomas. Sagging with exhaustion, Annemarie whistled out a noisy breath. She felt as if her face would split in two from smiling so much, and her right hand had endured so many crushing handshakes it had almost gone numb.

  Mama wrapped her in a hug and then released her with a delighted sigh. “What an absolutely perfect day!”

  “Only one thing could make it better.” Annemarie set her hands on her hips, her gaze combing the display shelves. “Unfortunately, not one of this morning’s visitors is yet a paying customer.”