When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  For a moment the old worries crept in. “Do you mean it? No regrets?”

  Annemarie leaned back to cup his cheeks with her palms. Her gaze grew dark and stern. “Samuel Vickary, don’t you ever ask me such a thing again. If I regret anything, it’s that it took me so long to realize God had been shaping us for this day all along.”

  “I suppose He was.” Samuel pulled her close again, still hardly able to believe he held the love of his life in his arms. “When I consider I might never have met you if not for the war, if not for befriending Gilbert onboard the Comfort, if not for coming to Hot Springs—”

  “I would now be a miserable spinster still keeping the books for my father’s pottery factory instead of married to the kindest, handsomest, most wonderful man in the world.”

  Samuel cast her a doubtful frown. “You’re certain you and Gilbert—”

  “Yes, Sam, absolutely certain.” Her eyes softened. “I’ve told you before, there will always be a tender place in my heart for Gilbert. I was in love with the man I imagined my childhood friend would grow up to become. Neither of us could have predicted how life would change us.”

  “You mean the war.” Memories Samuel would never be entirely free of brought a tightness to his throat.

  “Darling, darling . . .” Cupping his cheek, Annemarie stretched up to press warm lips against his cheek. “Not today. Promise me.”

  Barring the door of his mind against the darkness, Samuel kissed her forehead. His glance shifted to the open doorway, where a blue, blue sky shone bright overhead. A lightness invaded him, buoyed him, swelled until he thought his chest would burst. As long as he had Annemarie by his side, as long as he walked in the light of God’s love and forgiveness, the clouds of war would remain but a distant memory.

  Discussion Questions

  1. As the story opens, Annemarie is happy and relieved to learn the war is over, but she can’t help fearing the war has severely changed the man she loves. Has a traumatic life event affected you or someone you care about? What changes did you notice? What support was offered?

  2. Annemarie is at odds with her father over her desire to create more artistic ceramic pieces than what her father manufactures. How do you see human creativity and artistry in the light of God as Creator? How do you express your own creativity?

  3. During their journey home, Samuel and Gilbert form a deep bond of friendship. What do they have in common? How are they different? Do you have a “friend who sticks closer than a brother”?

  4. When Annemarie is troubled, she finds escape at the pottery wheel. What activities do you find comforting when you wrestle with a difficult issue? Do you ever find that distracting activity allows you to focus more fully on God?

  5. Gilbert’s war wounds make him feel less than a man, and he fears Annemarie’s pity more than anything. Have you experienced a time when pride or self-doubt kept you from sharing your struggles with others? What was the result?

  6. Though Samuel is attracted to Annemarie, he is determined to keep her and Gilbert together. What do you think of his motives? Can you recall a situation where you sacrificed your own desires in order to protect the interests of someone you cared about?

  7. In the early twentieth century, a woman’s place was thought to be in the home, but when American men left to serve in the Great War, the role of women in the workplace began to change. Compare Annemarie, Mrs. Ballard, and Mary McClarney, three very different women.

  8. Gilbert’s addictions cause increasing problems in his life. What can his struggles teach us about where to turn in times of pain and disappointment?

  9. Samuel’s faith was shaken badly by what happened on the battlefield, and after lashing out at God, he feared he’d committed the unforgivable sin. What do you think God does with our anger and doubts? Is anyone truly beyond redemption?

  10. World War I ushered in the term shell shock, and soldiers diagnosed with the problem were considered “weak.” Today the military calls it combat and operational stress reaction (COSR), defined as “expected and predictable emotional, intellectual, physical, and/or behavioral reactions from exposure to stressful event(s).” How have attitudes and treatments evolved over the past century in regard to war’s effects on the human psyche?

  11. As Samuel’s memories return, he feels he must make amends for the death of Private Braswell and accept whatever consequences the military deems right. If we believe Jesus died for our sins and God has forgiven us, is it still important or necessary to make atonement to people we have wronged? Why or why not?

  12. “Happily ever after” only happens in fairy tales. What kind of future do you imagine for Samuel and Annemarie? For Gilbert and Mary? What kinds of problems and struggles should they anticipate? Based on all they have already been through, how do you think they would cope?

  We hope you enjoyed When the Clouds Roll By and that you will continue to read Myra’s Till We Meet Again series. Here’s an excerpt from the next book of the series, Whisper Goodbye.

  Whisper Goodbye

  1

  Hot Springs, Arkansas

  Saturday, June 14, 1919

  Searing sunlight assaulted Gilbert Ballard’s burning eyes. He rubbed them furiously, cursing both the brightness and his battered heart for the wetness sliding down his face. Stupid to have stayed this long. Stupid to have come at all.

  But no. He had to see for himself, had to be convinced beyond question the girl he’d once pledged his heart to—the girl whose heart he’d broken—was utterly beyond reach.

  Annemarie Kendall. Now Mrs. Samuel Vickary. And all because of Gilbert’s own pride. His foolishness. His arrogant, self-serving, pain-induced idiocy.

  Groaning, he drew his gaze away from the happy couple beaming from the steps of Ouachita Fellowship Church and concealed himself behind the glossy leaves of a magnolia tree. A physical craving rolled through him, every nerve screaming for the deliverance one morphine tablet could bring. Not an option, though. He’d sworn off the stuff after promising Mary he’d kick the vile addiction.

  He’d gladly settle for a stiff drink instead. Although how much longer he could count on alcohol’s availability remained to be seen. With hard liquor already in short supply thanks to wartime bans on production and sales, on July 1 the Wartime Prohibition Act would shut down all bars and saloons, denying him even the solace of a frothy mug of beer.

  “Drinkin’ yourself into oblivion’s no less a sin than losin’ your soul to drugs, Gilbert Ballard.” Sweet Mary McClarney’s chiding tone sang through his brain like the voice of reason it was.

  And he would listen. With God’s help, at least this once, he would listen.

  He climbed into his blue Cole Eight Roadster and drove away before anyone at the church across the street could notice him. Somehow, some way, he had to purge Annemarie Kendall—Annemarie Vickary—from his heart once and for all.

  He sped through town, dust flying as he left the paved streets for rougher roads. If he could drive far enough, fast enough, he might outpace the unrelenting emptiness that had haunted him since the war. Those weeks lying in a French field hospital, then the voyage home on the U.S.S. Comfort, had given him plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to conclude he’d never be the husband Annemarie deserved, to vow he would not consign the woman he loved to marriage to a cripple.

  As if to spite him, the stump of his left leg began to throb. Slowing the car, he reached down to massage his thigh. The fit of his newest prosthesis had eliminated the worst of the discomfort, but it didn’t stop the recurring phantom leg pain. Sometimes invisible flames tortured his nonexistent foot. Other times he imagined a thousand needles stabbing his calf. Today, it felt as though giant pincers were squeezing the entire length of his leg.

  He swung the steering wheel hard to the right and jammed his foot on the brake pedal. The roadster lurched to a stop at the side of the road, while the grit raised by his skidding tires swirled through the open windows, nearly choking him. Stifling a spate of coughs, he
patted his shirtfront, fumbled through his trouser pockets, felt along the underside of the automobile seat. Just one pill . . . one pill . . .

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He lifted trembling fists to his temples. How many weeks had he been off the morphine now, and yet his body still betrayed him!

  Mary. He needed Mary.

  By force of will, he steadied himself enough to get the automobile turned around and aimed back toward Hot Springs. Mary would be at the hospital now. He pictured his dimpled Irish lass’s flame-red riot of curls spilling from her nurse’s cap as she made her rounds. If he could wheedle a few minutes alone with her, lose himself to her tender touch, she’d drive the demons away.

  She was the only one who could.

  “Time for your medication, Corporal Donovan.” Mary McClarney filled a water glass and handed it to the frail young soldier in the bed. As he swallowed the pills, she frowned to herself at his sallow complexion. Possible liver involvement? Something the doctor should follow up on.

  With a thankful nod, the corporal handed her the empty glass. “You’re an angel of mercy, Nurse McClarney.”

  “Aye, and don’t be forgettin’ it.” Mary winked as she made a notation on the corporal’s chart.

  “Will Dr. Russ be making rounds soon?” The soldier shifted, one hand pressed to his abdomen. “I wanted to ask him why I’ve still got this pain in my side.”

  “Postsurgical soreness is to be expected.” She lifted his pajama top and gently peeled back the dressing where a bowel obstruction had been repaired earlier in the week. “Your incision looks good, though—healing nicely.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I don’t feel so well. Kinda nauseous, you know?”

  “I’ll see what we can find to calm your stomach.” With a sympathetic smile, Mary glanced at the watch pinned to her smock. “However, I fear the good doctor may be a tad late this afternoon.”

  “Nearly forgot—Chaplain Vickary’s wedding.” Corporal Donovan gave a weak chuckle. “The padre’s sure been floating on air lately.”

  “Indeed. Everyone on staff is happy for him.” Perhaps Mary most of all—if only she dared hope the chaplain’s marriage to Annemarie Kendall meant the end of Gilbert’s obsession with his former fiancée.

  Mary sent an orderly to fetch warm tea and soda crackers for the corporal, then gave him a reassuring pat on the arm before continuing her rounds. Best to keep busy. Best not to think about Gilbert or wonder how this day affected him.

  As if she could keep from wondering! Even as she went about her nursing duties with all the necessary attention to detail, an invisible force tugged at her spirit, dividing her will, drawing away pieces of her heart in an unrelenting search for Gilbert, always Gilbert.

  “Miss McClarney.” The snapping tone of Mrs. Daley, chief nurse at the Hot Springs Army and Navy Hospital, glued Mary’s shoes to the floor.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Gripping the medicine tray she carried, Mary inhaled slowly between pursed lips and turned to face the gray-haired tyrant. What now? Had Mary failed to properly dispose of a soiled bandage? Left a syringe uncapped? Overlooked a vital notation on a patient’s chart?

  Mrs. Daley dropped a folded sheet of paper on Mary’s tray. “A message for you from Reception. Please don’t make me remind you to keep your personal affairs separate from hospital work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mary curtsied before she could stop herself, although it seemed only fitting, considering Mrs. Daley’s imperious nature.

  The woman gave Mary an odd look before pivoting on her heel and marching away.

  Anxious to learn who’d sent the message, Mary hurried into the work area behind the nurses’ station and deposited her tray. Please, Lord, don’t let it be about Mum. Mary’s mother’s chronic bronchitis often left her weak and short of breath. If she’d taken a turn for the worse . . .

  Fingers trembling, Mary unfolded the slip of paper.

  Meet me at the oak tree. Please.

  No signature. Not so much as the sender’s initials. Only seven simple words rendered in the manly scrawl that never failed to set her insides aquiver.

  Her limbs thrummed with the compulsion to rush from the hospital and straight to Gilbert’s side. In every stroke of the pen, she sensed his need, his longing, his pain. She should have expected today, of all days, he’d need her most of all. She should be glad of anything that drove him into her arms.

  If only it were anything but his despair over losing Annemarie.

  Well. With more than an hour left on her shift, she couldn’t exactly march out of the ward and hope to escape the wrath of Mrs. Daley. She certainly wasn’t of a mind to risk her career—her livelihood—at the whim of a dark-eyed rogue who’d drop her in a moment if there were a ghost of a chance he could reclaim his lost love. Let Gilbert Ballard stew in his own juices for a while longer, and maybe one of these days he’d realize Mary McClarney was not a woman to be trifled with.

  She’d just convinced herself to ignore Gilbert’s pull on her heart and go on about her work when footsteps sounded behind her. Certain it was Mrs. Daley come to chide her for shirking her duties, she tried to look busy sorting medicine vials and hypodermics.

  “Ah, Miss McClarney. Just the person I was looking for.”

  She recognized the familiar baritone of the kindly Dr. Russ, and relief swept through her. Turning, she stifled a surprised gasp to see the doctor was now beardless—and, dare she say, even more handsome than before. She offered the tall man a shy smile. “Back from the wedding festivities already, sir?”

  “Duty calls. I stayed long enough to see the happy couple off in style.” The doctor laid a chart on the counter between them and ran his finger down the page. His breath smelled faintly of strawberries. “You were the last to check on Corporal Donovan, I see.”

  “Yes, I gave him his three o’clock pills on schedule.” Mary bit her lip. “Is there a problem, Doctor?”

  “I hope not.” Dr. Russ stroked his chin, looking almost surprised to find no facial hair beneath his fingers. He must have shaved only this morning, no doubt a concession to his best man duties. “You noted he’s still having abdominal pain. Did you check his surgical incision?”

  “Perfectly fine and healing nicely.”

  The doctor glanced again at the chart. “Your notes also say he looks jaundiced. When did you first make that observation?”

  Mary flicked her gaze sideways as she weighed her answer. “I’d have to say it’s been a gradual thing, sir. Yesterday I thought it might only be the light, but this afternoon the yellow tinge to his skin and eyes seemed more pronounced. I knew you’d want to be informed.”

  “Good work, Miss McClarney.” Dr. Russ’s eyes twinkled with an approving smile. “Your sharp eye might well have saved Corporal Donovan’s life.”

  “Really, sir?” Mary’s face warmed. She stood a little taller. “What do you suspect?”

  “Not sure yet, but if his liver is failing, the sooner we start appropriate treatment, the better his chances.” The doctor’s jaw flexed as he perused the chart. He glanced at Mary. “Are you in the middle of anything pressing?”

  “Well, I . . .” Mary looked away, guilt tightening her chest as she crumpled Gilbert’s note and stuffed it into her pocket. Hadn’t she already made up her mind on that score? She cleared her throat. “Sir, if you’d give me five minutes to finish putting away these supplies—”

  “Perfect. While you do that, I’ll make a list of medical conditions I’d like you to research for me.”

  “Research? You want me to . . .”

  The doctor was already scribbling on the back of a wrinkled envelope—by the looks of it, from a wedding invitation. “Go to my office and look through my medical reference books. You’ll find pen and paper in the desk.”

  A thrill of anticipation sped Mary’s movements as she emptied her supply tray. Taking Dr. Russ’s list, she marched past the nurses’ station, barely acknowledging her friend Lois’s confused stare.

  But she couldn�
�t ignore Mrs. Daley’s stern glare when the wiry chief nurse blocked her path. “Exactly where are you off to in such a hurry, Miss McClarney? I certainly hope that cryptic message you received wasn’t your lover summoning you to another tryst.”

  She should have known Mrs. Daley couldn’t resist peeking at Gilbert’s note. Still, the woman’s accusation cut deep—and far too close to the truth. Mary squeezed her eyes shut briefly while she formed a careful reply. “Lieutenant Ballard is not my lover.” And certainly not in the tawdry sense Mrs. Daley’s tone implied. “I assure you, ma’am, I’ve the utmost respect for hospital policy and would never jeopardize my position in the Army Nurse Corps.”

  “I sincerely hope that is true, young lady.” The woman hiked her chin. “Now, hadn’t you best get back to work? I’m sure you have plenty to do right here on the ward.”

  Mary couldn’t resist a haughty look of her own. “As a matter of fact, I’m off on an urgent errand for Dr. Russ. A patient’s life could be at stake.”

  That silenced the old biddy. Lightness returning to her step, Mary brushed past Mrs. Daley and strode to the exit. She marched along the connecting breezeway and into the elegant, Swiss chalet–style administration building, where she finally reached Dr. Russ’s office on an upper floor.

  Sometime later she was grateful to realize during the time she spent researching diseases of the liver, thoughts of Gilbert hadn’t interrupted even once.

  Traffic sounds and exhaust fumes wafted up the hill between the bathhouses lining Central Avenue. Propped against a spreading oak tree within sight of the Army and Navy Hospital wing where Mary worked, Gilbert mopped his brow with a handkerchief already damp enough to wring out. He checked his watch. Again. Five minutes more, and he’d have waited a full hour. Did Mary purposely keep him cooling his heels, or couldn’t she escape the old hag of a chief nurse?

  Obviously, Mary wasn’t coming. If he had a lick of sense, he’d march—make that limp—to his car and go home.