by Myra Johnson
Someone called his name just as he reached the long flight of steps leading to where he’d parked his roadster on Reserve Avenue. Leaning on his cane, he turned.
A young, dark-haired nurse waved from the path as she hurried toward him. “Wait, Lieutenant, please!”
She looked familiar . . . a colleague of Mary’s, perhaps? He racked his brain for a name but came up empty. Which wouldn’t surprise him, even if he’d known her for ages. Ever since the whizzbang found him at the Marne, he did well to remember his own name.
White skirts billowing, the nurse nearly mowed him down in her rush to catch up. She caught his wrist and clambered for breath. “I’m . . . sorry . . . didn’t want you to . . . get away.”
“Not likely, considering the death grip you have on my arm.” He stared pointedly at her white-knuckled hand.
With an embarrassed gasp she released him. “You must think I’m crazy.” Tucking strands of nut-brown hair into her bun, she gave a nervous chuckle. “See, I was just getting off work when I noticed you under the tree. I figured you must be waiting for Mary.”
Gilbert hesitated, his jaw shifting to one side. This woman could very well be one of Mrs. Daley’s spies.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The young nurse smiled coyly. “I’m Lois Underwood. Mary’s friend.”
“Lois. Of course.” He only wished he could honestly say he remembered her.
“Anyway, when I saw you out here, waiting just forever on this hot summer day, I felt awful for you.” Lois dropped her voice. “I guess Mary didn’t tell you she’s doing special research work for Dr. Russ.”
Gilbert bristled at the name. Army surgeon Donald Russ had been Gilbert’s physician aboard the Comfort, then was later transferred to the Hot Springs Army and Navy Hospital. Rather too conveniently for Gilbert’s taste, considering the role the man had played in keeping Gilbert and Annemarie apart.
With a silent groan, he edged sideways, forehead pressed into his palm. When would he get it through his thick skull? The only person responsible for losing Annemarie to Samuel was Gilbert himself.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
He lowered his hand to see Lois Underwood staring up at him with a worried frown. “I’m fine. And you can drop the ‘Lieutenant.’ The Army mustered me out months ago.”
“Honorable discharge. I know. You’re a hero, Lieuten—”
“Stop, will you?” With an apologetic sigh, he added, “Just call me Gilbert. Please.”
“Really? Well, thanks!” Lois beamed as if he’d just presented her with the Medal of Honor. “I guess that means we’re friends, right?”
“Certainly. Any friend of Mary’s . . .” An automobile horn tootled at the intersection below, reminding Gilbert he just wanted to go home. Except now, he had this image in his head of Mary and Dr. Russ, the two of them ensconced in his cozy little office—doing research.
He hammered down the surge of jealousy threatening to blow the top of his head off. The green-eyed monster had destroyed his life once before. He wouldn’t let it win twice. “Look, Miss . . .” Blanking again. Not good.
“Lois. Lois Underwood. Like the typewriter. No relation, of course.” Her laugh jangled like a tin can filled with marbles.
“Lois. Yes. Thanks for your concern. I’m just on my way home, if you don’t mind.” Once again, he started for the steps.
And once again, Lois Underwood’s strident call drew him up short. “Hey, you wouldn’t want to give a girl a ride, would you? I need to pick up some things downtown, and it’s an awful hot day for walking.”
Gilbert drove the tip of his cane into the top step. Shooting her a rakish grin that belied his annoyance, he motioned for Lois to join him. “Where can I drop you, Miss Underwood?”
“Oh, thanks! Thanks loads!” She scurried to his side and linked her arm through his as they proceeded down the steps. “And you can call me Lois. I mean, since we’re friends now.”
Reaching the street, he held the passenger door of his roadster while she climbed in, tucking the skirt of her nurse’s uniform around her legs. “What a fancy automobile! Must have cost you an arm and a le—” She clamped a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“What’s an arm and a leg between friends?” Gilbert winked and clinked the end of his cane against his prosthesis before circling around to the driver’s side.
Truth be told, if Mary wouldn’t deign to interrupt her research to respond to his urgent plea, then delivering the vivacious, if rather cloying, Miss Underwood to her destination might distract him just as effectively from the day’s events.
As long as the route didn’t take them past Ouachita Fellowship Church.
Want to learn more about author
Myra Johnson and check out other great
fiction from Abingdon Press?
Sign up for our fiction newsletter at
www.AbingdonPress.com
to read interviews with your favorite authors, find tips
for starting a reading group, and stay posted on what
new titles are on the horizon. It’s a place to connect
with other fiction readers or post a
comment about this book.
Be sure to visit Myra online!
www.myrajohnson.com www.myra.typepad.com
www.seekerville.net
