by Terrie Todd
The store window displayed a decal showing three Canadian soldiers, saluting. DO YOUR BIT. BACK US WITH YOUR MONEY, it read. BUY MADE IN CANADA GOODS. Behind the lettering was a Union Jack with a yellow maple leaf in the center. Charlotte put her thoughts aside as she pushed the door open. Inside, she found the needed items easily. In the dry goods section, where she’d gone to pick out a spool of thread, she was drawn to some ready-made baby clothes. Tiny nightgowns, flannel receiving blankets, and knitted sweaters were on display together. She allowed herself the luxury of running her fingers gently over the little garments, savoring their softness. Then, with a deep sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then moved quickly to the counter to pay for her items. No sense thinking about what was not to be. Someone else would be swaddling her baby.
By the time Charlotte returned to Mrs. Marshall’s, the sun was high and she was damp with perspiration. She laid the bag of items on the kitchen table and poured herself a tall glass of water, then sat down at the table to drink it.
“Took you long enough.” Mrs. Marshall stepped in from the dining room, carrying an armload of faded white curtains. “Drink your water, then get started on those front windows. I’m going to wash these, and when they’re dry, you can take them down to the Red Cross. Soon as they’re on the clothesline, I’m going to stitch up the new curtains. This place will be looking right spiffy when we reopen.”
Charlotte pulled the window cleaner out of the bag, gathered some rags from beneath the sink, and pushed her way through the curtain that separated the kitchen from the dining area. Trust Mrs. Marshall to pick the hottest day of the year to wash windows. At least the windows were still on the shady side of the building. For now.
A knock at the kitchen door stopped her. She paused and held the curtain back to watch Mrs. Marshall open the door. A man in a clerical collar stood on the other side, hat in hand.
“Reverend. I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Mrs. Marshall said.
The man nodded. “Hello, Maggie. May I come in?”
“Uh . . . sure.”
He stepped inside and Mrs. Marshall looked over her shoulder. “Go on about your business, Charlotte,” she said. “I want those done before lunchtime.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte let the curtain fall into place and began her task, telling herself she didn’t care about the conversation coming from the kitchen.
“Have a seat, Reverend Fennel.” Maggie placed her load of curtains on the counter and waved a hand toward a kitchen chair. Part of her wanted to tell him he was a sight for sore eyes. “I guess you heard the news already?”
“I did.”
“I meant to call you. It’s on my list.” Maggie sat down across from the man, trying to remember the last time she’d seen him. His dark brown hair and eyes were just like she remembered from their teen years, but the spindly adolescent had matured into a well-built man.
“Word travels fast. I thought I’d come by to see how you’re doing and offer whatever support I can.”
“Well, that’s very kind. Especially since I haven’t been to church—well, at least not to your church—”
“Maggie, that’s not what this is about. Just . . . forget all that. How are you?”
Maggie hung her head. “It’s hard. As you know, we married very young . . .”
“I remember.”
Maggie had attended Sunday school with Reuben Fennel when they were both youngsters at the small church he now pastored. Her parents were faithful members, and as a child she’d had no reason to doubt any of the teachings about Jesus and God she’d learned there. But after Douglas Marshall came into her life, it was all too easy to slowly drift away from the little corner church with the white clapboard walls and get swallowed up in the large one Doug’s family attended, with its fancy stained glass windows, pipe organ, and steeple. It was there that Maggie had walked the long aisle in a gorgeous white dress on her father’s arm, while Doug’s parents looked on with an impressive imitation of approval.
The tension had begun within days of the picture-perfect wedding. Maggie would never forget Doug’s first outburst. How had she failed to see this side of her fiancé before it was too late? With her father still occupying the living quarters at the restaurant, Douglas and Maggie had rented their own little apartment above Sam’s Shoe Repair. That night, she’d finished her restaurant shift and was turning the key in the lock at the front of the building when Doug jerked the door open, grabbed her by the arm, and roughly pulled her inside and up the stairs to their apartment. Maggie had to take two steps at a time to keep from stumbling.
“Get in here, woman,” he said.
“Ow! Doug, you’re hurting me. Let go!” Maggie tried to wrench her arm away as the whiff of alcohol invaded her nostrils. Who was this man she’d thought she knew? He hung on tight, and when they got to the top of the stairs, he pulled her inside and slammed the door shut. Without letting go of her wrist, he braced his back against the door.
“Where have you been all night?”
“All night? I’ve been working! It’s only—”
“Don’t tell me what time it is, woman. The restaurant’s been closed for more than two hours.”
Maggie was surprised when she glanced at the clock and saw that he was right. “I—I was visiting with my father. We haven’t had any time to chat since the wedding and I—”
“Shut up! I saw that Melvin Bloom eyeballing you when you waited on his table. He hung around, didn’t he? You were with him, weren’t you?”
“What?” Maggie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She ignored her gut reaction to say “you’re crazy,” though she certainly thought it.
“Don’t lie to me, woman.” With a grunt, Doug shoved Maggie sideways so that she completely lost her balance and hit the floor, knocking over a floor lamp on her way down. The glass globe over the bulb shattered with a sickening crack, spewing shards around the room.
The breakage seemed to halt Doug’s violence for the moment.
“I’m going out,” he said. “You better have this mess cleaned up when I get back. And listen to me. If you ever, I mean ever, mess around like that again, it will go so much worse for you. You’ll only wish I was as easy on you as I was tonight.”
He ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down and walked calmly out the door.
Maggie picked herself up, carefully swept up the broken glass, righted the lamp, and crawled into bed, where she cried herself to sleep. When she awoke in the middle of the night, Doug lay snoring next to her.
In the morning, he was gone. It was Maggie’s day off, and later, as she prepared a late breakfast, Doug came in the door clutching a handful of daisies and black-eyed Susans.
“I’m sorry.” He sounded truly remorseful. “If we had any money, I’d bring you two dozen red roses, you know I would. I don’t know what got into me last night, Maggie. You know I love you, right?”
Maggie slowly nodded and took the flowers, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen these same flowers in the neighbor’s garden next door.
“I’ll never do it again, Maggie, I promise.”
Maggie sighed. “Sit down and eat some porridge.”
Looking back now, Maggie knew something had changed in her that very day. A bitter, cold shell had begun to form over her soul ever so slowly, an unconscious attempt to shelter the compassionate and loving girl who still resided somewhere inside her. She knew now she should have left right that minute, after the first time. She should have run straight to her father. Bert Sutherland would not have been pleased with his daughter’s brief marriage, but he would have believed her and sheltered her. Now there was no father to run to.
After that, regular church attendance had become less of a priority as Maggie and Doug got busier in Bert’s Restaurant. Following her father’s retirement just six months later and his unexpected death only three months after that, the job of running Bert’s in lean times had fallen on the two of them.
“
Maggie? Are you all right?” Reuben Fennel was asking.
“Sorry, Reverend. Just lost in memories is all.” Maggie knew this was as good a time as any to practice her new role. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“You can quit with the ‘Reverend’ stuff, Maggie. It’s me, Reuben. The kid who stuck your braid in Reverend Donnor’s inkwell when you weren’t looking, remember?”
Maggie couldn’t resist a side grin as she glanced up at the man. “Did I ever forgive you for that?”
He smiled. “Did I ever ask you to?”
When she didn’t respond, he continued. “How are the plans coming along for a memorial service? Can I help?”
Feeling chagrined, Maggie told him Doug’s parents were handling the arrangements at their own church. “But I’d love for you to be there,” she added.
“Of course. Who will sit with you?” he asked, almost too softly for her to hear.
Maggie hadn’t thought of that. Truthfully, all she had really thought about was her life beyond that service and her new freedom. Such as it was. With her parents dead and gone and her only brother serving overseas, and given her knack for keeping people at a distance, Maggie found that she had no one she would consider a close friend.
She hesitated. “I suppose I could ask Freda from up the street. Although with school out for the summer and all her children home, she might not be able to get away in the middle of the afternoon.”
“I’d be happy to sit with you if you like.”
The thought struck both caution and longing into Maggie’s heart. How wonderful it would feel to have someone be there just for her, someone strong and good and kind. Someone who had known her before her heart grew cold. But stubbornness won out.
“I imagine I’ll sit with Doug’s family.”
“Of course.” Reuben shuffled his feet beneath his chair. “Maggie, would you like me to pray with you before I go?”
“If you like.”
Reuben leaned forward, elbows on knees, and bowed his head. Maggie folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.
“Heavenly Father, I lift Maggie to you and ask for your gracious hand upon her in the difficult days ahead. Bring her comfort, peace, and courage. Help her feel your presence and your love. Provide for her in every way, Lord. Bring people around her to support and help her. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
When Maggie looked up, she saw that Reuben continued to sit with his head bowed. She didn’t know what to do. Was he done? She watched in wonder as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He was crying? For her?
“I didn’t even offer you a drink,” Maggie said, hoping to break the awkwardness. “How about a glass of cold water?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
Maggie poured the water and set it on the table in front of him. She decided to remain standing.
“What will you do now, Maggie? Have you had a chance to think about it?”
It took Maggie a moment to understand what he was even asking. Why would she do anything different than what she’d been doing?
“Guess I’ll keep running the restaurant, like always. And taking in girls who need a place.”
“It’s a real ministry you’re doing, you know.” Reuben’s voice cracked slightly.
“Ministry?” Maggie gave a dismissive sniff. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“You might not think so, but it is. Regardless of how you see it.”
Maggie didn’t know how to respond. She wished he’d leave. This was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
“Well, I used to keep two at a time. But with all the boys gone to this wretched war, fewer girls need what I offer now, if you get my drift. But then, with the war on, we don’t get as much restaurant business either. So it all works out.”
Reuben smiled. “That’s one way to put it. How many young ladies have you lodged here?”
Maggie let out a snort. “If they were ladies, they wouldn’t need me in the first place.”
“Now, Maggie.”
Maggie started counting on her fingers, but gave up. “Oh, I don’t know. Twelve, I think.”
“Do you keep in touch with any?”
“No.”
“Any one in particular stand out?”
Maggie knew the correct answer was a resounding yes, but launching into a description of Cornelia Simpson’s excellent work habits, cheerful attitude, and abundant faith would only delay Reuben’s departure. Not to mention that the girl had studied her way through high school courses by correspondence all the while.
“Not really,” she said.
“Well, I’m proud of you. I’m sure they’ll always remember you.”
No kidding, Maggie thought. They’ll remember me as an old shrew.
He stood and placed a hand on her upper arm. “You take care of yourself. And please, if there’s anything you need, be sure to call me. Will you?”
“Sure.” Maggie escorted him to the door and showed him out without a good-bye, then closed the door and placed her forehead against its surface.
Playing the heartbroken widow was going to be harder than she’d imagined.
CHAPTER 3
Charlotte had worked harder all day than she did on days when the restaurant was open. After washing the windows, she’d cleaned out the enormous pantry and helped Mrs. Marshall inventory their supplies, all before lunch. In the afternoon, she spent hours scrubbing the inside and blacking the outside of the cast-iron kitchen stove while Mrs. Marshall cut and sewed new curtains for the front windows. No sense giving the pregnant girl the easier job, she thought as the scratch of her scrub brush drowned out the whirring of the sewing machine’s treadle.
Just when Charlotte was sure they’d finally be calling it a day, Mrs. Marshall had her bring the old curtains in off the clothesline, pack them into a box, and carry them the ten blocks to the Red Cross Thrift Shop. By the time she got there, they were closed for the day, and Charlotte dropped the box by the door, not caring whether they ever received it.
By the end of the day, she’d been too tired to eat supper, let alone prepare it. But upon her return, Mrs. Marshall placed a plate of steamed vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a tall glass of milk in front of her. Another typical wartime meal.
“Eat. That baby needs it even if you don’t.”
Charlotte had swallowed the food without tasting any of it, then climbed the stairs and pulled on her nightgown.
There had to be a way out of this place. So many times, Charlotte had dreamed of catching a train and leaving town. She had enough money socked away in her dresser drawer to buy a one-way ticket to Petawawa and find Reginald. She played the scene out in her mind nightly, the appropriate background music as spectacular as any picture show: She makes her way to the military camp where someone gives her directions to the mess tent. She enters the tent and her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Then she spots him in his khaki uniform with a white apron tied round his waist and a white cook’s hat on his head. He doesn’t see her at first, because he’s busy stirring a large pot of something. Steam rises from the pot. Charlotte stands still, watching him, taking in the details of his new life. She sees a faraway look in his eyes and knows he is thinking of her. Then he glances up, for only a second. He turns to speak to one of his buddies, then stops midsentence and looks back. He stares. She smiles. The light dawns in his eyes.
He can’t even speak. He comes around the corner, dodging around tables and knocking over benches to get to her as fast as he can. Then he stops short.
“Char? Is it really you?”
Charlotte nods, and Reginald moves forward, taking her in his arms and swinging her all the way around.
“I can’t believe it’s you!” he says. Only then does he notice the mound of her stomach between them. Surprise lights up his face.
“Char? Oh my goodness, Char! Are you . . . ? Are we . . . ?”
Charlotte only nods and smiles.
Reginald is overcome
with joy. He wraps his arms around her once again.
“Marry me, Char,” he says. “Right this minute! Please marry me.”
“Yes!” she shouts.
The war ends that same day. Reginald is discharged and marries Charlotte before the weekend is over. They set up housekeeping in a cute little cottage with a white picket fence, and Charlotte spends the remaining months of her pregnancy sewing and knitting tiny clothes in preparation for the baby’s arrival.
“Charlotte? You still up?”
Charlotte was pulled out of her fantasy by the sound of Mrs. Marshall’s voice at the bottom of the stairs. What could she possibly want now? Was there one last chore left undone? Perhaps if she didn’t answer, Mrs. Marshall would assume she was already asleep and hadn’t heard. She lay quietly on the bed, closing her eyes.
Eventually she heard Mrs. Marshall climb the stairs, go into her own room across the hall, and shut the door. Guess it couldn’t have been too important. She sighed with relief and tried to resume her fanciful daydream about Reginald, but sleep took over and she was helpless to order the dreams of her slumber. They would come as they willed.
Charlotte was surprised when Mrs. Marshall allowed her to sleep in two mornings in a row. She dressed quickly, intent on starting breakfast before having to be told. But when she got down to the kitchen, all was quiet. A note on the kitchen table informed her that Mrs. Marshall had errands to run and would return by noon.
Charlotte decided this was a golden opportunity to have eggs and toast for breakfast instead of the usual porridge. Mrs. Marshall no doubt knew the precise number of eggs in the pantry and would scold Charlotte later, but it would be worth it. She fried her eggs with care, placed them on a plate with two slices of toast, and carried her meal into the restaurant so she could sit down and eat in leisurely style. No longer the waitress, she was now the patron.
