Riley shrugged, “Possibly not. Well, probably not.” He actually winked at them. “But until last fall, I was dead, anyway.”
The first Saturday in March proved to be a bright spring day, an unusual occurrence in that part of the country. The wedding for Emmaline and Whit had taken place at City Hall, with Mayor Horace Cookson officiating. The only others present besides the bride and groom were Josh and Wade. Afterward, a dinner was held in a lovely private dining room on the second floor of the hotel. The Braddocks including Riley, the Grenfells, Granny Mae Rumsteadt, the mayor, and of course, the boys, were in attendance.
Susannah thought she’d never seen such an elegant presentation. White table linens, candelabra with eighteen-inch candles, cut-crystal glassware, more forks and spoons than she could account for, bone china—she didn’t know the hotel even owned such nice things. The wine and champagne flowed, wedding cake was cut, and toasts were made.
As the evening wound down, everyone stood around chatting, and Susannah had a chance to pull Em aside. She wore a pale-pink dress and a lovely matching tulle shawl she pulled up over her head. Her face had healed, just as she’d wanted. “You look so beautiful! And this is all so very nice. Em, I’m truly happy for you.”
“Thank you, Susannah. We made the arrangements, but special friends, people who know us, all pitched in to pay for it. Virgil Tilly, Tanner, Cole, even Granny Mae. Virgil was invited too, but you know he wouldn’t close the saloon on a Saturday unless he was dead. Still, I’m so grateful to everyone.”
Susannah kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand. “I wish you all the happiness you deserve, and that’s a lot!”
Em turned to look at Whit, handsome in his black suit and tie. “I never thought something like this would happen. Never in a million years…”
“Well, go enjoy it!”
Whit clinked a spoon against a glass to get everyone’s attention. “Folks, I want to thank all of you for coming to celebrate with us. We know we’re lucky to have such good friends. Now, you can stay as long as you want, but Mrs. Gannon and I are going to retire.”
This announcement was met with applause and laughter. The newlyweds left the room, and Emmaline had her arm hooked through Whit’s. Josh and Wade began to follow, but they were collared by Cole.
“No, boys. You’re staying with Granny Mae tonight, remember?”
Everyone laughed again, but the kids just looked puzzled. “Oh, yeah. But what’s so funny?” Josh asked.
Susannah imagined that Whit and Em never expected to find happiness at this stage of their lives. But they had, and she was glad for them.
“Mrs. Grenfell?”
Susannah smiled and turned. “Yes, Mr. Grenfell?”
“I think we should have dinner here once in a while. It seems like you spend half your life in that kitchen.”
She sighed. “It does seem that way sometimes.”
He lowered his voice and said, “Granny Mae’s café is a fine place to get a good meal, but it’s nothing like this. Once this business with the property and so on is figured out, what would you say to coming here for dinner and spending the night, just you and me?”
“I think that would be wonderful. And you look very handsome in your suit, by the way.”
“Well, I had to try and look at least half as nice as my wife.”
She rolled her eyes and finished her champagne. “You never know where that flattery will get you.”
He took the glass from her hand and put it on a nearby table. “Oh, I think I do.”
• • •
Over the next few weeks, Riley put his affairs in order once again, just as he had before he left for France the first time. This time, however, he needed a passport, which he went to Portland to obtain. In the meantime, Tanner and Cole tried to get together the information they needed to offer Riley a deal.
Tanner’s take on the whole business was somewhat irreverent. One night when he was tired and frustrated by the complicated transaction, he told Susannah that until last fall, Riley would not have been entitled to anything. He’d been declared dead and that was that. Lawyer Parmenter said the matter of inheritance was a gray area, but certainly Cole did not want to cheat his brother—out of Tanner’s money.
Eventually, though, they did reach an agreement. Susannah and Tanner owned less than half of the property and business, but enough to satisfy them and Riley as well, who deposited the money in the bank. Carrying cash that distance seemed like a risky adventure, so he arranged to have it wired to him when he reached France.
He would take the train back across the country, then find a tramp steamer in New York bound for England or France. It would probably take a month or so to get there, allowing for train travel. Plus tramp steamers didn’t set sail unless they had a contracted cargo.
At last, in early April, the day arrived to drive him to the train station in town to say good-bye. All of the same people had been there when he’d come home last fall, except his father. Tanner was there instead. Riley’s limp was much better now, but he still used a cane when he got tired.
Susannah watched as Riley clutched his valise and she had the weird sensation of watching a moving-picture show in reverse. Powell Springs did not have a theater yet, but she had seen one in Portland once.
“Does Véronique know you’re coming?” she’d asked him one night at dinner.
“I wrote to her the day I came home and you were all squabbling. That was where I had been. Mailing the letter. She knows I am on my way by now.”
Cole stepped forward. “We’ve come a long way in the last six months, and a lot has happened.”
Riley nodded and shook his brother’s hand, then embraced him briefly.
“Be happy, old brother. If you decide to come back, we’ll be here.”
He spoke to his sister-in-law and took her hand in his. “Jessica, you were the one who really made the biggest difference in my life. You found a doctor to help me, and at least I know who I was and who I am now.” He hugged her as well.
“Tanner, I know I’m leaving the horses in good hands, and it’s a relief.” Tanner nodded and said nothing, but he smiled.
Then he turned to Susannah and gave her a look that made her think of a man looking back on all his years from a vast distance. He took her hand. “You were the love of my first life. No other woman had touched my heart the way you did. If I’d stayed, we wouldn’t be standing here. But war changes everything, rarely for the best. So we are left to rebuild what we can.”
Her eyes swam with tears and she kissed him. “Will you write to let us know you got there?”
He smiled. “I promise.”
“Be safe, and have a good life, Riley.”
He straightened and replied, “Je m’appelle Christophe encore.”
The conductor called for final boarding, and Riley turned and climbed the steps into the car.
They all waved as the train hissed and began to pull out of the station. They watched until he found a seat and waved back.
“Good-bye, Riley,” Susannah intoned, her throat tight.
• • •
The night that Véronique’s labor began was clear with a bright full moon. Old wives’ tales claimed that more babies were born during the time of the full moon. In this case, they might have been right. At dawn, Édouard hitched up the farm cart and donkey he had bartered to obtain, and went into town to fetch the midwife Véronique had already spoken with. It would be much faster than walking, but he hated leaving his wife alone even for the time that would take. Still, it was either a midwife or him, and he knew nothing about delivering a baby. And since she was a bit old for a first child, he wanted someone with experience to take care of them.
When he returned, Véronique’s water had broken and she was actively laboring away. The midwife, Madame Sylvie Durand, bustled in and ordered Édouard outside while she examined her patient.
With a greased hand, she felt around in the birth canal. “This is surprising, Véronique. You a
re well on your way, unusual in a first birth. Good girl!”
Well on her way did not mean right away, though. Listening to her scream, Édouard felt as though he were back in an aid station with the worst of the battle-wounded. Madame Durand was enthusiastic and cheered her on, but it looked and sounded like the worst kind of torture to him. He had to restrain himself from jumping out of his chair—where she had ordered him to sit and stay put, as though he were Chien—and dragging her away from Véronique. He had not been present for the birth of his first child, so he had missed all this.
Toward noon, when it seemed that Véronique could not possibly go on, he heard the cry of a new life. He stood up.
“Congratulations, Monsieur LaFontaine! You have a fine, strong son!” Madame Durand announced.
“V-V-Véronique?”
She waved a feeble arm in the bed.
“You have a bed or a cradle for the child?”
He went into his former room and brought out the cradle they had gotten from the Society of Friends. During the winter, Véronique had patiently stitched a mattress and a quilt for him.
“Your wife is fine. Now off you go. Feed the sheep or something. I will bathe the child and take care of your wife. I will call you when you can come back.”
With growing resentment, he joined Chien outside and tossed a stick around with him for what seemed like hours. A son. Strangely enough, they had never discussed names. He had no idea what this child would be called.
At last, he heard his own name.
“Monsieur LaFontaine, come! Meet your son and greet your wife.”
He ran back into the house. Véronique was in a clean nightgown and a clean bed, propped up on pillows. In her arms lay the baby, wrapped tightly in the new quilt. She was tired and gave him a wan smile.
“Here is your son, Édouard. This is Christophe Édouard LaFontaine. I am sorry I chose the name without consulting you. I planned it from the beginning. But I want you to choose his baptismal name. Do you want to hold him?”
“Only for a moment, monsieur,” said Madame Durand. “They are both tired, and Christophe needs to suckle.”
Carefully, he took the baby into his arms. Such a small, perfect wonder—the tiny hands and fingers. Christophe studied him with a serious expression and then yawned. Édouard smiled and placed a light, careful kiss on the little forehead before handing him back to Véronique. Then he kissed her forehead as well.
After he was assured that they would be fine he drove Madame Durand back to the village. In just a few short months, he had gone from being a homeless, almost nameless soldier who was sometimes mistaken for an idiot, to a husband and father.
He flapped the reins on the donkey’s back and grinned. Life was beautiful.
• • •
Within two weeks following Christophe’s birth, Véronique was handling the baby like a woman who had always cared for children. Indoors, a line was strung from one wall, past the window, to an anchor next to the door. The weather was still rainy at times and she needed to be able to wash and dry diapers. Later, in May, when the sun was more dependable, she would again hang the wash on the clothesline outside.
Édouard embraced fatherhood. He was helpful because he had more experience than she did and some medical training. She considered herself lucky to have found a man like him, eager to help and more than willing to act as father to a child that was not really his.
One morning, Véronique woke up when Christophe demanded his breakfast. She found Édouard’s note on his side of the bed.
I am going to help the Armands dig their new well. I will try to be home by noon. Love and kisses to you both.
“Your father is a very fine man with a good heart. He will help you grow up to be one too.”
She lay against the pillows with one on her lap for the baby, resting in contentment as he nursed. Glancing out the window she could see it was going to be a clear, sparkling day. If the sun was warm enough, she would be able to hang the laundry outside to dry. One thing the baby created was a lot of washing.
With her eyes half-closed, the only sound was an occasional birdsong and the quiet sound of the baby suckling. Suddenly, from far away, she heard a noise that reminded her of distant shelling during the war. It was a single detonation and she hoped another farmer had not hit an unexploded shell in his field.
At last the baby had drunk his fill, and after burping him, she put him in his cradle so that she could wash and dress. An hour later, she was standing at the stove, cooking an omelet, when she heard someone call her name from outside.
“Madame LaFontaine?”
This was followed by knocking at the door. She opened the top half and saw Monsieur Armand standing there. Beyond, she recognized their own donkey and farm cart.
“Madame, oh, madame.” The older man scraped off his cap to reveal a balding head. He twisted the cap in his hands as if trying to wring the fibers out of it.
“Monsieur Armand, whatever is the matter? Madame Armand…?”
“No, she is…Madame, there has been a terrible accident.” Now he was sobbing. He pointed to the cart over his shoulder.
A rush of fear and dread so horrific rushed through her, she felt her scalp prickle and gooseflesh rise all over her body. She twisted the knob on the bottom half of the door, practically tearing it out of the wood, and ran outside to the cart. Lying there under an old quilt, she found Édouard. There was no injury on him that she could see, but dried blood ran from his nose and ears, and his color was gray.
Somewhere she heard screaming, a woman screaming as she had when she was giving birth to Christophe. But she was the only woman here and she knew it was her own voice she heard.
“What happened?” she demanded. “What happened to my husband?”
“He was helping to dig our new well, but he was not in the hole. Our son was using the shovel and hit a shell. The explosion killed our Pierre, and although Édouard was standing farther back, the concussion blew him across the field. We found him like that, mostly unmarked but not alive. I feel responsible—he was digging a well for us.”
“It is not your fault, monsieur. Oh, my poor Édouard!” She took her handkerchief from her apron pocket, wiped the tears on her cheeks, and used the damp fabric to scrub the blood from his face. She glanced across the yard and caught sight of the rusted skeleton of the ambulance that had also been shelled, killing two people inside and wounding Christophe. “Those horrible devices of death are buried all over the Western Front.” Hysteria crept into her voice. “All over! Oh! Oh, may God forever damn every single person with their petty squabbles and power hunger who brought this war to us!” she swore viciously. “And your son, Monsieur Armand, they have killed him too!”
She dropped her head and sobbed on Édouard’s chest. Such a good man, a man who survived four miserable years of that stinking bloodbath only to be killed by it more than two years after armistice was declared.
“I will contact Monsieur le curé for us both, madame. I know that you have only recently welcomed a new child.”
“And he will never know his father.” She sobbed inconsolably. “Th-thank you for your help, and thank you for bringing my husband home. Please, Monsieur Armand, before you leave, may I ask one more thing?” Tears flowed down her face like a river. “Will you help me take him into the house and put him on the bed? I cannot leave him out here.”
He nodded, his tears falling like hers. They put Édouard on the bed in his bedroom and she covered him with a sheet. At least he was spared a hideous, gruesome death that blew off limbs or tore gaping wounds in his body.
Monsieur Armand left then, to walk back to his farm and to his own grief. She went back inside to sit with hers through the long hours of the night.
• • •
“Eternal rest, grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.” Père Michel made the sign of the cross over Édouard’s casket, w
hich had already been lowered into the ground.
“Amen,” the mourners intoned.
Somewhere in a tree nearby, Véronique heard a lone bird twitter a sweet song, as if in response as well. In her arms, the baby slept. Each person threw in a handful of dirt in turn.
She no longer owned a black dress and had had to borrow this one from a neighbor along with a black veil that whipped around her in the strong spring breeze. The dress did not fit very well but it was unimportant to her. This was not a fashion parade. It was a tragedy.
They had buried Pierre Armand yesterday and she had attended that funeral as well.
As the mourners drifted away, Véronique found herself alone with Édouard’s grave and the baby. She was vaguely surprised there was room left in this church cemetery to bury anyone else. So many had been lost during the war, and those who could afford to bring home a loved one lost in battle did so. Where her brothers lay, she had no idea.
Père Michel approached her. “Madame LaFontaine, I am so sorry for your loss.”
She did not look up. “I had not wanted to marry him when you suggested it.”
“No, you were quite adamant about that.”
Now she met his gaze. “You were right and I was wrong, mon père. But I am not sure that even you were aware of the fine and generous heart that beat within him.”
“I am glad you discovered it yourself.”
“I do not know if it was a kindness or a curse that he was taken from me so soon. I did not have the chance to fall in love with him, but I suspect that I would have. A year from now would have made his loss more painful, but I also would have had that extra year. So now I have lost two men and my family thanks to that accursed war.” She looked at the rows of headstones surrounding them. “I will not ask you why God permits such things to happen to the simple mortals it is claimed He loves. I would not accept any answer you gave me.”
She turned and walked out of the graveyard. She forced herself not to look back when she heard shovels of dirt falling on Édouard’s casket.
When she passed the post office, a clerk came running out. “Madame LaFontaine, I have a letter here for you. It arrived last week.”
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