“Much better, I think. I know where I am and the pain has subsided.”
“Good, then my prayers are answered.”
“Thank you for coming to see me.”
He smiled. “I’ve been here every day since the accident.”
“You have? I had no idea.” She took a deep breath. “Andrew, I’m sorry for the things I said to you in the country. You were right. I’m a coward, and I did make excuses to not commit myself.”
He shook his head. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. I lost my temper and demanded things you weren’t ready to give.”
She allowed her stinging eyes to close for a moment and asked the Father for the courage she desperately needed. Forcing them open, she continued. “I love you, Andrew. I don’t want to ever lose you again—I mean, if you’ll still have me. It took the accident and believing I was going to die in my foolishness to make me realize how much I love you.”
He bent over her, his arms on each side of the bed. “Oh, my sweet Margaret, I never stopped loving you. My pride got in the way.”
Gazing up into his beloved face, she wept.
“Don’t cry, darling. We’ll work this out. The war can’t last forever,” Andrew said, brushing away a tear with his finger.
“It’s not the war,” she said. “I’m happy, Andrew. When I get these casts off, would you? I mean, if you still want to. Would you marry me?”
In August of 1941, beside a moss-covered, stone cottage outside the city of Northamptonshire, Lieutenant Andrew Stuart and Corporal Margaret Walker held hands on a pebble-laden path lined with white lilies and pink phlox. In the midst of vibrant pink and red roses, the flowers’ sweet scent mingling with the fragrant honeysuckle, Andrew lifted her hand to his lips. Margaret smiled and blinked back a joyous tear that threatened to glisten her cheek. She dared not gaze anywhere but into the eyes of her Andrew for fear this wedding blessed by heaven might disappear.
They both wore their blue-gray dress uniforms, and she carried a bouquet of the garden’s pink and red roses. Never had she known such happiness.
The moment came when the minister raised his hand and pronounced them man and wife. She realized they were so much more than a wedded couple—foremost children of God, loyal subjects of England, and fighting members of the Royal Air Force dedicated to preserving the freedom of their country.
Epilogue
January 1946
Andrew shifted the bouquet of vibrant red roses and hurried down the long corridor of the London hospital. He slid between an empty bed and a metal cart of medicines without slowing his pace. A nurse called for him to slow down, but he ignored her.
Finally he stood outside Margaret’s door. Taking in a deep breath, he steadied his exhilaration and stepped into the room. Not since the day he and Margaret were married had he felt such pride and thankfulness to his Father God.
Margaret glanced up and met his gaze. A smile graced her lips and held him spellbound.
“Come see your daughter,” she whispered. “Have you decided on a name?”
He nodded and laid the flowers on her nightstand. Kissing first Margaret and then his tiny infant daughter, he pulled a chair closer to the bed.
“Thank you for the flowers, sweetheart. They’re lovely,” she said, her face as radiant as the day they wed in the garden.
“You and our daughter are no match for them,” Andrew said, gently brushing his finger over the baby’s hand. “I’m one lucky man.”
“And the name?” Margaret said. “Oh, Andrew, I can’t wait any longer to hear what you’ve chosen.”
He grinned and straightened his shoulders. “I want to call her Audra Rose. Audra means noble strength, and I want our daughter to never forget the strength and courage God gave us to save our England.”
DIANN MILLS
DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who believes her readers should expect an adventure. She combines unforgettable characters with unpredictable plots to create action-packed, suspense-filled novels.
Her titles have appeared on the CBA and ECPA bestseller lists; won two Christy Awards; and been finalists for the RITA, Daphne Du Maurier, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol award contests. Library Journal presented her with a Best Books 2014: Genre Fiction award in the Christian Fiction category for Firewall.
DiAnn is a founding board member of the American Christian Fiction Writers; the 2015 president of the Romance Writers of America’s Faith, Hope, & Love chapter; a member of Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, and International Thriller Writers. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country. She and her husband live in sunny Houston, Texas.
DiAnn is very active online and would love to connect with readers on any of the social media platforms listed at www.diannmills.com.
To Sing Another Day
by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Dedication
For Mom,
whose faith could move mountains
[Charity] beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth.
1 CORINTHIANS 13:7–8
Chapter 1
New York City, September 1941
Henry, are you upset with me?” Helen Wolfe held her breath as she waited for her brother’s answer. Henry’s pose—elbows on knees, head slung low—indicated sadness. Henry was a good boy, helpful beyond his years, but at fifteen his moods were often mercurial. Although in the past she’d reprimanded him for moodiness, she wouldn’t blame him if he spouted angrily at her now.
Slowly Henry lifted his head and met Helen’s gaze. “I don’t like it. Wish it didn’t have to be. But …” He released a deep sigh. “I understand.”
Helen’s breath whooshed out in an expulsion of mingled relief and regret. She leaned forward from her perch on the red velvet sofa. Reaching across the expanse of faded cabbage rose carpet, she grasped Henry’s hand. They both squeezed hard—a silent communication that spoke more eloquently than words. Tears stung Helen’s eyes. Henry’d already lost so much. This wasn’t fair, but what else could they do?
“I’ll get it back for you somehow.” She stated the promise with more confidence than she felt.
Henry nodded then pushed to his feet, releasing Helen’s hand. “I’ll fetch it.” He scuffed from the parlor, his heels dragging over the scarred pine floorboards that led to the bungalow’s bedrooms.
Helen covered her face with her hands, fighting tears. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t! Would tears bring back Mom and Dad? Of course not. Would tears make Richard change his mind and marry her? No. Tears fixed nothing. They served no purpose except to frighten her younger brothers and sister. She drew in fortifying breaths, and when Henry emerged from the hallway, she was sitting upright, her chin high and her eyes dry, although her insides still quaked.
Henry pressed the twenty-dollar gold piece into her palm. The engraving glared up at her, accusing her with its message: “Love never fails.” She certainly felt like a failure, taking Henry’s inheritance—his only belonging of value—from him.
Closing her fingers over the coin, she rose and wrapped one arm around Henry in a fierce hug. Then she stepped back and assumed a brisk tone to conceal her inner heartache. “Check on Lois if I’m not back in an hour, and give her another dose of tonic.” The medicine stifled the child’s cough enough to allow her to rest, and rest was important the doctor had said.
“I will. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll put supper on the table when I return, so tell Carl to stay out of the icebox.” Their twelve-year-old brother would devour the entire baked chicken in one sitting if Helen let him.
“I’ll tie it shut if I have to.”
Helen headed for the pegs beside the front door, where her knitted cap and scarf hung next to Mom’s old wool coat. Outside the oval window, rain fell in a drizzly curtain. Helen grimaced. The heavy coat would do little more than absorb the moisture, but she had no other covering, so she tu
gged the plaid wool with its round wooden buttons over her simple cotton dress and covered her curly hair with the bold red cap. Her hand on the doorknob, she sent Henry one more sorrowful look.
Henry waved at her, scowling. “Just go already.” Then his lips quirked into a grin. “Hope you get a lot for it.” His bravado pierced Helen more deeply than pouting or fury would have.
The coin in her pocket, she set out into the dreary late afternoon.
Bernie O’Day swished the feather duster over the shelves climbing the wall behind the tall wooden counter of his family’s pawnshop. His pop had dusted twice a day—once before opening and again before closing—and Bernie followed the familiar routine partly out of habit, partly because it felt right to do what Pop had done.
He whistled as he worked, the tune for “There Is Power in the Blood” warbling from his pursed lips. Pop’s whistling had been clear and sweet, where Bernie’s sometimes hit a sour note or rasped into breathy blasts, but there wasn’t anyone in the shop to complain, so he continued onward to the chorus. With each shrill hoot for “power,” he gave the stiff feathers a sharp flick. By the time he finished, the rows of the little ceramic figurines and gold-plated statues stood completely devoid of so much as a speck of dust.
Satisfied, Bernie wheezed out the final note and plunked the duster under the counter. He glanced at the pendulum clock tick-tocking on the wall. Three more minutes till closing. His stomach rumbled in readiness. But even though he hadn’t seen a customer all afternoon, he wouldn’t put out the CLOSED sign one minute early. Pop had instilled a solid work ethic in Bernie—”Always stand true to your word, son, and you’ll never have reason to hang your head in shame.” The painted sign above the plate-glass window of the O’Day Pawn Shop stated HOURS: 9:00 AM TO 6:00 PM MONDAY THROUGH SATURDAY, and he’d honor the hours, just as Pop always had.
At one minute till six, Bernie removed his bleached apron and hung it neatly on a hook on the back wall. Then, sliding his hand over his short-cropped hair to smooth the strands into place, he headed for the door to lock up. Just as he turned the cardboard placard hanging on a string inside the door to CLOSED, a young woman in a rain-soaked plaid coat and bedraggled knit cap trotted to the opposite side of the glass door.
Her gaze fell on the sign, and her blue eyes widened into an expression of panic. Then her shoulders wilted, and she turned away, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of the threadbare coat. Her dejected pose stung Bernie’s heart. Without a second thought, he gave the brass lock a twist and flung the door wide, causing the little bell above the door to clang raucously. The girl spun around, her rosy lips forming an O of surprise. Brown curls framed her cheeks, which were pink from the cool breeze.
Bernie smiled. “Did’ja need something?” He suspected she could use a new coat. He had several from which to choose, and he’d make her a good deal.
She pointed to the little sign. “Aren’t you closed?”
“Haven’t locked up yet. C’mon in.”
Uncertainty marred her brow. She hunched into her soggy coat and nibbled her lower lip.
Bernie held the door wider. “At least get out of the drizzle for a minute or two. You look chilled all the way through.”
A shiver shook her frame, and it seemed to spur her to action. She darted forward, scooting past him into the store. Bernie let the door close then turned to face her. She stood rooted between aisles, dripping, her hands clasped in front of her. “I’m sorry to be so late,” she said, her voice very prim although it quavered slightly. “It took longer to walk than I thought it would.”
Bernie offered a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “No need to apologize.” From the looks of her, she’d covered a fair distance in the rain. He wondered why she hadn’t taken a trolley. Quicker—and drier—than walking. Her drooping curls and waterlogged coat gave her a sad, waiflike appearance that stirred his sympathy. He gestured to the stove in the far corner of the room, where a few coals still glowed in the round belly. “Why don’tcha move closer over there—warm up a little. Then you can tell me what you’re shoppin’ for. I got pretty much anything a person needs.” Pop had prided himself on their wide array of merchandise. Bernie felt certain whatever the girl needed he’d have it.
She hung her head, toying with one limp curl. “Actually, I’m not here to make a purchase. I … I’d hoped …” Her voice trailed away, and she stared off to the side.
Since she still hadn’t moved toward the stove, Bernie headed in that direction. To his relief, she scuffed along behind him and released a little sigh when she reached the warmth radiating from the black iron. She stood stiffly beside the potbellied stove, her arms folded over her ribs. He waited, but she didn’t speak.
Leaning his elbow on the counter, Bernie assumed a casual air he hoped might put her at ease. She seemed as skittish as a newborn colt. “What is it you’re needing today, miss?”
She jerked as if roused from a sound sleep. Her hand slipped into her pocket, and she withdrew a round gold coin. “I need to sell this.”
Bernie pinched the coin between his thumb and finger and held it to the bare bulb hanging overhead. The Liberty twenty-dollar piece had been rubbed nearly smooth on the front side, and someone had carefully engraved the words “Love never fails” in an arch on the upper part of the coin. Below, “W.W.” and “Central Park” filled the bottom half. Bernie rubbed his thumb over the engraving, his brow puckered.
“William Wolfe was my grandfather,” the girl said. She bobbed her chin toward the coin, her eyes shining. “He gave this coin to my grandmother as a token of his affection after fighting in the Civil War. It’s been in our family for almost a hundred years.”
Bernie wondered why she would part with it when the coin clearly meant a great deal to her. He turned it over to examine the back side. The tips of the eagle’s wings were marred by some sort of grayish blobs. Bernie angled the coin toward the girl. “What happened here?”
“My father soldered a pin back onto it so my mother could wear it as jewelry, but the fixture fell off. Does … does that diminish its value?”
Bernie hated to tell her a defaced coin held little monetary value even without the lumps of solder on its back. He rubbed the coin between his thumb and finger, trying to decide what to say. Then, without conscious thought, he blurted, “Why are you selling it?”
The girl ducked her head, her cheeks flooding with color. “To be honest, Mr. O’Day, I’m sorely in need of the funds. My sister has been ill for over a month. I had to quit my job to take care of her, and the doctor bills have eaten up what little reserve I had in my bank account.”
He wondered why she was caring for her sister. Where were her parents? But he decided not to be nosy. He’d already made her uncomfortable with his blunt question. He stepped behind the counter and pulled out his cash box and pad of tickets. “I tell you what … Since this is a twenty-dollar piece, I can give you a straight trade—twenty dollars for the coin. Does that sound reasonable?”
The stricken look on her face gave the answer. Bernie bit on the inside of his cheek, his business side warring with his sympathetic side. He’d never recover even twenty dollars for the coin. Who would want it besides the Wolfe family? But the girl clearly needed money. A Bible verse flitted through the fringes of his mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these …”
Bernie pulled three ten-dollar bills and two fives from the cash drawer then slammed the lid closed before he could change his mind. He picked up a pencil and quickly scrawled the amount—$40—on the ticket and added a description, reading it aloud as he wrote. “One twenty-dollar gold piece, inscribed with ‘Love never fails. W.W. Central Park.’ ” He looked at the girl, who hovered next to the stove, her fingers woven together. “Your name?”
“H–Helen Wolfe.” She skittered forward, her gaze on the short pile of bills. “You’re buying it?”
Bernie shot her a quick grin. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
She nodded,
her drying curls bouncing around her cheeks. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I wanted.” Yet sadness lingered in her blue eyes. “Th–thank you very much, Mr. O’Day.”
“Bernie,” he said. At her puzzled look, he added, “My pop’s Mr. O’Day. I’m just Bernie.”
A soft laugh trickled from her lips. An enchanting, lighthearted sound that broadened Bernie’s grin. It pleased him more than he could understand that he’d brought that laugh out of her.
“Thank you, Bernie.”
He liked the way his name sounded in her musical voice. “You’re welcome. Now …” He turned the ticket pad to face her. “This is how things work. I put the coin away for thirty days, and anytime during those thirty days you can come in and reclaim it with this ticket and the same amount of money I gave you. After thirty days, I put the coin out as merchandise with a price on it, and if you want it back, you’ll have to pay the full price. Does that make sense to you?” The only way he’d break even on this deal was if she returned. Bernie didn’t hold out much hope of that happening, and it saddened him. But not for himself.
Her blue eyes dimmed, but she nodded. “Yes, that makes sense.”
“All right then. Sign here.” He pointed to a line at the bottom of the ticket and watched as she picked up the pencil and wrote her name in neat, slanting script. He tore the ticket from the book and handed it to her. “Don’t lose that now.”
She folded the yellow sheet and slipped it into her pocket. “I won’t.” Her gaze seemed to caress the coin, which lay on the counter. “I truly hope to reclaim it. It … it means a great deal to my brother since my father left it to him.”
Bernie wished he could coax another smile from her lips. He dipped down slightly, catching her eye. “I’ll say a prayer that it finds its way back to you. God has a way of workin’ things out even when we don’t think it’s possible.”
A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Page 13
