Would you? she wondered as he left the kitchen. Would you become someone else, someone exciting who could give me a different life, one with some fun in it? Why didn't I see what marriage to you would be like? Why was I such a fool? Single girls are the ones having all the fun in this war, and I'm stuck here at home with you and the kids.
Penelope let the dirty water out of the sink, then reached for a towel and dried her hands.
It would serve you right if you didn't have me around to wait on you hand and foot.
Her conscience twinged. Stuart took care of the children during the day. He did the laundry and kept the house tidy. Sometimes, when she was tired, he fixed dinner. He even went to the market on occasion, although he said standing in long lines worsened his back pain.
From the children's bedroom, she heard the beginning sounds of a squabble between brother and sister. Any second, one of them would come screaming down the hall. If they did, she would slap them silly. She was in no mood for temper tantrums tonight.
She grabbed her sweater from the peg near the back door and slipped outside. Let Stuart deal with it. She'd had it with the lot of them.
Chapter 24
Lucy fell asleep in the easy chair, a book in her lap, Empress curled beside her on the armrest. She dreamed about Richard, one of those disjointed dreams filled with real and imaginary people that make little sense when examined later.
It took a few moments for the sound of knocking to work its way into her sleep-fogged brain. Awakened at last, she set the book aside and rose to her feet.
"Coming," she called, not certain her visitor would still be there.
But he was.
"Howard?" Her surprise drove away the last dregs of sleepiness.
"Sorry for dropping by this way, Lucy. I hope it isn't too late. I could come another time if it's inconvenient."
"No. Of course not." She opened the door wider. "Come in, won't you?"
He stepped past her, removed his hat, and gazed around the kitchen. "This is cozy."
"That's what I thought the first time I saw it." She closed the door. "It's always felt like home."
His gaze met hers. "I saw you come into the store tonight, but you left before I had a chance to speak to you."
"You were busy. I didn't want to be a bother."
"You couldn't be a bother, Lucy. Besides, I was eager to know about your meeting with your friends. How did they like your idea?"
"They liked it okay." She motioned toward the kitchen chairs.
"Just okay?"
They sat on opposite sides of the table.
Howard placed his hat on the empty chair beside him. "You sound disappointed."
Lucy shrugged, then nodded. "I am."
"Tell me what happened. Might make you feel better to talk about it."
"I suppose." She drew a breath and let it out on a sigh. "They weren't enthusiastic, the way I expected them to be. Except for Dottie. She was all for it. But they did agree to give it a try. We're meeting here at my place this coming Saturday. We even gave our little gathering a name. The Victory Club."
"Hey, I like the sound of that." His grin made the kitchen feel warmer. "I'd like to help, too. Perhaps I can donate some dry goods or repair a fence or something. Unless, of course, men aren't welcome in your Victory Club."
"That's kind of you, Howard. I'm sure we'll be glad for any help we can get."
From the corner of her eye, Lucy saw a blur of white an instant before Empress launched herself into Howard's lap. He leaned back in surprise as the cat made herself comfortable.
The heat of embarrassment rose in Lucy's cheeks as she started to rise from her chair. "Oh, Howard. I'm sorry. Lately she's decided all of my guests must love her, too. Here. I'll take her."
He lifted his hand like a traffic cop. "She's fine. Let her be. I don't mind at all."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Howard stroked the cat's back. 'What's her name?"
"Empress."
He chuckled. "Ah. Royalty. That explains it. She rules this little kingdom."
Lucy settled onto her chair and returned his smile. "I'm afraid so." She gave her head a slow shake as she lowered her gaze to the cat. "Empress barely tolerated Richard when we were first married. She was jealous because he got all my attention." Her smile faded.
There was a lengthy silence before Howard said, "I can't say that I blame her. Lucky Richard."
A shiver moved through Lucy, starting in the pit of her stomach. She didn't dare raise her eyes to meet his. She didn't dare try to see what he meant.
V-Mail
To: Mrs. Richard Anderson, Boise, Idaho, U.S.A.
From: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson
Sunday, February 14, 1943
My beloved Lucy,
It's Valentine s Day. A man ought to be with his sweetheart on Valentine's Day, but instead, I'm in England, missing you. I hope someday I can bring you here and show you the places I've seen. While I don't care for the climate, there's a lot of beauty here. You can feel and see the history all around you. Makes me realize how young the U.S. is. Out West, we think something is old when it's been around a hundred years. Our squadron has flown lots of raids lately. The English prefer to fly at night, but the Americans like the day runs because we can be more precise. Between us, we're making the enemy duck for cover around the clock. We've been very successful. I'm proud of the boys I serve with. I hope you get to meet some of them when the war's over. They'd sure like to meet you after hearing so much about you. I've just about worn out your snapshot as often as I've taken it out of my pocket to look at and show it around to the guys. Speaking of the guys, I got the cookies you sent. They were a bit crumbly by the time they reached us, but they sure were good. I was the most popular guy in the barracks while they lasted. Sometimes I lie here in my bunk and remember those few short weeks we had together as man and wife, and I wonder If I dreamed them. Just like you told me you do sometimes. Lucy, I love you more than I can find words to say or write. You're a constant presence in my heart. If anything happens to me over here, I want you to know how happy you've made me. I pray God will give us a long life together, but if that's not part of the master plan, then I'm glad for what we've had. You remember that, Lucy.
Always,
Richard
Chapter 25
Margo stood at the sink, washing the breakfast dishes. The task didn't take long when she ate alone. This being Saturday, Dottie had opted to stay in bed until it was time to get ready to go to Lucy's.
Although her daughter was careful not to complain, Margo knew the girl's morning sickness had been bad all week. Dottie was developing dark circles beneath her eyes, and she was much too thin. Margo tried not to worry about her. Tried and failed.
With a sigh, she set the frying pan in the dish drain, then poured herself a last cup of coffee and settled onto a chair at the kitchen table.
"What am I going to do about her?"
Silly question. There was nothing to be done. Dottie was pregnant, and for most women, morning sickness was a normal part of the process. Dottie would have to suffer through.
But I could be kinder to her in the meantime.
Margo gave her head an emphatic shake, denying the thought any credence. She hadn't been unkind to Dottie. She'd simply exhibited her disapproval. Margo had to show that she didn't condone sinful behavior, didn't she?
Dottie already knows what she did was wrong.
True, but she didn't act like it. The girl seemed to think all she had to do was say she was sorry, and then all would be well. Last Sunday at church, when they were singing a hymn, Margo glanced at her daughter and observed a look of unmitigated joy steal across Dottie's face. Even pregnant out of wedlock, even knowing Greg was overseas and might die without marrying her and giving the baby his name, Dottie was joyful in the house of God.
That knowledge frustrated Margo beyond words. Dottie had the piper to pay, and the foolish girl didn't realize it.
The creak
of a loose floorboard in the hallway told Margo her wayward daughter was up at last. Seconds later, she heard the bathroom door close and the water start in the shower.
Margo lifted her gaze to the clock on the wall. Good gracious! How long had she been woolgathering at the table?
She placed her coffee cup in the sink, then hurried to her bedroom where she changed into a tan-colored dress and a pair of comfortable walking shoes. After running a brush through her hair, she applied a dab of color to her lips. Lipstick was the only makeup Margo wore. Without it, she felt invisible.
She lowered the gold cosmetic tube to the dressing table while staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Maybe I am invisible. Who sees me?
She stiffened and stepped back, not liking the self-pitying tone of her thoughts. Vanity was an unbecoming trait and not one she cared to acquire at her stage of life.
Margo turned, picked up her pocketbook from the straight-backed chair near the door, and walked to the front of the house.
Five minutes later, Dottie emerged from her bedroom, wearing a pink blouse, a burgundy cardigan, and a light brown skirt. "I'm ready, Mom." Despite the dark circles beneath her eyes, she looked pretty this morning, her dark, curly hair glistening in the light that fell through the living-room window.
"You shouldn't go out with a damp head," Margo said. "You'll catch your death."
"It isn't cold, Mom. I'll be fine."
Margo frowned. "Why must you argue with everything I say? Didn't I teach you better than that, Dorothea Ruth?" She released a heavy sigh. "Why I should be surprised, considering everything else you've forgotten, I just don't know."
Dottie stood before her for a long while without answering. Then, in a voice so small it was barely audible, she asked, "Are you ever going to forgive me, Mom?"
The question pierced Margo's heart as surely as a knife could have. She opened her mouth, surprised that she wanted to say the healing words her daughter needed to hear. But what came out was, "Let's not dillydally, Dottie. We're running late as it is."
Chapter 26
Penelope accepted a cup of coffee from Lucy, then carried it into the living room where Margo sat on the sofa, Dottie on the floor opposite her. Judging by the woebegone expressions on their faces, this wouldn't be a fun-filled morning.
I should've stayed home. I can feel this miserable with Stuart and the children.
Penelope headed toward the chair nearest the window.
Lucy entered the room and sat beside Margo on the sofa. She smiled, but it seemed forced. "I appreciate that you all came." She glanced at each of the other women in turn. "Why don't we open with a word of prayer? Shall we?"
Penelope bowed her head and closed her eyes.
"Dear Father," Lucy began, "thank You for bringing us together today, to seek You and to do Your will …"
Penelope wondered what it must be like, to believe in God the way Lucy seemed to believe. Sometimes the way she talked about Him—like she really knew Him—made Penelope envious. That Lucy believed what she said she believed was never in question. Dottie was like that, too. Unwavering in her faith.
And Margo? Well, if that's what religion did to a woman, Penelope didn't want any.
"You know our needs, Jesus," Lucy went on. "You know our concerns …"
Did Jesus know how unhappy Penelope was? And if He did, did He care? And if He cared, why didn't He do something about it? The monotony, the sameness, the drudgery of her life was driving her insane. When was it her turn to have some fun? When did she get to be happy?
"We ask Your divine protection for our loved ones, for Clark, Greg, Frances, and Richard. Strengthen and guide them. Grant them wisdom. Give Your angels charge over them, we pray."
Frances wasn't in any danger. At least not while she was at that fort in the Midwest. Her first letter to their parents said there was a possibility WAACs would soon be posted to England. It was what Frances had hoped for when she enlisted, and now it seemed her wish would be granted. But then, Frances always got what she wanted. Things always went her way.
Imagine England. London. British gentlemen with those upper-crust accents. Pubs. Music. Dancing. Life!
It wasn't fair. Penelope hadn't traveled anywhere more exotic than the Oregon coast, and her baby sister was about to go to England. It was so horribly unfair. Why did all the good stuff happen to Frances and not to her?
"Lord, let us be Your hands and feet in our community. Guide us to those You would have us help …"
God, why couldn't You give me the same life You gave Frances? If anybody needs help, it's me.
V-Mail
To: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson, APO, N.Y.P.E.
From: Lucy Anderson
Saturday, March 13, 1943
My darling Richard,
Yesterday I received the letter you wrote on Valentine's Day. The mail is so wretchedly slow, and I am left to wonder what's happened between the day you wrote to me and the day I received your letter. Are you well? Are you whole? Are you still in England or are you somewhere unknown to me?
The newspaper says the Allies are bombing Germany 24 hours a day. When I hear of planes shot out of the sky, I'm so afraid for you. I can't help but selfishly wish you were home with me instead of in harm's way. Forgive me, love, for thinking so much of myself. I'm proud of you, my darling. I'm proud of your skills and proud of your courage.
Today was the first meeting of the Victory Club. I believe it went rather well. Much better than I expected, to be honest.
Margo, who seemed so resistant before, had several good suggestions for ways we can reach people in our community with acts of love.
Dottie was reserved when she first arrived. I think she and her mother had been quarreling earlier. But by the time we finished praying, she overflowed with enthusiasm. Dottie has a huge heart for God and His people. It puts me to shame. I wonder if I could have such peace and joy if I were in her shoes.
As for Penelope, I'm not convinced she'll return after today. She seemed very distracted, and I know she views the rest of us as peculiar. (Isn't that what Peter says we Christians are—a peculiar people, set apart for God?) I pray that God will use us to somehow lead her to a heart-changing faith in Christ.
We decided our first official project will be painting Lettie Hinkle's house and tidying up her yard. Dottie and I will call for volunteers from our respective churches. I know Mrs. Hinkle will be surprised, and I hope our efforts will leave her uplifted and encouraged.
Spring has come early in Boise. We're enjoying much warmer temperatures. If today was any indication, I may be planting my first Victory Garden sooner than expected. My friends say I mustn't plant before the snow is gone from Schaefer Butte. Some years that isn't until late May, but weather prognosticators are predicting this year will be different.
Oh darling, how I wish you could be home to see this garden grow or at least to see it harvested. Wouldn't that be something, if you were home by September? I close my eyes and imagine the two of us together, plucking ripe tomatoes from the vines. How ordinary. How wonderful. I miss you so very much, my dear husband.
Stay safe for me, my love.
Forever and always,
Lucy
Part III
April 1943
Chapter 27
By the time the Victory Club—including Penelope, to the surprise of the others—and a small band of church volunteers gathered on a Saturday to paint the Hinkle house, April had arrived with glorious promise. Trees were in bud up and down 17th Street, lawns had patches of green, and tulips and daffodils lifted colorful faces in many a flower bed.
Dottie welcomed the signs of the changing seasons. Spring was a time of hope and renewal, and she felt in need of both. She hadn't received mail from Greg in over a month. She hadn't received a response to her letter about the pregnancy. In her weakest moments—during the dark hours of the night—she wondered if her mother was right, if Greg resented what happened and didn't want to marry her after
all.
Those doubts were banished today. On this Saturday, with its bright sunlight, blue skies, and warm, gentle breeze, Dottie felt hopeful again. She would hear from Greg soon. She knew she would.
Standing on the back porch of the Hinkles' house, she pried open another can of yellow paint, then stirred the thick liquid with a stick. She didn't worry about splatters at this point; after several hours of work, the front of her coveralls were already covered with yellow and white paint flecks.
"Hey, Dottie," Bobby Crawford, one of the volunteers from East Boise Community Church, called from atop a ladder. "Want some help?"
With a hand shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked up. "No thanks. I can handle this."
She would much rather be up there where Bobby was, working on the trim beneath the eaves, than down here painting the spindles of the porch railing. However, she'd received strict instructions, first from her mother and then from Lucy. She was to stay off ladders and avoid heavy lifting. She wasn't to stray from the porch. Period.
She knew they were right. Still, it was frustrating. She felt fine. In fact, she felt better than ever. This past week, she hadn't been sick in the mornings, and her appetite had returned. If she kept eating the way she had lately, she would weigh a ton by the time Greg came home.
She smiled, imagining herself, round as a beach ball, and the surprised expression Greg would wear if he saw her that way. Then he would laugh, and he would hug her close and—
"Dottie?"
She looked up to find Greg's parents standing on the back lawn, their expressions grim. Her mother and Lucy stood right behind them.
Did her heart stop beating at the sight of them? It seemed to.
The Victory Club Page 10