Turn …
Run …
Resist …
Oh, that wretched voice of warning. She wanted it to be silent.
"I've missed you." His smile was tentative. "Did you find a better place to shop for groceries?"
She shook her head. "No."
"How've you been?"
Lonely. I've been lonely, Howard, and I don't want to be lonely anymore.
He untied his apron, removed it, and laid it on the counter. "I'm hungry. Would you care to join me for supper?"
Resist …
Flee …
"I was headed for Chloe's," he said, "but we could go somewhere else if you want."
"Chloe's is fine."
He stared at her for a long while before he said, "Give me a few minutes to close things up, and then we'll go."
Richard …
She nodded. "I'll wait."
Chapter 34
Margo glanced up from Greg's letter to look at Dottie, who was seated on the sofa across from her. "At least he seems ready to do the right thing by you."
The hurt showed instantly in Dottie's eyes.
Her conscience tweaked, Margo said, "I didn't mean that quite as it sounded." Except she had meant it that way. Exactly that way.
"You mustn't think the worst of Greg, Mom. He's going to be your son-in-law, and he's the father of your grandchild." She drew a deep breath and let it out. "And I love him."
"It was love that got you into this predicament."
This time, Dottie pulled back, as if Margo had struck her.
What was it the Bible said about the tongue? It's a small thing, but it can do enormous damage. Well, perhaps that was true, but at least Margo was honest. Didn't truth count for something?
Truth with love.
She looked at the letter again. "I suppose we need to get ready if there's to be a wedding. We can have it here at the house. Considering the circumstances, the church would be inappropriate."
"Or maybe, because of the circumstances, the church would be the most appropriate place for our wedding to take place."
Margo stiffened. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Jesus gathered the sinners. He ate with them and walked with them. The Pharisees didn't like it, but Jesus did."
"Dottie, you cannot possibly—"
"Our Lord said every sin and blasphemy can be forgiven except blaspheming the Holy Spirit. Don't you believe Him?"
"Of course I do. But you—"
"Don't you think He's forgiven me?" Dottie stood. "I do. I believe I'm forgiven. I know I am. And after Christ forgave me, He told me to go and sin no more." She stepped forward and took the letter from Margo's hand. "But we've said all these things before, haven't we, Mom?"
"Yes," Margo answered with a heavy sigh, feeling weary. "We have."
"So I'm left to wonder this—what is it you think you're not forgiven for?"
She gaped at her daughter, stunned into silence.
"Think about it, Mom." Dottie turned on her heel and left the living room.
"What is it you think you're not forgiven for?"
How dare Dottie ask her such a thing. Whatever happened to young people respecting and honoring their parents? Dottie had no business taking that tone with her.
"What is it you think you're not forgiven for?"
Nothing. Of course she was forgiven. She'd followed God's laws unswervingly for years. She wasn't like many others who called themselves Christians. No, she'd stayed the course from the moment she gave her heart to God, and she'd done everything she could to make certain her children did the same. God was holy and He demanded holiness of His children.
I want you to show mercy, not offer sacrifices.
The unexpected whisper in her heart caused her to shiver. It was almost as if she'd heard an audible voice.
Oh, for pity's sake. How absurd. God spoke to people through His written word. She was not about to become emotional like her daughter. Christianity wasn't about feeling good. It was about adhering to God's laws. It was about being good, being righteous, being—
Your righteous deeds are nothing but filthy rags.
Margo massaged her forehead with the tips of her fingers, wanting to rub away the troublesome words in her mind and heart.
I want you to show mercy, not offer sacrifices … Your righteous deeds are nothing but filthy rags.
Unsettled, she rose and hurried into the kitchen. She needed to get busy with the remainder of her Saturday chores. Margo had no intention of allowing her misguided daughter's strange notions about God Almighty lead her astray. She had followed the Lord much longer than Dottie had. Her daughter still had a lot to learn about God's holy judgment. Much more.
Chapter 35
Howard asked Georgia—the same waitress who served them the other time they came to Chloe's—to seat them in a booth in the back of the diner. "It's too windy near the door."
But it wasn't windy outside, and the diner wasn't hopping with activity on this Saturday evening. Lucy knew there was another reason for his request.
She was the reason.
Because we shouldn't be here together. Because I'm a married woman, and Howard has become more than a friend.
Avoiding Georgia's gaze, she felt color rising in her cheeks as she slid into the booth.
"I'll get some water and be right back," the waitress said.
As soon as Georgia was out of earshot, Howard leaned forward. "Are you all right?"
Lucy looked up, swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes."
The look in his eyes said he didn't believe her. "We don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable." She was a poor liar; she flushed hotter. "I'm fine. Really."
He lowered his voice. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."
I know, she mouthed, though no sound came out.
Georgia returned, and Lucy wasn't sure if she should be relieved or sorry for the interruption.
After another quick glance in Lucy's direction, Howard said, "Georgia, please bring us two of tonight's special, whatever it is. I've found the special is always a good choice."
"Sure thing, Mr. Baxter." Georgia pointed with her pen at the glasses she'd set on the table. "Either of you want something besides water to drink?"
"No, thank you. Water will be fine."
"Okay then. I'll have those specials right out."
Lucy reached for her glass and drew it toward her, although she didn't lift it to take a drink. Instead, she traced her finger around the moisture on the rim.
"I'm in love with you, Lucy."
Her heart thudded, then threatened to stop as she looked across the table at her companion.
"You must know I never meant for that to happen. You're married, and I'm fifteen years your senior. Those are just two reasons it shouldn't have happened." He looked as disturbed as she felt. "But it did happen, and I can't deny it. These last two weeks, not seeing you, it nearly killed me."
"Oh, Howard. You've been so kind to me. But—"
He lowered his voice even more. "I'm not asking you to do anything that would go against your beliefs. I know you're a religious woman, and I'm not looking for a mistress anyway."
At that word, Lucy felt the color drain from her face.
"I just want to be near you, Lucy. I just want to be able to spend time with you, and help you when you need help, and listen to you talk about your day, and offer a shoulder to cry on if you need one." He leaned forward, his gaze searching hers. "I'd never ask for more than you could give. I promise I wouldn't. We'll draw that proverbial line in the sand, one we won't cross. How's that?"
He made it sound so simple, so easy. Could it be?
"You're lonely, Lucy, and so am I. What's the harm in the two of us easing our loneliness in each other's company? Who would we be hurting?"
Lots of harm. Plenty of reasons. They could all be hurt—Richard the most. Or maybe not. Was it possible she and Howard could be together and never cross that line
in the sand?
You've already crossed it, Lucy, her conscience warned. You're already sitting where no married woman should be sitting.
But she didn't want to hear that warning. She had a right to friendship and companionship, didn't she? Besides, she would never do anything to hurt Richard. Never.
Richard wouldn't want you to be lonely, a darker, uglier voice whispered. He wouldn't mind you making new friends. It isn't wrong.
"Lucy?"
"I love my husband, Howard."
"I know you do."
"But I … I care for you, too, and I want us to remain friends. As long as you understand that friends is all we can be …"
"I understand."
She shook her head. "You mustn't say you love me again."
Howard slid his hand across the table and took hold of hers. "All right. If that's what you want. I'll do whatever you ask, Lucy. I won't say I love you. We'll just be friends. I won't require anything more than that."
There was something in his gaze and in his touch that belied his words. Something that made her heart rat-a-tat a frantic warning in her chest.
Resist …
Flee …
But there was nothing to resist, no reason to flee.
It's not wrong to be friends. He's alone, and I'm alone. What harm can there be in spending a little time together? None. None at all.
Glad that the matter was settled, Lucy slipped her hand from Howard's grasp as Georgia approached the table, carrying two large dinner plates on a tray.
Friends they would be. No one could object to that.
Chapter 36
On Monday, Dottie left work at noon after telling her supervisor she had a doctor's appointment. Of course, she didn't tell the man the reason for it, nor did she tell him she had another appointment immediately afterward, that one with her minister.
As she sat on a hard wooden chair outside Pastor Danson's office, she silently repeated a line from a psalm she'd memorized.
"Your right hand supports me; Your help has made me great."
How contrary was that truth to what the world thought. It was God's gentleness that made a person great. He was a mighty God, but it was His compassion that led to strength.
She was thankful for His grace, grateful for His unmerited mercy and love.
"Dottie."
She looked up.
"Sorry I kept you waiting." Kevin Danson smiled at her from his office doorway.
Nerves exploded inside her. She had great respect for this humble man, a faithful shepherd for the small family of God who met here. And now she needed to confess her failures to him.
"Come in, Dottie."
She stood, and when Pastor Danson motioned for her to precede him, she did so, clutching her pocketbook with both hands.
Father God, help me.
The pastor's desk was set against a wall, leaving space on the opposite side of the room for a compact sofa and two old but comfortable chairs that faced it. Dottie sat on the sofa.
Pastor Danson sat on the chair closest to her. With a glance at her coveralls, he said, "You must have come from work."
"Yes."
He leaned back in the chair. "So tell me. What brings you to see me?"
Dottie drew a deep breath. "There's something I need to tell you." She looked at her hands, clenched in her lap. Oh, how she hated this. But it had to be done. "I … I'm pregnant, Pastor Danson." She waited for him to say something. When he didn't, she looked up again. "It's Greg's baby. We … we plan to marry as soon as he returns to Boise. We … we hope you'll let us get married in the church."
The man's gaze was filled with compassion, leaving no room for condemnation. "I see."
Those two simple words and the kindness in his eyes were enough to open the floodgates.
Dottie poured out the story of that careless night with Greg and of their repentance afterward. She told the pastor things she'd kept bottled up inside for weeks—the shame, the regret, the fear, the dread, even the pain of her mother's unwavering censure. As she spoke, she felt the balm of God's love touching wounds she hadn't known were still open and bleeding.
The words spent, Dottie fell silent at last.
Pastor Danson gave her an encouraging smile. "Dottie, you have given me hope."
"Hope?"
"Yes." He nodded. "When I see how you have taken responsibility for your wrong choices, it gives me hope. Too many people today are simply sorry when they are caught in their sin. They are not sorry for the sin itself. But you, dear girl, have shown me true repentance."
She returned his smile with a tentative one of her own.
"When Greg returns to Boise, the two of you come to see me so we can talk about your wedding."
"Then we can have it here? You'll perform the ceremony for us?
"I'd be honored."
"Thank you, Pastor Danson," she whispered, her smile blossoming.
He leaned forward and patted the back of her right hand. "Give your mother some time. She loves you dearly. Perhaps I can have a word with her that might help."
Please, Lord. Let it help, Dottie prayed. I don't want us to continue this way. I love her, too.
To: Penelope Maxfield, Boise, Idaho
From: PFC Frances Ballard
Sunday, April 18, 1943
Hi, Sis.
I got your last letter a couple of weeks ago, but it's been hard to find time to write.
I completed my four weeks of basic training (I'm now officially a WAAC) and was immediately posted to an Aircraft Warning Service (AWS) unit in Massachusetts. I hope it's a temporary assignment. I still want to go overseas.
Be sure and note the new mailing address for me because I want to get lots of letters from home.
Here at the AWS, fifteen of us operate what they call a filter board. We track the paths of aircraft flying in the area. I'd love to tell you the work is exciting, but the truth is, the hours stretch out in endless boredom while we wait for something to happen. There just aren't that many aircraft flying around, and there certainly aren't any German ones to fight. Still, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I enlisted. They say the army's learning that there are a lot more positions WAACs are capable of filling than the standard clerks, typists, stenographers, and motor-pool drivers. I sure hope that's true.
Did you know there are five WAAC officers serving Lt. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower at the Allied Forces Headquarters in North Africa? When they were en route from Great Britain, their ship was torpedoed. Two of them were rescued from the burning deck of their sinking ship by a British destroyer, and the other three made it into a lifeboat and were later rescued by another destroyer. Eventually, the WAACs were delivered to Algiers, but they'd lost everything—their uniforms, supplies, and all personal items.
I probably shouldn't have told you that. You'll worry something like that could happen to me. Don't worry. Okay? Nothing's going to happen to me in Massachusetts. Unless I die of boredom, that is.
I've requested a transfer to the 149th Post Headquarters Company, the unit that's serving in Algiers. They're sending more WAACs over there next month, and I want to be one of them. It's doubtful I will be sent this soon after completing my training. But you never know. Doesn't hurt to try.
I'm not going to tell Mom and Dad about my transfer request just yet. Dad wasn't crazy about the idea of England as a possibility. He'll hate this. You know how he is. "A woman's place is in the home" and all that. As far as he's concerned, I should be married and having babies at the ripe old age of 20. Where does he think I'm going to find a husband when all the young men are off fighting? That doesn't seem to occur to him. Besides, maybe I'm not ready for marriage. And if I was, what better place to find a husband than where just about the whole US Army is posted. Right?
Speaking of marriage, I got a letter a couple of days ago from Dottie King. She told me Greg was wounded and is being sent home. She said they're getting married right away and that she'll have lots more to write me about soon.
/>
That sounded mysterious. Do you still see her out at the base? What's going on? Can you tell me?
There's a girl in my unit that reminds me of Dottie. Her name is Midge. She gets up early to read her Bible and pray and never misses chapel on Sundays. In my experience, there are plenty of folks who go to church and they're no different than me. But Midge is different, same as Dottie. Some of the other girls in the unit razz her about what a goody-goody she is, but I haven't felt like joining in their teasing. It's like she (and Dottie) have something I haven't got. That bothers me. It never used to, but it does now.
Know what I mean? Do you ever feel that way when you're with Dottie? Or am I just crazy?
You'll never guess what I bought last week. A pair of silk stockings! Can you believe it? I didn't ask if they were from the black market. I hope not. I don't want to end up in jail or anything.
Well, I've gone on long enough. Give Stuart my love and give Alan and Evelyn a hug and a kiss from their Auntie Frani. I love and miss you all.
XXXX
Frances
Chapter 37
After reading Penelope's letter from Frances for the third time, Stuart refolded the soft green stationery and slipped it into the matching envelope. Then he placed it on the nightstand and turned off the light. He lay down on the bed, one arm bent over his forehead, and stared through the darkness at the ceiling.
Maybe he should feel guilty about reading his wife's mail, but he didn't.
Where could Penelope be? She had no money to speak of. Perhaps a few dollars left from the weekly grocery fund. She'd packed only a small bag. Could she have joined the WAACs like Frances?
"Help me, God. Help me find her."
Stuart wasn't a religious man, but he would change that in an instant if it helped bring his wife back.
He thought of Penelope's friends, all of them churchgoing women. Penelope often made sarcastic remarks about the things they believed and the things they wouldn't do and the places they wouldn't go. But like Frances said in her letter, there was something different about them, especially Dottie King and Lucy Anderson. They didn't act like they were better than anybody else. In fact, just the opposite.
The Victory Club Page 13