by Myra Johnson
6
Happy endings. Was there any such thing?
Annemarie tossed the pulp magazine to the foot of her bed. The story she’d just read, a romantic adventure about long-lost lovers reuniting on a tropical island, left her teetering between scornful laughter and sentimental tears.
She normally didn’t go in for such fluff, but sleep eluded her tonight. Ever since she left the hospital, worries over Gilbert had consumed her. As disconcerting as his most recent letters had been, seeing him today only heightened her sense that the war had stolen away the man she loved. This was not the same Gilbert who only a year ago, home on leave before shipping overseas with his division, had kissed her under the mistletoe and sworn his undying love.
Beneath the glow of the bedside lamp, she gazed into the fire-and-ice shimmer of her engagement ring, Gilbert’s gift to her last Christmas. “Wait for me,” he’d said. “Keep a light in the window and a prayer in your heart.”
But today she’d seen no light of love in her Gilbert’s eyes. When he looked at her at all, it seemed as if he looked right through her.
A rap sounded on her bedroom door before it creaked open. “Annemarie?”
“Come in, Mama. I’m awake.”
Her mother tiptoed into the room, whisking the door closed behind her. Wrapped in a thick flannel robe, she motioned Annemarie over and crawled under the quilts next to her. She snuggled Annemarie beneath her arm. “An exciting day for you, wasn’t it? And now you can’t sleep. I don’t blame you.”
Mama smelled of lavender and talcum powder, her loose braid of coffee-colored hair showing glints of silver. Annemarie found the end of her own thick braid and twined it with her mother’s, taking comfort in the satiny feel and the interplay of hues. “Is it wrong for me to be happy Papa didn’t have to go to war?”
Mama looked surprised. “Of course not. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Only because so many others didn’t have a choice.” Annemarie sat up and hugged her knees beneath her chin. “I can’t help thinking about our friends who are never coming home. Ollie Lang, Howard McNeil, Francis Ferguson, so many others. If I’d lost Papa, if I’d lost Gilbert—”
“You mustn’t dwell on such thoughts. Just thank the Lord your papa was too old for the draft and our prayers brought Gilbert home alive.”
“I do thank God, but—” How could she reconcile the seeming absurdity of believing their prayers had protected Gilbert when surely every parent, sister, wife, and child had prayed just as fervently for their own loved ones’ safe return?
Tossing aside the covers, Annemarie scrambled to the other side of the bed and marched to the chair where she’d laid her robe.
“Come back to bed, Annie. I’ll sit with you till you fall asleep.”
“It’s no use.” Annemarie stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her robe and looped the belt at her waist, then pulled on a pair of warm wool socks. Finding her slippers under the edge of the bed, she slid them on and extended a hand to her mother. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your own room.”
With a reluctant shiver, Mama crawled out from beneath the quilts. “And what exactly are you planning to do this time of night? It’s nigh on one o’clock.”
“The one thing I can always count on to take my mind off my worries.” Annemarie hooked her arm around her mother’s elbow and led her into the hall.
Two steps out the door, Mama jerked to a halt and pierced Annemarie with a sharp glare. “Annemarie Kendall, are you out of your mind? It’ll be cold as the Arctic in the workshop. Your fingers will turn to icicles in that wet clay.”
“I’ll get the steam heat going. It’ll warm up in no time.” Annemarie tugged her mother along the hallway until they reached the door at the other end. She pulled her mother into a quick hug, stopping the protest she could see forming behind a fierce frown. “It’s all right, Mama. I promise. I just need to work off some of this restlessness.”
Mama shuddered out a resigned sigh and tweaked Annemarie’s cheek. “So help me, daughter, I’d better find you under the covers and sound asleep when I go down to start breakfast in the morning.”
Annemarie didn’t dare reply, for fear she’d make a promise she couldn’t keep.
An hour later, her sleeves rolled up and an oversized apron covering her from neck to ankles, she sat at the spinning potter’s wheel. She worked more by feel than sight, the cold, wet clay oozing between her fingers like strands of silk. It had become an almost mystical process for her, a blending of faith and artistry, for while her brain hadn’t yet decided the shape or function of her creation, eventually her heart would figure it out.
But now, O Jehovah, thou art our Father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.
What else could she believe, except that somehow her heavenly Father could yet shape the clay of her life—hers and Gilbert’s—into something beautiful?
“I’m so sorry, Miss Kendall, but Lieutenant Ballard has requested no visitors today.”
Annemarie clamped her teeth together, one gloved fist resting atop the charge nurse’s desk. “Please, I’m his fiancée. It’s been three days now. Would you at least tell him I’m here?”
A regretful frown puckered the gray-haired nurse’s lips. She came from behind her desk and led Annemarie over to the window, out of earshot of others on the floor. “I feel for you, truly I do, but the lieutenant wouldn’t even see his own mother this morning. The only visitor he’ll allow is the chaplain, and even that poor man gets tossed out on his keister when Lieutenant Ballard loses his temper.”
Temper? In all the years Annemarie had known Gilbert, he’d never been considered a hothead. Forthright, opinionated at times, but always cool under pressure. The mark of a good officer, he’d once told her, a trait he was proud to say he’d inherited from his father.
Annemarie stared across the winter-brown expanse of lawn to the bustling traffic on Reserve Street. Christmas shoppers and the spa clientele were out in full force today, despite the threat of snow and lingering concern over the spread of influenza. What Annemarie wouldn’t give for a glimmer of sunshine and blue skies!
The nurse laid a gentle hand on Annemarie’s arm. “Would you like me to ring you up when Lieutenant Ballard is feeling more himself?”
“Thank you, I’d be very grateful.” Though Annemarie wondered if Gilbert would ever truly be himself again. She cast a worried glance in the direction of the ward before hurrying downstairs.
She made it as far as the lobby before collapsing in tears onto the nearest bench.
“Miss Kendall?”
Startled, she fumbled through her handbag for a handkerchief and swiped at her drippy nose and eyes. “Oh, you’re the nice chaplain, Gilbert’s friend.”
“Samuel Vickary. Though around here I answer to ‘Padre.’” The trim, sandy-haired man nodded toward the empty space beside her. “May I?”
“Of course.” Annemarie forced a shaky smile as he lowered himself onto the bench. “I’m normally not one to be so weepy. I must look a fright.”
“Not at all. You look—” He coughed, or was it nervous laughter? When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a raspy whisper. “You look fine, truly.”
“I’m sorry not to have thanked you sooner for all you’ve done for Gilbert. I understand you’re staying with the Ballards.”
“They’ve been very kind to offer me rooms.” Another self-conscious chuckle. “I’m not used to living in such finery, not to mention having servants at my beck and call. I telephoned my mother in Fort Wayne yesterday to give her my new address, and now she’s worried I’ll be spoiled beyond redemption.”
Annemarie dried her eyes and tucked the handkerchief into her handbag. “After what you went through over in France, I’m sure you’re quite deserving of a little pampering.”
Neither of them spoke for several seconds. In the silence, Annemarie found her gaze drawn to the way his long, thin fingers splayed across his thighs. He tapped h
is index fingers in rhythm, one, two . . . one, two, three, and stared across the lobby.
Then they both spoke at once.
“Will you see—”
“I understand you’re—”
Laughing behind her gloved hand, Annemarie tried again. “I was just going to ask if you’d see your family at Christmas.”
“My mother is all I have left. She loves to travel and is already making plans to visit me here.”
“How wonderful for you. I can’t imagine how lonely it would be to spend the holidays in an unfamiliar city and so far from your loved ones.” Hearing the words leave her mouth, she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. “But I suppose you already know exactly how it feels.”
Chaplain Vickary sat back with a sigh. “At least I’m back on American soil. Far too many of our soldiers are still left in Europe.”
“But praise God the fighting is over and they’re only there to keep the peace.” Annemarie shifted slightly and cast the chaplain a shy smile. “Your turn. What were you about to ask me?”
“I was just going to say I heard you work at a pottery factory. A family business, I understand?”
“Kendall Pottery Works. My grandfather established the business right after the Civil War.”
“Kendall Pottery?” The chaplain narrowed one eye. “You’re the ‘A. Kendall’ whose works are on display at the Arlington?”
Annemarie nodded, her cheeks warming. “Those are pieces I’ve made in my spare time. At the factory we make mainly serviceable items for everyday use.”
“Well, I’m quite impressed. You have a real talent.”
“Thank you.” She pursed her lips and looked away, wishing her father would just once recognize the value of artistry. Surely there was more to life than plain beige bowls and urns. The world was bleak enough.
“Have you always lived in Hot Springs?”
Annemarie beamed. “All my life. I can’t imagine a more beautiful place to grow up.”
“It’s quite a scenic locale, even judging from what little I’ve seen so far.”
“Just wait until you see the mountains in springtime. When the sun rises big and bright and golden at the edge of the bluest sky you’ve ever seen, and the redbuds color the mountainsides in every shade of pink, and tiny new leaves of palest green pop out on every branch—why, words simply can’t describe it!”
Chaplain Vickary grinned, his gray eyes snapping. “I think you just described it perfectly.”
Annemarie’s cheeks flamed again. “I suppose I did go on a bit, didn’t I?” She shifted her gaze to the dreary landscape beyond the windows. “It’s just this whole past year has seemed like one long, endless season of winter. I don’t ever remember being so anxious for spring.”
The sun chose that moment to pierce the clouds with one golden ray. Sucking in a breath, Annemarie rose and went to the window. One hand resting upon the glass, she angled her face to receive the sun’s warmth.
“Spring will come again, you know.” The chaplain stood at her left shoulder. “‘Weeping may tarry for the night, But joy cometh in the morning.’”
“The thirtieth psalm—I know it well. ‘Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing; Thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.’ I believe it as much as I ever did, but . . .” Annemarie released a shivery breath. “I’m afraid for Gilbert, so afraid for him.”
“I’ve been worried, too.” He seemed about to offer a comforting touch, but just as quickly withdrew his hand and lowered it to his side. He swiveled toward the window. “Looks like the clouds are lifting.”
Annemarie tore her gaze away from his somber profile and glanced out at the brightening sky. “Perhaps a walk would do us both good. Chaplain Vickary, would you care for a personally guided tour of downtown Hot Springs?”
The chaplain cast her an uncertain glance. “Are you sure it would be proper?”
“To familiarize my fiancé’s closest friend with his new surroundings? What could be considered improper about that?”
“Then I can’t think of a more delightful way to spend an afternoon.” The chaplain offered Annemarie his arm. “But only if you will also consider me a friend and call me Samuel.”
“Samuel it is,” she said, linking her arm through his. “But won’t you need your overcoat?”
“Not if we stay on the sunny side of the street.” He arched a brow and nodded toward the exit. “Shall we?”
Lightness rose in Annemarie’s breast. She smiled up at the chaplain—no, at her new friend Samuel. “Let’s!”
Gilbert sat in the dayroom, his wheelchair angled toward the window and a blanket over his legs—or what was left of them. A trio of aging veterans had invited him to join them in a game of dominoes, but he wasn’t in the mood. His head throbbed. His left ear had started its incessant ringing again. He doubted he could focus well enough to count the pips on his tiles anyway.
He pressed his right palm into his forehead and rubbed furiously. Just one hour without pain was all he asked. Even ten minutes. God, are You listening?
Obviously not. God had already shown exactly how much concern He had for Gilbert. Let Samuel spout his biblical propaganda, say what he wanted about the Lord’s protection. Gilbert knew otherwise. A loving God didn’t save a man’s life only to deprive him of the ability to earn an honest living, to be a good husband to the woman he loved.
He scraped his hand down his face and rested his stubbly chin in his palm. The sun had finally broken through the clouds and glinted off the roof of the New Imperial Bath House. On the pathway below he glimpsed a couple out for a walk. The man was tall, dressed in an olive-drab uniform. The woman on his arm wore a flat-brimmed hat that hid her features from Gilbert’s view, but there was something familiar about her posture, her long, purposeful stride.
Annemarie.
Gilbert sat forward, his forearm braced hard against the arm of his wheelchair. He blinked several times in a hopeless attempt to clear his vision. But there was no mistaking it—his Annemarie, leaning on the arm of another man.
An explosion of rage ripped through his chest. “Who? Who?”
“Lieutenant Ballard?” One of those bothersome, hovering nurses came up beside him and rested a hand on the back of his chair. A round-faced redhead with a lilting Irish brogue, she didn’t look old enough to be out of grammar school. “Sir, are you in pain?”
He bit down on the spate of curses burning the back of his throat. “I’m tired. Just take me back to the ward.”
“Of course, sir.” The nurse turned his chair and rolled him toward the corridor. “You know, sir, it might lift your spirits a wee bit if only you’d allow visitors. Your mother has telephoned countless times today already, and just awhile ago I saw the lovely Miss Kendall talking to the charge nurse.”
Gilbert grabbed the right wheel and jerked the chair to a halt that spun the nurse off balance. She gave a yelp and righted herself, then planted her fists on her hips and pierced him with a chiding glare. “Lieutenant!”
The rage that had swept through him so completely now fell away like melting snow. He sagged and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s just—my head—” A quavering breath edged past his lips. He felt his eyes welling up. Blast it all, had he no control over his own emotions anymore?
The nurse’s gaze softened. “Now, think nothing of it, Lieutenant. We’ll get you into bed and see what we can do to make you more comfortable.” She nudged the chair around in the direction of the ward and started on their way. “Soon as you’re settled, I’ll hunt up Chaplain Vickary for you. The man does have a way about him.”
“Yeah, get Sam. Maybe he can—”
Recognition slammed into Gilbert’s gut with the force of a kick from an army mule.
Sam.
Sam with Annemarie. Arm in arm, like they’d known each other forever.
Like lovers.
The anger simmered again, but this time Gilbert clamped a firm lid on it. Hadn’t he already vowed to give
Annemarie up? Hadn’t he promised himself he’d never be a burden for her, that he’d set her free to find a man who could love her as she deserved?
But Sam, Sam. Why did it have to be you?
7
Of all the women in the world, why did Samuel find himself falling for the one woman he could never have?
Of all the women in the world—the adoring French farm girls who’d beckoned him with flirtatious winks, the Red Cross nurses wearing compassionate smiles and crisp white uniforms, the sisters, daughters, and friends of friends who’d turned out at the docks and train stations to welcome the soldiers home . . .
Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be Annemarie?
Yesterday’s stroll along the promenade, her delicate hand nestled in the crook of his elbow, almost made him forget about the war.
Almost made him forget his promise to do all he could to make sure Gilbert didn’t give up on life or the woman he loved.
Gilbert had been in quite a state when Samuel returned to the hospital after his walk. The spunky little Irish nurse—Mary McClarney, if he remembered her name correctly—had stopped him in the corridor to express her concern.
“Something has him mighty riled up, Chaplain. It’s understandable he’s moody and depressed, but I’ve not seen him quite so angry—and over nothing he would admit to.”
Samuel thanked her and went straight in to check on Gilbert.
And five minutes later found himself summarily dismissed. If he hadn’t ducked at the crucial moment, he’d have been beaned by a flying water glass.
Maybe this morning things would be better.
Entering the ward, Samuel did a quick reconnaissance while sharing a prayer or word of peace with a few of the other patients along the way. He paused at the foot of Gilbert’s bed and cast his friend a worried frown. Gilbert lay twisted in the bedcovers, his good arm cradling the injured arm. He appeared to be asleep, a good thing considering how frequently he complained of headache-induced insomnia.