by Myra Johnson
“What? Who?”
“A nurse. We met at the hospital.”
Sam leaned toward Gilbert, his hand curling into a fist. “You can’t be serious.”
Gilbert glared over his shoulder. “Why not? Mary’s pretty and kind and she understands me like no one else.”
“Mary. Mary McClarney, the nurse you nearly knocked into the next century?” Sam grunted a harsh laugh. “How long has this been going on?”
“We had dinner the other night. I’m taking her out again this Friday.” Gilbert gave his jaw a nervous rub. He wished he’d never mentioned Mary’s name. Honor wouldn’t let him lie to his friend, but pride wouldn’t let him back down.
“This is nothing more than a fling. It won’t last.” Sam sank into his pillows, fatigue stealing the power from his words. “Why do you fight this, Gil? You know Annemarie loves you. You know you’re still in love with her.”
The blasted pain started behind Gilbert’s eyes again. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. “How many times do I have to repeat myself? Annemarie and I are through.”
“Why, Gil? Just give me one good reason why.”
“Because I won’t inflict this on her.” He flung out his arm in a gesture indicating his crippled body. “She deserves so much better. She deserves a man who’s whole in every way. She deserves a good man, an honorable man.” He shot a pointed stare at Samuel. “She deserves a man like you.”
18
Friday turned out to be an unusually warm day for January, and Mrs. Kendall thought some fresh air and sunshine would do Samuel good. After lunch, she’d helped him out to the front porch and settled him into a wicker chaise with a blanket tucked snugly around his legs, a couple of magazines on his lap, and a cup of hot tea on a side table.
The afternoon sun on Samuel’s face lulled him into a pleasant lethargy. He’d finished the tea awhile ago and found nothing of particular interest in the magazines, so now, left with his own thoughts, he found his mind drifting to places he had no business going.
A white steepled church. Samuel at the pulpit, Annemarie at the organ. Smiling at him, always smiling. A cozy parsonage next door filled with the laughter of children—their children. A raven-haired girl with bows in her hair, a towheaded boy with snails in his pockets . . .
The rumble of an automobile jarred him out of the daydream. He gave himself a mental shake and then had to laugh at his own foolishness. For heaven’s sake, he’d never heard Annemarie play an organ, didn’t know if she even knew how.
The car, a wood-sided depot hack, stopped in front of the Kendalls’ house. The driver bustled around to the rear door and hefted a suitcase while a woman in a gray coat and flat-brimmed hat climbed out onto the sidewalk.
Samuel sat forward. “Mother?”
She looked up with a mile-wide smile. “Oh, Sam, my boy Sam!” Seconds later she plopped onto the chaise next to him and wrapped him in a bear hug.
Samuel breathed in the sweet rosewater scent of her and relished the reminder of home. When she finally released him, he asked, “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
His mother smacked his cheek with a noisy kiss. “I wanted to surprise you.”
The hack driver waited at the bottom of the porch steps. “Ma’am, your luggage?”
“Just set it by the door, if you please.” She reached into her purse for some change and pressed it into the driver’s hand. “Thanks so much for your trouble.”
As the driver nodded and left, the front door flew open. Mrs. Kendall gave a delighted gasp. “Ursula, you’re here! I promise, I didn’t say a word to spoil the surprise.”
“Ida! At last we meet. Thanks so much for inviting me to your home—and especially for all you’ve done for my son.”
The two women embraced like old friends, and Samuel could only sit there under his blanket and shake his head. They seemed to have momentarily forgotten about him anyway. Mrs. Kendall pressed for details about the journey from Fort Wayne, and Samuel’s mother pattered on about how lovely the weather was compared to January in Indiana.
“Well. Let’s get you settled into the guest room.” Mrs. Kendall lifted one of the smaller pieces of luggage. “Joseph will be home from the factory soon. He’ll get the rest. You’ll be staying upstairs. I hope it’s all right.”
“Perfectly fine. My, what a lovely home . . .”
Their voices trailed off as the front door closed behind them. Samuel contemplated what to do with himself until either his mother or Mrs. Kendall remembered they’d abandoned him on the porch. He might still be deplorably weak, but he wasn’t completely bedridden anymore. It wouldn’t hurt to move around a bit and try to regain some strength.
A train case sat next to his mother’s large suitcase. He could surely carry it as far as the foot of the stairs. Tossing the blanket aside, he swung his legs off the side of the chaise and stood. Just a little lightheaded, but not so bad. After tugging at his flannel robe to make sure he wasn’t exposing the neighbors to anything unseemly, he bent to retrieve the train case and then carried it inside.
He started across the entry hall, the train case growing heavier with each step. From somewhere upstairs came the ladies’ laughter. The sound echoed like a gong inside Samuel’s skull, seeming to come from everywhere at once. The edges of his vision yellowed, then darkened. Something crashed to the floor next to him, and suddenly the floor rose up to meet his face.
“Sam!” Cool hands touched his cheek, then gently rolled him onto his back. “Oh, Sam, are you all right? Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes to see Annemarie kneeling over him, a stray curl looping across her left eye. He watched his hand rise up—all on its own, as if he had not one shred of control—and twine that curl around one finger. The tress was as soft as he’d always imagined it, sliding through his fingers like fine silk.
When his hand brushed her face, she gave a small gasp. His arm thudded to his chest. He tried to swallow, to breathe, but his throat felt paralyzed. He squeezed his eyes shut. Stop it. Stop this at once, you idiot!
“Annemarie! What happened?” Mrs. Kendall’s voice, the creak of footsteps on the staircase.
“He doesn’t seem to be hurt, Mama. I think he must have fainted.”
Fainted. Quite the manly thing to do. Collecting himself, Samuel tried to sit up.
“Easy, now.” Annemarie helped him lean against the coat tree bench. “What on earth were you doing, Sam?”
“I was just coming in from the porch with . . .” His glance fell upon his mother’s train case. The latch had popped open, spilling underclothing and toiletries across the floor.
“Samuel Vickary!”
He’d recognize that tone anywhere. His mother bustled down the stairs and began scooping her things into the train case, muttering the whole time. “Why, if you weren’t still so feeble, I’d have half a mind to tan your backside, young man. What were you thinking, trying to tote luggage in your condition?”
“Now, Ursula, don’t be so hard on the lad. He only thought to help.” Mrs. Kendall looped an arm beneath Samuel’s. “Here, Annemarie, take his other side and let’s get him to the sofa.”
Before he could protest, the two women had hoisted him to his feet. Retrieving his dignity, he shook himself free. “I’m not a sack of potatoes. I can get there under my own power, if you don’t mind.”
At least he hoped he could. The parlor seemed a thousand miles away just now. He fixed his gaze on the sofa and willed one foot in front of the other until he finally plopped down on the cushions. He tugged the robe around him and drew several breaths while listening to Mrs. Kendall introduce Annemarie to his mother.
No doubt they’d find plenty to talk about. He could just imagine his mother glibly relating embarrassing stories from Samuel’s childhood. Like the time when he was five and the clothesline collapsed on him and he ran blindly around the backyard with his mother’s bloomers flapping in the breeze. Or his thirteenth birthday, when his mother insisted he should
invite not only the boys but also the girls from his Sunday school class. When it was time for the party, she found him locked in his room because out of nowhere a gargantuan pimple had erupted on his chin and he was mortified for the girls to see him.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Annemarie stood in the doorway, a curious smile dimpling her cheeks. She crossed the room and handed him a glass of water, then sat on the other end of the sofa, one leg demurely tucked beneath her. “You looked a million miles away. Thinking of anyone special?”
“Only my own ineptitude.” True enough. How could he admit what he was thinking—the secret pleasure it gave him to imagine Annemarie knowing every little thing about him, the secret wish to know everything there was to know about her?
He swept the thoughts aside while he took several sips of water. “It seems early for you to be home. Or are you in on my mother’s surprise visit, too?”
“I did know she’d be arriving this afternoon, but Mama swore me to secrecy.” Annemarie drew a throw pillow into her lap and toyed with the fringe. “The reason I’m home early, though, is because I’m going out this evening.”
“Out?” Samuel nearly choked on the word. A sudden spate of envy brought a boulder-sized lump to his throat.
“One of my girlfriends invited me to a dinner club. There’s an up-and-coming jazz singer in town for one night only. Carla Steiner—maybe you’ve heard of her?”
Samuel well remembered the vivacious platinum blonde. Shortly after he’d shipped over to France, Carla Steiner had put on a show to entertain the troops. “I’m glad you’re getting out. You’ve spent entirely too much time looking after me the past couple of weeks.”
“Not another word. The only thing needed to make this evening better would be if you were well enough to go along.” Annemarie’s gaze turned thoughtful. She put the cushion aside. “You’re right, though. I do need to get out more. The war is over, and I have friends and family and good health. It’s time to take myself off the shelf and start living again.”
“Annemarie, dear.” Mrs. Kendall appeared in the doorway with Samuel’s mother. “Come help me with supper and let Ursula visit with her son for a bit.”
With a quick squeeze of his hand, Annemarie rose so Samuel’s mother could sit beside him on the sofa. He tucked the hand she’d touched into the pocket of his robe and savored the memory. And only a memory it would remain, because he had no right to anything more than friendship from the woman who’d claimed his heart.
Horns, strings, and drums pulsed an up-tempo beat Annemarie could feel all the way to her toes as she and her friend Dorothy stepped through the doors of the Emerald Club. Several parties already milled about waiting to be seated, but Dorothy grabbed Annemarie’s hand and bypassed them all.
“Good evening, Rodolpho.” Resting a bejeweled wrist upon the maître d’s desk, Dorothy gave the mustachioed man a beguiling smile. “I’m Dorothy Webb, the owner’s niece. You should have a front-table reservation for my friend and me.”
“Ah, Miss Webb, of course!” Rodolpho snapped his fingers at a young man in a starched white shirt and black bow tie. “Miguel, table two for these lovely ladies. Mr. Webb has requested a complimentary bottle of champagne for their table, so bring it right out.”
Dorothy caught Annemarie’s eye and winked. “Nice to have relatives in high places, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but champagne?” Annemarie couldn’t suppress a giggle. “I’ve never tasted anything stronger than root beer in my life!”
“Then it’s about time, don’t you think?”
Arriving at their table, the waiter pulled out Dorothy’s chair, and she seated herself with a swirl of chiffon. When the waiter did the same for Annemarie, she thanked him with a reserved smile and pretended she regularly enjoyed such deferential attention. Her attire may not be as stylish as Dorothy’s, but she felt quite dressed up in the magenta tea gown she’d resurrected from the back of her closet. The bright color simply hadn’t seemed appropriate while the war eroded everyone’s spirits and so many wore the somber shades of mourning.
She opened the oversized menu and browsed the entrées, many of which she couldn’t even pronounce. “Um, Dorothy, there are no prices.”
Dorothy rolled her eyes. “Honey, if you have to ask the price, it means you can’t afford it. But don’t worry. Dinner’s on my uncle. I’m his favorite niece, you know.”
“Lucky us!” Annemarie tried again to decipher the menu but couldn’t begin to decide what to order. “I’m completely at a loss. What are you having, Dot?”
“I’m going with the house specialty, beef bourguignon.”
“That I’ve at least heard of. Sounds perfect.”
Miguel returned shortly with two crystal glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. With an expert flourish, he popped the cap and then filled the champagne glasses. Pale golden liquid bubbled enticingly, a delicate fruity aroma filling the air.
Lifting her glass, Dorothy chimed, “To the end of the war and our boys coming home!”
“Hear, hear!” Annemarie toasted with her friend, then took the tiniest sip of champagne. Between the bubbles tickling her nose and the tartly sweet taste, she had to stifle a sneeze.
While she plucked a handkerchief from her satin evening bag, Dorothy gave the waiter their orders. By then, a tuxedoed master of ceremonies appeared onstage. As the musicians played the final notes of “St. Louis Blues,” he stepped up to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Emerald Club is proud to host an exclusive one-night engagement for the lovely and talented Carla Steiner. Let’s show Carla our appreciation with a huge Hot Springs welcome!”
Applause broke out, and the orchestra began a fanfare that brought goose bumps to Annemarie’s arms. The gorgeous blond singer sauntered onto the stage, her teal gown shimmering with rhinestones. A white fur boa draped low across her shoulders, the tails brushing the floor behind her.
The master of ceremonies graced her hand with a gallant kiss, then backed offstage as the orchestra segued into “I Ain’t Got Nobody.” For the first few bars Annemarie was swept away by Carla’s rich contralto. But then the lyrics filtered into her consciousness, and a wistful melancholy settled into her heart. Fingering the stem of her champagne glass, she sank into the plush velveteen chair cushion and sighed.
“Hey, now.” Dorothy nudged her arm, a sad smile creasing rose-red lips. “This evening’s supposed to cheer you up. Forget about that cad who dumped you. You’ll meet someone new, and then he’ll be sorry.”
The song ended to deafening applause and a few wolf whistles that Miss Steiner acknowledged with a sultry smile and a wave of her white-gloved hand. With a nod to the orchestra leader, she began her next number. The livelier piece helped Annemarie shake off the mantle of gloom. She came to have fun, after all. Gilbert Ballard could just—
A commotion to her left drew her attention. Two waiters bustled to create a wider aisle, dishes and glasses clattering as diners rose to move their chairs aside and shift tables farther apart. An attractive young woman with flame-red hair strode through the opening, and behind her a man in a wheelchair.
Gilbert!
Annemarie’s heart hammered like a cadre of snare drums before it sank to her toes and stopped—utterly stopped. She could die right there on the spot.
“Annie? Are you okay?” Dorothy leaned forward, blocking Annemarie’s view. “The champagne’s not bad, is it? I know you’re not used to it, but—”
“It’s him—him!” Her voice came out in a coarse whisper. She gave a brusque nod in Gilbert’s direction.
By the time Dorothy caught her meaning and followed her gaze, a waiter was assisting the redhead into her chair while the maître d’ guided Gilbert’s wheelchair up to their table. “Oh my. You want to get out of here, honey?”
Stretching tall, she inhaled long and slowly through her nose. “Absolutely not.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and pasted on her most serene smile. “We came to hear Car
la Steiner. Not to mention I’m starving, so I’m not leaving until I’ve eaten every last bite of my beef bourguignon. And dessert. Didn’t I see Black Forest cake on the menu?”
“The best in town.” Dorothy smirked, leaning close to Annemarie’s ear. “Good for you, honey. I’m proud of you.”
Gilbert had arranged to have Mary seated at his right so he’d have his good arm available for . . . wherever the evening led. “Enjoying the show?”
“Oh, yes!” A shivery sigh escaped Mary’s lips. “Mercy me, but this is an elegant place! If I’d known, I’d have found something more glamorous to wear.”
“You look fine.” Truth be told, he doubted she owned anything nicer than the dusky brown frock she wore. But the simple lines imbued an understated sophistication, and the cream-colored lace collar did something wonderful to her lightly freckled complexion. His fingers itched to stroke the curve of her cheek, to touch the soft, pink ripeness of her pouty lower lip.
Fumbling with the huge menu, Mary glanced his way with a self-conscious giggle. “You’re staring.”
“Sorry, can’t stop myself.” He let his hand graze the tender skin on the back of her wrist. His belly throbbed with longing.
But was she the type of girl who’d give him what he wanted—what he needed? All these years he’d saved himself, kept himself pure for Annemarie. Not even those French femme fatales with their butchered-English come-ons had turned his eye. Instead, he’d fantasized about his wedding night, taking Annemarie to his bed and finally releasing the pent-up passion he’d suppressed for so long out of respect for her and obedience to God.
Well, God hadn’t done him any good lately, and Annemarie was out of the picture. Now all he cared about was finding relief from the loneliness, from the depression, from the constant raging headaches that made him half-blind with agony.
Mary closed the menu and cast him a demure smile. “I’d best let you order for me. I can’t make heads nor tails of these fancy names.”