by Myra Johnson
She closed her eyes and savored the memory of his mouth on hers, and now the sweet, gentle fire of his lips as they grazed each finger. “I will. Lord help me, I will.”
20
Balancing a serving bowl in each hand, Annemarie followed her mother into the dining room. “I’m certain we only set two extra places, but you’ve enough food here to feed everyone in our congregation.”
Mama’s laughter bubbled as she set a platter of roasted chicken in the center of the table. “No one should walk away hungry after Sunday dinner.” She took the bowls from Annemarie and set them on either side of the platter, then tapped her index finger against her lips. “Peas, potatoes, chicken, rolls . . . What have we forgotten?”
“Butter and jam? And don’t forget the gravy’s simmering.”
“The gravy—oh, dear! We’ll have lumps for sure!” Mama nearly trampled Annemarie in her rush to return to the kitchen.
While Annemarie adjusted a place setting, the doorbell chimed. Sam! Her heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again, and immediately she chided herself for such a girlish response. For perhaps the hundredth time that week, she recalled her father’s not-so-subtle hints about the friendship between her and Sam growing into something more.
Nonsense. Utter nonsense. She scraped damp palms along the sides of her skirt and marched to the entry hall. Through the sheer curtains beside the front door she glimpsed Sam and his mother waiting on the porch. With a quick intake of breath and praying her voice would hold steady, she opened the door. “Good morning—or is it afternoon already? Do come in!”
Mrs. Vickary slipped off her gloves before taking Annemarie’s hand. “So kind of your mother to invite us.” She gave Samuel a meaningful smile. “There were too many Sundays this past year when I dined with no one’s company but my own.”
“Ursula!” Mama bustled in from the dining room and gave the small blond woman a sisterly embrace. “Come to the kitchen with me. I need your help repairing the gravy. I got distracted and let it simmer too long unattended.”
With a hitch in her throat, Annemarie turned to Sam. He stood in the open doorway, a crooked little smile bowing his lips. She motioned him inside and closed the door. “You look well, more color to your cheeks since I saw you last. And praise God you’re wearing your coat!”
Laughing, he shrugged his arms out of the sleeves and tucked his wool scarf into a pocket. He looked dapper in a starched blue shirt and gray sweater vest. “Thank my mother. She’s been doting on me as if I were a helpless schoolboy.”
“Good for her.” Taking his coat, Annemarie caught the woodsy scent of his aftershave. A sudden impulse to press the garment to her face nearly melted her knees like hot butter. Resisting with every ounce of willpower, she spun away before Sam could read anything into her expression, but her hands still trembled as she draped the coat over a hook on the hall tree.
Honestly, such foolishness!
Annemarie gathered her wits enough to show Sam into the dining room and then hurried down the hall to call her father from the study. She found him poring over the Sunday papers, a halo of pipe smoke encircling his head. “Dinner’s on the table, and the Vickarys are here.”
Papa gave a wink as he laid the newspaper aside and rose. “Now perhaps you’ll satisfy your concerns about Samuel’s health and stop mooning about the office instead of tending to business.”
“Mooning about? Please!” Annemarie linked her arm through her father’s as they started toward the dining room. “I’ve never mooned a day in my life.”
“What would you call it then? I plumb lost track of how many times I came in from the factory floor last week to find you staring off at nothing and a blob of ink smeared across a ledger page.”
“I was . . . calculating.”
“Mm-hmm. Calculating when you could next lay eyes on your Sam, no doubt.”
Annemarie slapped her father’s hand. “He isn’t my Sam. We’re only friends, Papa. How many ways must I say it?”
They rounded the corner into the front hall, the dining room now only a few steps away. Time to end this line of conversation once and for all. With a silent but fervent prayer her father wouldn’t so much as hint at such ridiculous ideas during dinner, Annemarie took her seat across from Sam and his mother. The Lord willing, she’d get through this meal with her runaway feelings in check and her dignity intact.
After dessert had been served and the dishes cleared, Papa pushed back his chair and gave his belly a satisfied rub. Turning to Samuel, he said, “I like a good long walk around the neighborhood after Sunday dinner. Good for digestion, you know. Care to join me while the ladies chat?”
Samuel shook his head. “Ordinarily I’d enjoy the exercise, but it’s been a long week, and I’m afraid I haven’t the energy quite yet.” He cast his cupid’s-bow smile toward Annemarie’s mother. “However, if the ladies would rather converse without a gentleman present, I’ll gladly occupy myself with a book or magazine.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Mama flicked Samuel’s arm with the corner of her napkin. “Women’s conversation can become quite tedious. We’d welcome the male point of view, wouldn’t we, ladies?”
Annemarie’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course.”
Although she couldn’t help wondering why, after missing Sam’s company all week—very well, so Papa hadn’t misread that aspect of their relationship—she should feel so awkward about spending an afternoon with him now. Only one thing explained it: Papa’s teasing had made her overly self-conscious, all but ruining the casual candor of their friendship.
She only hoped Papa would drop his teasing long enough for her to feel comfortable around Sam again.
“Coming, dear?” Mama rested a hand on her shoulder. “Samuel and Ursula are already settled in the parlor.”
Annemarie gave herself a mental shake. She must be going daft if she hadn’t even noticed when everyone else left the table. She rose with a sigh. “Perhaps I should start on the dishes.”
“They’ll keep.” With a dismissive wave, Mama started across the hall.
When Annemarie reached the parlor, she found Mama and Mrs. Vickary had claimed the two matching chairs closest to the fireplace. That left Annemarie to choose between her father’s oversized gray easy chair—which would swallow her whole—or else sit with Samuel on the sofa. No matter she’d perched beside him there many times before and thought nothing of it. Today, however, everything was different.
Samuel stood as Annemarie entered the room, his smoky eyes lighting up for the briefest moment before he tipped his gaze toward the floor. His hesitant smile only heightened Annemarie’s uncertainty. As deep as their friendship had grown—and she continued to tell herself it was only friendship—she couldn’t shake the feeling he intentionally kept parts of himself locked away.
Maybe it was so with everyone who returned from war. Maybe there were things that didn’t bear remembering, much less to be spoken of.
Her thoughts returned to Gilbert and all the changes the war had wrought in him, and a different kind of melancholy settled over her. She longed to ask Sam what more he knew about Gilbert and the red-haired nurse. Was it a one-time thing, or had Gilbert truly moved on?
Not a conversation for a Sunday afternoon, especially with Mama and Mrs. Vickary in the room.
Although the two ladies seemed quite caught up in their animated chat, hands gesturing as rapidly as their tongues flew, and feminine laughter trilling.
Annemarie motioned for Sam to take his seat and then settled on the far end of the sofa. “Our mothers have certainly become fast friends.”
“Your mother has been a lifeline for mine. She’s been at loose ends for the past couple of years, first retiring from her dressmaking business, then my going off to Europe.”
“She’s such a personable woman. Doesn’t she have friends back in Fort Wayne?”
“Oh, yes. But among her closest friends she’s the only widow, so . . .” Samuel lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug.
/> Annemarie smiled her understanding. “I can only imagine how difficult it’s been for her. I’m glad she could come and stay with you for a while.”
But one thing she didn’t understand, and now hesitated to ask: why Sam chose not to retire from the chaplaincy after the war ended and return to his hometown. Perhaps the answers were wrapped up in the darkness she sometimes sensed in him.
Noticing a lag in the conversation across the room, Annemarie looked up to see Mrs. Vickary striding toward her. The small woman edged onto the sofa between Annemarie and Samuel and then patted Annemarie’s knee.
“My dear,” Mrs. Vickary said, “I’ve just been telling your mother about my dressmaking business. I had my own shop, you know, right in downtown Fort Wayne. A rather successful enterprise, if I do say so, myself.”
And a rather curious statement, coming out of the blue. Annemarie inclined her head. “Yes, I believe Sam’s men-tioned it.”
Sam pushed off the sofa and came to stand near Annemarie’s other side. “I’ve been telling Mother what a gifted ceramic artist you are, and she’s admired several of your pieces on display at the Arlington.”
“Oh.” Annemarie blinked, her gaze flitting between Sam and his mother. “That’s so nice. Thank you.”
Mrs. Vickary scooted closer. “Have you looked seriously yet into opening your own shop—a place to exhibit and sell your wares?”
A tiny gasp escaped Annemarie’s throat. She pictured the vacant building on Central Avenue, recalling the owner’s name—Ralph Patton—and the telephone number she had never called. She glanced up at Sam, her brows drawn together. Had she ever once voiced this dream aloud to him—or to anyone since Gilbert’s tactfully worded disparagement?
Samuel shoved his hands into his pants pockets, one corner of his mouth curling upward. “Here’s a woman who could help you, if you’ll let her.”
But how? How did he know?
Then Annemarie remembered those long days and nights while she sat at his bedside. She’d rambled on about all kinds of things, partly to fill the silence, partly to keep from going insane with worry, never imagining for a moment that in his feverish sleep he’d hear or remember a word of it.
Now Mama stood next to Samuel, a curious smile lighting her face. “Is it true, dear? Have you given thought to having a ceramics shop?”
Annemarie pursed her lips. “It’s just a dream, Mama. And not a realistic one.”
“And why not, dear?” Mrs. Vickary clasped Annemarie’s hands. “I ran my shop for nearly twenty-five years, the last seven as a widow. I’d be pleased to share whatever knowledge I gained from the experience.”
Tugging her hands free, Annemarie stood and paced across the room, then swung around to face the trio. “Really, it’s impossible. Besides, Papa needs me at the factory, and there’s the matter of startup costs—rent, furnishings, equipment, supplies. Not to mention the possibility I’d never sell enough to cover expenses.”
Samuel laughed out loud. “Selling your creations should be the least of your worries. I’ve seen how quickly your work disappears over at the Arlington. And isn’t Thomas still supplying you with special orders?”
“Sometimes more than I can keep up with, but—”
“And as for the factory,” Mama put in, “with the war over, there are plenty of veterans looking for work. Your father should have no trouble hiring a capable replacement.”
The front door banged shut, and Papa burst into the room. “Replacement? For whom?”
Casting Annemarie a pointed look, Mama gave her head a tiny shake and then strode across the parlor to seize her husband’s elbow. “Joseph, dear, you look thirsty from your walk. Come to the kitchen and I’ll pour you a tall glass of water.”
Annemarie waited until her parents left the room before turning an I-told-you-so frown upon Sam and his mother. “There you have it. Even if every other objection could be countered, Papa would never agree to my leaving the factory.”
“Oh, don’t sell your mother short.” Mrs. Vickary gave a wry laugh. “Your father may wear the pants in this family, but it’s a wise man who heeds his wife’s good sense.”
“Good sense?” Annemarie crossed her arms and sank into the nearest chair. “Forgive me, but what is sensible about starting a business venture with no capital and no guarantee of success?”
A look crossed between Samuel and his mother, and the sudden fire in their eyes brought a chill to Annemarie’s spine. Sam slid his arm around his mother’s shoulders as they marched over to Annemarie’s chair.
“Miss Kendall,” Sam began with mock formality, “may I introduce you to your first two investors.”
It took Samuel and his mother a full week to convince Annemarie they were serious about their offer, and still another three days before Samuel persuaded Annemarie to telephone Mr. Patton, the owner of the shop space she’d become interested in.
The balding gentleman agreed to meet them at the building on a Thursday noon. Giving his handlebar mustache a tweak, he combed Samuel with an appraising glance. “Army chaplain, are you? My son served in France. Dreadful war. Simply dreadful. Glad to help out a returning soldier and his bride.”
Samuel’s neck flamed. He flicked an embarrassed glance at Annemarie. “Miss Kendall and I are just friends.”
“My mistake.” Mr. Patton chuckled and consulted some jottings in a small black notebook. “Ah, yes. I see it was Miss Kendall who telephoned.” This time he turned his thoughtful gaze upon Annemarie. “You’re inquiring about leasing the shop for yourself?”
“That’s correct.” Annemarie seemed to grow another inch as she lifted her chin. “I’m a ceramicist. I’m interested in this location for my studio and salesroom.”
The man inched backward and narrowed one eye. “Well, now, I don’t see how—”
Samuel shouldered closer and pushed his chest out, trying to appear a little more imposing himself. “If you’re concerned about Miss Kendall’s business acumen—”
“I can speak for myself, Samuel.” The confident tone in Annemarie’s voice might fool Mr. Patton, but Samuel sensed her nervousness in the way she clutched her handbag in a death grip. With a polite nod in Samuel’s direction, she returned her attention to Mr. Patton. “Perhaps I didn’t mention I’m the daughter of Joseph Kendall? Our family has operated Kendall Pottery in Hot Springs for three generations. I grew up learning the business and have managed the factory office for the past six years.”
Mr. Patton tugged at the lapels of his overcoat. “Managing an office for an already thriving operation is one thing. But before I could lease the space to a sing—” At Samuel’s ominous glare, he cleared his throat and swallowed. “What I mean is, I require my tenants to sign at least a six-month lease, with two months’ rent paid up front.”
Samuel caught Annemarie’s doubtful glance and reassured her with a discreet nod. He and his mother had already discussed how they would help Annemarie with the initial costs of establishing her shop, agreeing that with Annemarie’s proven talent the investment would be money well spent. Mother had made a tidy profit on the sale of her dressmaking business, and with Samuel her only child and no grandchildren in the foreseeable future, she was more than glad to assist another woman with entrepreneurial aspirations.
As for Samuel, what else did he have to spend his money on? Most of his pay while overseas had gone straight into savings, and beyond food and shelter his current needs were few. Let Annemarie believe his interest in seeing her dream fulfilled was born only of friendship. She need never suspect his motivations ran much deeper—so deep, in fact, that he could scarcely admit them to himself.
Within an hour the papers were signed, and Samuel handed Mr. Patton his personal check, drawn on his recently opened Hot Springs bank account, for the first two months’ rent. Annemarie could take occupancy the following weekend, and with Samuel promising he and his mother would both pitch in for cleaning and setup, Annemarie hoped to open for business by early March.
“Oh, S
am!” Annemarie hugged his arm as they exited Mr. Patton’s office down the street. “I can hardly believe this is happening! You’ve become such a dear, dear friend, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
His heart tripped. If only he could halt right here on the sidewalk, take her into his arms, and show her plainly how much he cared for her. Instead, he simply patted her hand and tucked it closer to his side. “This calls for a celebration. Must you rush back to the factory, or may I take you to lunch?”
Her smile fairly glowed. “I think Papa can spare me for a bit longer. They serve a delicious lunch menu at the Arlington. It would give me a chance to tell Thomas I’ll soon be displaying my wares in my own showroom.”
So off to the Arlington they went, Samuel nearly bursting his uniform buttons with the secret joy of strolling along Central Avenue with Annemarie Kendall on his arm.
Until, entering the Arlington Hotel lobby, he came face to face with the one man who could turn his fantasies to dust.
Gilbert.
21
Padre. Fancy meeting you here.” Gilbert adjusted his grip on the crutches he’d barely learned how to maneuver. His artificial leg still chafed—more adjustments to made, obviously—and his stump ached from the pressure.
“It’s good to see you, Gil.” As Samuel’s gaze swept Gilbert from head to toe, his nervous smile broadened with a sincerity not even a man of the cloth could fake. “And especially good to see you out of that chair.”
“Still practicing, but it’s a start.” Gilbert relished a moment of self-satisfaction before forcing himself to meet Annemarie’s gaze. “You’re both looking well. Out for an afternoon stroll?”
“Sam has graciously invited me to lunch.” Annemarie hiked her chin. “We’re celebrating.”