When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  “Now hold on! If you’re thinking to add me into the ‘eligible bachelor’ mix—”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. I know how you feel about Annemarie, so I told the pastor you’d probably want to bring your girlfriend.”

  Samuel liked thinking of Annemarie as his girlfriend. Grinning, he wadded the coffee-stained handkerchief into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket. “It all becomes clear now. You want an ally on hand to run interference in case this ‘marriageable spinster daughter’ turns out to be . . . shall we say . . . not your cup of tea.”

  “Exactly. I mean, look at me, Sam. I’m nearly forty years old and rather the worse for wear. If this girl’s father is thinking of marrying her off to a wizened old geezer like me, then I can’t help but wonder . . .” Donald pursed his lips. “How can I put this delicately?”

  Samuel waved a hand. “I get the picture. I can’t promise Annemarie will be free, but I’ll certainly tag along if you think my presence will help.” He sighed. “I owe you that much, and a whole lot more.”

  The doctor’s eyes lit with gratitude, but he hurriedly replied, “You don’t owe me a thing. We’re just two pals helping each other out. It’s what friends do.”

  The statement touched a chord in Samuel’s heart, making him even more grateful Donald Russ had transferred to Hot Springs. All over again, he suffered the aching disappointment of his failed friendship with Gilbert. Was it completely beyond repair?

  With a promise to extend the dinner invitation to Annemarie, Samuel excused himself to continue his hospital visits. As soon as he finished for the day, he locked his office door and marched up Central Avenue in hopes of arriving at Annemarie’s shop in time to walk her to the trolley stop.

  She was just setting the closed sign in the window when he stepped inside the showroom. Her smile flashed welcome and a different kind of invitation, this one unspoken but so much more enticing than accompanying Donald Russ to a stuffy dinner party.

  Samuel kicked the door shut behind him and swept Annemarie into his arms. After a quick but oh-so-delightful kiss, he set her on her feet. “How was your day? Lots of customers, I hope?”

  Annemarie groaned. “I’m afraid the bloom is off the rose.”

  She looked so forlorn that Samuel immediately pulled her into his arms again. “You’ve only been open a week. It takes time to build a business.”

  “But there was so much more interest immediately after the grand opening. I sold several pieces last week and even took a handful of special orders. Today I counted exactly three customers, and two of them only stopped in to ask directions.”

  Samuel kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like lilacs and vanilla with a hint of potter’s clay, and the scent drove him mad with longing. He looped a loose curl around his finger and savored the satiny feel.

  Scowling, she tilted her head to look into his eyes. “Are you listening to me?”

  He dare not admit that pottery sales were the last thing on his mind just now. “It’s far too soon for you to be discouraged. Business will pick up, I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She sagged against his chest. “Because if it doesn’t, I’ll never be able to repay you and your mother.”

  “Not another word.” After another lingering kiss that left him hungry for more, Samuel decided he’d better help Annemarie finish her end-of-the-day chores before passion got the best of them both. While she gathered up her things, he switched off lights and made sure the back door was locked, then waited on the sidewalk while she latched the front door behind them.

  She looped her arm through his and leaned close as they started up the street. “A girl could get used to having a gentleman escort her to the trolley after work every evening.”

  “And a guy could get used to having a lovely lady on his arm for all the world to see. Speaking of which . . .” He told her about Donald Russ’s dinner engagement. “Would you mind accompanying me?”

  “Mind? It’ll be fun!” They reached the corner and settled onto a bench to wait for the trolley. “I’m just glad you have a friend in town. Even with your mother here, you’ve seemed so lonely.”

  Looking into her dusky brown eyes, warm with affection and concern, Samuel felt a different kind of loneliness. He didn’t want to see her onto the trolley only to wave good-bye until tomorrow. He wanted to take her home with him—to their home. He wanted it to be just the two of them, husband and wife, “till death us do part.”

  “Sam?” She touched his cheek. “You have that look in your eyes again.”

  He captured her hand but couldn’t meet her gaze. She read him far too easily, and he didn’t want to spoil the moment. “If you mean the look that says it’s nearly suppertime and I’m starved, you’re right. I can almost smell Mother’s roasted rosemary chicken from here.”

  “Don’t, Sam. You don’t have to pretend with me.” Her eyebrows drew together. With a sniff, she faced forward, both hands locked primly atop her handbag. “One day soon I hope you’ll trust me enough to share all of who you are with me.”

  The clang and rumble of the approaching trolley saved him from plying her with yet another excuse and apology. He would tell her someday—he knew he must—but there remained three other people he must find the courage to make peace with first: Private Braswell’s grieving parents . . .

  And himself.

  27

  By midweek, Annemarie felt somewhat heartened about her business prospects, especially after selling several smaller items along with a uniquely designed sixteen-piece dinnerware set. The warmer spring weather had brought out the casual tourists along with the serious spa-goers, so Annemarie hoped the onset of summer would mean even more visitors to her shop.

  Her primary concern lately involved how to juggle both the creative and the merchandising side of her business once Samuel’s mother returned to Indiana. Mrs. Vickary had been giving several hours each day to overseeing the showroom, thus allowing Annemarie uninterrupted time to work at the wheel, shape a hand-thrown design, or apply glaze to the greenware she’d fired in her father’s kiln. Yesterday Mrs. Vickary stated she must go home by week’s end, at least temporarily, while she decided whether to pull up stakes and join Samuel here in Hot Springs.

  The best part about such a possibility was the implication that Sam must be expecting to stay awhile. Military assignments were subject to change with little notice, and ever since Annemarie had begun to acknowledge her feelings for Sam, she’d dreaded news of his transfer. How could she bear to choose between the uncertainty of a romance newly born and everything she cherished right here in this bustling Arkansas resort town—family, friends, and now her own pottery studio and shop?

  That thought brought her mind full circle and back to the problem at hand. As both shop clerk and artist, she wouldn’t find it as easy to simply disappear into the back room as she had at her father’s factory when office work was caught up. Without Mrs. Vickary on hand, it would mean leaving the showroom unattended.

  Unfortunately, hiring a paid assistant wasn’t in the budget. If Annemarie wanted to maintain her inventory, she’d have to start work earlier or stay later—or both.

  While she sat behind the counter studying the abysmal figures in her sales ledger, the shop door opened and Samuel’s mother stepped inside. Annemarie looked up and smiled. “Did you have a nice lunch with Sam?”

  “Samuel treated me to a delightful meal at the Arlington.” Mrs. Vickary removed her hat and gloves and tucked them in a cubbyhole behind the front counter. “I told you, you should have come with us.”

  “You deserved the time alone with Sam. I know how much you’re both going to miss each other.”

  Mrs. Vickary laughed as she snatched up the feather duster and whisked it lightly across a pottery display. “Oh, I’m certain Samuel won’t miss me any longer than it takes him to walk from the train depot to a certain shop on the avenue.”

  Warmth crept up Annemarie’s neck and into her cheeks. She dropped her g
aze to the ledger page and tried to focus on the figures, but she might as well be reading Greek.

  “You should spend some time in the workshop while I’m here. I peeked at the lovely lamp base you brought over from the kiln yesterday. It’s going to be striking.”

  “Do you think so? I’m experimenting with glazes again. Perhaps you’d give me your opinion—”

  The front door creaked open, and Mrs. Vickary went to greet the patron. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  Mrs. Vickary blocked Annemarie’s view of the visitor, revealing only a glimpse of plain olive-green skirts and a halo of red hair. Then a shy voice replied, “Beg pardon, ma’am, but I’m looking for Miss Kendall.”

  The speaker’s delicate Irish brogue made Annemarie’s stomach curl in upon itself—only to plummet to her toes when Mrs. Vickary stepped out of the way. Annemarie’s gaze landed on the face of Mary McClarney, the nurse from the Army and Navy Hospital.

  Annemarie rose and stood ramrod-straight at the end of the counter. Awkward couldn’t begin to describe this moment. How exactly was she expected to respond to the new woman in Gilbert’s life? It certainly wasn’t jealousy she felt. But though Annemarie no longer doubted the depth of her feelings for Samuel, the pain of Gilbert’s rejection wasn’t easily forgotten.

  Somehow Annemarie finagled some semblance of a smile. “Miss McClarney. Welcome to my shop.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Miss Kendall—”

  “Annemarie, please.”

  “Thank you kindly. I wonder if I might speak with you”—Mary’s gaze darted sideways—“alone.”

  With a deferential nod, Mrs. Vickary excused herself and disappeared into the workroom.

  Annemarie took a cautious step closer. “How can I help you?”

  “Truth be told, I don’t quite know where to start.” Mary wandered over to a table where several pottery pieces sat atop a pristine white cloth. “You made all these? They’re beyond lovely. And expensive, too, no doubt.”

  Those last words were uttered with a tinge of envy, if Annemarie were any judge. “I try to price my merchandise fairly. Is there something particular you’re interested in? Perhaps we could negotiate—”

  “Negotiate. Now there’s a fancy word for you.” Mary spun around to face Annemarie, her green eyes ablaze. Whatever timidity she’d arrived with seemed to have evaporated. “Fact o’ the matter is, I am here to negotiate. But not for the likes of gewgaws like this.” She waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the display.

  Annemarie locked her arms across her ribcage. “If you’re here to determine whether I still have any hold upon Gilbert’s heart, then you’ve wasted a trip.”

  “Nothing of the kind. Because I already know the answer to that question. You’ve more hold on his heart than you want to admit.”

  “How can you say that, when—”

  Mary raised her palm. “When he’s the one who spurned you? But the fact means nothing when it comes to his true feelings. You and I both know he broke your engagement because, coming home from the war all shot up and crippled, he didn’t want to be a burden or an embarrassment to you.”

  “He wouldn’t have been. I love Gilbert.”

  “See there, I knew it.” Mary practically pounced, one finger pointing accusingly.

  “No, Mary, you misunderstand.” With a steadying breath Annemarie continued, “I will always care for Gilbert, but now only as a friend. It’s over between us. Gilbert has moved on with you. I have moved on with—”

  “The kindly chaplain. So you’d like to believe.” Mary’s defiant façade crumpled. Her tone became ragged, her mouth a grimace. “I love Gilbert, too, you see. But the love he still harbors for you is killing him inch by inch, and I’ll never have his heart as long as he thinks there’s a chance this side of heaven he can win you back.”

  Silence enveloped the shop as Annemarie let Mary’s words sink in. A few weeks ago, she may have leapt upon that glimmer of hope and determined to fight for Gilbert’s love with everything in her. But today those words were meaningless.

  She lifted her chin to fix Mary with a serene but confident stare. “My heart belongs to one man only, and it is not Gilbert Ballard.” Then her gaze softened, and she reached across the space between them to seize Mary’s hand. “I wish I knew how to reassure you, Mary. I wish I knew how to help Gilbert. But what else can either of us do now except pray?”

  Mary’s eyes darkened, and she glanced toward the window with a sigh. “I’m fearing it will take a heap of prayer and then some before Gilbert’s broken parts are healed.” Then, brushing wetness from beneath her eye, she murmured. “Forgive me for troubling you, but I had to know for certain where you stood.”

  “And now you do.”

  “Aye, for all the good it’ll do me.”

  Mary left then, and standing at the window Annemarie watched her trudge up Central Avenue like a tired old woman, as if her last remnants of hope were fading. Annemarie ached for the girl while a quiet anger simmered in the pit of her belly—anger at the war, anger at Gilbert, anger at her own powerlessness to set things right.

  Only one thing would assuage such churning emotions. Shoulders rigid, she marched to the workroom and donned her clay-stained smock. With a polite nod at Samuel’s mother, who tried her best to look busy straightening supply shelves that didn’t need straightening, she said, “If you don’t mind watching the front, I’ll work for a while.”

  “Of course, dear.” Mrs. Vickary started for the door, then paused to rest a hand on Annemarie’s arm. “Is everything all right? Who was that young woman?”

  “Just a nurse I know from the hospital. Everything’s fine.” She slammed a brick of clay onto her work surface and began kneading with ferocity. Things certainly were not fine, but she wouldn’t burden Samuel’s mother with her worries only days before the woman planned to leave.

  No, somehow God would work things out—for Gilbert and Mary, for Annemarie and Sam. The Great War couldn’t stretch its long, hideous shadow over their lives forever.

  Or at least she prayed as much.

  Gilbert rapped on Thomas’s office door and then stepped inside without awaiting an invitation. “Here’s the weekend cleaning staff schedule. I’m taking off early.”

  Thomas looked up with a start. He drew his right eyebrow into a downward slant. “Just like that? Not ‘May I leave early this afternoon if it’s all right with you’?”

  “Would you feel better if I groveled at your feet, O Great One?” Gilbert slapped the schedule in the center of his brother’s desk, upsetting a neat stack of envelopes.

  Grabbing up the envelopes, Thomas patted them into some semblance of order and set them out of Gilbert’s reach. “I hired you, big brother, and I can just as easily fire you.”

  “Enjoying the power, aren’t you?” Gilbert tried to ignore the sudden twist in his gut. He couldn’t lose this job, not after he’d gotten himself so deeply in debt. Between the gambling, the booze, and the—

  Gilbert’s grip tightened on his cane. He was not an addict, no matter what Mary might believe. She didn’t understand what he’d been through. She wasn’t there when the grenades were going off, when machine gun fire chewed through whole forests like so much kindling.

  She wasn’t there when he came to in a crater and saw his own leg sticking up out of the rubble six feet away.

  Sweat burst out on his upper lip, his forehead. A tremor worked its way from his spine to his fingertips. He sank into a chair before he collapsed.

  “Gil, you okay?” The annoyance left Thomas’s expression. He hurried around the desk.

  “Phantom leg pain, that’s all.” A lie, but not much of one. He rubbed his thigh and then released the catch to allow his artificial knee to bend.

  Thomas propped a hip against the front of the desk. “Believe me, Gil, I take no pleasure in being your boss.”

  Gilbert uttered a hollow laugh. “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.” Groaning, Thomas massaged t
he bridge of his nose. “Let’s start over, okay? You want to take off early. I get it. It’s Friday night, and you’ve got plans. With the sweet Miss McClarney, I presume?”

  “Naturally.” Shame gnawed at Gilbert’s belly. Ever since Mary had cornered him in his dumpy little office last Monday, he’d worked to convince her she was wrong—about his addictions, about his unwillingness to commit to her, about his obsession with Annemarie. He hoped his invitation to tonight’s little dinner party would be enough to convince her.

  But the truth was he wanted her along for one reason only: to assure his host he was once again romantically involved and therefore unavailable. Otherwise, Pastor Yarborough would be pushing his spinster daughter upon him from the moment he walked through the door.

  And tonight Gilbert had a much more pressing agenda than fending off the Wellesley-educated but oh-so-homely Patrice.

  He did care for Mary . . . in his way. She was good for him, no denying it. All right, so he drank a bit too much, relied a bit too heavily on the morphine to take the edge off his pain, both physical and emotional. He didn’t need her lectures, though. Didn’t need her questioning his feelings, not when he’d made up his mind to win back Annemarie.

  With a tired shrug, Thomas reached behind him to retrieve the staff schedule. Lips skewed, he gave it a cursory glance. “Looks fine, all bases covered. Okay, then, get out of here. Enjoy your date.”

  Gilbert nodded his thanks as he pushed to his feet and locked the artificial knee. Date? Hardly! Tonight was all about learning everything he could about Samuel Vickary’s wartime record. The man harbored a secret, one he clearly didn’t want revealed.

  But the persuasive Pastor Yarborough and his loquacious wife could pry conversation out of a rock. A relaxing dinner, a few drinks, perhaps a cigar or two on the front porch, and surely the good Dr. Russ would open up. Before he knew what hit him, he and Gilbert would be just a couple of army pals regaling each other with war stories while the ladies sipped tea in the parlor.

  After calling for Zachary to pick him up, Gilbert made his way down to street level to soak up a little March sunshine while he waited. Eyes watering, head already pounding, he squinted against the glare but refused to move into the shade. He’d had enough of clouds and gloom—France had been cold, wet, dark, and miserable. If things went according to plan, he’d soon be basking again in the sunshine of Annemarie’s smile.