When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  Sorry, Mary, but tonight you’re just a means to an end.

  Samuel had decided on civilian attire for the evening. Even though these days, thankfully, his uniform remained clean and dry, nine or ten hours a day in stiff, scratchy wool was plenty. Earlier in the week, his mother had insisted they visit a haberdashery, where she helped him choose a handsome pair of gabardine slacks and a natty tweed blazer. She made sure the tailor altered them for a perfect fit.

  “You’re filling out again since you got over the flu.” His mother finished adjusting his tie and then patted his chest. “Looks good on you.”

  “Mom’s home cooking certainly helps. I’ll probably waste away to skin and bones again after you leave.” Samuel’s lips twitched into a shaky smile. His mother would board the train for Fort Wayne in the morning, and he’d only begun to realize how empty his little apartment would seem without her.

  A rap on the door announced Donald Russ’s arrival. Stepping into the small foyer, the doctor eyed Samuel up and down. “Aren’t you the dapper one? Good thing you’re bringing Annemarie along, or Pastor Yarborough would be setting his sights on you for his future son-in-law.”

  “Yarborough?” Samuel didn’t remember Donald mentioning the name of their host before now—or had he simply been too preoccupied to take note? “That wouldn’t be Pastor Irvin Yarborough of Ouachita Fellowship?”

  “One and the same.” They started down the outer stairs. “You know him?”

  “We’ve . . . met.” Samuel gnawed the inside of his cheek. Both the Kendalls and the Ballards attended Ouachita Fellowship. Samuel’s duties conducting services in the hospital chapel had precluded him from attending worship elsewhere, but Pastor and Mrs. Yarborough had been occasional dinner guests in the Ballard home while he lived there.

  The possibility Gilbert might be among tonight’s invitees didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, Samuel had a hard time believing Gilbert had bothered to grace the inside of a church since his release from the hospital. He’d openly declared he’d given up on God—or rather, that God had failed him. And Gilbert’s actions of late certainly were anything but godly.

  Who are you to judge?

  The familiar voice of condemnation made him draw up short as they reached the curb. Long hours spent in prayer and meditation upon Scripture these past several days assured him the voice belonged not to the Holy Spirit but to Satan, the “ancient serpent” referred to in the Book of Revelation, the “accuser” thrown down by the power of God and the authority of Christ.

  Even so, faulty thought patterns were hard to break. He had no choice but to lean hard into Jesus until the voice was permanently silenced.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Samuel blinked and stared. It took him a full second to realize Donald referred to the slightly used motorcar he’d purchased a few days ago, a 1916 Saxon Roadster. Pulling himself into the present, Samuel stroked the glossy black finish. “A fine set of wheels you have there, Dr. Russ.”

  “Purrs like a kitten, runs like a dream. Hop in.” Donald motioned Samuel into the passenger seat and then settled himself behind the wheel. “Can’t believe you’re still hoofing it around town. When are you going to get yourself an automobile?”

  “I enjoy walking. Clears my head.” Heaven knew he needed plenty of head-clearing these days.

  As Donald pulled away from the curb, he glanced over at Samuel. “You’re looking pensive again. Not allowed. You’re supposed to be watching out for me tonight, so I need you on full alert.”

  “Have no fear. If I notice the young lady in question moving into attack formation, I shall employ my extensive arsenal of charm and wit to divert her aim.”

  Samuel spoke lightheartedly, but the military allusions too easily darkened his thoughts, rekindling his growing urgency to contact Private Braswell’s family, express his remorse, and beg their forgiveness. They needed to know their son died a hero.

  He died saving Samuel’s life.

  Adrift in such thoughts until Donald parked the Roadster in front of Annemarie’s house, Samuel gave himself a mental shake. He refused to dampen anyone’s good spirits this evening—least of all Annemarie’s.

  Then, as he reached for the handle to open the car door, he looked at Donald and Donald looked at him. The same realization must have hit them both simultaneously, and they grinned at each other like schoolboys who’d just gotten away with skipping class.

  Yes, Samuel’s evening was about to get even better. Donald’s car was only a two-seater, which meant the only place for Annemarie was on Samuel’s lap.

  “Are you sure you’re not too uncomfortable?” Annemarie sat as lightly as she could upon Samuel’s thighs, but every time Dr. Russ swerved around a corner, it threw her off balance and either pressed her against the door or more snugly into Sam’s chest.

  She didn’t mind in the least. Just not necessarily while another gentleman kept glancing their way with a knowing grin that shot flames up Annemarie’s neck.

  Finally, they arrived at a modest Victorian house on Prospect Avenue, a house Annemarie recognized immediately—her pastor’s.

  Dr. Russ came around to get their door and assist her out of the car. As she found her footing on the sidewalk, she cast Sam a questioning glance. “You didn’t tell me we were dining with the Yarboroughs.”

  “Didn’t realize it myself until this evening.” Samuel shoved the car door closed. His uneasy smile suggested he’d read her thoughts.

  The fine hairs on the back of Annemarie’s neck prickled. She scanned the street for any sign of either the Ballard family car or Thomas’s automobile. When she didn’t see either one, she whispered out a relieved breath. Ouachita Fellowship was a large congregation, after all. Why suspect the worst? The other guest Sam mentioned could be any one of a number of returning servicemen.

  Besides, Pastor and Mrs. Yarborough both knew about the broken engagement. They’d never be so inconsiderate as to purposely throw Gilbert and Annemarie together.

  Sam tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as they followed Dr. Russ to the Yarboroughs’ front door. While they waited beneath the porch light, Annemarie ran her fingers down Sam’s lapel, worries forgotten, her love for him bubbling up within her like clear spring water. She smiled coyly. “You’re looking especially handsome tonight, Chaplain Vickary.”

  The tension lines around his eyes melted into a look of love to match her own. She wished they were alone on the porch, because the sudden longing to taste his mouth upon hers made her knees go weak. She loved him heart and soul—she knew it from the depths of her being. Perhaps they could steal one quick kiss before—

  The front door swung open, and Pastor Yarborough shot out his long, bony hand. “Welcome, welcome! So glad you could come, Dr. Russ.”

  “Thanks. Call me Donald.” He pumped the pastor’s hand. “Let me introduce Chaplain Samuel Vickary and his lady friend—”

  “Annemarie?” Salt-and-pepper brows stretched toward Pastor Yarborough’s rapidly receding hairline. “Dear me, what a surprise!”

  She accepted the pastor’s outstretched hand, her edginess returning. “You weren’t expecting me?”

  Dr. Russ gestured toward Samuel. “Meet my friend Chaplain Vickary, Pastor. I mentioned he’d be bringing a date.”

  “Of course. But we had no idea—” The pastor cleared his throat. “Chaplain Vickary, I’m honored to make the acquaintance of another man of the cloth.” His confused glance darted between Annemarie and Samuel. “So . . . the two of you . . .”

  “Yes, Pastor, we’re together now.” Lifting her chin, Annemarie tightened her grip on Sam’s arm. “Sam makes me happier than I’ve been in years.”

  Pastor Yarborough gave a bemused nod. “Then I’m . . . I’m glad for you. It’s just—”

  Mrs. Yarborough appeared at her husband’s elbow. Dressed in bright coral, she looked as round and plump as an overripe peach. “Goodness, Irvin, don’t leave our guests languishing on the porch.” She gave a st
artled gasp. “Dear me, is that our own Annemarie Kendall?”

  “I hope it’s all right,” Annemarie began, stepping through the door. Was her unannounced arrival that unnerving to her hosts?

  Pastor Yarborough leaned toward his wife and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “She came with the chaplain, dear.”

  “So I see.” Mrs. Yarborough shot her husband an oddly curious grimace, her brows quirked like two flattened question marks. “My, my, if this isn’t an interesting turn of events. Should we—”

  “I think we must.”

  When both the Yarboroughs turned sympathetic glances her way, Annemarie’s stomach heaved. “Don’t tell me,” she said, reaching for Samuel’s hand and gripping it for dear life. “You’ve invited Gilbert.”

  28

  High time you called upon my daughter like a proper gentleman, Lieutenant Ballard.”

  Standing at Gilbert’s side in the McClarneys’ tiny parlor, Mary cringed. “Now, Mum, you know—”

  “What I know, dear girl, is that you’ve been making time with this randy fellow for weeks now—”

  Mary’s creeping blush flamed like a raging fever. “Mum!”

  “—and the most I’ve seen of his face is a glimpse through the window. He’s here and gone without so much as a fare-thee-well.”

  “Mrs. McClarney, you have my deepest apologies.” Gilbert’s easy smile oozed charm. He lifted his cane fractionally off the floor and tipped his head. “As you can see, I’ve been rather incapacitated since the war. I’ve only recently been able to move about with any semblance of freedom.”

  Mum crossed her arms, while her slippered toe beat out a staccato rhythm on the carpet. “Yes, so Mary’s told me. And I feel for ya, truly I do.” She reached for Mary’s hand and drew her close. Her gaze softened. “But this girl’s my only daughter, the light of my life.” Turning back to Gilbert with a glare, she added, “And I insist you treat her like the lady she is.”

  “Yes, ma’am, by all means.” Gilbert dipped his chin, his dark eyes clouding.

  “Mum.” Pressing her mother’s hand, Mary lowered her voice. “Gilbert has done as you asked, and now you’ve embarrassed us both. May we go now, please?”

  For an unbearably long moment, Mary’s mother stood in silence while Gilbert endured her scrutiny. Then the fragile hand gripping Mary’s began to tremble. She turned to her daughter with a frantic, barely audible whisper. “I don’t trust this man. His eyes—there’s something not right about him.”

  Mary shoved down the lump of worry constricting her chest. If she gave voice to her own simmering doubts, Mum would forbid her to leave with Gilbert—forbid her ever seeing him again. “It’s all right, Mum. If you don’t trust him, at least trust me. You know how it was with Da. We loved him in spite of . . . everything.”

  “Then you’re sayin’ . . . ?”

  “Yes, Mum.” Blinking back a tear, Mary averted her face from Gilbert’s view and murmured, “I love Gilbert Ballard, and I’m daring to believe he loves me, too. In spite of everything.”

  Her mother slowly wagged her head back and forth, resignation turning down the corners of her lips. “Mary, Mary, such a way you have with broken things. Be careful this one doesn’t break your heart as well.”

  Behind them, Gilbert cleared his throat. “Mary? It’s getting late.”

  “Yes, yes, coming.” She tugged her mother into a quick hug, then snatched up her shawl and handbag.

  On the way out to Gilbert’s car she sent up a prayer to the Lord of Lords that falling in love with Gilbert wouldn’t turn out to be the biggest mistake of her life.

  It took several minutes of diligent protests before Annemarie convinced Sam, Dr. Russ, the Yarboroughs, and—most importantly—herself that they had no need to shield her from Gilbert’s presence. They were bound to meet at church and in other social situations during the course of their lives, and Annemarie might as well get used to it.

  Mrs. Yarborough wrung her pink, pudgy hands. “Just so you understand, this evening was entirely at Gilbert’s suggestion. Apparently he was Dr. Russ’s patient aboard the hospital ship that brought him home from the war, and when Gilbert happened to notice Dr. Russ in church last Sunday, he asked if we’d invite them both for dinner so they could catch up.”

  “Unfortunately,” Pastor Yarborough cut in, “Gilbert was also adamant about our not mentioning his name. He wanted the reunion with Dr. Russ to be a surprise.”

  “I’m sure he did.” The doctor shared an exasperated look with Samuel before turning to Annemarie. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. If I’d had any idea—”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Annemarie insisted. “We’re all adults. It’ll be fine.” At least she hoped it would. “Besides, I’m looking forward to catching up with Patrice. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  Mrs. Yarborough practically shimmied with relief. “She’s waiting in the parlor.” Taking Annemarie’s arm, she looped her other arm through Dr. Russ’s, and something akin to greed flashed in her eyes. “Dear Dr. Russ—may I call you Donald?—our daughter will be simply thrilled to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”

  Shoving her concerns aside, Annemarie winked at Sam over her shoulder, and he answered with a crooked grin. Obviously, the doctor’s suspicions were correct. He’d become their latest target in the quest for a husband for Patrice.

  The young lady in question stood with hands folded at her waist, her lips bowed into a prim, almost ethereal smile. By now, Patrice must be sick to death of her parents’ ceaseless matchmaking efforts. They’d certainly tried and failed with every other single gentleman of marrying age in their circle of friends—Thomas included.

  But Annemarie had always suspected Patrice couldn’t care less about marriage. A woman with higher aspirations, not the least of which was political office, Patrice was a staunch member of Arkansas’ Political Equality League. She spoke out loudly and often in favor of women’s suffrage, much to the embarrassment of her conservative parents—which was probably why they remained so anxious to marry her off.

  “Dinner will be served shortly,” Mrs. Yarborough announced. “We’re just waiting on our two other guests.”

  Two other guests? Tensing again, Annemarie angled a raised-eyebrow glance at Sam. He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, while praying with every ounce of her faith that Gilbert would be accompanied by his mother or Thomas. If there was anyone else on this earth with whom Annemarie was unprepared to spend an evening socializing, it was Nurse Mary McClarney.

  The grandfather clock in the Yarboroughs’ front hall chimed half past the hour. Seven-thirty already? No wonder Annemarie’s stomach was rumbling. She was surprised she could even think about eating, considering the circumstances. Probably nerves as much as anything. At least the lively conversation between Dr. Russ and the Yarboroughs’ daughter dominated everyone’s attention so completely that no one seemed to notice Annemarie’s edginess, not to mention the squeaks and gurgles she tried desperately to suppress.

  “I assure you I’m entirely in favor of women’s suffrage,” Dr. Russ was saying. “I only meant I have reservations about where this will all lead. Will women then insist on positions of authority in churches, in government, in the armed forces—”

  Patrice jutted her chin. “Are you implying women are incapable of responsible leadership?”

  “Not at all. But if women turn their backs on home and family—”

  “You show your ignorance, Doctor.” Patrice harrumphed. “Or perhaps you espouse a double standard. Why is it perfectly all right for men—decent family men whom you’d never accuse of neglecting their wives and children—to hold down jobs or serve their country, but unacceptable for women to do the same?”

  Samuel leaned near Annemarie’s ear and whispered, “Somehow I don’t think Donald needed us along at all. He’s doing just fine repelling Miss Yarborough’s advances.”

  Annemarie couldn’t suppress a titter. “Advances? Looks to me like an all-
out frontal attack—and not with any intention of courtship!”

  “I have to say, though, she’s not nearly as unattractive as rumor would have it.” Samuel raised a brow. “In fact, I have to wonder if Donald is engaging her so argumentatively because he finds her enchanting.”

  “Argument as a form of flirtation? A fascinating concept.” With a sardonic smile, Annemarie sipped sparkling cider from a dainty cut-glass cup, a useless assault on her intensifying hunger pangs.

  Mrs. Yarborough entered from the dining room with a tray of canapés. She handed tiny linen cocktail napkins to Samuel and Annemarie. “My apologies for making you wait for dinner. Perhaps these will—”

  At the clack of a brass door knocker, the plump pastor’s wife heaved an immense sigh and set the tray and napkins on a side table before following after her husband to greet the late arrivals.

  Annemarie’s stomach suddenly gave a roar that was partly hunger, mostly nerves. With a muttered, “Excuse me” she marched over to the table and scooped up three toast points spread with pale yellow cheese. Some kind of insane logic convinced her if she had a mouthful of canapés, she could delay speaking to Gilbert a few minutes longer.

  Pastor Yarborough’s baritone echoed in the front hallway as he greeted his guests. “No, no, not too late at all. Come in and say hello before we sit down to dinner.” Then a meaningful throat clearing, and Annemarie didn’t catch his next words. No doubt he was explaining Annemarie’s attendance.

  Well, let Gilbert sweat a bit, too. He deserved it.

  More murmuring from the hall before Pastor and Mrs. Yarborough led their guests into the parlor. Then Annemarie glimpsed Mary McClarney on Gilbert’s arm, and sudden chagrin made her choke on her canapé. Seized by a fit of coughing, she turned away, napkin and toast points tumbling to the floor as she fought to catch her breath.