by Terrie Todd
ALSO BY TERRIE TODD
The Silver Suitcase
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2017 by Terrie Todd
All rights reserved.
Bible Scripture taken from the New King James Version, public domain.
Hymns referenced: “Jesus Loves Me,” Anna Bartlett Warner (1859); “’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus,” Louisa M.R. Stead (1882); “Silent Night,” Joseph Mohr (1818); “If Jesus Goes with Me,” C. Austin Miles (1908)
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, MI
www.brilliancepublishing.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503941335
ISBN-10: 1503941337
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
In loving memory of Shane
CONTENTS
START READING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“God sets the lonely in families. . .”
Psalm 68:6
CHAPTER 1
Maggie Marshall awakened to a sense of relief unlike anything she’d experienced before. Her husband was dead.
Did she dream it or had it really happened? She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the telegram that still lay on her bedside table. Moving to the window, she raised the blind and looked out at the Winnipeg skyline. She’d opened the window a crack the night before, and a slight breeze now kissed her cheek and stirred the paper in her hand. Across the street, the Union Jack fluttered gently from the overhang of Anderson’s Drugstore. Sparrows twittered in the hedges below, and the aroma of fresh bread wafted over from McClellan’s Bakery down the block. Looked like it was going to be a sunny day.
A perfect day to begin my new life of freedom.
She looked down at the precious paper that had arrived yesterday afternoon. The news seemed surreal, but there it was in black and white:
MRS. MARGARET MARSHALL
2411 HAWTHORN AVENUE, WINNIPEG, MANITOBA 1942
AUG 23 AM 8:19
10711 MINISTER OF NATIONAL DEFENCE DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT A107405 PRIVATE DOUGLAS THOMAS MARSHALL HAS BEEN OFFICIALLY REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION ELEVENTH AUGUST 1942 STOP IF ANY FURTHER INFORMATION BECOMES AVAILABLE IT WILL BE FORWARDED AS SOON AS RECEIVED.
DIRECTOR OF RECORDS
Maggie turned from the window and began pulling on her dress and shoes. Doug had been among the first to enlist when Canada went to war three years earlier, following his buddy’s drunken dare. Now that she knew he would not be coming home, her heart felt lighter than it had since the day he left, when she could only hope for this outcome. Maybe there really was a God after all. Maybe now the nightmares would end, the memories could truly fade.
But first, there would be much pretending to do. A memorial service to attend. She could play the role of widow convincingly, she knew. After all, she had played the role of loving and beloved wife for nearly five years before Doug joined the Royal Canadian Army. To her knowledge, no one had yet guessed the truth. And if she pulled off her performance in this last act, no one ever would.
But she would summon the tears later. First things first. She checked in on Charlotte, who was asleep in the room across the hall, and studied the youthful face resting on the pillow. She’d looked so exhausted the night before. How long until the girl delivered her baby and left forever? Six weeks? Maggie swallowed a lump in her throat. No point getting attached. Might as well let her get her rest, though. She picked up a stray sweater from the floor and laid it gently across a chair, then closed the door quietly.
Downstairs, Maggie found an empty cardboard box and tore off one flap. Using the thickest nib of her fountain pen, she carefully drew the letters across it and hung it in the front window of the restaurant, then stepped outside to view her workmanship. She stepped back as close to the street as she dared and surveyed her sign: CLOSED. Then, in smaller print: BERT’S WILL REOPEN ON AUGUST 26, FOLLOWING THE FUNERAL OF DOUGLAS THOMAS MARSHALL, KILLED IN ACTION.
There. That announcement not only gave her a few days off, but it also might generate some sympathy as well. Sympathy was good for business. Maggie stepped inside the restaurant and locked the door. She surveyed the dining room, chairs stacked on top of tables where she and Charlotte had placed them last night before mopping the floor. She pulled the blinds down on the front windows to thwart the curious, then stepped into the kitchen, where she lit the stove and put on a pot of coffee.
Once she was settled at the kitchen table with a fresh cup in hand, Maggie began her list. Everyone she could think of to contact had received a phone call from her last evening, so she’d had plenty of practice in sadly relaying the news of her husband’s passing. I should go to Hollywood and be in a picture, she thought. I certainly know how to act, and no one would miss me much here. Well, except for some of her regulars like old Lawrence Winston, whose coffee no one but Maggie could get right.
Reverend Fennel. Reuben. Had anyone informed him yet? It had been years since Maggie had darkened the door of Reverend Fennel’s church, but she still considered him her pastor, even if they were no longer the chums they’d been as children. She knew her husband’s parents would arrange with their own minister to lead the funeral at their big highfalutin church, and Maggie was just fine with that. The less she had to do, the better. Just show up and play the role.
But something in her wanted Reverend Fennel to know. She was a widow, after all. Wasn’t the church supposed to look after widows and orphans? With the war on, though, she knew she wasn’t exactly unique in her position. Thankfully, her restaurant did all right, even in these hard times. And she had no children, like some.
At the thought of children, Maggie’s throat constricted and she struggled to get her next swallow of coffee down. Blinking hard to ignore the memories, she focused on the paper in front of her and tried to th
ink about who else she should notify.
But the memories refused to be choked back this time. If she hadn’t miscarried, her baby would be four years old now. Would Doug have stopped hitting her if he’d known she was pregnant? Why didn’t I just tell him? She flogged herself again with the same old question. If only she hadn’t been so foolish. She had truly thought she could pack up and get away from Doug without his ever finding out about the baby. But although the opportunity finally came one night while he went out drinking, her plan fell apart when Doug came home early. He’d been gone long enough to get good and drunk, but not long enough for Maggie to get packed and out the door.
The roar of his questions when he caught her, suitcases in hand, still echoed painfully in her mind, as did the feeling of the blows to her body that ended her baby’s life, without leaving a mark on her face. Within minutes, Maggie had been cramping and bleeding, and by the next morning, she knew there would be no baby. No doctor was consulted. No friends or family members were called. No one, including Doug, ever knew there was a baby.
No one but Maggie.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Marshall.” Maggie heard Charlotte Penfield lumbering down the stairs as swiftly as her pregnancy would allow. “Sorry I overslept.” Without looking up at the girl, Maggie knew Charlotte was following her daily routine—that she’d grabbed an apron from the hook behind the door and was moving toward the stove.
“Stove’s already lit,” Maggie said. “Some people aren’t such slackers as others.”
“I’m really sorry,” Charlotte repeated. “Thanks for lighting the stove. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Maggie stayed focused on her list, knowing Charlotte’s big blue eyes would melt her heart if she ever looked long enough at them. She couldn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter now. Just get some porridge going for the two of us. We won’t be opening the restaurant today.”
This announcement was met by silence. Maggie finally glanced up at the girl. She stood there, tall and slim, except for the mound at her midsection. Her straight blond hair was neatly gathered at the nape of her neck, in contrast to Maggie’s unruly red frizz.
“I’m really sorry about your husband, Mrs. Marshall. This must be so hard.”
“Life is hard, that’s all.” Maggie went back to her paperwork. “Now don’t be thinking you can lollygag around in your room just because we’re closing for a few days. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to clean out the pantry and give the stove a good polishing. Maybe even wash some windows.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maybe we can get those new curtains sewn for the front, too. The fabric’s been sitting there for six months already, since before you ever came.”
Maggie looked up at Charlotte once more, but the girl hadn’t budged. If she was off in dreamland, it wouldn’t be the first time by any stretch.
“Well, don’t just stand there, get that porridge going. I already brought the milk inside and put it in the icebox, since somebody was being a lady of leisure this morning.”
The girl moved into action, rattling pots and scooping the rolled oats out of a covered metal bin under the counter. While she waited for the porridge to bubble, she poured herself a cup of coffee and warmed up Maggie’s. Then she cleared her throat. “Will there—will there be a funeral . . . or anything?”
“I believe they call it a memorial service when there’s no body to bury.” Maggie kept adding tasks to her list without looking up. “It’s set for one o’clock on Wednesday.”
Maggie swept the paperwork off the kitchen table and carried it into her office to finish making her list there. By the time she returned, Charlotte had the table set and two steaming bowls of porridge were waiting. The two ate in silence, Charlotte fidgety and Maggie as calm as she’d been the morning before.
“Mrs. Marshall?” Charlotte said.
Maggie looked up.
“Are you okay? I mean, it’s almost as if nothing’s happened.”
She’s right, Maggie thought. But shouting about my newfound freedom from the rooftop would be frowned upon.
“I closed the restaurant, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes, but . . .” Charlotte chewed a fingernail. “It seems like people are usually grief-stricken at times like this. I’m just . . . well, I wonder if it has really hit home yet. You know?”
“You grieve your way and I’ll grieve mine,” Maggie said, taking another spoonful of porridge. “This is undercooked.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Marshall.”
The two finished their meal without further conversation. Maggie drained her coffee and stood to clear the dishes. “I’ll take care of these,” she said. “You go on down to Ogilvie’s and buy some stove blacking, a spool of white thread, and a can of Bon Ami for the windows.” She reached into a canister on the end of the kitchen counter and pulled out her ration book and some cash. “Make sure it’s the paste. Don’t let them try to sell you some newfangled product.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte took the book and the money and headed out the back door.
Through the window above the sink, Maggie watched the girl’s pregnant frame waddle across the tiny yard, through the gate, and around the corner. Then she slipped her hand into her apron pocket and pulled out the note card she had kept for two years. Of the dozen girls she had seen come and go over the past three years since Douglas left, only one had ever sent a thank-you note. Probably the only one who’d ever seen past Maggie’s tough exterior, and the only one Maggie had allowed herself to care about. And what had that brought her? Only more loss. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She’d memorized the note long ago. That didn’t stop her from reading it almost daily, though. She ran her fingers over the illustration of two tiny sparrows on the front, then opened the well-worn card to view the careful penmanship inside.
Dear Mrs. Marshall,
I just want to say thank you for everything you did for me during my time with you. The money I earned has also made it possible for me to continue my education, and I am pleased to say I am now doing well in normal school and will be a full-fledged teacher next fall. Working in the restaurant was great experience and has helped me get a good job on campus.
More importantly, thank you for never shaming me for my situation. It means a lot. I will continue to pray for you and for your husband overseas. I pray that God will bless you and make his face shine upon you and grant you peace.
Sincerely,
Cornelia Simpson
Maggie slumped into her chair, placed her head over her arms on the table, and wept like a baby.
CHAPTER 2
Charlotte waited until she rounded the corner of Bert’s Restaurant before muttering aloud, “Grouchy old thing.”
Glad for this trip to the store—or any reason to get away from Grumpystiltskin, her nickname for Mrs. Marshall—Charlotte could breathe a little more freely. She took her time, looking into store windows along the busy city street and watching young mothers pushing baby carriages or herding toddlers alongside. It was hard to believe a woman could lose her husband one day and be all business the next, but if anyone could do it, Charlotte figured, it was Maggie Marshall. The woman didn’t harbor a single human emotion in her body. Why she had ever started taking in unwed pregnant girls was still a mystery to Charlotte. Cheap labor for the restaurant, maybe? It certainly wasn’t out of any sense of compassion. But then, what would a woman like Maggie know about being young and in love? She had to be at least thirty, maybe even thirty-five.
The heat of the morning caught up with Charlotte, and she stopped to sit on a bench. So what if I’m late getting back? She wiped a handkerchief across her brow. Mrs. Marshall will accuse me of taking too long whether I’m late or not. A streetcar rattled by, and Charlotte watched with longing the passengers riding to wherever it was they were going. How I’d love to climb aboard and take the streetcar all the way home.
Home. It seemed a lifetime since she’d been there, safe and secure in her parents�
� upper-class neighborhood, hundreds of miles away in Toronto. That her parents had hunted so long to find this placement for her spoke more of their pride than of their love for Charlotte, but she wouldn’t hold it against them. Her situation was of her own doing. She’d willingly given herself to Reginald, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat. She loved the man with everything in her.
She had come to Mrs. Marshall’s with only her parents knowing the truth. Even Reginald believed she was spending six months in Winnipeg to help an aunt whose husband was fighting overseas. Charlotte wished it were true. Assisting an aunt with three young children couldn’t be any more challenging than working in Mrs. Marshall’s restaurant.
Five more weeks and it would all be over. The baby would be born, adopted out, and Charlotte could return home and resume life at her private girls’ school as if nothing had happened. She had already stuck it out here four months; five more weeks would not kill her. And if she seemed different to her friends when she returned . . . well, this crazy war was changing everyone. With any luck, it, too, would be over by then, and Reginald would be relieved of his duties. She was glad he’d not been sent overseas yet, but was serving as a cook at Camp Petawawa.
How she longed to write to him. Her parents had strictly forbidden it. “Worthless piece of trash,” her father had called him, forbidding him to contact Charlotte again, and she him. Even her friend Ruby had advised Charlotte to keep the pregnancy secret from Reginald, if she hoped to ever hear from him again.
The absurdity of it all grated on Charlotte as she resumed her walk to the store. Why shouldn’t he know about his own child? He wouldn’t abandon her. He wouldn’t! He wanted to marry her, and a child would only hurry the marriage along.
I know he loves me, Charlotte reasoned. I know it.
Still, the nagging question remained. Why had Reginald made no attempt to write? Surely if he truly cared, he’d send letters to Ruby, who would forward them to her. Perhaps he was just busy, she concluded. It had to be nerve-racking, feeding a military camp full of hungry men. Helping in the restaurant, Charlotte was only beginning to appreciate the challenge of preparing mass quantities of food, especially when supplies were often unavailable and food was rationed.