Maggie's War

by Terrie Todd

Seated across from her is her beloved Reginald. While they enjoy their food, he gazes into her eyes and tells her how beautiful she is and how much he adores her. Other customers look on in envy, but she and Reginald have eyes only for each other.

  A rattling at the front door yanked Charlotte out of her imagination. With all the blinds pulled, she couldn’t see who was on the other side of the door. Couldn’t they read Mrs. Marshall’s sign? The restaurant wouldn’t be open until after the funeral tomorrow afternoon. She watched the person’s shadow step away and carry on down the street.

  The funeral. A spark of an idea began to burn in Charlotte’s mind. Would she be expected to attend? Surely not. She’d never even met the deceased man. How long would Mrs. Marshall be away? Easily long enough for Charlotte to catch a bus to the train station and get out of town. She could leave a note saying she was out for a walk. By the time Mrs. Marshall reached Charlotte’s parents by telephone or telegram, she could be halfway to Petawawa, maybe even farther.

  Oh, but that’s crazy, her more logical side argued. One way or the other, they’d catch up with her and then what? Bring her back here? Or would they take her home? Knowing her parents, they would refuse to let her return home lest she be seen in her pregnant state by anyone they knew.

  Still, even if they sent her straight back to Mrs. Marshall, maybe she could stay ahead of them long enough to see Reginald first. At least then he would know about the baby. Surely if he knew, he would put a stop to her parents’ ridiculous insistence that she keep her pregnancy a big secret and give the baby up for adoption. Even if the war didn’t end soon, even if Reginald couldn’t get a discharge, he would promise to marry her as soon as he possibly could. She knew he would.

  Charlotte cleaned her dishes and started in on the list Mrs. Marshall had left for her. Scrubbing down tables and chairs, refilling salt and pepper shakers and napkin dispensers were mindless tasks. She’d be able to think about her escape plan while she worked. She would call it “Operation Finding Reginald.”

  Maggie sat in front of the big oak desk in the reception area of Jones, Brighton, and Jones, Attorneys at Law. Across from her, the young woman who had invited her to sit now tapped at a typewriter with mesmerizing speed. Maggie watched in fascination, wondering what it would be like to work one of those machines.

  Theodore Jones opened his office door and poked his head out. “I can see you now, Mrs. Marshall.” He disappeared inside and Maggie followed.

  “Have a seat.” The lawyer waved a hand in the general direction of two chairs facing his desk. “I presume you’re here about your husband’s will.”

  “Yes. Well, more specifically, my father’s will,” she said. “When my father, Bert Sutherland, died, he left his restaurant to my husband and me. It has been in our names, jointly, ever since. Now that my husband has passed, I would like this changed so that Bert’s is fully mine.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “You explained that over the telephone, and I was able to pull all the needed papers from the files. I’m afraid, however, you might be disappointed with what I’ve found.”

  “What do you mean?” Maggie had thought this would be simple. Once the paperwork was done, she planned to move ahead with plans to renovate the restaurant. Oh, completing a renovation might not be that easy in wartime, but the sooner she jumped through all the legal hoops, the sooner it could happen. Besides, the war could end today. She wanted to be ready.

  “You are correct in that the restaurant is in both your names. However, before he shipped out, your husband revised his own will. Were you aware of this?”

  Maggie shook her head, a sense of foreboding suddenly triggering a twitch in her left thumb. What on earth had Douglas done?

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Marshall. Your husband’s new will indicates that his portion of Bert’s Restaurant is bequeathed to his brother, Earl.”

  Maggie’s mouth dropped open. She tried to speak, but no words would come out. Earl? As despicable as Douglas was, he was a model citizen compared to his younger brother. While drunk at Doug and Maggie’s wedding, Earl had flirted openly with Maggie and teased her about her legs. She, along with the entire wedding party, had heard the loud, slurred words: “Nice solid woman ya got yourself here, Duggie. Good sturdy legs on ’er.”

  Douglas had laughed and thrown an arm around his brother without giving so much as a glance in Maggie’s direction.

  Now, Maggie swallowed whatever was trying to come up her throat. “He can’t . . . he can’t actually do that, can he? The restaurant was my father’s before it was ours.”

  “It all appears to be legal from what I can see. I can investigate further if you’d like.”

  “How much would that cost?” Maggie’s head was starting to spin. Even given all the battering she had suffered at Doug’s hand, this was the worst thing she had endured. What had he been thinking? Was this his final trump card, a way to continue to abuse her in the event he never returned? How could he?

  “Our usual rates would apply,” the lawyer said.

  Maggie placed one hand on top of the other in her lap, willing them to stop shaking. But she could do little about her voice, and it quivered as soon as she spoke. “There’s got to be a way to fight this, doesn’t there? But I have no money for lawyer’s fees, Mr. Jones.”

  “It will need to be probated in any case. If you like, I can recommend a lawyer who might consider taking your case pro bono.” He flipped through some cards on his desk. “But to be frank with you, Mrs. Marshall, I don’t see that you really have a leg to stand on here. In my opinion, you would be wasting your time and money. Especially as a woman, trying to run a restaurant on her own. I’m sure your husband believed he was looking out for your best interests. Now that he’s passed away, I think any judge would see it that way too.”

  Maggie felt glued to her chair. Earl? There was no way she was going to partner with Earl on the restaurant. Or on anything else.

  “Perhaps your brother-in-law would be willing to sell you his share?” The lawyer folded his hands on his desktop.

  Maggie sighed. “That would require that I actually speak to the man, wouldn’t it?”

  Theodore Jones looked at her. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, unless you’re willing to pay lawyers to do all the negotiating, yes. You would have to speak to him. Perhaps it will go better than you think.”

  “Anyway, I can’t afford to buy him out.”

  “Then perhaps he would buy you out?”

  Maggie had no intention of selling to anyone, and she certainly couldn’t imagine handing off her father’s legacy to the likes of Earl Marshall.

  “Is there anything more I can do for you today, Mrs. Marshall?” The attorney seemed eager to get on to his next appointment.

  “N-no. I guess not.” Maggie managed to get to her feet. She left the legal office clutching her purse, a carbon copy of Doug’s last will and testament in her other hand and a cloud of fog in her head. Walking along the sidewalk, she found a bus stop bench and sat down to clear her mind. An elm tree provided restorative shade, and Maggie closed her eyes.

  How could he do this to me? Was the restaurant the reason Doug had married her in the first place? That made no sense. It wasn’t like it was worth a fortune or anything.

  “Ma’am? You getting on?” A bus had stopped and the driver was looking at her, the door swung wide. Maggie hadn’t even noticed.

  “Uh . . . no, thank you. I think I’ll walk.” Maggie decided the twenty-block walk would do her good. She could use the time to think. But the farther she walked, the angrier she became. Her sturdy black shoes pounded harder against the concrete with each step. The worst of it was, she didn’t know who she was angrier at—Doug or herself. What a fool I was to marry that man! If only she’d left him the very first time he smacked her. The divorce would have been final long ago, her father’s will would be clearly laid out, and the restaurant hers alone. Even the stigma of divorce would ha
ve been better than the hell she’d lived with that man, and the mess he’d left behind.

  How would she ever get through the funeral now? How was she supposed to play the grieving widow, pretend she missed and mourned Doug?

  And how on earth was she supposed to face his brother, Earl?

  CHAPTER 4

  Charlotte turned over the last of the restaurant chairs in order to wipe it down. Mrs. Marshall had returned from her errand even crankier than usual, if that were possible, only to turn around and leave again.

  “That garden isn’t going to tend itself, girl,” she’d announced. “I want to see some progress made on the weeds when I get back, and the beans need picking again. See to it. It’s a much more pleasant day today; it will do you good to get some fresh air. I have some more business to take care of. Oh, and forget about opening the restaurant after the funeral tomorrow. We’ll wait an extra day.”

  Charlotte stuck her tongue out at the door as it slammed behind the bitter woman. What was wrong with her, anyway? Did she bring young pregnant girls into her home just to torture them because she’d never had any children of her own? Maybe now that she was a widow, she’d get a new husband and have her own babies instead. She wasn’t that old. But who on earth would ever marry such a battle-ax?

  Well, there’s no way I’m working in that garden this afternoon, Charlotte told herself, even though she knew in the end she’d probably do whatever Mrs. Marshall asked. It felt good to be rebellious. Her resolve to carry through with her plan had just become even stronger. If Grumpystiltskin had decided not to open the restaurant after the funeral, perhaps that meant she’d be staying away longer now, mingling with relatives and such. This would all work in Charlotte’s favor.

  Operation Finding Reginald was carefully penned across the top of a blank sheet of paper in Charlotte’s mind, where no one else could see it. Step One: Pack. She would pack her bag tonight after bedtime and stash it under her bed. Step Two: Write note. If she had a note written ahead of time, all she’d have to do is leave it on the table the moment Mrs. Marshall left the premises, saving her precious time. She would wait until tonight to actually write the note, but she composed it in her mind while she continued to fill salt and pepper shakers.

  Dear Mrs. Marshall: I hope the funeral went well. I decided to go for a long walk. I will lock up when I get in, so don’t feel you need to wait up.

  That could buy her until morning, as long as the ol’ girl didn’t wait up.

  Step Three: Find out the train schedule.

  Oh, now’s my chance. Charlotte brushed her hands together and headed for the telephone on Mrs. Marshall’s desk in her tiny office off the kitchen. On the bulletin board above the desk was a long list of telephone numbers frequently requested by customers, including those of the bus depot and train station. Charlotte took a quick glance out the window before picking up the receiver and dialing.

  A young woman’s voice answered. Charlotte tried to sound as grown-up as she could.

  “Yes, I’m anticipating an excursion to Petawawa, Ontario. Can you tell me which trains I should take? I’ll need the schedule and ticket prices as well, please.”

  Charlotte was shocked to learn that Petawawa Military Camp was over twelve hundred miles from Winnipeg, and the train trip would take more than thirty-six hours! Still, she scribbled down everything she needed to know. If she could just make it to the station by three thirty tomorrow afternoon, she would be on her way.

  The schedule would not give her enough time to walk from Bert’s Restaurant to the station, which meant she’d need to catch a bus . . . which meant dipping even deeper into her meager stash of cash. Charlotte did the math in her head. She would have enough to do it, but there’d be little if anything left to buy food on the journey.

  Step Four: Pack a lunch. After another glance out the window, Charlotte opened the icebox and took a quick inventory. With the restaurant closed, the perfectly good roast chicken she found in there was going to waste. Mrs. Marshall never let food spoil.

  “It’s not like I’m stealing,” she reasoned aloud. “I would get to eat this if I stayed behind, so why shouldn’t I be entitled? Besides, the way I slave around here every day for the mere pennies she doles out, I can consider it fair wages.”

  She assembled two sandwiches, one with a thin slice of chicken, the other with peanut butter. With the garden carrots, apples, and small package of soda crackers she added, she knew she could get by until she reached Reginald. She’d be hungry, but it would be completely worth it! She wrapped the food together and ran upstairs, where she stashed it under her bed.

  As soon as all this was done, she went outside and pulled weeds from Mrs. Marshall’s garden as though her life depended on it. The woman had been right. The weather had cooled and rain clouds appeared to be gathering on the horizon.

  “Thank you for another fine meal, Mrs. O’Toole.” Reuben Fennel wiped his lips with the napkin his landlady had provided and laid it neatly beside his plate.

  “I’m wishin’ it could be more than wee potatoes and beans, Rev’rend,” the elderly woman said, gathering dishes and moving to the kitchen. “You should have tasted the dishes I could turn out before the war. Before I had to make this into a boardinghouse, back when me children were all still home.”

  “Well, if anyone can make something tasty out of beans and potatoes, it’s you. And I do appreciate it.” Reuben patted his stomach and rose from the table, hoping Mrs. O’Toole would detect in his tone the closing of the conversation. If there was anything the woman did better than cook, it was chatter.

  “Oh, but you haven’t had your coffee yet, lad. Sure and they’re goin’ to be rationin’ it soon, just like sugar. Better enjoy it while you can.”

  “Well, who can argue with that?” Reuben smiled and sat again, sighing inwardly. He knew this meant another session of listening to Mrs. O’Toole ramble on and chided himself for his reluctance to engage further. You’re a pastor. This is what you do, remember? Listen to people. Besides, her coffee was undeniably good.

  “Sure and they’re goin’ to ration coffee and tea. Our boys are needin’ to get theirs first.” Mrs. O’Toole took a seat across from Reuben, relishing her audience of one. “Oh, I wouldn’t care for meself, mind you. But how a body’s supposed to run a boardinghouse on so little is beyond me. Course, you’re my only boarder who stays for lunch. Miss Renfrew and Mr. Broadford are here only for breakfast and supper. Except weekends, of course. Although Miss Renfrew generally goes home to her parents on the weekend. I’m not sayin’ I mind it, mind you. I like that you’re here for lunchtime, love. Breaks up my day.”

  “It’s admirable, what you’re able to do.” Reuben took a swallow of coffee.

  “Well, I’ll just rise to the challenge, I will. But Lord knows how the cafés and restaurants manage to stay afloat. I guess many of them are closin’ their doors, too . . .”

  At the mention of restaurants, Reuben’s mind drifted to Maggie Sutherland. Maggie Marshall, now, though he rarely thought of her by that name. How was she managing to keep Bert’s Restaurant going in these hard times without a spouse around? And now she truly would be alone.

  It was difficult to believe Maggie was the same person Reuben had known when they were kids. So full of life and laughter then, she’d had a lot more boys than just Reuben pining for her attention. Did she have any idea how interested he’d really been?

  The day he dipped her braid in the inkwell, he’d been acting on a dare from Eddie Junket. Carefully, he’d rolled the tip of Maggie’s braid between his fingers, feeling its softness against the calluses on his ten-year-old fingertips. He used extreme caution to get only the tip in the ink, lest she be forced to cut off any of her lovely red tresses.

  Maggie had acted mad that day, of course. She’d called Reuben a nincompoop and stuck out her tongue. But within minutes, she’d returned to her good-humored self, laughing with the other girls and looking just as pretty as a boy could imagine.

  W
hat happened to her? Reuben could remember the ache he felt the day he learned she was engaged to marry Douglas Marshall. But seeing now what Maggie had become, he supposed he was better off alone. As much as he admired her for taking in unwed mothers, he couldn’t help but pity those poor girls for having to put up with the likes of her. Well, at least there’d be no nonsense under her protection. Of that, he was certain.

  Even with her new hard edge, though, he’d noticed that she was still a beautiful woman. Or surely would be, if she’d only smile. And maybe wear something besides those thrift-shop dresses designed for sixty-year-old grandmothers. Maybe Douglas hadn’t known what he was really getting, either.

  Or was it Douglas Marshall who’d blown the candle out in Maggie’s heart to begin with?

  Mrs. O’Toole’s voice rose, bringing Reuben’s thoughts back into the room—“. . . and so I told her, you catch more flies with honey, love. Now I know that’s in the Bible somewhere, am I right, Rev’rend?”

  “Um. Actually, Mrs. O’Toole, I don’t really think that one’s—”

  “Not that I’m the sort who goes around thumpin’ people over the head with the Bible, mind you. No sir, not me. I don’t believe in that. Just drives folks away, it does. That’s what I appreciate about you, Rev’rend. You don’t shove anything down anyone’s throat. You just live what you know is right. I respect that. We’re all knowin’ what you stand for, what you believe. But you’re not hammering us with it, no sir.”

  “Well, thank you, ma’am. I try to live what I believe. And right now I believe it’s time I returned to work.” He drained his coffee cup and rose.

  “Oh, you.” Mrs. O’Toole laughed. “And you’ve got a jolly sense of humor too!”

  Reuben thanked her again and made his escape. It was only a short walk to the church, where he planned to work another hour on Sunday’s sermon before heading out to visit a sick parishioner. Sick seemed like a stretch. Bonnie Cartwright was a first-class hypochondriac who requested weekly visits from Reuben for the sole purpose of describing to him, in excruciating detail, her every ache and pain. She replayed the scenes of her many doctor’s visits, to Reuben’s embarrassment, and regaled him with show-and-tell presentations of her many medications. The one time Reuben had been able to sneak a word in edgewise, he’d commented about how miraculous it was that, in spite of her numerous ailments, Mrs. Cartwright was still able to faithfully attend her bridge club and host it with renowned flair whenever it was her turn.