When the Clouds Roll By (18 page)

And pray. If the Lord meant for the two of them to be together, He’d bring it about in His own good time.

And then Wednesday afternoon it happened.

“Mary?”

At the sound of his voice, she whirled around, nearly dropping the stack of fresh linens in her arms. She cast a quick glance right and left, but except for Gilbert, the corridor was empty.

A lazy grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Heavens, no.”
And lying’s a sin, Mary McClarney.
She swallowed the nervous prickles climbing up her throat. A pillowcase slid to the floor, and she stared at it as if it might sprout wings and fly back to her. Anything to keep from looking into the eyes of the man who could slice her anxious heart to shreds or send it soaring heavenward with just one word.

He wheeled closer. “I’ve missed you, Mary.”

“Have you, now?” Mary drew her shoulders back and forced her eyes to meet his. No matter how sweet his words, his tone, his pleading gaze, she wasn’t without pride. “I’m not hard to find, should anyone care to come looking.”

“I care, Mary. Honestly I do.” A regretful frown deepened the dimple in his right cheek. “Truth is I worried you might be put out with me for ruining our date the other night. I did promise you dinner, after all, and then had the nerve to fall asleep in your lap.”

“You needn’t apologize. I could tell you were upset by—” She drew her lower lip between her teeth. Bringing Miss Kendall into the conversation would only amplify his discomfort—and Mary’s. “I mean, it was clear how much pain you were suffering. My father had headaches like that, too.”

“I knew you understood.” Gilbert’s hand sought hers, and she nearly dropped the sheets again. “Will you give me another chance? Dinner this weekend? You name the time and place.”

“Well, I . . . ” Between the hopeful look in his eyes and the smooth warmth of his palm cradling her hand, she could hardly think a coherent thought. To her left, a storage room door stood ajar. With another hurried glance in both directions, she nodded toward the door. “Perhaps we should . . .”

He took the hint, and she followed him into the storage room. As she nudged the door closed behind them, he turned his chair to face her. His gaze slanting downward, he murmured, “I’ve been a cad, Mary. Please let me make it up to you.”

Monday’s conversation with the chaplain swirled through Mary’s brain, bringing with it a measure of the good sense she seemed to lack whenever in the presence of Lieutenant Gilbert Ballard. Taking a step backward, she speared him with an accusing stare. “Seems like you’re always needin’ to make something up to me. But I’m not someone to be pitied. Nor am I a woman to be toyed with whilst your own heart is mending. Ask me out because you want to be with me, or we’ll not be seeing each other again.”

Gilbert flinched, and for a long, painful minute she expected him to wheel himself out the door and vanish from her life as quickly as he’d come into it. Then slowly he lifted his gaze to meet hers, and the tortured look beneath those dark and twisted brows bored a hole straight through her soul. His voice low and ragged, he said, “I don’t deserve you, Mary McClarney. But I need you. I need you like the air I breathe.”

Her hand flew to her heart, as if she could stifle the ferocious pounding behind her sternum. Need wasn’t the same as love . . . but couldn’t it become love . . . someday?

Gilbert lifted an imploring hand. “Please, Mary.”

The linens cascaded to the floor. Slowly, slowly, she sank to her knees in front of his chair, her whole body atremble as he leaned forward to draw her against his chest. His breath scalded her cheek as his lips sought hers. Her fingers crept upward to twine themselves through his thick black curls, and she claimed them in a way she’d only dreamed of that night in the backseat of his car.

Now Gilbert’s hungry kiss claimed her, until the urgency of his need made her tear herself from his arms with a whispered cry. She huddled amongst the scattered linens, her heart threatening to explode from her chest. The air in the tiny room pulsed with the sounds of their gasping breaths.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Mary leapt to her feet. “Lord have mercy! What are we doing?” Frantically she gathered up sheets and pillowcases, now wrinkled and soiled, and prayed whoever approached didn’t stop at the storage room.

When the steps continued on, she braved a glance at Gilbert. Would he now think her a shameless harlot? He said he needed her. Did he only mean in
that
way?

He ran a hand across his upper lip and gave her a shaky smile. “I know what you’re thinking, Mary, and you’re wrong. But I won’t apologize for kissing you, and I’d do it again—I will do it again, every chance I get, if you’ll let me.” Again, he reached for her hand, tugging her knuckles to his lips for a searing kiss. “Say you’ll let me, Mary. Say it.”

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

B
alancing 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
c
upid’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 chos
e not to retire from the chaplaincy after the wa
r 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?”