When the Clouds Roll By (20 page)

“Wait. I’m sorry.” Thomas blocked the door. “Don’t leave mad, Annemarie. I’m just trying to help.” Pain creased the corners of his eyes. “This is my big brother we’re talking about—the guy I always looked up to. To see him return from the war a broken man—broken in spirit, broken in body—it hurts like you can’t even imagine.”

Annemarie’s gaze softened. She gripped Thomas’s wrist. “I know exactly how much it hurts. I hurt for Gilbert as much as for myself. But I can’t fix him.
You
can’t fix him. The best we can do is love him and pray.”

“Then . . . you do still love him?”

“I never stopped.” Tears caught in Annemarie’s throat. Unable to say more, she gave her head a tiny shake and hurried from the office.

Mary stood barefoot at the kitchen sink, the cool linoleum like balm to her aching feet. She’d just come off a seven-day shift and was more than ready to have another Sunday free so she and Mum could attend Mass tomorrow. She rinsed and wiped the last plate, set it in the cupboard, and then limped across the floor to collapse into a chair.

Her mother padded into the kitchen. She’d already changed into her gown, robe, and slippers. “I told you I’d do up the dishes right after my bath. Why didn’t you wait?”

“I don’t mind, Mum.” Mary offered a tired smile.

“Poor lassie, working such long hours and then rushing home to see to the chores and fix our meals.” She pushed aside a stray lock of Mary’s hair before planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry as can be I can’t do more around here.”

Mary listened with concern to the phlegm rattling in her mother’s chest and thanked the Lord yet again that they’d been spared the Spanish flu. Drawing on her last bit of energy, she rose to fill the kettle. “I’m for a cup of tea before bed. How about you?”

“It would help my cough, sure enough. But you sit down and let me. I’ve strength enough to do that much.” Mary’s mother set out cups and then measured tea leaves into a strainer. “And while the kettle boils, perhaps you’ll tell me more about this young man of yours. All’s I’ve seen of him is a peek in the rear window of his automobile.”

A guilty twinge squeezed Mary’s heart. She’d done everything possible to evade her mother’s questions about Gilbert. But as he pressed to see her more and more frequently, she knew she’d eventually have to own up to her feelings . . . and her fears.

“He’s got a job now, part-time anyway. The army’s discharged him because of his disability.” And she only knew that much because he’d seemed unusually keyed up yesterday during another tryst in the hospital storage room—one of many they’d enjoyed of late. Normally he insisted on talking little and kissing often, but this time he’d poured out his anger over the loss of his military career in one breath, and in the next stated his brother had found him a part-time position managing schedules for the Arlington housekeeping staff.

“I feel for all those poor lads trying to make their way in the world now the fighting’s done.” Mum leaned against the counter as she waited for the water to boil. “Still, I’d like to get to know the man who’s claimed my only daughter’s heart.”

A shiver ran through Mary’s chest. She shot her mother a wide-eyed stare. “Oh, Mum, he has indeed! I’m falling in love for sure, but I’m scared witless it can’t last.”

“Now why on earth would you think such a thing?” Mary’s mother strode across the room to cup Mary’s chin in her bony hands. “It’s the Ballard boy who’s the lucky one. You’re as fine a girl as any man could ever want.”

Mary couldn’t meet her mother’s gaze. If Mum knew how Mary had given herself to Gilbert time and again in that cramped little room—how she’d let him run his hands along her curves, devour her mouth with kisses, press his body against hers so tightly she could feel his aching need—

“Mary, what’s wrong? Don’t lie to me, child. Has he taken advantage?”

“No!” She ducked around her mother and made a pretense of checking the teakettle. Truth be told, she wondered who was taking advantage of whom. In a relationship with Gilbert—handsome and charming, a man of status and privilege, a decorated soldier—Mary had nothing to offer and everything to gain, because the one thing Gilbert wanted most from her she refused to give. Up to now she’d been able to forestall his passion with tender words and promises. Besides, more often than not, their stolen moments dissolved when Gilbert’s headaches raged and nothing would soothe him but her practiced touch.

Her mother’s arm slipped around her shoulders. “Then what is it? Why can you not believe the man’s feelings are true?”

Sighing, Mary swiveled into her mother’s embrace. “Because his heart belongs to another, and he’ll never be fully mine until he finally lets her go.”

22

S
amuel’s visits didn’t usually take him to this section of the hospital, but after winding through hallways to find the room of a naval officer who’d requested pastoral counseling, he’d gotten turned around and found himself in a service corridor.

As he approached the end of the hallway, a door clicked shut behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Nurse McClarney scurrying toward him. She moved with her head down, her hands busily working loose curls back under her cap. Then seconds later the door opened again and Gilbert hobbled out, his crutches click-clicking on the tile floor.

Nausea curdled Samuel’s stomach. Before either of them noticed him he ducked around the corner and into a window alcove. Judging from differing sounds of their footsteps, he guessed Mary had veered left at the corner but Gilbert had turned right—the same direction Samuel had taken. Any second now, Gilbert would pass, and Samuel held his breath in hopes Gilbert would keep right on going.

Never mind what he’d told Gilbert that day at the Arlington:
“Look me up next time you’re at the hospital.”

But two weeks had elapsed, and even coming in for physical therapy appointments several times a week, Gilbert had never once darkened Samuel’s office door. Then as the days passed, with Samuel spending evenings and weekends helping Annemarie ready her shop and his nights dreaming about her, he’d ceased caring if he ever saw Gilbert again. Let the louse ruin his life chasing a skirt, stealing forbidden kisses in a storage room. Samuel decided he’d held back long enough. He would gladly pick up the pieces of Annemarie’s shattered heart if she’d let him.

And lately she’d given him every indication she would.

I love her. God help me, I do
.

Then why did he feel so guilty?

“Hey, Padre. Long time no see.”

He looked up to see Gilbert staring at him, a sleepy smile skewing his mouth. For a blinding moment Samuel couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then he blurted out, “I didn’t know they were holding therapy sessions in closets these days.”

Balancing on his crutches, Gilbert combed splayed fingers through his tousled hair and chuckled. “You should try it sometime. Works wonders.”

“I could put a stop to your rendezvous with one word to Mrs. Daley.”

“Sure you could.” Gilbert’s words slurred. His eyes glazed momentarily before he nailed Samuel with his glare. “But I know you better than that,
Padre
. You’re too good a man to risk getting Mary fired just to get back at me.”

Samuel took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. “Why are you doing this, Gil? To yourself? To Mary?”

“I’m not doing anything
to
anyone. Mary and I are good together. She makes me . . .” Gilbert wavered and glanced aside. Then with a stuttering sigh he muttered, “Actually, it’s none of your business. Excuse me.”

Watching Gilbert limp off on his crutches, Samuel felt hollow inside. He’d already lost too many friends. Some he’d buried in graves marked with little more than a makeshift cross or a helmet propped against a rifle stock. Others he’d bade good-bye to as the war ended, and they went their separate ways. But getting to know Gilbert aboard the
Comfort
, then requesting this assignment here in Hot Springs, Samuel had hoped he’d finally found the “friend who sticks closer than a brother” spoken of in the Book of Proverbs.

He’d never dreamed in a million years how one woman—one beautiful, desirable, incomparable woman—would rip their friendship to shreds.

Trudging to his office, Samuel decided he hadn’t the strength to finish out the day. It would be easy enough to excuse his early departure with lingering fatigue from the flu, so he tacked a note on his door saying he’d return first thing in the morning. Then, instead of catching the trolley to his apartment, he opted for a walk. Maybe the fresh air would help clear his head.

The next thing he knew, he was standing outside Annemarie’s shop. The fresh butcher paper he’d helped Annemarie tack up last weekend now blocked his view of the interior, but rustling sounds and the indistinct glow of light bulbs told him someone was inside.

Picturing Annemarie beyond the door, he felt the last vestiges of exhaustion float away on the March breeze. He tried the latch, but wisely she’d kept it locked. “Annemarie? It’s Samuel.”

Her happy voice carried through the glass. “Hello, Sam! Be right there. I just—”

A thunderous crash shook the windows. Propelled to a state of instant panic, Samuel yanked on the door handle, but the lock held fast. “Annemarie! Are you all right?”

Her only response was a muffled groan. Agonizing seconds crept by as he waited for anything more, all the while trying to figure some way into the building. Precious time would be lost if he had to circle the block and find the alley entrance—and the rear door would more than likely be locked as well.

Then, just as he’d made up his mind to ram his boot heel through the door, it swung open. Annemarie stood before him, her dark hair a disheveled mass and blood seeping through a tear on her sleeve. His hurried glance took in the toppled stepladder next to an upended bucket. Brown, sudsy water seeped across the floor.

Annemarie’s mouth twisted into something between a grimace and an apologetic smile. “It isn’t as bad as it looks—or sounded.”

He reached out, longing to crush her against him in relief. Then sanity prevailed. He ushered her over to a chair and peeled back the torn fabric covering her forearm. “Here, let me see how bad it is. Does it hurt much?”

“I told you, I’m—” Annemarie’s back arched. She sucked air between her teeth.

“Don’t dare tell me you’re fine when I can see otherwise.” Samuel glanced about for anything he could use to stanch the bleeding but saw nothing more useful than a pile of grimy cleaning cloths. Then noticing the muslin apron Annemarie wore, he grabbed the corner, folded it to a clean spot, and pressed it against the gash on her arm. “This may need stitches. I should get you to a doctor.”

A moan escaped Annemarie’s lips. Her usually rosy complexion had turned ashen. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Yes, and scratches can become infected.” Assisting medics on the battlefield, Samuel would have reached for hydrogen peroxide or carbolic acid. He’d flushed out more bullet and shrapnel wounds than he cared to remember. He tugged Annemarie to her feet, praying she wouldn’t faint. “Let’s get you to the sink and run some water over your arm. Then I can get a better look.”

In the lavatory at the rear of the shop, Samuel held Annemarie’s arm under the faucet and watched the last trickles of blood disappear down the drain. She smiled up at him. “See? I told you it was nothing.”

At least her color had returned. And now Samuel felt lightheaded. He took a towel from the rack and wrapped it around Annemarie’s wound, then cradled her arm to his chest. “Do you have any idea how badly you frightened me?”

“My dear, dear Sam. Such a worrier you are.” With her other hand she reached up to stroke his cheek. Her dewy-eyed gaze, her lips so alluring, her touch gentle as an angel’s kiss . . .

His heart hammered, and he prayed the Lord would forgive him for what he was about to do—but then perhaps he was already beyond forgiveness. Either way, it mattered little, because nothing—
nothing
—would satisfy him now until he claimed Annemarie as his own.

Still sheltering her injured arm between them, he moved his other arm slowly, gently, around her shoulders and pulled her to him. His fingers twined in the remnants of her bun until the last of the pins fell free and her mass of black curls tumbled loose down her back.

Surprise brightened her eyes, and then sweet realization. She tilted her chin. Her lips parted. “Yes, Sam. Yes.”

Her murmured invitation was all the permission he needed. His mouth found hers with a tender fury, and he drank in the sweet fullness of her lips like an elixir of life.

Lightness invaded Annemarie’s body, as if a whole galaxy had coalesced into one immense, incredible, unquenchable star. She’d never felt so alive, so replete, so unbearably . . . happy.

The kiss melted into placid release. “Oh, Sam, Sam . . .”

He nudged a stray curl off her cheek, his gray eyes shining with unshed tears. His lips curled into the boyish smile she’d come to adore, and he shook his head as if in utter disbelief. “I have wanted to kiss you for such a long time.”

Leaning into his chest, she grazed his cheek with another kiss and cherished the subtle rasp of his day’s growth of whiskers against her lips. One hand caressing his nape, she moved her mouth near his ear and whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”

With a sigh, he eased away, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tenderly he parted the towel covering her arm and examined the injury she’d all but forgotten. “The bleeding has stopped. I don’t think you’ll need stitches after all.”

“Sam. You’re changing the subject.”

His glance darted around the lavatory as if he saw it for the first time, and then he fixed her with a stern stare. “What
were
you doing on that ladder—and with no one here to help you? Why, if you’d been hurt any worse, if you hadn’t been able to get to the door—”

“But I wasn’t. I did. And I’m
fine.
” Annemarie gave a hopeless chuckle. “Honestly, Samuel Vickary, you are worse than a mother hen.”

Flouncing out of the lavatory, she seized the mop she’d left by the rear door and marched back to the showroom. True, she may have been a
wee
bit foolish climbing the stepladder to clean the top of a display shelf by herself. But if it took her foolishness to finally break through Sam’s reserve and convince him to kiss her, then the risk had been well worth it.

Annemarie’s lips tingled with the memory of that kiss, and her stomach did a tiny flip-flop. Partly in ecstasy . . . and partly from guilt, for she couldn’t remember Gilbert’s kisses ever evoking such a thrill of emotion. As she set the bucket aright, she glimpsed Sam pacing to the front window, one hand behind his back, the other stroking his chin. A thoughtful expression drew his mouth into a frown.

He felt it, too—the fear they’d crossed an invisible line with no going back, no return to the easy, bantering friendship they’d forged over the past several weeks. But after that kiss—a kiss she must now admit she’d secretly dreamed about since Sam’s recovery from the Spanish flu—would she even want to?

She busied herself with the mop in hopes Sam wouldn’t notice the flush heating her cheeks. What if Papa was right? What if God had intended all along that Sam, not Gilbert, would be the one she’d share her life with?

“Let me.” His hand covered hers on the mop handle, and she trembled.

“Really, it’s—”

“I insist.” Samuel wrested the mop from her grip and began sopping up the spilled water with a fervor to match the set of his jaw. “You realize one word to your father about your fall and he’ll put his foot down once and for all about your opening this shop. And I wouldn’t blame him, not in the least.”

“Sam.” She stepped in front of him, arms locked across her chest—as if her false bravado could still the flutter beneath her breastbone. “Don’t think for an instant you can use threats or busyness to brush aside what just happened between us. You kissed me. You
wanted
to kiss me.” Her voice fell to a breathless murmur. “And I wanted your kiss.”

He rested his hands atop the mop handle. His eyes found hers, and in them she read longing, uncertainty, foreboding . . . until his lids closed like a curtain shutting her out. “It was wrong. I tried to convince myself otherwise. I wanted to believe I had every right to kiss you . . . to
love
you . . . but I don’t.”

Love her?
Annemarie’s heart caught in her throat. When Samuel started to turn away, she clutched his arm, forcing him to face her. “But of course you have a right—
every
right! Why would you say such a—”

Instantly she knew:
Gilbert
. Sam had pledged loyalty to his friend, promised both Gilbert and Annemarie countless times he’d find a way to bring them back together.

“No,” she said, now gripping both his arms. The mop bounced off the fallen stepladder and clattered to the floor. “I will not let you thrust aside your feelings for me—my feelings for
you
—because of a man who has turned against us both.”

His gaze searched hers with a desperation that tore at her soul. “If only I could believe—if I could be certain—”

“Certain of what? That six months or a year from now Gilbert won’t come to his senses and decide he still loves me? That I won’t someday regret today, our kiss, this moment?” Her hand crept up his arm until she rested it at the base of his neck. Warmth seeped into her palm, and she could feel the beat of his pulse. With a sad smile she stretched upward to brush his lips with the tenderest of kisses. “How can I ever”—she kissed him again—“regret”—and again—“this?”

She knew the moment he surrendered. A tremor shot through his body and his arms encircled her, drawing her against him until she feared he’d crush the breath from her. His mouth found hers with a hunger equal to her own.