When the Clouds Roll By (22 page)

By Saturday afternoon, with both their mothers assisting with the finishing touches, Samuel decided little remained to prepare Annemarie’s shop for Monday’s grand opening. While Annemarie and Mrs. Kendall returned some cleaning supplies to the back room, Samuel surveyed the arrangement of pottery to be displayed in the front window.

“What do you think, Mother? Should this taller piece be moved farther back?”

“Not too far, or the light won’t be right.” Samuel’s mother edged the rose-colored vase a fraction of an inch to the left. “Annemarie does such exquisite work. I’d purchase this for myself if I thought I could carry it safely home on the train. It would go so well with the wallpaper in the dining room.”

“I’m sure we could wrap it securely.” Although Samuel suspected transporting the vase was the least of his mother’s concerns. Between ensuring Samuel had fully recovered from the influenza, and then helping Annemarie with her plans for the shop, she’d stayed on much longer than originally planned. He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re homesick, aren’t you?”

“A wee bit.” She swiveled to face him and smiled into his eyes. “It would be much easier to go home if I weren’t so worried about my only son.”

“I’m fine, Mother. Feeling fitter than ever, in fact.”

Arching a brow, she brushed a speck of dust from the placket of his Oxford shirt. “Physically, yes. But what about here?” She patted his chest. “It’s your heart I’m most concerned about.”

He tried to laugh off her remark while pretending to notice a smudge on a display cabinet door. “Annemarie makes me happy. I believe I make her happy, too.”

“I’ve no doubt either way.” She stilled his hand as he busily polished the imaginary smudge. “But I’m your mother, and it’s been clear since I first arrived there’s something troubling you, something you refuse to talk about, perhaps even admit to yourself.”

Samuel straightened. Was he that transparent? “It’s the war, that’s all.”

“
All?
My darling boy, though I never set foot on a battlefield, I listened to every news report, read every word printed in the paper. What you endured was an ordeal beyond imagining.”

Samuel strode across to the sales counter in search of something else with which to distract himself. “Stop, Mother. Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know you don’t, and that’s the problem.” His mother linked her arm through his, effectively stopping his meaningless activity. “You listen to everyone else’s stories—all those troubled soldiers who come to you seeking counsel and prayer—but you hold your own story inside. And it’s eating you alive.”

Annemarie’s lilting laughter preceded her return from the back room. “No, Mama, I am
not
shopping for a new dress for the opening. My mauve watered silk will do just fine.”

“But it’s such a special occasion. You deserve something new.” Mrs. Kendall waggled a lace-edged handkerchief toward Samuel’s mother, who silently released her hold on Samuel’s arm. “Help me convince her, Ursula. I know a lovely little dress shop. The three of us could— Oh, dear, why such long faces? Is something wrong?”

“Sam?” Annemarie marched to his side, her gaze probing.

With a forced smile, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “It’s nothing. Mother was just talking about needing to return home soon.”

Her furrowed brow said she didn’t quite believe him, but she turned to his mother and said, “It must be hard to think of being apart again, especially after Sam was away for so long. I’m glad you’ve been able to stay as long as you have.”

“And I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.” Samuel’s mother perused the showroom with a satisfied sigh. “Well, it appears there is not a thing more to be done here—
except
to shop for a dress,” she added with a wink.

“Oh, no, you can’t take Mama’s side!” Annemarie raised both hands in protest. “Please, Sam, convince them I don’t need to go shopping.”

“I’m afraid that’s beyond my powers of persuasion.” Samuel retrieved their coats and handbags, then ushered all three ladies toward the door. “Go forth and shop. I’ll lock up behind you.”

He’d anticipated spending the rest of the afternoon in Annemarie’s company, but one look in her eyes just now and he knew the moment they were alone she’d plead for honesty about what he and his mother had really been talking about.

His own story. Oh, God, would she still love him if she knew?

The memories crashed in upon him like an artillery barrage, and he sank to his knees in the middle of the shop.

“Please, God, make it stop! Make the killing stop!”

“Padre! What are you doing? Get down!”

“Give me your rifle, Private—now!”

“No, Padre, you can’t!”

“God’s deserted us. I’ll kill them all myself, every last one of them!” While enemy fire raged around them, Samuel grappled for control of the skinny kid’s weapon.

The boy jerked backward then slammed against Samuel’s chest, his mouth open in surprise. He coughed once, twice, and blood gushed from his throat. The boy’s weight pulled them both down, down, down, into the blood-soaked earth.

On his knees in the stubbly field, while bullets chewed up the trunks of trees already stripped bare, Samuel lifted his eyes to a heaven gone mute. Cradling the private’s limp body, he raised a bloody fist toward the sky and cursed the God who had betrayed them all.

24

B
less me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“And what is your sin, my child?”

The priest appeared little more than a shadowy form through the latticework of the confessional. Mary swallowed the tears threatening to choke her. “I’ve been free with my affections toward a man.”

In the momentary silence, she pictured Father Francis’s grim expression. He’d been a friend to Mary’s family since they came to Hot Springs nearly twenty years ago. He’d taught Mary the catechism, presided over her First Communion. After Mary’s father was injured, Father Francis had provided both comfort and aid, seeing them through those difficult years with utmost patience and kindness.

And now she’d let him down. “Father?”

“I heard you, my child.” Father Francis cleared his throat. “Have you . . . committed adultery with this man?”

“No! I mean, not in the way— Oh, Father, I’m so confused! Is it adultery if I have desired in my heart to—to—” Mary’s pulse throbbed at the mere thought of Gilbert’s touch, his kiss, his passionate embrace.

The priest’s profile shifted slightly, his chin raised. “But you have not acted on these desires? You have remained sexually pure?”

“Yes, Father.”

His voice softened. “And are you in love with this man?”

“Yes, Father.” Her reply came out on a moaning sigh.

The priest’s shoulders shook with a soft chuckle. “My dear child, such desire is only normal when a man and a woman fall in love. And temptation does not become sin unless acted upon.”

Both hands flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. She lifted her gaze to the mahogany ceiling of the small chamber. “Saints help me, if I could only be sure he returned my feelings!”

An edge returned to the priest’s tone. “He has not said as much?”

“Not in words, no, but I believe he does feel a special affection for me. And I’m so deliriously happy when we’re together.” She knotted the damp handkerchief she clutched into a twisted mass. “But afterward I feel so . . .”
Ashamed. Dirty. Used.

Father Francis heaved a groan. “It seems to me it isn’t penance and forgiveness you need so much as the wise counsel of Scripture. Meditate on Saint Paul’s letter to Timothy, where he instructed his young protégé to shun youthful passions, live a life of faith, and call upon the Lord with a pure heart. If you’re walking with the Lord, He will keep you on the straight and narrow path.”

“I’m trying, Father, truly I am.”

“Then go in peace, my child, in full assurance of our Savior’s love.”

Mary bowed her head as Father Francis made the sign of the cross, but before she exited the confessional, he added sternly, “And one last thing, Mary Elisabeth Assumpta McClarney—talk to your mother.”

She’d tried. Oh, she’d tried. But Mary feared shaming her mother even more than the good Father Francis.
“You can’t play with fire and expect not to be burnt,”
Mum had told her time and again whenever temptation led her astray. Whether as small a transgression as teasing the neighbor’s cat (Mary still bore the scar on her inner arm) or as foolish as wearing her frilly spring frock to Easter Mass during a late-season blizzard (she’d suffered the worst cold of her life afterward), Mary had to admit her mother’s admonitions were usually well-founded.

But if Mum knew how close Mary had come to giving Gilbert everything—
everything
—he asked for, she’d lock Mary in her room for eternity and throw away the key.

And giving up Gilbert wasn’t something Mary was prepared to do.

Please, Jesus
, she prayed as she hurried out to join her mother in the pew,
grant Gilbert the strength to rein in his passions. And if he can’t, Lord, grant me the strength to keep saying no.

Sitting in church with her parents Sunday morning, Annemarie barely heard the pastor’s message. Her thoughts raced ahead to tomorrow’s grand opening, only to spiral backward to yesterday afternoon. After seeing her mother and Ursula onto the trolley with their purchases—including the tiered day dress of lavender crêpe de Chine Annemarie had finally settled on—she’d returned to the shop for a final inspection.

When she’d found Samuel still there, looking as surprised to see her as she to see him, her skin prickled with worry. He claimed he’d only stayed to do some last-minute tidying up—but for nearly three hours? Though he laughed it off as absentmindedness, he’d seemed unusually tired, distracted, even anxious. Something clearly wasn’t right.

Well, she’d invited him to come for Sunday dinner after he concluded worship services in the hospital chapel. Perhaps by then she could pry an explanation from him.

Then, while her parents stopped to greet Jack Trapp and his mother following the service, Annemarie found herself face-to-face with the daunting Mrs. Ballard. Though their families had belonged to the same congregation for years, Annemarie couldn’t shake the impression Gilbert’s mother used the church more as a social venue than for spiritual enrichment. When she attended worship at all, afterward she flitted from conversation to conversation with her socialite cronies.

But today the woman had made a beeline straight for Annemarie. She pulled herself up to her full imposing stature. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Annemarie tried her best not to recoil, as much from the cloying scent of expensive perfume as from Mrs. Ballard’s accusing stare. “Of course not. I’ve just been preoccupied.”

“With your ceramics shop. I understand.” Mrs. Ballard’s expression turned patronizing. She rested a gloved hand on Annemarie’s arm. “Such a . . .
courageous
endeavor for a young woman such as yourself. I admire you, dear heart, truly I do.”

Annemarie heard the
but
coming.
But a shop is so plebeian. As Gilbert’s wife, you would have enjoyed a life of affluent elegance.

And utter boredom.

The sudden realization stabbed Annemarie through the heart, reminding her again how Gilbert had brushed off any suggestion of her continuing to work after they married. No matter that Scripture directed a man to leave his mother and father and cleave only to his wife. Any wife of Gilbert Ballard would also “marry” his mother—because Evelyn Ballard would have it no other way. Gilbert’s wife would be expected to participate fully in Hot Springs society, from decorating her husband’s arm at prestigious social events to serving on the boards of any number of reputable charities—and strictly at the direction of her would-be mother-in-law. Annemarie realized long ago Mrs. Ballard served only in capacities where her generosity would be acknowledged—as in the quarter-page newspaper article covering her “selfless contribution to America’s wounded soldiers” in the form of twenty-five hand-sewn flannel pajama sets.

Gathering her thoughts, Annemarie graced Gilbert’s mother with her most disarming smile. “Why, thank you so much. I do hope you’ll drop by for my grand opening. I’ll be displaying several new pieces featuring my ‘Ouachita sunrise’ motif.”

Mrs. Ballard sniffed. “I do have a full calendar, but if I have time . . .”

Thomas came up beside his mother, rolling his eyes in disdain. “She has time, I assure you. In fact, I shall personally escort Mother to your opening.”

With an arched brow and a polite nod, Mrs. Ballard excused herself.

Thomas toed the carpet. “Sorry about that. But you know Mother.”

Indeed. “Do you suppose you’ll convince her to come tomorrow?”

“If I have to hogtie her to the hood of the car.”

They both laughed as they stepped through the doors into the midday sunshine, and Annemarie couldn’t stop herself from murmuring, “I do pity the woman who eventually marries you or Gil—” Heat climbed into her face. “That was utterly thoughtless. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive when you’re merely stating the obvious.” Shaking his head, Thomas halted on the church lawn beneath the fringed shade of a pine tree. “Why do you think I’ve worked so hard at avoiding relationships?”

“Oh, Thomas, you’re going to make some girl a wonderful husband someday.”

“Provided we move to Timbuktu immediately after the wedding—and
that’s
contingent upon actually making it to the altar before Mother can scare her off.” He grinned at Annemarie. “If I could find a girl like you, I’d have it made. You never let my mother intimidate you for long.”

Annemarie shivered. If he only knew! She clasped his hand, studying the neatly manicured nails, the faintest ink smudge on the finger where his fountain pen would rest. His were strong hands, caring hands, hands of a man who’d be gentle with his beloved’s heart. She prayed someday Thomas would know true love . . . the kind Annemarie was only just discovering in Samuel.

She tilted her chin to meet Thomas’s troubled gaze. “You do understand it wasn’t your mother who came between Gilbert and me. If our love had been strong enough, nothing would have kept us apart.”

“I know.” Thomas filled his lungs with air and then released it in a gusty sigh. “I just hope he isn’t setting up another unsuspecting girl for a broken heart.”

Before Annemarie could reply, her parents caught up with her, reminding her they needed to get home to finish dinner preparations. As she bounced along in the backseat of the Model T, she lifted a prayer heavenward for Nurse Mary McClarney.

“
Go in peace, serve the Lord with gladness.” Head bowed, Samuel folded his hands as patients and visitors filed out of the chapel.

With each day that passed, his hypocrisy grew. How could he stand here Sunday after Sunday—how could he proclaim Christ’s blessing and forgiveness on his daily hospital rounds—while he felt himself falling farther and farther away from the God he had pledged his life to serve?

Father, forgive—

“Fine sermon, Padre.”

He looked up to see Sergeant King standing before him. Clad in a frayed green robe over striped pajamas, the grizzled soldier leaned heavily on a cane.

At a loss for words, Samuel only smiled. He wouldn’t admit the message today was one he’d pulled from his files—a sermon written back when faith came easy and war remained a distant rumble on the horizon. He stepped off the dais and offered his arm to the sergeant. “May I walk you back to the ward?”

“Be my pleasure.” Sergeant King shuffled alongside Samuel as they made their way along hospital corridors smelling of floor polish, disinfectant, and the competing aromas from the meal trays. “You met the new doc yet?” the sergeant asked. “Came onboard this weekend.”

“I took some time off yesterday. Hadn’t heard someone new had come on staff.” They reached the sergeant’s ward, and Samuel held the door for him.

“Nice enough guy, just transferred here from Walter Reed. Before then, he served in one of them field hospitals over in France.”

The man had seen the worst the war could offer. Samuel felt for him. “What’s his name?”

“Russ. Dave Russ, I think he said. You two could probably trade war stories.”

“Russ?” Samuel swallowed. The name was similar, but the likelihood this was the same man . . .

Sergeant King rubbed his forehead. “Nope, it’s Donald. Dr.
Donald
Russ.” He pointed across the ward. “There he is now. I can introduce you.”

Recognition corkscrewed through Samuel’s belly. Though the doctor now sported a neatly trimmed beard, his tall, lanky frame and characteristic slouch were unmistakable. Hard to forget the man who’d practically carried Samuel through the final weeks of the war. If not for Dr. Russ’s staunch support and unfailing compassion, with one stroke of a pen he could have permanently ended Samuel’s career as a military chaplain.

Maybe it would have been better if he had.

In any case, he couldn’t face Dr. Russ. Not now. Not today. Haste sharpened his tone as he said, “I’ll have to meet him another time. It’s later than I realized, and I’m expected for dinner with friends.”

Handing off Sergeant King to a nurse, Samuel hurried out, never slowing his pace until he exited the hospital and reached the promenade. His heart slammed against his ribs. One hand holding his side, he collapsed onto a park bench.

Why was the past catching up to him now, just when he’d convinced himself he could put it all behind him and begin anew?