When the Clouds Roll By (29 page)

A wry laugh rattled his throat. “Guess it’s why I’m so lousy at poker.”

“Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert . . .” Annemarie tugged his hand away from his face and held it tightly in her own. Tears slid down her cheeks. “I wish I could erase everything that happened to you in France. I wish the war had never happened at all, to any of us. I wish—”

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Sitting a little straighter, Gilbert examined her clay-stained fingertips. “Bet I know where you spent last night. I’m sorry, Annemarie.” He lifted his gaze to hers, his voice breaking. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.”

“I believe you.” Slowly, hesitantly, she withdrew her hands and folded them in her lap. “But an apology alone can’t undo the destruction you’ve caused. Because of you, Samuel is now living a nightmare he may never awaken from, battling demons I’m not certain he has enough faith to defeat.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing.” Gilbert shuddered. “I honestly didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted—”

“I know exactly what you wanted. But it’s too late. You can’t play God with people’s hearts.”

He splayed his hands across the desk, his head lowered. “Can you forgive me . . . or at least not hate me?”

“I am praying fervently for the strength to forgive you. Perhaps in time, when Sam is better and this is all behind us . . .” Annemarie stood with a tired sigh. She ached to reach out and run her fingers once more through those raven curls. But as a concerned friend, nothing more.

As she turned to leave, she added softly, “I do still love you, Gilbert. I always will. But I’ve given my heart to Sam.”

“. . .
more unrest in Germany and Poland. How disturbing.” A rustle of newspaper accompanied the softly spoken words.

Samuel recognized his mother’s voice and slid his eyes open. She sat silhouetted in a sunbeam pouring through the window, and for a moment the brightness dazzled him.

“Look, he’s waking up.” Donald’s voice came from somewhere near Samuel’s feet.

Confused, Samuel shifted his gaze to take in his surroundings. “What’s this—the hospital?” His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like a thick wad of cotton. He tried to raise himself on one elbow, but his limbs felt as if they belonged to someone else. “What happened to me?”

“There, there, son.” His mother came to his side and pressed him back against the pillow. “You’ve been asleep for a long while, that’s all.”

“Let’s sit you up some.” Donald came around to the other side of the bed and cranked the head up several degrees. “Thirsty, I’ll bet.” He offered Samuel a glass of water.

Drinking gratefully, Sam fumbled around his brain for some memory of what had landed him in a hospital bed.

Then he remembered, and the water he’d just swallowed surged back into his throat on a wave of bile. He shoved the glass into Donald’s hand and then pressed his palms into his eye sockets. His whole body shook. “No . . . no . . . please, God, no!”

Arms wrapped around him, cradled him, soothed him. Tears mingled with his own. “Let it go, son. It was an accident. You can’t keep blaming yourself.”

A needle pricked his arm, and the room faded to velvet blackness.

When he roused again, night enveloped him. The only illumination was a sliver of light from the corridor. Gradually he became aware of someone’s hand wrapped around his. A dark form slumped upon the edge of the mattress.

The figure stirred, sighed, stretched. Then, “Sam? Are you awake?”

Annemarie!
Her nearness brought such sweet agony he couldn’t make his throat work to form a reply. He pulled her hand to his chest and held it there while he tried to make sense of the past few hours . . . days . . . or had it been weeks?

“Oh, my dear Sam!” She sat on the bed next to him and laid her head in the crook of his shoulder. Her soft, warm lips grazed his neck. “It’s all right, Sam. Everything’s going to be all right.”

He wanted to believe her. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to believe her.

But then once more the memories crowded in. He’d killed a man.
He
had killed Private Braswell. Not a bullet from a German rifle but from Braswell’s own sidearm. And Samuel’s finger had been on the trigger.

God, forgive me. Oh Lord, forgive me!

For taking a soldier’s life, for blaming God, for running from the truth all these months instead of resting in God’s mercy and goodness.

He trembled, and Annemarie nestled closer, her love so pure, so powerful, Samuel could scarcely take it in. He didn’t deserve such love.

“As much as she loves you, I love you even more, My son.”
The words resonated in his spirit as clearly as if God had spoken them aloud.
“Be strong and of good courage . . . for it is the Lord your God who goes with you; he will not fail you or forsake you.”

Newfound peace burrowed deep into Samuel’s heart. He shifted his head until he could peer into Annemarie’s eyes—two shimmering pools of liquid satin reflecting the light from the corridor. He swept aside the silky strand she could never keep out of her eyes and then kissed her forehead. “I’ll be all right now,” he said, meaning it, believing it as never before. “You should go home, get some rest.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Her breath warmed his cheek with whispered urgency.

Gently he eased her off his chest, nudging her until she stood beside the bed. He sat up slowly, his brain still foggy from whatever drugs they’d given him, and then pulled her into his arms. He kissed the back of her hand, inhaling the earthy smells of clay she could never quite wash away. “I mean it. Go home—and
not
to your pottery wheel.”

The door edged open, admitting a wider shaft of light. Donald Russ’s tall, thin frame filled the opening. “Thought I heard voices in here.”

Samuel winced. “If you’ve brought another needle . . .”

“Do you need one? Or are you ready to rejoin the living?”

“Beyond ready. How long has it been, anyway?”

“Just a couple of days, actually. Today’s . . .” Donald checked his watch. “Well, I suppose it’s already tomorrow. It’s ten past twelve on Monday, the last day of March.”

Two days lost. It was enough. Samuel returned his gaze to Annemarie. Now that he could see her more clearly, he realized how haggard she looked—her dress rumpled, her hair coming unpinned, dark smudges beneath her eyes. The thought that he’d put her through such torment only added to his remorse.

But he could still make things right. With God’s help he would.

“Donald, would you please see that this lady gets home safely?” He squeezed Annemarie’s hand. “I’d like to get some sleep now—some
real
sleep, without the help of your infernal drugs—and tomorrow I’ll be going away for a while.”

“Sam?” The anxiety in Annemarie’s voice ripped holes in his heart.

“There’s something I have to do. Something I should have had the courage to do a long time ago.”

“But you’ll be back?”

Would he—
could
he return? He bowed his head and sighed. “The future is out of my hands. I can’t promise anything except that I will always love you.”

31

S
tupid, stupid girl.
Mary blinked until her eyes cleared and tried once more to focus on the patient’s chart she held. If she’d claimed a wink of sleep all week, it was by God’s grace alone. Since Gilbert had finally gotten sober enough to take her home last Friday, she’d made herself half-crazy between fretting over the brainless, besotted idiot, who hadn’t so much as called since then, and berating herself for still—
still!
—holding out hope he’d come crawling back to her.

“Mary?” Lois nudged her with an elbow. “Not crying over that heel again, are you?”

“Had something in my eye, that’s all.”

“Sure you did.” Giving a snort, Lois thumbed through a stack of medical orders. “Believe me, honey, he’s not worth it. Forget the creep. Find yourself a guy who’ll treat you right.”

“Don’t lecture me. I’ve not the patience for it.” Mary swiveled away from the desk before Lois gave her another earful of endless yet utterly useless advice for the lovelorn.

Lois gave a tiny gasp. “Um, Mary . . .”

She turned, ready to launch into her own lecture about minding one’s own business, especially on hospital time, when she found herself riveted by Gilbert’s beseeching stare.

He edged up to the desk. “I need to talk to you, Mary.”

A quavering began deep inside her belly, whether from anger or panic or unrequited love, she couldn’t honestly say. She strove to keep her voice level. “I’m working, as you can plainly see. This isn’t a good—”

“
Please
.” Gilbert brought his clenched fist down upon the desk with quiet insistence, then repeated more gently, “Please.” His gaze shifted nervously in Lois’s direction, and he lowered his voice even more. “I’m sober now. I’ve had time to think.”

One look in those desperate hazel eyes and Mary was done for. She handed her chart to Lois. “Lieutenant Zipp has a physical therapy session in ten minutes. Can you wheel him over for me?”

Lois lifted one eyebrow as she took the chart. “Are you sure?”

Firming her mouth, Mary gave a single nod. Lois reluctantly left on the errand, and Mary motioned Gilbert toward a nearby waiting room. Once inside, she closed the door and then leaned against it, afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her.

Gilbert stared out the window for what seemed like an eternity before he sighed and pivoted to face her. “Here I go, apologizing again.” His attempt at a chuckle sounded more like a tired, pathetic moan.

Mary crossed her arms but didn’t budge from the door. “If you weren’t so good at getting yourself into trouble, you wouldn’t have to apologize so often.”

She expected his usual sarcasm, or at least a rakish curl of his lips, but instead he closed his eyes and lowered his head. “I deserved that.” Looking up, he took a step toward her, and she couldn’t stop herself from cringing. If he touched her now, she’d crumble. Fall right back into his arms as if nothing had changed.
Dear Jesus, give me strength!

She hiked her chin and forced herself to stand erect but kept one hand on the doorknob, as if it could save her from her own treacherous emotions. “Just speak your piece and be done with it. I’ve work to do.”

Gilbert ran a hand across his eyes as he hauled in a shaky breath. “Like I said, I came to apologize, not that it’s worth anything after what I’ve put you through. But I wanted to tell you face-to-face you were right. Right about everything.”

Mary narrowed her gaze. “Everything?”

“The morphine. My feelings for Annemarie . . .” He glanced away, then back again, his voice faltering. “The fact that I was just using you.”

The words sliced through Mary like a scalpel, and she cried out before she could stop herself.

“I never meant to hurt you, Mary.” He took two strides closer, reached out, and grazed her cheek with the ball of his thumb. “I care for you. Please believe me.”

She drew away from his touch. Her lips trembled. “You’ve a fine way of showing it.”

Both hands locked upon his cane, he straightened, his eyes as clear as she’d ever seen them. “Give me a chance and I will. I’m going to fix things, Mary. You have my word.”

He left moments later, without so much as stealing a kiss or even pretending to offer his typical empty promises. Instead, he simply said, “Wait for me.”

As the door closed behind him, she stumbled across the room and sank upon a tattered sofa, hands clasped until her knuckles whitened. “Let his words be true, Father. Don’t let me hope in vain!”

“
I hope you enjoy the vases, Mrs. Fox. Thank you for coming in.” Annemarie handed the petite, silver-haired woman her wrapped purchases along with a receipt. “And bring your grandson by one day soon and we’ll talk about pottery-making lessons.”

As the door closed upon the brisk April afternoon, Ursula Vickary came up beside Annemarie. “Sharing your talents with the next generation of potters? What a lovely thing to do.”

“More necessity than altruism.” She reached for the apron she’d draped across the back of a chair. “I decided giving lessons might be one way my studio could generate a little more income.”

Ursula clucked her tongue. “I sincerely hope you aren’t still fretting about repaying Samuel and me for our investment. Why, I expect in the near future, it won’t matter one whit.”

Annemarie’s stomach clenched. “Have you heard from Sam? Is he coming home soon?”

“No word yet. I just meant . . .” Shrugging, Ursula offered a sympathetic smile before reaching for the feather duster beneath the counter. “Don’t you need to get back to your workshop? I’m excited to see how the new glaze you’ve been experimenting with will turn out.”

As always, work remained Annemarie’s sole distraction from the concerns she couldn’t shake. Samuel had left shortly after noon on Monday saying only that he needed to lay some old ghosts to rest. He wouldn’t even permit Annemarie to see him off at the train station but insisted on saying their good-byes at the shop. Not even a flood of tears had swayed him to offer assurance of his prompt return. All he would do was repeat, “It’s out of my hands.”

It was Thursday already, and Annemarie felt she’d go mad if she didn’t hear from him soon. Ursula’s decision to extend her stay in Hot Springs brought a measure of comfort, not only for her continued help in the studio but also because the woman’s presence gave Annemarie hope Samuel would eventually return to them. She had to believe that when he did, he’d be all the stronger for having taken this time to put the past behind him.

If only it wasn’t taking so long!

Hours later, Ursula called to Annemarie from the workroom door. “It’s closing time, dear. Are you going to stay and work awhile longer?”

“I think I will.” Annemarie studied the depth of color on the decorative urn she’d been working with. More green, less blue . . . and perhaps a touch of amber. “Any more customers this afternoon?”

“Two, in fact. I sold a pair of candlesticks and a ewer-and-bowl set. Oh, and one of the ladies placed an order for a dessert service.”

Annemarie smiled her satisfaction. Maybe she’d yet make a go of this enterprise. She dipped her brush in a pot of glaze.

Ursula cleared her throat meaningfully. “You
will
stop soon and go home to supper, won’t you?”

“As soon as I finish here.” Smirking, Annemarie raised one hand. “I promise.”

She vaguely heard the click of the lock as Ursula left through the front door. Then moments later someone rapped on the glass. Surely, Ursula had set the
closed
sign in the window—or perhaps she’d forgotten something and couldn’t get her key to work.

Laying aside her paintbrush, Annemarie wiped her hands on a stained rag as she marched to the front of the studio. “Coming, coming . . .”

When she saw who waited on the other side of the door, her stomach heaved.

Gilbert.

No, Lord, I can’t, not today—

“Annemarie, please let me in. Please.”

Her hand shook as she reached for the latch. She pulled open the door. “You shouldn’t have come, Gilbert. There’s nothing more to be said between us.”

His forlorn expression almost made her regret her dismissive tone. He took one step into the shop and glanced around. “I thought maybe Samuel would be here. The hospital would only say he’s no longer a patient Dr. Russ won’t even talk to me.”

Annemarie crossed her arms. “Can you blame him?”

“Not in the least.” He cast a sheepish frown toward the floor before lifting pleading eyes to Annemarie. “Please, just tell me where I can find Sam. I need to make things right with him or I won’t be able to live with myself.”

“I’m sorry, but
I
don’t even know where Sam has gone off to.” The truth of her words brought a quaver to her voice.

“What are you saying? He’s left town?” Gilbert reached out as if to grasp her arm, but when she flinched, he drew back.

“Yes, he’s gone, thanks to you!” Whatever measure of forgiveness she’d accrued over the past few days evaporated—along with the fragile remnants of hope she’d ever see Sam again.

Beads of perspiration dotted Gilbert’s ashen face. He gripped the doorframe. “I swear I’ll make this up to you and Sam if it’s the last thing I do.”

Then, before she could reply, he swiveled on his heel and marched out of the shop. Hugging herself in the doorway, Annemarie watched as he strode up Central Avenue and climbed into the backseat of the Ballards’ sleek Peerless. Seconds later, the car sped away.

She could only pray Gilbert wouldn’t try anything more impulsively stupid than he’d done already.

T
wo long days and nights on the train, and now two sleepless nights in a shabby Denver hotel room while Samuel contemplated what exactly he’d say to Mr. and Mrs. Braswell.

Provided they’d even agree to talk with him.

Upon arriving in Denver, he’d made discreet inquiries about the family based on what he remembered about Private Eddie Braswell. The son of a schoolteacher, Eddie was the eldest of five children. Friends said the boy was a mediocre student but a hard worker—always diligent, always dependable, always dutiful. After Wilson declared war, Eddie had been the first among his peers to enlist in the army.

“Yessiree, he’s sorely missed around here,” an elderly neighbor told Samuel as they stood on the man’s front lawn late Friday afternoon. “You knew him? Served over yonder in France, did you?”

“I did.” Samuel ran a thumb along the worn edge of his Bible and gazed up the street toward the Braswell home. “Do you know what time Mr. Braswell gets home from school?”

The neighbor checked his watch. “Anytime now. Five o’clock at the latest. But his wife’ll be home. I’m sure she’d be mighty pleased to chat with someone who knew Eddie from the war.”

Samuel seriously doubted it.

“Eddie’s buried somewhere on the front lines, his folks say. Hear tell they can’t even find many of the graves, so those boys’ll never make it home for a proper burial.” The man’s gaze drifted to Samuel’s chaplaincy insignia. “But I reckon you’d know all about that.”

Samuel gave a solemn nod. A motion caught his eye, and he looked up to see a slump-shouldered man in a brown suit trudging along the sidewalk.

“There’s Ed Braswell now,” the neighbor said. He clucked his tongue. “Hasn’t been the same since Eddie Junior was killed. Just drifts along like a tumbleweed most days.”

The man turned in at a picket gate. Steeling himself, Samuel thanked the elderly gentleman for his time and then strode up the street.

“Mr. Braswell,” he called as the man reached a weathered front door with peeling gray paint.

Pausing with his hand on the knob, Mr. Braswell turned with a smile that quickly changed to a look of confusion. “A little late for the army to be sending a chaplain by, isn’t it?”

“The army didn’t send me.” Standing outside the fence, Samuel brushed aside a drooping, unkempt vine. “May I come in, Mr. Braswell? I knew Eddie. I . . . I was with him when he died.”

An hour later, the truth laid bare before Private Braswell’s parents, Samuel sat with his hands locked around his Bible. He hadn’t opened it once, but simply holding it served to remind him that no matter what happened next, God was with him.