Six

The alarm clock jangled on the bedside table, and Art jerked awake. He groped for the clock. After he silenced it, he lay toying with the idea of sleep. To make it to work on time, he needed to get up and move. Instead, he scooted closer to Josie. A sigh breathed from her lips as he pulled her close. She scooched nearer without opening her eyes.

For this moment, all was right in his world. He could pretend they hadn’t lost the baby two months ago. And thank God, Josie was edging her way back to him, slowly returning to the same vibrant woman he’d married a few short months ago.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

A smile teased her face at his words. “Morning.” She snuggled close a moment, then stretched. “Let me get you breakfast.”

“Really?” He’d enjoy eating her eggs rather than his burnt toast.

She slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe. “I’ll have it ready when you get out of the shower.”

As he hurried through his morning preparations, the scent of bacon reached him. His stomach growled, and he laughed. Time to eat. When he reached the table, Josie had placed two plates of food on it. She sat at the table, Bible open in front of her as she waited.

“Find anything good?”

“Yes.”

“I love seeing you like this.”

She looked up at him, and her nose crinkled. “Like what?”

“Ready to tackle the day. It’s been awhile.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

“Not really, but you try, and I appreciate that. Now I want you to enjoy your eggs.” She turned to the stove and poured a mug of coffee before handing it to him.

Art mulled over her words, looking for hidden meaning. Could he address them, or should he leave them be? One thing he’d learned from watching his parents’ tense relationship was to tread carefully where a woman’s emotions were concerned. Scott had reinforced that lesson with his challenge. Art definitely didn’t understand the depths of what moved those emotions. But each conversation helped.

She settled onto the chair next to his. He leaned over and kissed her cheek, pleased to watch a smile play across her lips. If he let himself linger there, he’d never get to work.

He grabbed his Bible. “Let’s start a new practice in the mornings.”

Josie looked at him, brows crunched. “Okay.”

“I’d like to read a Bible passage with you each morning. We could start with Psalms. Spend a few moments connecting with each other and God before our days begin.”

“I’d like that.” A soft smile creased Josie’s face.

❧

After devotions, he headed out the door. E. K. Fine’s Piano Company had operated for decades without his daily presence, but at times, he wondered how. The books were finally falling into an order that delighted him.

The numbers marched across the books in even rows. And the timing couldn’t be better.

Mr. Fine had directed the managers to find ways to turn the company’s enterprises into militarily useful ventures.

Art’s whistle echoed a bird’s song as he ambled the blocks to the factory. His mom could tell him exactly which type of bird he echoed, but he had no idea other than the tune pleased him. His steps quickened to match the timing.

After winding through Eden Park, he reached the factory. He glanced up at the large clock tower in the center of the brick building. Five till nine. He’d arrived with a couple minutes to spare, but not as early as he’d hoped. Next time, he’d have to avoid whistling with the birds and get that head start on the day.

Even so, he didn’t restrain the smile that tipped his mouth as he waltzed through the main doors. A turn to the left and then the right, and Art worked his way back to the office he shared.

Charlie Sloan looked up from the Cincinnati Enquirer spread across his desk. “Morning, Art.”

“Morning.” Art looked closer. The paper was too easy to read. Charlie had it upside down on his desk. “Good read?”

“Hmm?” Charlie looked down and grinned. “Practicing my upside-down reading skills.”

Art laughed. “That’s an unusual skill.”

“But handy when one’s called into Fine’s office. The murmurs about the war keep me wondering. How many pianos do you think folks will buy then?”

“Not sure.” He could only make an educated guess after working for the company only a few months.

“Not as many as you think. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re put on some kind of ration. I’m sure the government will have a better use for the materials we consume.”

The coffee he’d had that morning burned through Art’s stomach, leaving a horrible aftertaste in his mouth. Had this been a bad move? Wouldn’t the new guy be the first to go if the company retreated?

“Don’t let it worry you.” Charlie patted a document on his desk. “Fine has a plan.”

Art sank into his chair and faced the mountain of work. He tried to focus, but his thoughts circled back to Charlie’s comments. What did he know about the piano industry? War seemed far off for the United States, but a few years ago, it had looked that way in Europe, too. What impact would entering the war have on an economy still recovering from the deep struggles of the last decade? God was in control. He knew that. But as the unspoken questions ricocheted off each other, he fought to cling to that truth.

His steps faltered as he left work that evening.

He’d made the right decision when he accepted the job and moved to Cincinnati. Despite everything happening, he believed that. God would watch over them, and even if the war somehow reached the United States, he’d have a job. The company would get creative, and he’d help with that if necessary.

His briefcase hung from his grip as he trudged up the steps to the apartment. They should have found one on a lower floor. Their third-floor apartment had too many steps to climb at the end of the day. He pushed his hat brim back and pushed onward. The aroma of something warm and chocolaty floated in the air. His stomach grumbled as he hoped it was brownies. If Josie had baked his favorite dessert, then she’d had a good day.

A door groaned as it opened. Sounded like his door. A tired grin tugged his face when Josie poked her head into the hallway. She wore a bright red dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. A fire to be close to her propelled him up the last steps.

“You are a sight for sore eyes.”

A smug grin split her face at his words. “Glad to hear it. A man should want to come home to his wife at the end of the day.” The words purred as they tickled his ear. Josie snuggled close, her head sliding perfectly under his chin, the puzzle piece that fit him.

He savored the moment. No matter what questions had pelted his mind, she was part of him.

A door squeaked below, and Josie pushed back. “Let’s go inside. I don’t want to give the Duncans a show.”

“We are married, Josie.”

She grimaced. “Still.”

“All right.” He let her pull him inside and shut the door. Tossing his briefcase to the side, he tucked her close again and inhaled the soft scent of something floral in her hair. Lavender? Maybe violets? Whatever it was, he’d have to keep her well stocked. “Did you bake me brownies?”

“Maybe. But first you have a telegram.” She waved at an envelope sitting on the dining room table.

“Did you read it?”

“No, silly. It’s addressed to you.”

He chuckled. “We’re married. You can read my mail.”

“Remember that when you accuse me of invading your privacy.” She crossed her arms and stared at the envelope.

“No worries about that.” He picked up the envelope and slit it. Pulling out the sheet, he read the block letters once and then again:

8 Year Old Coming STOP Evacuating With Group From London STOP Should Arrive Early July STOP More Details Coming STOP Winifred Wilson

Josie read the words over Art’s shoulder. Did the telegram really say someone planned to send a child? To them? An eight-year-old? In July? The calendar pages had already fluttered to May. Josie gulped as she looked at the words again. This child would arrive in two months. She worried her lower lip between her teeth as she considered how to fit a stranger’s child into their apartment. It was comfortably cozy for two. Still, the spare room would have to transform into a bedroom.

Why would anyone send a child to them? Especially this Winifred Wilson, whoever she was?

A furrow had formed along the bridge of Art’s nose as he read. He mouthed the words.

“What does it mean?” Josie took a deep breath and tried to push the shrillness from her voice. “Do you know Winifred?”

Art shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “I’m not sure. The name’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. Guess I’ll call Mom and get the scoop. She’s probably a distant cousin looking for a safe place for her child to live during the war.”

Josie rubbed her forehead, where a tight band gripped her. Germany had just invaded France and Belgium, so she could understand the desire to get a child away from the seemingly inevitable invasion of England. What would she do with an eight-year-old? There was no indication if the child was a boy or girl. The thought of a boy running all over the cramped space caused her to catch her breath.

“Do you realize this says the child will arrive by early July? This is May.”

A frown creased Art’s face as he watched her. “Maybe I should call Mom now.”

That sounded like the best thing to do. Maybe she’d have more information. Josie wanted to be available, but the telegram didn’t provide enough information.

Art headed downstairs to use the phone in the grocery store, and Josie trailed him. Mr. Duncan waved them over, and soon Art had dialed his parents’ home. Josie crowded next to Art and picked at a fingernail while she waited for the conversation to start.

“Mom? Josie and I got a telegram today from Winifred Wilson. Do you know her?” Art nodded and hmmed a bit. “Really? A distant cousin. Do you know how she knew to get ahold of me? . . . Okay. . . She wants us to take their daughter in. From England.” Art’s brows bunched together as he listened. “Grandfather said that? All right. Have fun at your dinner.”

Art hung up and looked at Josie. “Winifred is my third cousin.” He shrugged. “Grandfather told her how to get ahold of us. Told her we were the young, vibrant couple that could keep up with her little girl. He’s paying her way here.”

“Really?” The man was a mystery to Josie.

“Well, I guess we wire back that we’ll take the girl.”

Josie drew in a deep breath and released it. She glanced around the small store. “I don’t know where we’ll put a child. . .or what we’d do with one. . .but we’ll make it work. It won’t be easy, though.”

“Probably not, but it’s the right thing to do.”

Josie rubbed a hand across the ache hitting her head. Art was right, and ready or not, they’d soon be foster parents to an eight-year-old. Josie could only imagine the problems and challenges of a child removed from all he or she knew and loved.