6

Donald nudged his chair away from the table and patted his full belly. “Please, Mrs. Kendall, your pie is delicious beyond words, but I can’t force down one more bite.”

When Samuel’s new in-laws had invited Donald to dinner after church, he’d hesitated at first. He hadn’t had many opportunities to get acquainted with Annemarie’s parents, and he suspected this might only be a “sympathy invitation” for a lonely bachelor with no family in town.

Then he’d spotted Pastor Yarborough headed his way with the austere but brilliant Patrice in tow, and he decided he’d take sympathy over matchmaking.

“In which case, I’ll just have to send some pie home with you.” Mrs. Kendall turned toward the kitchen with the pie dish. “I’ll bring more coffee shortly, gentlemen.”

Rising, Joseph Kendall crumpled his napkin beside his berry-smeared pie plate. “Why don’t we have our coffee in the parlor, where the chairs are more comfortable?”

“I should go, really.” Donald followed the burly man out of the dining room. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your Sunday afternoon than entertain a boring old army doctor.”

“Nonsense. Ever since Samuel first introduced us, Ida and I have been looking forward to getting to know you better.” Steering Donald across the foyer, Mr. Kendall ushered him to a plush sofa and then folded himself into an easy chair. “Ah, much better,” he said, extending his legs across an ottoman.

Mrs. Kendall appeared in the doorway, coffeepot in one hand and the other propped against her hip. “Should have known I’d find you two sprawled out like a couple of idlers.”

Her husband wagged a finger but didn’t lift his head from the chair cushion. “It is the Sabbath, after all, my dear.”

“What was I thinking? I should never have cooked dinner but simply let us all go hungry.” She plopped the coffeepot onto a side table before flouncing off to the dining room. Moments later the clatter of cups and saucers echoed through the house.

If not for the twinkle he’d seen in her eye, Donald would have tried once again to politely take his leave and avoid a major marital showdown. Instead, he cast Mr. Kendall a wry grin. “It might be a good idea for us to give your wife a hand. Otherwise, we might find ourselves wearing our coffee.”

“Perceptive young man, aren’t you?” With a grumble, Mr. Kendall heaved himself out of the chair. “My poor dear Ida, do let us help you. We are absolute cads for not fetching our own cups.”

When at last they’d all settled in the parlor and were sipping Mrs. Kendall’s perfectly brewed coffee, Donald asked if they’d heard from the newlyweds.

“Not a word,” Mrs. Kendall replied with a titter, “which doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’m sure they’re having a wonderful trip.”

Donald set his cup on the lamp table at the end of the sofa. “I was walking downtown the other day and noticed Annemarie’s shop is open. I take it she found someone to clerk for her while she’s away?”

“Her good friend Dorothy Webb is helping out.”

“Oh, yes, Annemarie’s maid of honor.” An attractive, if overly flirtatious young lady, and outspoken as well. Donald had no doubt she’d be a persuasive saleswoman.

Mrs. Kendall hiked a brow as she peered at Donald over the rim of her cup. “You should get to know Dorothy better. Perhaps next Sunday we can have you both over for dinner.”

Great, more matchmaking. Everyone in town seemed intent on putting an end to his bachelorhood. “Very kind of you, but my rotation has me on duty at the hospital next weekend.” Or at least he’d make certain such was the case. He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of the hospital, I really must be going. There’s a patient I’ve been concerned about.”

He failed to mention the patient was neither at the hospital nor serving in the military. But Nell McClarney had been on his mind since he’d accompanied Mary home the day her mother had taken ill. Yesterday, Mary had told him her mother was much improved, and thanked him again for the medication he’d prescribed. He had no real reason to return—Mrs. McClarney wasn’t actually his patient, after all. Even so, he felt the need to see her again, just to set his mind at ease.

Yes, that was all. To set his mind at ease.

“Hello, Mrs. Lawson, it’s Mary.” One hand on the telephone earpiece, she used the other to dab a droplet of perspiration from her forehead. Even with all the windows wide open and electric fans circulating the air, the ward felt as toasty as a kitchen on Thanksgiving day.

Mrs. Lawson greeted her with a cheery hello. “Are you calling from the hospital, dear?”

“Yes, and we’re shorthanded today, so I’ve been asked to work a second shift.” Mary perused a patient’s chart as she spoke. “Would you let Mum know, please? And remind her there’s leftover pot roast in the icebox. All she has to do is heat it up.”

A soft chuckle hummed through the telephone line. “I doubt pot roast is on the menu tonight.”

“What?”

“Honey, your mother’s had a gentleman caller all afternoon. Before they left in his fancy roadster awhile ago, she asked me to—”

“A gentleman caller?” Mary’s pitch rose several notches. She ignored an orderly’s wide-eyed glance as he fetched a stack of linens from a shelf beneath the counter. “They left in his roadster?”

“I was supposed to give you the message after you got home from work. They’ve gone out for a Sunday drive and then dinner.”

“My sainted mother is out with a man.” Swiveling, Mary collapsed against the counter. “I don’t suppose you know the gentleman’s name?”

“Well, of course. It’s the tall, good-looking fellow you brought over from the hospital the other day. Dr. Russ.” Mrs. Lawson tee-heed. “Oh, Mary, I’ve never seen your mother looking so radiant. Like a starry-eyed schoolgirl, she was!”

“Was she, now?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Mary. Your mother’s still young and pretty, and she’s been a widow long enough now to respectably take herself off the shelf.”

“I suppose.” Swallowing with difficulty, Mary explained she needed to return to her duties and ended the call.

Then, breathing hard, she pressed a hand to her mouth. In all the years since Da’s death, Mum had never once voiced a desire to meet someone new. She was Mrs. Charles McClarney and always would be, at least in Mary’s mind.

But to be fair, Mrs. Lawson was right. Mum had only turned forty-two last month. She boasted far more auburn in her hair than gray, and she bore scarcely a line or wrinkle upon her clear, ivory complexion. Only the ravages of bronchitis and a touch of arthritis in her hands made Mum seem older at times. Certainly not her looks nor her spunk.

And Dr. Russ? Mary hadn’t thought about it before, but he must be close in age to Mum. He’d certainly seemed quite attentive the day he’d come to the house, and how many times since then had he pulled Mary aside at the hospital to inquire about her mother’s health? Mary had thought it merely professional concern, but . . . could there be more to his interest?

For the rest of the afternoon, Mary pondered these thoughts while striving to make sure her preoccupation didn’t interfere with the task at hand. She realized she’d failed miserably when a patient informed her she’d delivered him to the chiropody department, not his scheduled hydrotherapy session.

“Saints have mercy, I’m so sorry, Petty Officer Joelson.” She bustled him back into the elevator and pressed the down button.

The wizened sailor reached up to pat her hand. “Not to worry, Nurse McClarney. I’m enjoying the ride.”

“That may be, but if Mrs. Daley gets wind of how my head’s been in the clouds today, she’s likely to change her mind about my promotion.”

“I heard you’re moving up to the third floor at the end of the month. We’ll sure miss your cheery face on the ward.”

“Not to worry. I’ll pop in to say hello as often as I can.” They arrived at the lower level, and Mary aimed the wheelchair out of the building and along a covered gallery toward the hospital’s expansive bathhouse. Handing her patient off to one of the attendants, Mary shot the petty officer a teasing grin. “Now, just you be behavin’ yourself, or you’ll find no dessert on your supper tray when you return.”

Petty Officer Joelson responded with a crisp salute and a crooked smile. Mary waved as she turned to leave, but the moment she was alone in the walkway between buildings, fatigue washed over her. The new position as third-floor charge nurse sounded better all the time. Regular hours and higher pay—not to mention she’d have both more energy and more time to spend with Gilbert.

Oh, no—Gilbert! Mary checked the time on her watch pin, glad she’d taken it to a jeweler last week to have the clasp repaired. Half past six already, and Gilbert had expected her to finish work at four. He’d promised to have a picnic supper waiting for her at the bandstand just outside the hospital’s upper gates on Carriage Road. The elegant marble structure and cascading stairways leading down to the Fordyce and Maurice bathhouses gave one the sense of treading the streets of ancient Rome.

How could she have neglected to telephone Gilbert with word she’d be working a double shift! True, she’d thought about calling . . . once or twice . . . only to talk herself into putting it off awhile longer. She hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of Mrs. Ballard answering the call. If anyone could intimidate Mary more than Mrs. Daley, it was Gilbert’s mother.

And then, of course, her remaining good intentions had been subverted by Mrs. Lawson’s news. Mum and Dr. Russ—oh, my!

Well, like it or not, she must telephone the Ballard house at once. If Gilbert hadn’t returned home yet, perhaps the kind servant Marguerite would answer. Please, Lord, Mrs. Ballard thinks little enough of me as it is. Don’t force me to make my apologies to her.

“You owe me an apology.”

Gilbert’s brusque tone spun Mary around. She thrust a hand to her chest and peered up into hooded hazel eyes. “Gilbert! I’m sorry, truly I am.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” He strode toward her, his shirt collar open and a stray lock of raven hair curling against his damp forehead. A small hamper swung from his left hand.

“I meant to let you know I’d be working late, but I got distracted and—” Just then the aromas of smoked ham and fresh-baked bread reached her nostrils. Her stomach growled loud enough to be heard on the other side of the mountain.

“Aw, Mary.” Gilbert’s resentful glare softened into compassion. He set down the hamper and laid his cane across it, then extended his hands to her. “You’ve been working all this time? You must be starved.”

His sweet show of concern surprised her—and proved Mrs. Lawson wrong. Gilbert did care about others. He cared about Mary. She edged forward and took his hands. “Then you’re not angry?”

He tucked in his chin, eyes closed for a moment as he squeezed her fingertips. When he glanced at her again, his brows slanted downward in chagrin. “You always think the worst of me, don’t you? What will it take for me to win your trust?”

Looking away, Mary wondered as much herself. She knew in her heart Gilbert had changed. He was no longer the wounded soldier lashing out at everyone around him, depressed and angry and devoid of all hope of living a full life again. Nor was he the same vindictive man who’d intentionally set out to destroy his best friend. Gilbert’s remorse was real; of that, Mary had no doubt.

But trust took time, and the love between them remained untested. And what of Annemarie Kendall Vickary? How long before Mary could be certain Gilbert had truly and fully put aside his feelings for his former fiancée? How long before Mary could trust he loved her and her alone?

She chewed her lip. “They’ll be wondering what happened to me back on the ward. I should go.”

“But you still haven’t eaten.” Releasing her hands, he gathered up the hamper and his cane. “I’ll walk back with you. We’ll have our picnic in the hospital corridor if we must. I’ll toss bites of your sandwich to you as you flit between patients.”

A thrill swelled beneath Mary’s breastbone, a pleasant warmth completely unrelated to the heat of the summer evening. “Now, that wouldn’t make a very pretty picture. I’d feel more like a trained seal at the circus than the girl who—” Her throat closed over the words she couldn’t speak aloud: the girl who loves you to distraction.

Gilbert held her with his gaze, his eyes smoldering with unspoken affection. With the crook of his cane hooked over his wrist, he raised his hand to her temple and brushed aside a stray curl. “If you weren’t on duty, I’d tear this silly cap from your head, lose myself in the scent of your hair, and kiss those luscious lips of yours until your knees went weak.”

“My knees are weak just standin’ here with you looking at me that way.” Mouth dry as dust, still tingling from his touch, Mary sucked in a shivery breath. “And all the more reason you must let me return to work—alone.”

“But what about our picnic? Can’t we—”

“No, we can’t.” Pleading with her eyes, Mary edged backward. “Things’ll be different after my promotion. We’ll have more time together, I promise.”

“But it’s still over a week away.” Petulance had returned to Gilbert’s tone. He planted the tip of his cane on the walkway then thrust the picnic hamper into her hands. “At least take this. You have to eat sometime.”

“Gilbert—”

Ignoring her, he swung around and marched back the way he’d come, along the path toward Carriage Road and the bandstand.

What Mary wouldn’t give to leave the cares of work behind and follow him! He could be so charming one moment, so possessive and needy the next. His neediness had drawn her to him in the first place; his charm held her.

But what attracted Gilbert to Mary besides his need? From those first stolen kisses in hospital storage closets, he hadn’t concealed his physical desire for her—a desire she’d treasured but had never fulfilled, and wouldn’t until the day he made her an honest woman.

Or, more correctly, made an honest man of himself by admitting he loved Mary for who she was and not simply as a substitute for the woman he’d given up, and then proving it by pledging his troth to her before family, friends, and God.

With an ache in her heart, she glanced down at the red gingham napkin covering the picnic hamper. The starched creases where the napkin had been folded were crisp and straight, no doubt Marguerite’s handiwork. Sadly, more evidence of the great gulf separating Mary’s family from Gilbert’s. The Ballards had servants to iron Gilbert’s shirts and press perfect creases into table linens. Twice weekly, Mary toiled over an ironing board to press the wrinkles out of her freshly laundered nurse’s uniforms. The cloying smells of soap and starch would cling for hours afterward to the insides of her nostrils, while she often nursed burnt fingers and an aching back.

And just supposing Gilbert did marry her someday, Mary pondered as she strode back to the ward. Would she then have servants to clean and cook and wash and iron? Would she have to work at all, or would she spend her days in idle luxury?

A shudder raced along her limbs. She couldn’t think of anything less satisfying.