12

The telephone jangled twice, three times, and neither Mary nor her mother rose to answer.

Mary scooted up to the table and tried to look busy slathering butter across her pancakes. “You should get it, Mum. It’s probably Mrs. Lawson asking about your evening with Dr. Russ.”

“Nonsense. I’ve already had a lovely chat with Ginny this morning, long before you roused your lazy self from bed.” Mum drizzled syrup across her plate while the telephone rang twice more.

“Mum!” Mary shot her mother a desperate look. “You can’t just let it go on ringing!”

“Then you answer it, darlin’. It might be Gilbert, you know.”

Exactly what concerned Mary most. Drawing a bolstering breath, she pushed up from the table with both hands and glared at her mother then stormed out of the kitchen.

In the foyer she paused to smooth a lock of hair and tighten the sash of her robe before reaching for the earpiece. “H-hello?”

“Mary?” Gilbert’s resonant bass. “I almost gave up hope you’d answer.”

“We were just having breakfast and—”

“I’ve called at a bad time.” Disappointment brought an edge to his tone.

“It’s fine. Really.” Mary didn’t mind cold pancakes in the least. Not when the mere sound of Gilbert’s voice could warm her through and through. Oh, she was a terrible lost cause! “I should apologize—”

“I was wrong to—” Gilbert said at the same time.

Mary released a nervous laugh. “No, truly, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt with you at the hospital yesterday. The roses were . . . lovely.” The single red rose he’d left on her desk now stood in a bud vase on her nightstand, the sweet fragrance wafting in and out of her dreams all night.

“I’d still like to give you the roses, if you’ll let me. May I come over?”

Glimpsing her reflection in the oval mirror over the hall table, Mary shuddered. Her hair looked like a rat’s nest, and—oh, my—a coffee stain on her bodice? She cleared her throat. “You may, but not for at least an hour. I—I’ve a few things to do before you arrive.”

The instant they said goodbye, Mary dashed upstairs. The navy sailor dress she’d worn last night lay crumpled in the chair where she’d discarded it in a teary-eyed fit of pique. While tearing a brush through her hair, she stood in front of the wardrobe and studied her remaining options. The gray gingham? Too mousy. The brown velveteen? Too hot!

She finally settled on a coral print housedress. Certainly nothing she’d wear into town, but it was clean and pressed and the color flattered her complexion. Besides, she didn’t want to give Gilbert the impression she’d belabored her appearance too long just for him.

After securing her hair with two tortoise-shell combs above her ears, she returned downstairs, where she found her mother washing up the breakfast dishes. “Oh, Mum, I could have done that.”

Her mother smiled over her shoulder. “My, and don’t you look lovely for a Saturday morning! So your sweetheart’s coming by, is he?”

“He is.” Heat raced up Mary’s cheeks as she reached for a dishtowel. Then her stomach growled, reminding her she’d never finished breakfast.

Mum nodded toward the oven. “I kept your pancakes warm. Best eat up while you can.”

She forced down less than half the meal before her nerves told her to stop. As she stood at the bathroom sink scrubbing her teeth, she chided herself for being so jumpy. True love should feel more comfortable, shouldn’t it? Less anxious. Less awkward. Less uncertain.

When Gilbert rapped on her door twenty minutes later, Mary felt as if a hundred centipedes were doing the fox trot up and down her spine. He looked so dashingly handsome standing there on the porch, one wayward curl drifting across his forehead. He wore no coat on this hot July morning, and his shirt collar lay open to reveal the pulse throbbing at the base of his throat.

His Adam’s apple bobbed with an anxious swallow. He offered a hesitant smile. “Are you going to leave me baking in the sun, or may I come in?”

“Yes, yes, come in!” Mary held the door wide, making room for the massive bouquet of roses cradled in Gilbert’s left arm. The scent was even more pervasive than yesterday, and Mary suddenly longed to bury her face in the blossoms and breathe in their beauty until she fainted dead away.

Shaking off such folly, she murmured a thank-you as she took the roses and carried them to the kitchen.

Her mother, turning from the sink, let out a gasp. “Saints above, but those are lovely! Go on about your visit. I’ll put them in a vase for you.”

With nothing further to delay this encounter, Mary squared her shoulders and marched to the parlor. When Gilbert swiveled from the window, Mary motioned toward the settee and joined him there. Leaving several inches between them, she smoothed her skirt, unable to look at him. “I hope you had a pleasant Fourth.”

“It wasn’t what I’d planned.” He tapped his index fingers against his thighs in an agitated rhythm. “And your evening? Did you attend the concert?”

“I stayed home alone, actually. It was a very quiet evening, though I could hear the fireworks in the distance. I’m sure they were spectacular.”

“I’m sure.”

Silence cloaked the room. Finding it hard to breathe, Mary rose and switched on the electric fan. When she returned to her seat, Gilbert reached out and caught her hand. Her stomach clutched, and she resisted the compulsion to snatch her hand back.

He must have felt her apprehension. His grip tightened yet remained gentle. “I’m trying, Mary. Truly I am. Please don’t push me away. I n—”

“Don’t you dare say you need me, Gilbert Ballard.” Her throat closed, and she crushed his fingers with urgency. “I don’t want to be needed. I need to be loved.”

“I love you, Mary. I do.” The intensity behind Gilbert’s words made his chest ache. “I want us to be together, always.”

She peered up at him with eyes the color of a stormy sea. Eyes filled with questions. “You’re not just saying so because you know it’s what I want to hear?”

“I may be a lot of things, but one thing I’m not is a liar.” Spreading her palm, he centered it over his throbbing heart. “See what you do to me, Mary? When I’m with you, nothing else matters.”

When a tear slid down her cheek, he brushed it away with his thumb and then pulled her into his arms. His fingers caught in her curls as he angled his mouth over hers. She grew limp in his embrace, her eyelids falling shut, breath quickening.

His own breath set his lungs on fire. She smelled so fresh and clean, her skin like the petals of those roses. Her softly rounded curves nestled against him, and he groaned with barely controlled passion. He wanted her . . . needed her . . .

No! He would no longer dishonor Mary by reducing what he felt for her to the level of physical desire.

He gentled the kiss until it was no more than the touch of butterfly wings, a sensation so delightful in itself, Gilbert was loath to end it. Mary’s mouth followed his as they drifted apart, and she whispered out a reluctant sigh before sinking against the cushions.

Gilbert shifted, pressing his eyes shut, hands clasped between his knees. “I want to do this right, Mary. I don’t want to give you any more reasons to distrust my feelings for you.”

“I’ve always believed you loved me—or could, if you’d only let yourself forget . . .”

He looked up to see her gnawing her lower lip. Still her eyes held questions, doubts. And he knew the source.

“Annemarie is out of my life. Out of my heart. She won’t come between us again.” He slid to the edge of the settee and swiveled to face Mary. His gaze imploring, he clutched both her hands and drew them to his lips. “I’ll say it again, Mary: I love you. I love you, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making you believe it.”

She collapsed into his arms then, weeping wet, noisy tears into his shirt collar. She sobbed so loudly, Gilbert feared he’d said the wrong thing again. He stroked her back, kissed her hair. “Mary . . . Mary, please don’t cry. What’s wrong?”

Her only response was a strangled breath as she shook her head against his neck. Her arms tightened around him, and the harder she leaned into him, the more precarious his balance became. “Careful, Mary, or—”

Too late. They tumbled to the braided rug, both of them gasping in surprise.

Footsteps sounded in the foyer. Gilbert glanced up to see Mary’s mother staring at them, eyes wide with shock. He raised himself on one elbow while helping Mary to sit up. “It isn’t what you think, Mrs. McClarney.”

Mary brushed wetness from her face with the backs of her hands. “It’s true, Mum. We just . . . fell.”

“I’m hoping you just fell, because otherwise I’d be going for your da’s shotgun.” Mrs. McClarney stepped into the room and helped Mary to her feet, and none too gently. “Now, would you care to explain what all the commotion is about? I could hear you wailing like a banshee even with the kitchen door closed.”

Another sob burst from Mary’s throat, but all she managed was, “Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum!”

Mrs. McClarney wrapped Mary in a protective embrace, while her dagger-like glare homed in on Gilbert. “I warned you, young man. Hurt my daughter, and you’ll answer to me.”

“I didn’t, I assure you.” Fighting against his confounded prosthesis, Gilbert used the arm of the settee to lever himself to a standing position. By the time he found his cane, his stump throbbed from the contortions. He limped across the room, reaching out to touch Mary’s shoulder, but Mrs. McClarney spun her aside.

Impaled by her piercing glare, he decided he’d better keep his distance. “Please, if you’ll only let me explain.”

With a final sniffle, Mary slipped from her mother’s arms. “It’s all right, Mum. I’m—I’m crying from happiness.”

This is what a happy woman in love looked like? Red-eyed, blotchy-faced, quivering lips twisted into more of a grimace than a smile? Hair in a tangle, collar askew, nose dripping like a leaky faucet . . .

He’d never seen any woman look so beautiful.

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket. Taking a tentative step closer, he held it out to Mary.

She accepted it gratefully, her eyes shining. Blowing her nose, she uttered a nervous laugh. “I must look a fright! I’ll just go wash my face.”

When Mary had scurried from the room, Mrs. McClarney folded her arms and raised her chin. “So you’ve made my daughter happy, have you? I take it you’ve confessed your feelings for her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then I’ll repeat my warning yet again. Trifle with my Mary, besmirch her character in any way, or dare to break her fragile young heart, and you’ll be prayin’ for God’s deliverance from my wrath.”

Gilbert nodded respectfully, no doubt in his mind Nell McClarney meant every word.

“Thomas. Thomas!” Evelyn Ballard’s strident voice and the rat-a-tat of designer Italian pumps reverberated along the hotel corridor.

What now? Steeling himself, Thomas neatened a stack of paperwork while he waited for his mother’s inevitable explosion through his office door.

Seconds later, his mother flounced into the room, tossing a parasol onto one side chair and her handbag onto another. She sank with a flourish into the center chair across the desk from Thomas and released a noisy huff. “Why haven’t you returned my telephone calls?”

“In case you forgot, I have a job to do. I can’t always drop what I’m doing just because you want something.” He perused a business letter his secretary had just typed, although he scarcely saw the words. “What’s got your dander up today, Mother dear?”

“Don’t use that disrespectful tone with me, young man, or you’ll find yourself booted from my home and my good graces.”

Not exactly the worst thing to happen. Thomas wondered often why he didn’t simply pack up and move out. A grown man had to be insane to reside with his overbearing mother indefinitely. Especially if he had any hopes of finding the right girl and someday starting a family of his own.

Although he couldn’t complain about having servants at his beck and call, and no need to cook his own meals, iron his own shirts, make his own bed. Spoiled rotten is what he was. And not the least bit proud of it.

Laying the letter aside, he crossed his legs and leaned back. “I’m sorry, Mother. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Your brother, of course.”

Of course. “What’s Gil done now? Bought another farm? Rescued another widow in distress?”

Her stern glare warned him to watch his words. “It’s perfectly ridiculous, this attraction he has for that shabby Irish nurse. We must put a stop to it before Gilbert does irreparable damage to his reputation.”

Dipping his chin, Thomas rose slowly and came around to his mother’s side of the desk. He propped one hip on the corner and folded his arms. “Gilbert’s in love, Mother. If you try to keep him and Mary apart, you’ll only drive him away.”

“Love, pshaw!” She flicked her fingers dismissively. “He’s still on the rebound from Annemarie. He’ll come to his senses eventually—sooner than later, if I have anything to say about it.”

“That’s the problem. You don’t have a say in this.” At his mother’s haughty frown, Thomas marched around to her other side, giving her his back as his gaze fixed on the plaque for distinguished hotel service he’d earned last year. The staff had feted him with an after-hours reception, which his mother had found herself too busy to attend. Yet, the same evening she’d chosen to host a sewing bee to stitch together pajamas for the doughboys.

Thomas did not begrudge a thing to the soldiers who’d sacrificed life and limb to beat back the Germans and restore peace to the world. But somehow everything always came back to Gilbert. Mother’s firstborn. Mother’s favorite.

With a sigh, he turned to face her. When he glimpsed her troubled expression, genuine concern etching her face, sympathy bloomed. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “I know you’re worried about Gil, but he’s an adult now. An intelligent, ambitious man with a good head for business. I’m actually quite proud of him for how he’s taking charge of his life. You should be, too.”

“I am proud of him” She sniffed. “All the more reason I want him to fall in love with the right woman, someone deserving of the man he’s become.”

“I daresay Mary’s the woman. She’s good for Gilbert, brings out the best in him. She may not travel in your social circles, but she’s kind, caring, hardworking, and true.” Thomas kissed his mother’s cheek. “Give her a chance. You might actually end up liking her.”

“Humph. We’ll see.” Thomas’s mother stood and collected her things. Heaving a resigned breath, she paused at the door. “Very well, for Gilbert’s sake I shall patiently endure this dalliance while praying he will eventually see the light.”

Then, muttering something about “Annemarie” and “quality” and “wasn’t it a crying shame she’d wed the insipid chaplain,” Thomas’s mother marched out of the hotel.

He should move out, he really should. His mother was a hopeless snob. Too bad Thomas couldn’t come up with his own widow to snatch from the jaws of destitution. Not that he particularly wanted to live on a farm. No, city life suited him just fine. Neither did he have any complaints about working at the Arlington.

But oh, wouldn’t it be nice to be a hero in some woman’s eyes. To make a difference.

To fall in love.

Mary scanned the note one of the nurses had just delivered. Ten o’clock, my office, the summons read. Mrs. Daley’s looping signature graced the bottom of the page.

She’d known to expect regular reviews during the first few months in her new position, but apprehension curdled her stomach nonetheless. Had she performed her duties satisfactorily? Had she neglected anything important? In her own mind, she’d done a quite respectable job, relishing the challenge of supervising the nursing staff on her floor. True, she didn’t have as many opportunities for the hands-on patient care she enjoyed so much, but she found it immensely fulfilling to help the younger nurses grow in skills and confidence.

Younger nurses, indeed. Mary wasn’t exactly old, now,was she?

Truth be told, she’d been feeling younger than springtime and lighter than air since last Saturday. Tomorrow made one week since Gilbert had finally professed his love, and there were days she still pinched herself.

Everything could change tonight, though. Earlier in the week, Gilbert had telephoned to say his mother would like to host a small dinner party in Mary’s honor. “Let’s take this as a good sign,” he’d pleaded. “If Mother’s ready to introduce you to her friends, I’m hopeful it means she’s finally accepted we’re together.”

If anything could make Mary more nervous than a meeting with Mrs. Daley, this dinner party did the trick.

She checked the time on her watch pin. Half past nine already. She just had time to check her appearance in the ladies’ room before hurrying over to the administration building. She’d rather pace the corridor outside Mrs. Daley’s office for fifteen minutes than risk being late for the appointment.

After neatening her bun and straightening her cap, Mary made her way across the hospital grounds. Mrs. Daley’s door stood open, so she tapped lightly on the jamb to make her presence known.

The gray-haired woman looked up with a thin smile. “You’re early, Miss McClarney. But come in and we’ll get started.” She nodded toward the straight-backed metal chair across from her. “And close the door, please.”

Closed doors meant serious talk—or was she reading more into Mrs. Daley’s summons than necessary? Cold seeped through her skirts as she took her seat on the hard chair. She tucked her hands into her lap and waited.

Mrs. Daley reached for a file folder on the corner of her desk and spread it open before her. Shifting pages, she examined each one through wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose.

At last, she removed her glasses and laced her fingers atop the folder. “It appears you’re settling in quite nicely in your new position. Would you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m enjoying the work very much.”

“Getting along well with your staff?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You feel you have their respect?”

Mary hesitated. How did one gauge respect from those who reported to you? By the absence of apparent conflict? By how competently they performed their duties with minimal supervision? By whether or not they greeted you with a smile when you passed them in the corridor?

“Miss McClarney.” The head nurse tapped one finger on the desk. “Do you believe your staff is respectful of your authority?”

“Well, ma’am . . .” Mary pulled her lower lip between her teeth. If she reported the orderly she’d been having difficulty with, would Mrs. Daley judge her incapable of effectively managing the people under her?

“Clearly this question is causing you concern.” Replacing her glasses, Mrs. Daley lifted one of the pages from the folder. “I have here a memo from one of your orderlies, a Mr. Ernest Deeds. He claims you have been unfairly harsh in your treatment of him.”

The smokestack, who else? Mary stiffened. No choice now but to lay the problem before Mrs. Daley. “I’ve warned Mr. Deeds time and again about the danger of smoking around oxygen tanks, but he continually disregards my reminders.”

“I see.” Mrs. Daley closed her eyes briefly. “Well, he is new here, and a civilian. I suggest you give him additional time to acclimate himself to the rules. Perhaps if you were less caustic with your admonitions, he would be more receptive to correction.”

“I hardly consider it caustic when I must continually repeat myself about a simple rule everyone else on staff is well aware of.”

Mrs. Daley chuckled. “Now there’s the spunk I want to see in my charge nurses.” She leaned forward, her expression warming. “I know you have a spine, Mary, because since you came to work here, I’ve seen evidence of it all too often—and not always under the most auspicious circumstances,” she added with an arched brow. “So don’t let Mr. Deeds or me or anyone else shake your confidence. That’ll be all. You’d best get back to the floor.”

The head nurse’s words of encouragement stayed with Mary through the rest of the day, even when the incorrigible Mr. Deeds flicked cigarette ashes in her direction when she shooed him off the ward.

Then, once she’d returned from a short mid-afternoon break, she began counting the minutes until quitting time—and growing more uneasy with each tick of the clock. Mrs. Daley was wrong. The prospect of dinner with Evelyn Ballard shook Mary’s confidence like nothing else.