15

Donald wasn’t sure why he’d accepted Nell’s invitation for Sunday dinner with the Ballard family. He couldn’t think of anything more distasteful than sitting across the table from the man who’d almost ruined Sam Vickary’s life.

Even worse—if anything could be worse—was enduring Evelyn Ballard’s condescension, no matter how hard she tried to disguise it as polite conversation.

He had to admire both Mary and her mother, though. No putting on airs for them. Nell continued to amaze and enthrall him with her outspoken Irish wit. All the qualities in Mary that had first attracted him, making him wish he were twenty years younger, he’d found even more appealing in Nell. Finding himself in love at his age? Sometimes he still felt the need to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“More pie, Donald?” The woman who held his heart reached for his empty dessert plate. Her eyes sparkled invitingly.

“I shouldn’t, but . . .” He patted his belt buckle and sighed. “Maybe just a sliver?”

Nell rose and started around the table. “Anyone else? Evelyn? Gilbert? How about you, Thomas?”

Gilbert’s brother pushed back his chair. “I’d love some, Mrs. McClarney. Let me help.”

The Ballard family boasted one gentleman, at least. Donald decided to tag along. Slicing pie and refilling coffee cups had to be less stressful than avoiding eye contact with Gilbert.

While Nell dished up more pie at the kitchen counter, Donald served the coffee. After Mrs. Ballard refused, he topped off Mary’s cup, then paused at Gilbert’s place.

Gilbert looked up with a start. His mouth twitched with a nervous smile. “Uh, no, thanks.”

Interesting. Maybe Donald had been too busy trying not to converse with Gilbert to notice the man wasn’t talking much at all. He refilled his own cup before returning the pot to the stove. While Thomas carried pie plates to the table, Donald edged up beside Nell. “Dinner went better than I expected,” he said under his breath.

“I must agree.” She winked at him as she laid a clean white napkin over the leftover pie. Then, slanting a look toward the table, she whispered, “Can’t help worrying about my girl, though. She and Gilbert both seem preoccupied about something.”

“Any idea what?”

Nell drew her lower lip between her teeth. “It’s just they seem so serious, like maybe it’s time for a heart-to-heart.”

She started for the table, but Donald caught her arm. His pulse throbbed beneath his collar. “Nell . . . I was hoping later . . .”

She looked up at him expectantly. “Yes, Donald?”

He swallowed. “Do you think later we might have our own heart-to-heart?”

Mary couldn’t have been more relieved for dinner to end. Though everyone had remained civil, the atmosphere at the table had crackled with tension. She could sense it in Mrs. Ballard’s stiff politeness, in Thomas’s attempts to lighten the mood, and most of all in Gilbert’s silence.

She’d known the moment he arrived something had changed, but with his mother hovering, he said little more than he’d spent the morning with Chaplain Vickary. Mary could only pray the visit had gone well.

Now, seated with Gilbert in the shade of an elm tree, Mary nudged the backyard glider into motion. “I love a quiet Sunday afternoon.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Gilbert tilted his head to gaze up into the branches, and Mary grew fascinated by the way the breeze toyed with his ebony curls.

She shifted slightly, her hand creeping into his. “Won’t you tell me about your talk with Chaplain Vickary?”

“Not much to tell. I asked forgiveness, he gave it.” He looked away briefly, his jaw firm. Then he squeezed her hand and smiled. “I don’t mean to be curt. I need some time to sort out my thoughts.”

“Then . . . things are better between you?”

“I hope so.” He pushed up from the glider and locked his artificial knee. One hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on his cane, he struck a casual pose as he swiveled to face Mary. Mischief lit his eyes. “A more interesting topic, if you ask me, is what’s going on between your mother and Dr. Russ.”

The statement made Mary suck in her breath. Concerning this subject, Mary desperately needed to sort out her own thoughts. The more she saw Mum and Dr. Russ together, the more she realized how close they’d grown. After the dinner dishes were done, the two of them had excused themselves for a Sunday drive, and the look in Dr. Russ’s eyes suggested he had more on his mind than seeing the sights.

Arms locked at her waist, Mary kicked the glider into high gear, the chains groaning and creaking with every push. She looked up to see Gilbert laughing at her. “ ’Tisn’t funny. See how you’d feel if it was your mother with a new man in her life.”

Her remark only made him laugh harder. “Maybe a man in her life is exactly what my mother needs! Then she wouldn’t have so much time to interfere in her sons’ lives.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Heaven knows I could do with a little less of your mother’s interference.”

“So who could we introduce her to? Any other unattached doctors at the hospital?” He wiggled his brows. “Or maybe the orderly who’s been giving you trouble. Bet they’d get along famously.”

It was Mary’s turn to laugh. “I can see the two of them now, your mum in furs and jewels, Ernest in his stained scrubs and puffing away on his cheap, smelly cigarettes.”

“You’re right. Forget the orderly. Let’s focus on finding her a rich doctor.” Gilbert shook his head and sighed as he returned to the glider. “Probably a waste of time, though. My mother’s too self-absorbed. No single man in his right mind would dare risk such a liaison.”

Seeing Gilbert in such a teasing mood, even at his mother’s expense, cheered Mary like nothing else. And to know he’d begun to make peace with the chaplain—all the better! It gave her hope they’d get past the dark times and someday find the happiness together she’d prayed for.

They chatted awhile longer in the shade of the elm tree, Mary hanging on every word as Gilbert described the progress on the farm. Then his whole face brightened as he told her about the horse he’d found virtually abandoned at the racetrack and described his dream of buying a couple of quality broodmares. “With Mac’s lineage, he could sire a whole herd of championship thoroughbreds.”

Mary pulled away slightly, her stomach tensing. An unwelcome memory surfaced—flashing hooves and a little girl’s terrified scream. Clenching her fists, she forced the images from her mind and tried to breathe.

“Prohibition can’t last forever,” Gilbert was saying, clearly oblivious to her distress. “Red-blooded Americans simply won’t stand for it. Oaklawn will open again someday, just wait and see.”

His words gave Mary something solid to latch onto. She twisted to face him. “All this talk of breeding horses—you mean to race them? So people can bet on them?”

“That’s what people do with thoroughbreds. They’re born to run.” Gilbert’s lips flattened. “Are you implying you don’t approve of my plans?”

“I—I simply can’t believe you’d intentionally involve yourself in an undertaking to promote such vice!” Mary wrung her hands, a troubling malaise curdling her stomach. “Have you learned nothing from the past few months?”

Gilbert glanced away, his forehead furrowed. “Of course I have, Mary. How can you ask such a thing?”

“Because apparently you’ve forgotten how you squandered insane amounts of money at the racetrack last spring. How you gambled not only on horses but cards and anything else you could bet on to pay for your morphine addiction.”

“You bring it up now?” Gilbert stumbled to his feet and strode across the lawn. “Obviously I’ll never be good enough to meet your holier-than-thou expectations. Why do I even try?”

“Gilbert, wait!” She rushed after him, barely snagging his shirtsleeve. “I only meant to remind you—”

“That I’m a hopeless failure?” He shook her off, pain and disappointment darkening his gaze. “The bottom line is you don’t trust me. I have no right to blame you, but it still hurts.” Giving a shudder, he turned away and marched through the side gate.

“Gilbert—” Her voice broke on a muffled sob. She followed him as far as the front lawn and watched with one hand over her mouth as he climbed into his roadster and drove away.

What have I done? Dear Lord, what have I done?

A brisk southerly breeze clawed at Nell’s hair, until she finally gave up the battle, tugged the pins from her chignon, and let the wind have its way with her curls. Today she didn’t feel forty-two. No, in fact, she felt sixteen again, the same age when she’d fallen wildly in love with the devilishly handsome Charles McClarney.

She’d loved Charles, yes, and dearly, faithfully. But something told her the man who now claimed her heart would never disappoint her the way Charles had. Would never risk hurting her—or her daughter—by seeking respite in intemperate pursuits.

If only she could trust Gilbert Ballard had the same regard for Mary. A sensitive soul, to be sure, but so troubled. And Mary, bleeding heart that she was, could never turn away from someone in pain, no matter how deeply she herself might be hurt.

Donald, sitting beside Nell on the grassy slope halfway up West Mountain, caught up a handful of her tresses and drew them against his cheek. “I love your hair loose like this. And the color—shiny as a copper penny.”

Nell tossed aside her troubled thoughts. “With a bit of silver thrown in for good measure,” she said with a laugh.

“Which only makes you all the more beautiful.” He scooted closer, his arm reaching around her waist, and released a long, noisy sigh. “I wish I could make this afternoon last forever.”

“Why?” she murmured, leaning into him.

“Just . . . because.” He rested his head on hers for a moment, then pressed a kiss to her temple.

Mercy, but it felt nice to have a man beside her again, a good man like Donald Russ who made her feel more womanly than she had in years. She nestled deeper beneath his embrace.

He sighed again. “I lied.”

“What?” Nell sat straighter, searching his face for some deceit, but saw only a teasing smirk.

“I lied, because I know exactly why I wish today would never end.” Shifting his weight, Donald cupped her cheek. He tilted his head, angling his lips over hers. The kiss both shocked and thrilled her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, drinking in the warmth.

Finally, he drew away, his blue-gray eyes smoldering. “Nell, am I crazy? Is there a ghost of a chance you could ever love a crusty old army doctor like me?”

“Oh, Donald, Donald . . .” Gentle laughter burbled in her throat. “I already do love you, you crazy old fool.”

He gazed at her for a moment as if he didn’t quite believe her. Then his mouth spread into a smile as wide as the verdant valley below them, and he kissed her again, this time with quick urgency. “I realize we haven’t known each other long, but if the war taught me anything, it’s that time is precious. I’m not getting any younger, and I don’t want another second to pass without you in my life.”

Her heart stammered. “Wh-what are you saying, Donald?”

“Marry me, Nell.” Easing onto one knee in front of her, he clasped both her hands in his. “Say you’ll be my wife, and we can spend the rest of our lives learning everything there is to know about each other.”

“Oh, my. Oh, my!” Nell gulped air. “You are a crazy old fool, Donald Russ. And I suppose it makes two of us, because, yes, I’ll marry you!”

At the farm Monday morning, Gilbert stood with Mrs. Frederick in the newly repainted entry hall, where sunlight beamed through the transom and tinged the eggshell-white walls with gold. He cocked a hip and let his gaze travel the long, narrow space. “Well? What do you think?”

With an appreciative sigh, Mrs. Frederick pressed a hand to her chest. “I cannot believe you have accomplished so much in only a week’s time!”

Gilbert smiled to himself, grateful his wealth made it possible to employ so many out-of-work soldiers to speed progress along. “There’s still much more to do, but once the work is finished, we’ll have electricity in every room and a state-of-the-art kitchen, plus hot and cold running water upstairs and down.”

Mrs. Frederick looked at him askance. “Running water upstairs? But how?”

“The front bedroom was so large I’ve decided to section off one end and turn it into a bathroom. The pipes have already been installed, and we’ll be shoring up the floor to handle the extra weight of a bathtub.” Gilbert motioned her down the rear hallway. “I’ll take the rooms upstairs. You’ll have this section of the downstairs for your private living quarters, complete with your own bath.”

They stepped into a small room, with the furnishings pushed out from the walls and covered with drop cloths. Two of the walls now gleamed with a fresh coat of pale green paint. Mrs. Frederick gave a delighted sigh. “My favorite color—how did you know?”

“I took a cue from the pretty green throw pillows I found on your sofa. Someone did nice embroidery work on those.”

Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes. “I made them many years ago, before John and I were wed.”

“Then we’ll move the sofa in here, and this can be your sitting room.” Gilbert showed her into an adjoining room, where two corner windows let in light and fresh air. “I thought this could be your bedroom. Would you like the same shade of green? Or maybe a cheery yellow?”

She touched a handkerchief to the corner of each eye. “Yellow would be lovely. I will awaken to sunshine every morning and be reminded of your kindness.”

Jaw clenched, Gilbert glanced away. Mary certainly didn’t think him so kind after the way he’d walked out on her yesterday.

Again.

This was becoming a painfully bad habit, and he needed to get control of himself before he lost her for good—if he hadn’t already. On the other hand, if she couldn’t forget the man he used to be and have faith he’d changed, what chance did they have?

After showing Mrs. Frederick the rest of the work underway at the farm and introducing her to Obadiah, Gilbert conferred with the contractor and then drove Mrs. Frederick back to town. A headache had begun behind his eyes, leaving him in no mood to subject himself to the racket of hammers and saws. Taking the baths at the Fordyce seemed like the ideal way to pass the afternoon.

If nothing else, maybe he could sweat out the deep-rooted irascibility that always managed to spoil things with Mary.

A challenging workout in the Fordyce’s third-floor gymnasium soon had him drenched in perspiration. Not always easy modifying exercise routines for an amputee, but he prided himself his mangled left arm grew continually stronger. From the gym, he went to the men’s bath hall and luxuriated in a long, hot soak in the mineral waters Hot Springs had grown famous for. A needle shower, followed by a nap in the cooling room, then a deep-tissue massage, and Gilbert felt almost human again.

Returning to the third floor, he found an empty chair in the gentlemen’s parlor and settled in with a cool drink. Cigar and pipe smoke formed a hazy cloud above his head, the aroma pleasantly soothing. Through half-lidded eyes, he gazed through the wide doorway toward the lavishly furnished assembly room, which ran across the entire front of the building. Panels of art glass decorated the ceiling, and tall, arched windows along the front gave the room an airy, open feel. At the south end of the long room, someone plied the keys of a grand piano, while a delicate female voice lifted in song.

Mellow from the baths and lulled by the sweet music, Gilbert drifted in and out of awareness until someone called his name, and he startled awake.

Arthur Spence, Gilbert’s former schoolmate, nudged a cushioned wicker chair over and plopped down. “I was hoping we’d run into each other again. A little hot for the baths today, but relaxing nonetheless.”

“Yes, very.” Gilbert hauled himself higher in the chair and tried to shake off his lethargy. He took another sip of ice water. “How’ve you been, Art? Enjoying your time at home?”

“Actually, I’m bored silly.” Arthur glanced over his shoulder before leaning closer to Gilbert. He lowered his voice. “Rumor has it you know where to find a good poker game and maybe a little bathtub gin.”

Stiffening, Gilbert rubbed his jaw. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh, around.” Arthur lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “So clue me in, pal. You always were the best at knowing where to find a good time.”

“You must be thinking of someone else.” The songstress now crooned the familiar tune “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” and Gilbert had no doubt Mary’s eyes would surely not be smiling if she were privy to this conversation.

Arthur stretched out one leg and smiled toward the assembly room. “Okay, okay. I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble. I just thought, for old time’s sake, you might be up for a little fun.”

They sat without speaking for a few minutes, while Gilbert wrestled with his conscience over temptations he’d hoped he’d overcome. The plain fact was he’d never be good enough for Mary and not because her expectations were too high. She was light where he was darkness. She lived in perpetual hope, while he’d become an incorrigible cynic.

Where did I go wrong, God? What’s happened to me?

He knew very well what had happened to him: the war. Thanks to the cursed Great War, he’d lost his leg, lost Annemarie, lost his self-respect.

With an inward groan he sat forward, gripping the hilt of his cane. Making a show of checking his watch, he stood. “Didn’t realize I’d been sitting here so long. Sorry to rush off, Art, but I’m late for an appointment.”

If he hurried, he might make it to the hospital in time to escort Mary home from work.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d find it in her heart to forgive him one more time.