Free When the Clouds Roll By by Myra Johnson Page B

“Everyone’s in the parlor by the fireplace. Mrs. B’s doing some sewing, and Thomas and that nice chaplain just started a game of cribbage. You go on in, and I’ll fetch you a cup of hot cocoa to warm you up.”
    While Marguerite trotted off to the kitchen, Annemarie marched down the hall to the parlor. She gave a polite rap on the partially open door and peeked inside. “Mrs. Ballard?”
    “Annemarie!” The plump woman tossed her handwork to the other end of the settee. “Come in, dear. I’ve just been sewing some buttons on pajamas for the Red Cross effort.”
    Both Thomas and Chaplain Vickary rose from their seats. The chaplain looked much different in civilian clothes, more relaxed and comfortable. Annemarie recognized the pale gray argyle sweater as one of Gilbert’s, and it brought a pang of nostalgia to her throat.
    She drew a quick breath and stepped into the room. “Please don’t let me interrupt your game, gentlemen.”
    “Yes, boys, do continue.” Mrs. Ballard patted the seat next to her. “Come and sit, my dear, and let’s have a nice long chat.”
    Annemarie lowered herself onto the settee and picked up the pajama top Mrs. Ballard had been working on. The soft, blue-striped flannel smelled faintly of talcum powder. Nerves on edge, Annemarie decided busy hands might ease the tension. “Do you have another needle handy? I could help with these.”
    “That would be lovely.” Rummaging through the cherry-wood sewing kit at her feet, Mrs. Ballard found a needle, thread, and packet of buttons. She handed Annemarie another set of pajamas from a stack on a nearby chair. Taking up her own work again, Mrs. Ballard released a noisy sigh. “I can guess why you’re here. You must have heard about Gilbert’s little setback.”
    From what Annemarie could gather, it wasn’t a little setback by any means. She snipped off a length of thread and worked it through the eye of the needle. “I tried to visit him earlier today, but he still wouldn’t see me.”
    “Small consolation, I’m sure, but he has refused my visits as well.” Mrs. Ballard nodded toward the chaplain. “If not for Samuel being such a good friend of Gilbert’s, we’d know little more than what we can wheedle from those closed-mouth doctors and nurses.”
    Annemarie sensed more than saw the chaplain’s sudden tensing. She glanced his way, and he offered a concerned half-smile.
    Thomas tapped his cards on the edge of the table. “Your play, Sam.”
    “Right. Let’s see. Here are fifteen for two, fifteen for four . . .” He ran his thumb along the side of a card and stared at his hand.
    “You missed a run. That’s three more points.”
    “So it is.” Samuel moved his peg along the game board.
    Annemarie stabbed the needle through the fabric and straight into her finger. She let out a startled gasp and inspected the injury. A single drop of blood appeared on her fingertip.
    “Oh, dear, a war wound.” Mrs. Ballard gave a humorless chuckle. “And in peace time, no less. Marguerite!”
    Marguerite entered just then with a tray of hot drinks. Seeing Annemarie’s bleeding finger, she placed the tray on the table in front of the settee and reached into her apron pocket. “Now where did I put my hanky?”
    “Allow me.” Samuel stood at Annemarie’s side and tenderly wrapped her finger in his own pristine white handkerchief. “Better?”
    Annemarie lifted her gaze to Samuel’s and then quickly dropped it again, before those penetrating gray eyes read more into her expression than the gratitude she intended. “Obviously my domestic skills leave much to be desired.”
    “Which you more than make up for with your ceramic artistry.”
    Her cheeks flamed. “You’re kind to say so, but there are times when practicality must take precedence over art.”
    Samuel slid his hands into his pants pockets. “If that’s in a rule book somewhere, I’ve yet to come across it.”
    Mrs. Ballard waved her hand toward the cribbage table.