side of the bed and marched to the chair where she’d laid her robe.
“Come back to bed, Annie. I’ll sit with you till you fall asleep.”
“It’s no use.” Annemarie stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her robe and looped the belt at her waist, then pulled on a pair of warm wool socks. Finding her slippers under the edge of the bed, she slid them on and extended a hand to her mother. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your own room.”
With a reluctant shiver, Mama crawled out from beneath the quilts. “And what exactly are you planning to do this time of night? It’s nigh on one o’clock.”
“The one thing I can always count on to take my mind off my worries.” Annemarie hooked her arm around her mother’s elbow and led her into the hall.
Two steps out the door, Mama jerked to a halt and pierced Annemarie with a sharp glare. “Annemarie Kendall, are you out of your mind? It’ll be cold as the Arctic in the workshop. Your fingers will turn to icicles in that wet clay.”
“I’ll get the steam heat going. It’ll warm up in no time.” Annemarie tugged her mother along the hallway until they reached the door at the other end. She pulled her mother into a quick hug, stopping the protest she could see forming behind a fierce frown. “It’s all right, Mama. I promise. I just need to work off some of this restlessness.”
Mama shuddered out a resigned sigh and tweaked Annemarie’s cheek. “So help me, daughter, I’d better find you under the covers and sound asleep when I go down to start breakfast in the morning.”
Annemarie didn’t dare reply, for fear she’d make a promise she couldn’t keep.
An hour later, her sleeves rolled up and an oversized apron covering her from neck to ankles, she sat at the spinning potter’s wheel. She worked more by feel than sight, the cold, wet clay oozing between her fingers like strands of silk. It had become an almost mystical process for her, a blending of faith and artistry, for while her brain hadn’t yet decided the shape or function of her creation, eventually her heart would figure it out.
But now, O Jehovah, thou art our Father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.
What else could she believe, except that somehow her heavenly Father could yet shape the clay of her life—hers and Gilbert’s—into something beautiful?
“I’m so sorry, Miss Kendall, but Lieutenant Ballard has requested no visitors today.”
Annemarie clamped her teeth together, one gloved fist resting atop the charge nurse’s desk. “Please, I’m his fiancée. It’s been three days now. Would you at least tell him I’m here?”
A regretful frown puckered the gray-haired nurse’s lips. She came from behind her desk and led Annemarie over to the window, out of earshot of others on the floor. “I feel for you, truly I do, but the lieutenant wouldn’t even see his own mother this morning. The only visitor he’ll allow is the chaplain, and even that poor man gets tossed out on his keister when Lieutenant Ballard loses his temper.”
Temper? In all the years Annemarie had known Gilbert, he’d never been considered a hothead. Forthright, opinionated at times, but always cool under pressure. The mark of a good officer, he’d once told her, a trait he was proud to say he’d inherited from his father.
Annemarie stared across the winter-brown expanse of lawn to the bustling traffic on Reserve Street. Christmas shoppers and the spa clientele were out in full force today, despite the threat of snow and lingering concern over the spread of influenza. What Annemarie wouldn’t give for a glimmer of sunshine and blue skies!
The nurse laid a gentle hand on Annemarie’s arm. “Would you like me to ring you up when Lieutenant Ballard is feeling more himself?”
“Thank you, I’d be very grateful.” Though Annemarie wondered if Gilbert would ever truly be himself again. She cast a worried glance in the direction of the ward before
“Come back to bed, Annie. I’ll sit with you till you fall asleep.”
“It’s no use.” Annemarie stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her robe and looped the belt at her waist, then pulled on a pair of warm wool socks. Finding her slippers under the edge of the bed, she slid them on and extended a hand to her mother. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your own room.”
With a reluctant shiver, Mama crawled out from beneath the quilts. “And what exactly are you planning to do this time of night? It’s nigh on one o’clock.”
“The one thing I can always count on to take my mind off my worries.” Annemarie hooked her arm around her mother’s elbow and led her into the hall.
Two steps out the door, Mama jerked to a halt and pierced Annemarie with a sharp glare. “Annemarie Kendall, are you out of your mind? It’ll be cold as the Arctic in the workshop. Your fingers will turn to icicles in that wet clay.”
“I’ll get the steam heat going. It’ll warm up in no time.” Annemarie tugged her mother along the hallway until they reached the door at the other end. She pulled her mother into a quick hug, stopping the protest she could see forming behind a fierce frown. “It’s all right, Mama. I promise. I just need to work off some of this restlessness.”
Mama shuddered out a resigned sigh and tweaked Annemarie’s cheek. “So help me, daughter, I’d better find you under the covers and sound asleep when I go down to start breakfast in the morning.”
Annemarie didn’t dare reply, for fear she’d make a promise she couldn’t keep.
An hour later, her sleeves rolled up and an oversized apron covering her from neck to ankles, she sat at the spinning potter’s wheel. She worked more by feel than sight, the cold, wet clay oozing between her fingers like strands of silk. It had become an almost mystical process for her, a blending of faith and artistry, for while her brain hadn’t yet decided the shape or function of her creation, eventually her heart would figure it out.
But now, O Jehovah, thou art our Father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.
What else could she believe, except that somehow her heavenly Father could yet shape the clay of her life—hers and Gilbert’s—into something beautiful?
“I’m so sorry, Miss Kendall, but Lieutenant Ballard has requested no visitors today.”
Annemarie clamped her teeth together, one gloved fist resting atop the charge nurse’s desk. “Please, I’m his fiancée. It’s been three days now. Would you at least tell him I’m here?”
A regretful frown puckered the gray-haired nurse’s lips. She came from behind her desk and led Annemarie over to the window, out of earshot of others on the floor. “I feel for you, truly I do, but the lieutenant wouldn’t even see his own mother this morning. The only visitor he’ll allow is the chaplain, and even that poor man gets tossed out on his keister when Lieutenant Ballard loses his temper.”
Temper? In all the years Annemarie had known Gilbert, he’d never been considered a hothead. Forthright, opinionated at times, but always cool under pressure. The mark of a good officer, he’d once told her, a trait he was proud to say he’d inherited from his father.
Annemarie stared across the winter-brown expanse of lawn to the bustling traffic on Reserve Street. Christmas shoppers and the spa clientele were out in full force today, despite the threat of snow and lingering concern over the spread of influenza. What Annemarie wouldn’t give for a glimmer of sunshine and blue skies!
The nurse laid a gentle hand on Annemarie’s arm. “Would you like me to ring you up when Lieutenant Ballard is feeling more himself?”
“Thank you, I’d be very grateful.” Though Annemarie wondered if Gilbert would ever truly be himself again. She cast a worried glance in the direction of the ward before
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