dish. “I can’t take your money, not after all you’ve done to put my work on display and handle the sales.”
“Business is business. A craftsman—crafts woman —deserves to be paid for her work.”
“I know, but you’re—” She started to say, you’re practically family , but considering how things stood between her and Gilbert, perhaps it would never be true. The elation she’d felt moments ago vanished like wood smoke in a gust of winter wind.
Before despair smothered the last remnants of her exhilaration, she tucked the money and pottery orders into her handbag and stood to give Thomas a grateful hug. “You are a dear, dear friend, and I can never thank you enough.”
“No thanks necessary.” A blush tingeing his cheeks, Thomas nudged her toward the door. “Now get out of here and go make some more pottery. The display case out front looks pretty stupid sitting there empty, and we sure don’t want those Ouachita folks bringing in their wares to fill your space.”
“I can have a few more pieces ready by next week.” Annemarie patted her bulging handbag, tempted to rush straight to the factory and show Papa before she spent one cent of the money on Christmas gifts. Maybe at last he’d be convinced there was a viable market for ceramic artistry.
Halfway across the lobby, Annemarie skidded to a halt. A tall, blond man in a military overcoat stood before the empty display case and looked for all the world like a child who’d just found coal in his stocking on Christmas morning.
She edged closer. “Samuel?”
He started and swung around to face her, his boyish grin bringing a sparkle to his eyes. Then he seemed to catch himself, hemming and hawing and shuffling his feet. “I, uh, hoped to purchase one of your pieces as a gift for my mother. I see they’re all gone.”
“I just discovered that, myself. I hadn’t taken time to stop in recently and had no idea they were selling so well.” She glanced at the empty shelves and released a sigh. “Thomas said he meant to tell me last night, but . . .”
Samuel’s smile brightened again. “You’ll be glad to know Gilbert’s a bit better this morning. I sat with him while he had breakfast.”
Heart lifting, Annemarie pressed a hand to her chest. “Have they removed the restraints?”
“For now.” Samuel’s gaze skittered toward the floor for a brief moment. “He’s still heavily medicated but lucid enough to realize what happened, and he’s quite remorseful about hurting the young nurse.”
Annemarie strode toward the front windows, her thoughts up the mountainside at the massive Swiss chalet–style hospital. “If only he’d allow me to visit.”
Samuel came up beside her and hooked her arm through his. “Walk with me back to the hospital. Somehow, some way, I’ll convince him to see you. It’ll do you both good.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Ballard, but I cannot authorize an increase in your morphine dosage.” The doctor pressed his lips together in a grim frown. “In all honesty we should be weaning you off the drug, but first we have get you through this next round of surgery.”
Gilbert jammed his right fist into the mattress. A thousand curses exploded in his brain, but if he gave vent to them—or worse, flattened the stingy doctor’s bulbous nose—a half-dozen orderlies would materialize out of the woodwork and strap Gilbert to the bed again. By sheer force of will, he held his tongue, instead drawing several deep, slow breaths until he sensed control returning. “When will you do the surgery?”
“No rush. I understand your family lives right here in Hot Springs. I can write you a pass to spend Christmas at home, and we’ll do the surgery on . . .” The doctor consulted his notes, then looked up with a patronizing smile. “How’s the twenty-seventh sound?”
“Fine, I guess.” Gilbert ran his tongue across dry lips. “But I’d just as soon stay here over Christmas.”
The doctor’s eyebrows shot
“Business is business. A craftsman—crafts woman —deserves to be paid for her work.”
“I know, but you’re—” She started to say, you’re practically family , but considering how things stood between her and Gilbert, perhaps it would never be true. The elation she’d felt moments ago vanished like wood smoke in a gust of winter wind.
Before despair smothered the last remnants of her exhilaration, she tucked the money and pottery orders into her handbag and stood to give Thomas a grateful hug. “You are a dear, dear friend, and I can never thank you enough.”
“No thanks necessary.” A blush tingeing his cheeks, Thomas nudged her toward the door. “Now get out of here and go make some more pottery. The display case out front looks pretty stupid sitting there empty, and we sure don’t want those Ouachita folks bringing in their wares to fill your space.”
“I can have a few more pieces ready by next week.” Annemarie patted her bulging handbag, tempted to rush straight to the factory and show Papa before she spent one cent of the money on Christmas gifts. Maybe at last he’d be convinced there was a viable market for ceramic artistry.
Halfway across the lobby, Annemarie skidded to a halt. A tall, blond man in a military overcoat stood before the empty display case and looked for all the world like a child who’d just found coal in his stocking on Christmas morning.
She edged closer. “Samuel?”
He started and swung around to face her, his boyish grin bringing a sparkle to his eyes. Then he seemed to catch himself, hemming and hawing and shuffling his feet. “I, uh, hoped to purchase one of your pieces as a gift for my mother. I see they’re all gone.”
“I just discovered that, myself. I hadn’t taken time to stop in recently and had no idea they were selling so well.” She glanced at the empty shelves and released a sigh. “Thomas said he meant to tell me last night, but . . .”
Samuel’s smile brightened again. “You’ll be glad to know Gilbert’s a bit better this morning. I sat with him while he had breakfast.”
Heart lifting, Annemarie pressed a hand to her chest. “Have they removed the restraints?”
“For now.” Samuel’s gaze skittered toward the floor for a brief moment. “He’s still heavily medicated but lucid enough to realize what happened, and he’s quite remorseful about hurting the young nurse.”
Annemarie strode toward the front windows, her thoughts up the mountainside at the massive Swiss chalet–style hospital. “If only he’d allow me to visit.”
Samuel came up beside her and hooked her arm through his. “Walk with me back to the hospital. Somehow, some way, I’ll convince him to see you. It’ll do you both good.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Ballard, but I cannot authorize an increase in your morphine dosage.” The doctor pressed his lips together in a grim frown. “In all honesty we should be weaning you off the drug, but first we have get you through this next round of surgery.”
Gilbert jammed his right fist into the mattress. A thousand curses exploded in his brain, but if he gave vent to them—or worse, flattened the stingy doctor’s bulbous nose—a half-dozen orderlies would materialize out of the woodwork and strap Gilbert to the bed again. By sheer force of will, he held his tongue, instead drawing several deep, slow breaths until he sensed control returning. “When will you do the surgery?”
“No rush. I understand your family lives right here in Hot Springs. I can write you a pass to spend Christmas at home, and we’ll do the surgery on . . .” The doctor consulted his notes, then looked up with a patronizing smile. “How’s the twenty-seventh sound?”
“Fine, I guess.” Gilbert ran his tongue across dry lips. “But I’d just as soon stay here over Christmas.”
The doctor’s eyebrows shot
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