“You've got a moose in your garden.”
“No! I've still got carrots and potatoes in the ground.” Celeste rushed out and ran to the garden patch.
A cow moose stood, munching carrot tops. She appeared perfectly content and unafraid.
“Go on! Git!” Celeste waved her arms in the air. The beast didn't move. Celeste ran to the shed and grabbed a pitchfork, then headed into the garden.
“Be careful. You never know what one of those animals will do,” Robert warned. “Maybe you ought to just leave her be. She'll go on her way.”
“I will not! She'll ruin the last of my garden.” Holding the pitchfork out in front of her, Celeste moved toward the huge animal. “Leave! Now! These vegetables are mine!” She lunged at the beast, who simply flinched and took a single step backward.
Laurel grabbed a broom off the back porch and joined Celeste. She waved it in the air while Celeste hollered and poked at the animal.
With two antagonists to face, the moose thought better of staying and moved along. Just as Robert returned with a rifle, she sauntered through the muddy patch, her feet sinking and making a sucking sound with each step. The three friends followed, continuing to shout and brandish their weapons.
The moose wasn't moving fast enough for Celeste, so she ran at her. The animal loped into nearby brush and disappeared. Her pitchfork raised in triumph, Celeste hooted. Distracted, she stumbled, and her feet slipped out from under her. She pitched backwards with a squeal. Stunned, she sat motionless and silent, then laughter spilled out. Unable to quiet her giggles, she explained, “All this for a few carrots and potatoes. My root cellar's full. I don't even need them.”
Robert chuckled. “You've always had to have your way.”
“Is that so?” Celeste asked, grabbing a handful of mud and flinging it at him. It splattered against the side of his shirt.
“Ah, so that's how it is.” Robert headed for Celeste.
She scrambled to her feet. “I didn't mean it. It was an accident.” Giggling, she ran, but Robert lunged and grabbed her, swinging her around. Finally he pinned her against him and kissed her. “When are you going to marry me?”
“When the time is right,” Celeste shot at him.
Laurel knew Celeste loved Robert and would marry him if only he'd be more reasonable about his expectations for a wife. He planned on having a lot of children, and she wasn't sure she wanted any. Robert believed a wife should stay home and take care of the house and family. Celeste wanted to fly a bush plane.
Laurel hoped they could work out their differences. They loved each other. It would be wrong if they missed out on sharing their lives. Her sadness deepening, she wondered what would become of her and Adam. Her heart heavy, she turned to leave.
Adam stood a few yards away, his pain-filled eyes on her. He stepped toward her. “I took William to your mother's. She said he could spend the night. Would you come home?”
Laurel studied him. He looked miserable.
“Please, Laurel. I love you. I'll always love you.”
He'd always been good to her. How could she think of living without him? “All right,” she said. “We'll talk.”
Laurel headed toward the truck, and Adam walked beside her. Both were careful not to touch the other.
“I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” Laurel said, realizing she'd already forgiven him.
Chapter 23
LUKE UNWRAPPED A CHOCOLATE BAR AND PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR leading from the canteen. He wandered toward the barracks, wondering what he would do with his day, his life. His physical injuries had healed; even the scars from his burns were fading. His mental state was the problem. He still couldn't remember who he was or where he came from. After weeks of working with a psychiatric doctor, his mind remained locked. He only had whispers from the past—an occasional flash of face or location, nothing more.
He took a bite of his candy and chewed. It tasted rich and sweet. Then he looked at the bar. “I like chocolate.” He puzzled over how he could know menial things and not remember what mattered most, such as his name.
He walked past the barracks and headed for the bay. A nurse with long black hair and brown eyes walked toward him. She reminded him of someone. Maybe he knew her. She offered a friendly smile as they passed but gave no indication that they might be friends. Maybe I know someone who looks like her, he thought, his frustration intensifying. He needed to know who he was. A frightening thought pressed down on him. What if I never remember?
Luke stopped at a fence that separated the base from the harbor. The Long Beach port was dotted with private sailing crafts vying for space with navy ships. Sails fluttered in the breeze. Luke could hear the snap of canvas. Heading for the open sea, a destroyer cut through the blue waters. Luke wished he were on it. He wanted to do something other than lollygag around the base wondering where he belonged.
Either I go back to fighting or I go home, he thought, gloom enveloping him. If only he knew where home was. Leaning against the fence, he gazed at the ship, trying to make out the men on deck. Maybe he knew one of them.
A breeze nearly snatched his cap from his head. He pulled it down snugly.
It was December. Shouldn't the wind be cold? And shouldn't everything be covered with ice and snow? he thought.
He struggled to follow the thought. He must have lived where winters were harsh.
An image of snow-covered mountains flashed into his mind. He worked to retain the mental picture. The mountains were imposing and rugged, with heavy layers of snow. As quickly as it had come, the picture disappeared. He closed his eyes, hoping to recapture it, but it remained illusive.
Depression settled over Luke. He needed to talk to someone. He had to do something. He headed for the chaplain's office.
Lieutenant John Atwood sat behind his desk, his face in a book. He straightened and looked at Luke. “Well, Luke. Good to see you.” Using the back of his index finger, he pushed heavy-rimmed glasses back in place. Light blue eyes settled on Luke. “Come on in.” He closed the book.
Luke stepped into the tidy office. A desk and chair sat in front of an open window, a wooden file stood to one side, and a large bookcase crowded with books—theological aids and a number of novels—covered the opposite wall. Otherwise, the room was empty. The reverend loved books and often loaned them to Luke, who was a slow reader. He'd struggled through Of Mice and Men and The Grapes of Wrath, both by John Stienbeck. The stories had been moving. He glanced at the shelf and thought that maybe he would borrow another.
The chaplain joined him. “You're welcome to take one when you go.”
“Thanks, but I don't know which one.”
The stocky, friendly man crossed to the bookcase. He ran a stubby finger over bindings. “Let me see. Which would be good for you?” He stopped, pulled one from the shelf, studied it a moment, and then handed it to Luke. “Our Town should do the trick. It might jar something for you.”
“Thanks,” Luke said, accepting the book. He opened to the first page and read a few lines. “Looks interesting.” He snapped the book shut. “I was wondering if we could talk. I've got some questions.”
