The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,46

he’d wanted, but wasn’t that the case for almost every man on board?

They were farmers and shopkeepers and insurance salesmen. But now they were soldiers and sailors and airmen, and they had a job to do.

As for Adler, didn’t the Lord cause the sun to shine on the wicked as well as the good? God had chosen to shine that sun brightly on Adler and let the rain fall on Clay.

A chuckle huffed out. “All my fussing won’t change your mind, will it, Lord?”

“Paxton! D’you hear me?”

Clay’s head jerked up.

Sergeant Lombardi stood in the doorway, his face twisted in annoyance.

Something told Clay that wasn’t the first time Lombardi had called him. “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.”

“Get your tail in here.”

That’s right. It wasn’t the Rangers’ hour on the open deck. Now he’d get KP duty, but it had been worth it to put cold air in his hot head. He headed back inside. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Tonight—after he finished cleaning the galley—he’d write a long letter to Leah.

21

TULLAHOMA

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1943

How was it possible for Clay to be even handsomer than in her memories?

Leah admired the snapshot as she walked down Jackson Street. Every day she picked a different photograph to carry. Today she’d chosen the picture of him pointing to the stripe and patch on his sleeve. Such a wonderful grin.

She was also partial to the pictures of him reading a book on the steps of the New York Public Library and of him and Gene at the Library of Congress, arms around each other’s shoulders.

Leah passed the grand brick tower of the United Methodist Church.

Clay had mailed the camera and photographs on November 20, and she hadn’t heard from him since. He said it would be a while, which implied he was heading overseas.

Leah pressed his picture to her chest. Lord, this might be selfish, but please keep him safe.

She crossed Warren Street and tucked Clay’s photo in her purse.

The chipper tone of his letter told her he didn’t yet know she’d been kicked out of the boardinghouse—or why. But then she had taken over a week to summon the words to write him. What would he think to know she had once been a thief and that everyone still saw her that way?

How would Clay react? Would he react like Darlene and Mrs. Perry, wondering why he’d believed a raggedy good-for-nothing? What if he thought Leah had tricked him and manipulated his sympathy, and he annulled the marriage?

Part of her wanted to reject the idea as contradictory to Clay’s character, to insist he would never be cruel.

Except something about her had attracted cruelty her whole life. Orphanage staff who wrenched her from her baby sisters. Adoptive parents who abandoned her. A stranger who decided she deserved rape and attempted murder. A friend who falsely accused her of theft and had her kicked out of her home.

Leah’s jaw stiffened, and her breath and her step quickened. Why? Why did people think she deserved such treatment just because her parents had died?

A middle-aged gentleman bustled past, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

It was well below freezing, although clear and bright. A lady from church had loaned her a maternity coat in a toasty shade of brown. Leah had resisted all the secondhand clothing until Rita Sue assured her even well-to-do ladies shared maternity clothes.

Leah forced her jaw to relax, and she shoved her thoughts toward the blessings. Yes, she’d been treated cruelly, but she’d also been blessed beyond measure.

She still couldn’t fathom the luxury of her new home—a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room all to herself. Why, the house was even furnished with a bed, a bureau, a table, and two chairs.

The Lord had been with her. The Lord would continue to be with her.

A sign by the sidewalk read “Coffee Children’s Home.” The two-story Victorian had a friendly feel, despite the faded whitewash and the loose flagstones clinking under her feet.

Leah rang the doorbell.

A slender woman opened the door. Her gigantic eyes and frizzy gray hair gave her a flustered look.

“Good morning. I’m Mrs. Clay Paxton from the library.”

“Please come in. I’m Miss King, the director. Let me take your coat. May I pour you some coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you.” Leah took off her coat and let Miss King hang it on the coatrack. Only six months earlier she’d been drinking milk in an orphanage and hanging up her own coat.

The smell of Lysol filled her nostrils, and the sound of small children playing filled her ears. The older children