The Widow's Choice Read online

  © 2006 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7063-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover illustration by William Graf

  Cover design by Josh Madison

  I dedicate this book to Ginger Conlon,

  my beloved daughter.

  You are exactly what a woman of God should be!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  July 1938-December 1940

  1. A Perfect Day

  2. Wish on a Star

  3. The End of Something Wonderful

  4. New Home

  5. Change of Plans

  6. A Heart for Boys

  PART TWO

  January-April 1941

  7. Jason Lends a Hand

  8. A New Voice in Choir

  9. An Elegant House

  10. Alona Gets an Offer

  11. The Valley of Decision

  12. “It’s for My Boys”

  PART THREE

  May-December 1941

  13. A Different Kind of Marriage

  14. “I’ll Have to Be More Careful”

  15. Tim’s Admirer

  16. A Season of Turmoil

  17. Redemption of a Man

  18. A Distant Thunder

  PART FOUR

  December 1941-December 1942

  19. “He Can’t Cut It!”

  20. “I Never Gave Death a Thought”

  21. Battle in the Coral Sea

  22. Front Page News

  23. “Tell Jason I Love Him”

  24. Return of the Warrior

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Perfect Day

  Alona Jennings stared at the calendar that hung on her kitchen wall, irritated by the cheap painting of an English fox hunt. Shaking her head, she muttered, “I ought to just tear that dumb picture out. Whoever painted it sure couldn’t paint worth a flip.” She often wondered why she didn’t throw the whole thing away and get a calendar that pleased her more, but Alona’s life was busy, and money was precious. Sighing with frustration, she plucked a pencil out of her apron pocket and drew a circle around July the Fourth.

  Turning from the calendar, she focused on her good feelings on this very special day. The whole family was going to a Fourth of July celebration with games and then a free lunch furnished by the politicians, if you cared to listen to their speeches long enough to wait. Truman would then be pitching for the Mountaineers, and after he won his ball game, as the boys vowed he would, they were all going to go out to eat and then take in a movie.

  The sun shone brightly through the window, lighting up the old linoleum on the kitchen floor that was worn through all the way down to the black tar underneath in a couple of places. Opening the icebox door, Alona saw that the last chunk of ice had melted down to about a five-pound lump. Closing the door to the oak icebox, she went to the living room and pulled the iceman’s sign off a nail on the wall, considering how much ice to order. The sign was marked on the four corners: twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, a hundred. For a moment she was tempted to put up the number one hundred, but money was so scarce that she settled for the fifty-pound chunk. But we’re going to have ice cream, she told herself, changing her mind again and firmly putting the hundred-pound number at the top instead and placing the sign in the window, where the iceman could see it. She only hoped that he ran on the holiday.

  Going back to the kitchen, she quickly built a fire in the stove so she could cook breakfast. Ten minutes later the fire was burning smoothly. She was about to start breakfast when a knock at the back door caught her attention. “Who could that be?” She put the skillet down on the stove and went to the door. Through the screen she saw a tall, spindly looking man with a pale, cadaverous face. He was dressed practically in rags, and he pulled off his weather-beaten hat and held it with both hands.

  “Ma’am, could I chop some wood or do some work for a meal?”

  Alona hesitated. This had become such a common occurrence that she had been forced to turn many men away, but something poignant in the hobo’s face urged her to help him, and she said, “Yes, come on in. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “I can eat out here on the porch, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense. Come on in and sit down at the table. The coffee’s about ready. I’ll cook some bacon and eggs.”

  The man stepped inside, looking around apprehensively and saying nothing.

  “Sit over there,” Alona said, pointing to the table and pouring him a cup of coffee. “Do you use sugar or cream?”

  “If it ain’t too much trouble, ma’am.”

  Alona set the glass sugar bowl on the table, opened the storage side of the icebox, and pulled out a mason jar half full of cream. As the man drank his coffee, she began fixing the meal. “Have you come far?”

  “Yes, ma’am, all the way from Ohio.”

  “Ohio! How in the world did you get from Ohio down to Georgia?”

  “Well, ma’am, the factory I worked at for twelve years closed, and work was hard to find.” The man’s voice was rusty, as if from lack of use. “I just drifted south lookin’ for work. Do you know of anything?”

  Alona had broken two eggs into a pan with some bacon but hesitated before breaking a third. “You want your eggs scrambled or over easy?”

  “Any way, ma’am.”

  She turned the eggs over with a spatula, then put the bacon and eggs on a plate. She opened the storage compartment over the top of the stove, took out two biscuits, and added them to the plate. “There you are.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from the man, studying him as she sipped her drink. “Work is scarce around here,” she finally said.

  “Scarce everywhere. I don’t know what we’re gonna do if things don’t get better.”

  “We’ll just have to trust the Lord, I guess. What’s your name?”

  “Nick Saban. This is mighty good food, ma’am. I reckon I was hungrier than I knew. Please excuse my manners.”

  “Don’t mind that. Oh, I’ve got some strawberry jam that’ll go good with those biscuits.” She went to the cupboard and pulled out a jar of jam, opened it, and set it on the table. She watched as he very neatly layered half of one of the biscuits, then took a small bite. He had better manners than most, and she could tell that he had come from a better position in life than many of the hobos that came by. “I wish I did know of a job,” she said.

  “This depression. Everybody says it’s Hoover’s fault.”

  “I doubt if one man could have brought it all on.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  She waited until the man had finished and said, “I’ll make some sandwiches for you to take with you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll need to work for this meal.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve got three boys and a strong husband
to do the heavy work around here.” She got up, fixed three thick sandwiches of bologna with cheese, wrapped them in wax paper, and put them in a bag. She put an apple in also and handed him the package. He stood before her uncertainly, and without thinking, she said, “Would it be all right if I prayed for you before you go?”

  “Pray for me? Well, ma’am, ain’t nobody prayed for me since I was just a boy. My mama prayed for me, but she died when I was only twelve.”

  “I’d like to pray for you if you don’t mind.”

  Saban bent his head, but she saw the glitter of tears in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, you go right ahead.”

  “Lord, we ask that you go with Mr. Saban. Provide work for him. Give him health and strength. May he learn to look to you, the Lord Jesus, for every need. Father, I ask this in the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Saban looked up and something had changed in his face. “That . . . that was mighty fine, ma’am. A good prayer. It reminds me of my mother.”

  “Let me ask you something,” she said. “I’ve always been curious—how do you decide which town to go to, or which house?”

  He smiled briefly but with a flash of humor. “I follow the signs.”

  “What kind of signs?”

  “Signs that us hobos leave. You see, we put marks and drawings of different kinds on curbs, posts, buildings—even houses. They tell us if the people in that town will help us out. Give us work or food. I seen the mark on your house.”

  “I never saw anything.”

  “If you’ve got a piece of paper, I can show you.”

  Alona got up and found a paper and pencil, handing them to Nick. He drew for a minute and then showed her the paper.

  “This sign here,” he said, pointing to a group of intersecting lines, “means hobos ain’t welcome. But this one here means this is a great place to stop.” He was pointing to a group of three small u’s drawn inside a rectangle. “And three little circles like that means keep on moving—the police are out to get ya.”

  He picked up his small bundle of personal belongs and the sack of food. “I’ll be going, ma’am, but I won’t forget you.”

  “God bless you.” Alona watched as he left and made his way down the street. She thought of the thousands of men like Nick Saban wandering the streets and countryside of America and sighed.

  Abruptly, she shook off her thoughts and walked down the hall to the boys’ bedroom door. Opening it, she said, “Get up, boys! Get up and wash.”

  The only response was a groan.

  “It’s the Fourth of July! We’re going to have a fun day today.”

  She went down the hall to the other bedroom of the small house. She tiptoed to the bed and looked down into the face of her sleeping husband. With a smile she remembered how she had felt the first time she had seen him when she was seventeen. She had gone to a ball game and seen him pitch, and although she didn’t much believe in romantic tales of love at first sight, something had indeed happened to her at that game. Now, looking down at his tawny hair and the clean-cut lines of his strong body, lean as a leopard, she wanted to reach out and put her hands on him. For just a moment she felt somewhat abashed that after a dozen years of marriage she could still be so in love with her husband. Quick to cover her emotions, she gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Truman. Time for breakfast.”

  As always, he woke up suddenly—wide-eyed like a cat. Before she could move, he grabbed her and pulled her down on the bed. He began to kiss her neck, ignoring her protests and squeals.

  A laugh bubbled up out of his throat, and as he held her pinioned with his face inches from hers, he winked playfully and said, “I’ve got great plans for you, beautiful.”

  “Save your strength for the ball game,” she teased, scrambling out of his grasp and to her feet.

  Truman swung his legs out of the bed with an easy motion. “Hey,” he said, grabbing her again. “Come back here. I don’t need to pitch till this afternoon.”

  Alona laughed and ruffled his hair. “If you win, I may have a reward for you tonight.” She winked. “Now, hurry up and get down to breakfast.”

  She went back to the kitchen, where she found Buddy, their six-month-old collie, waiting for her at the screen door. “Hello, Buddy. Come on in.” She opened the door, and he came in, jumped up on her, and tried to lick her face. “Get down, Buddy! I don’t have time to fool with you.” The dog whined, as he always did when he didn’t get his way. His coloring was a beautiful mahogany on white. Truman had bought him for her birthday, and they had all spoiled him to distraction. The boys often stopped by the butcher to beg bones for him, and Alona put an egg in his food once in a while to keep his coat glossy. Buddy still hadn’t gotten down, so she reached out and tapped his hind foot with the toe of her shoe. “Get down now.”

  Buddy yelped, dropped to all fours, and looked up at her with a comical, reproachful look. He whirled and went over to his corner, where he lay down, facing the wall. It was something he did every time his feelings got hurt. “You’re too sensitive, Buddy.” He refused to look around at her, so she tore a fragment of the roast from the night before and took it over to him. “If you’ll be sweet, I’ll give you this meat.” Instantly Buddy turned around, sat up, and begged as they had taught him. She gave him the meat, patted his silky hair, and said, “Now, I’ve got work to do.”

  ****

  Truman chewed a huge mouthful of scrambled eggs mixed with bacon and winked across at the boys. “Your ma is a terrible cook, but no matter, boys, just try your best to keep it down.”

  “Ah, Dad, Mom isn’t a terrible cook!” Tim protested. He was ten, the oldest of the boys, with light brown hair and blue eyes. His face was quite thin and sensitive. It was not for nothing he was called a mama’s boy, for he worshiped his mother.

  Zachary, who sat next to him, was two years younger. He had brown hair and brown eyes, and was already showing signs of the same rangy strength that his father had. He was good at sports and good with his hands, and if he was afraid of anything, nobody ever found out about it. “Dad’s just kidding, Tim. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I think you’re a good cook!” Six-year-old Carl had blond hair, bright blue eyes, and an insatiable curiosity. He had an imaginary friend named Hootie that was very real to Carl. Even now he turned and said, “Hootie, you’d better have some of these eggs.”

  “Too late! I’m havin’ the rest of ’em myself,” Truman spouted, spooning out the last of the eggs. “You’ll have to give Hootie a biscuit.”

  “There’s no such person as Hootie!” Zac told his younger brother.

  “There is too!” Carl insisted.

  “Well, why can’t I see him?”

  “Because he doesn’t want you to.”

  The two boys argued until Zac finally intervened. “Pa, when you asked the blessing, you prayed for everything, but you forgot to ask God to let you win the ball game today.”

  Tim was puzzled by this. “Dad, you don’t think God cares about who wins baseball games, do you?”

  “Why, He does too care!” Carl said argumentatively. “You think God doesn’t know about baseball?”

  The two argued back and forth, and finally Alona spoke up. “Children, stop arguing. I’m not sure that the Lord is really concerned about the score of some baseball game.”

  “Why, of course he is,” Truman said, his eyes dancing. “I don’t want you teachin’ these boys bad theology, wife.”

  Alona was accustomed to Truman’s teasing. He was a fine Christian man, although his Christianity was somewhat unconventional. Sometimes he would even tease during the blessing, thanking God for every item on the table, including the salt and pepper shakers and the plates they were eating from. It was a side of him that she loved, although she pretended to dislike it.

  “What kind of stuff will they be havin’ at the celebration, Dad?” Tim asked.

  “Well, let’s see. I guess there are going to be all kinds of races and contests later this morning—three-legged race, shoe-k
icking contest, watermelon-spitting contest—and then there’ll be lots of boring patriotic speeches about how great the politicians are.” Truman shrugged.

  “Don’t you talk like that, Truman. We live in a great country, and I want our family to always be proud of our heritage.” She turned to the boys. “You know that before I married your father I was a Winslow, and the first Winslow in this country was a man named Gilbert who came all the way over from England. And ever since then there have been Winslows in the Revolutionary War, in the War of 1812, in the Civil War. Why, one of our family was an ace in the Great War! You need to be proud of the men and women who bore that name.” She felt strongly about this, proud of being a Winslow. It was one of the griefs of her life that she lived far away from the other members of the family and had never been able to be close to her relatives—or Truman’s, for that matter.

  Truman winked at the boys. “Well, I’ve been afraid to look back and see who my ancestors were. I’d prob’ly find a bunch of horse thieves. If you boys are done, why don’t you go out and play. I’m gonna show your mama how to wash the dishes.”

  The boys carried their dishes to the sink and then ran outside, their sounds of gleeful yelling barely muted inside the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to help with the dishes, Truman.”

  “Why, shoot—I do it so much better’n you do,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about your dish washin’. It’s such a shame. Here, let me show you how a real dish washer operates.”

  Alona laughed at his teasing. She was glad that Truman had never been afraid to help her with housework or to change diapers when the boys were babies. She didn’t know of too many other men like that. It was her opinion that men who were afraid of such things were in grave doubt about their own masculinity.

  As they washed the dishes, Truman became serious. “I forgot to tell you yesterday I got a promotion at work. We’ll be makin’ more money now. We’ll be able to buy some things for the house.”

  Alona stopped washing and looked at him. “What will you be doing? Not handling explosives?”

  “Why, sure. That’s what you do in a quarry. It pays more.”