by Kate Hewitt
“Weren’t they divine?” Sophie said as she closed the door of the wardrobe, dresses—or lack thereof—forgotten for a moment.
“Don’t you mean he?” Lily returned a bit tartly. “I don’t think you looked at Sergeant Lawson once.”
“Oh, but you did. I saw you sneaking glances, you sly thing! Don’t pretend you don’t fancy him, because I know you do.”
“I don’t know him,” Lily answered, but she could feel herself blush and chose to say nothing more.
“He is a quiet one,” Sophie agreed. She ran her fingers through her hair to fluff it as she studied her reflection in the small, speckled mirror over the chest of drawers. “Do you think Tom fancies me?”
Tom, it was, now? “Of course he does.” Sophie wasn’t film-star beautiful, but she was striking, with her large eyes and lips, her strong jaw and her ash-blond hair. She wore her confidence like beauty, which seemed even better. Next to her, Lily had always felt like a pale shadow—mousy hair, brown eyes to Sophie’s hazel, slimmer in the hip and bust, and a full three inches shorter. Quieter too, and certainly shyer, although Sophie had always said she had a nice smile. When Lily practiced in the mirror, she wasn’t sure it was anything special.
“Yes, I rather think he does.” Sophie’s gaze rested on her reflection as her lips curved in a knowing, catlike smile. “Did you smell him, Lily? Didn’t he smell heavenly?”
Lily let out an incredulous laugh. “No, of course I didn’t smell him.”
“He wears aftershave. Why won’t British men wear it? And the faintest hint of cigarette smoke… mmm.” Sophie licked her lips and Lily smiled and shook her head. She suspected Sophie was all talk—or at least mostly. When had her sister had opportunity to get up to much?
Besides, there was something innocent, even naïve, about her jokes, her good humor, her determination to shock and to titillate. Something inexperienced and a little clumsy, despite her desire to seem the opposite, and even in her own inexperience, Lily thought she could recognize that.
“You know what they say, don’t you?” Sophie said, her eyes dancing as she continued to regard herself in the mirror, seeming to like what she saw.
“What do they say?” Lily asked, her eyebrows raised, ready for her sister to try to shock.
“It’s about the new utility underwear.” Sophie turned to face her sister, her hands on her hips, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “One Yank and it’s off!”
“Oh, Sophie.” Lily gave a muffled laugh, before she shook her head and rose from the bed, determined now to join her parents in the sitting room.
The sound of Sophie’s delighted laughter followed her all the way downstairs, until it was drowned out by the wireless.
Chapter Four
ABBY
“It’s you again!”
Abby looked up from the gas tank of her pickup truck that she was filling to see Simon Elliot smiling at her with an expression of such cheerful good humor that she had to smile back.
“Oh… hello,” she said. She’d been thinking about Simon since he’d left Willow Tree three days ago, and feeling a little guilty for how poorly he’d been treated. To come all the way from England and be given nothing more than ten minutes of their time and a glass of lemonade. Abby had cringed in embarrassment at the thought.
Why hadn’t she asked more questions? Why hadn’t she seemed more interested? Because she was interested; it was far more interesting, not to mention easier, to think about her grandfather’s past than her own. Her father, however, clearly felt differently, and had seemed to consider the whole matter closed as soon as Simon had left, with Abby reluctant to bring it all up again.
She wasn’t used to rocking the boat. She’d learned, over the last fifteen years, to glide upon untroubled waters, never mind what lurked darkly below. Their treatment of Simon had pricked her conscience, however, and, she had been willing to acknowledge she wanted to see him again.
“I was thinking, Dad,” she’d ventured cautiously that evening as they’d dug into macaroni and cheese at the kitchen table, breaking their habitual mealtime silence, “that maybe we should invite Simon Elliot to dinner.”
“What?” Her father had looked up with a frown, bushy eyebrows drawn together.
“He’s staying in the area for a few weeks, and he’s gone to so much trouble.”
“Has he?”
“To bring the medal back.” She’d left it on top of her father’s dresser, but unsurprisingly he hadn’t mentioned it. “Aren’t you glad to have it again?”
“I didn’t know I didn’t have it before,” David had returned.
“But you know Grandad was wounded?”
David had shrugged. “I didn’t think about a medal. Like I said, he didn’t talk about it.”
Abby had decided to try a different tack. “We don’t have to talk about all that with Simon, if you really don’t want to. I’m just thinking about being neighborly. Saying thank you, because the medal does belong to us—to you—and it’s part of our history. It’s right and good to have it back.”
David had heaved a sigh as he sat back in his chair, which was as much of an acknowledgment of her point as he was likely to give. Abby knew her father disliked the thought of not seeming neighborly. No matter how taciturn he could be, he always helped out when one of the local farmers was having trouble; he plowed their elderly neighbor Sue’s driveway every time it snowed, and he donated baskets of apples to the local elementary school’s harvest fair every fall.
He wasn’t a cold or hard man, just a tired and sad one. Sometimes Abby had to remind herself of that; at other times, it was far too evident.
“I suppose we could,” he’d finally said, his reluctance clear in every syllable, and Abby had felt a rush of relief—as well as excitement, at the prospect of seeing Simon again.
“Thanks, Dad,” she’d said quietly. “I’ll call him and ask.”
Except three days had gone by and she’d never quite managed to work up the courage to do just that, stupidly enough, and now he was here at the gas station, grinning at her with so much enthusiasm, a quart of milk dangling from his fingers, his other arm wrapped around a red box of Lucky Charms.
“It’s my secret weakness,” he told her as his gaze followed hers to the box of cereal. “Sugary American cereal. Delicious.”
“Magically delicious,” Abby quipped, and Simon laughed.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes.”
Abby shook her head a little, wondering how he had so much zest for life. He was positively brimming with it, seeming to greet everything with the kind of interest and joy that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt, if ever. It was infectious, but it was also a bit overwhelming. How did he keep it up? Why wasn’t he exhausted?
“I’m glad I’ve run into you,” she said a bit stiltedly, knowing that now was her obvious opportunity. “I felt badly for how quickly you left the other day. I think the whole medal thing took my Dad by surprise…”
“No, no,” Simon assured her. “It was fine. And the lemonade was fantastic.”
“Even so,” she continued, “I wondered if you’d like to come to dinner? It won’t be anything special. Nothing like Lucky Charms.” She smiled, and he quickly returned it, which made her smile more. “But it would be nice to hear a little bit more about your grandmother…” She trailed off, waiting for his response, which seemed to take a second.
“Yes,” Simon said, as if he had to startle himself awake. “Yes. I would like that very much. Just tell me when.”
“Tomorrow night?” Abby suggested, thinking that would hopefully be enough time for her dad to adjust to the idea. “Around six?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great.” Abby nodded, and Simon nodded back, and then she laughed and gestured to her truck. “I guess I’ll finish here.”
“Right,” he said. “Okay.” And, after another semi-awkward moment, he took himself off, and Abby watched out of the corner of her eye as he headed for the
rental car parked by the convenience store.
She let out a shaky breath as she finished pumping the gas. What was wrong with her? She was thirty-two years old and she was acting as if she were sixteen. All she’d done was ask him to dinner, not even anything remotely like a date, and yet her knees felt weak, her hands shaky, as she put the nozzle back in its holder. She really needed to get a grip.
Or maybe just some experience. Thirty-two years old and she’d had a handful of mediocre dates since she’d hit thirty, and not many more before that. Certainly nothing she could call a proper relationship. Abby knew how pathetic that was, especially considering the dates had all been fairly awful—setups by Shannon with guys from Milwaukee or Chicago, and only one that she’d been willing to see more than once.
One had had a nervous laugh and damp hands; another had been completely silent; a third had put his hand on her knee while they’d been sipping their first glass of wine. Mike, an accountant from Milwaukee, had made it to three dates before they’d both accepted there just wasn’t much there. Abby had been relieved to agree to end it, even though it had barely begun, and she’d been in no hurry to go on another date since—not that she’d had many opportunities.
Ashford was a small place, a close-knit community, and besides Shannon, who had moved back after her high-flying job in Chicago had gone bust, most people her age had moved away for jobs. What was more, everyone here knew her history, or at least some of it, and they understood that some essential part of her remained frozen in time from fifteen years ago, and nothing had thawed her yet. Most likely, nothing would.
Fighting the discouragement that came over her like a drizzle, Abby forced the thoughts away and climbed into her truck. It was another beautiful summer’s day, baking hot but with a breeze, the sky a blue so bright and hard, it hurt her eyes, the rippling fields and meadows flashing by as she headed back out of town towards the orchard.
She drove past the long, straight driveway that led to the farmhouse, taking the next left and pulling into the gravel parking lot of the Willow Tree Gift Shop.
Housed in one of the old barns, the shop had been Abby’s brainchild ten years ago, and felt like her baby now. It had grown from offering a few apple-related products to having an organic line of soaps and perfumes, locally made jellies and jams, and a variety of handcrafted gifts and other items. It had been featured in the local paper, as well as magazines in Chicago, and although it would never be a huge money-maker, Abby loved every bit of it.
She stepped into the shop, smiling at Tina, the part-time manager they’d hired four years ago whom she counted as a close friend. She ran the shop pretty much single-handedly, and Abby took the shifts she couldn’t do and managed the inventory and dealing with their suppliers.
“How are things?” she asked as she picked up one of their new products, a green, apple-scented candle, and gave an appreciative sniff.
“Quiet, but not too quiet,” Tina replied. “Summer can be slow when it’s not the weekend. Too hot.”
Abby nodded. Fall and winter were their busiest times, when the baskets of apples outside the shop, and the free cider tastings and bags of hot, sugary donuts, enticed people inside. Summer weekends brought tourists from the cities, but the average summer weekday was hot and slow.
She picked up a soap dish made from a local pottery place and ran her fingers along the silky-smooth clay. “How is this new range selling?”
Tina shrugged. “Okay, but I think it might be more of a Christmas item.”
“Right.” The profit margin for the shop was narrow, something her dad was always reminding her of. He preferred to stick with what he knew—apples, day in and day out, and nothing else. No change. No surprises. Abby put the soap dish down. “There’s a local quilter who wants to collaborate with us,” she said. “She sent me an email the other day. The quilts would be expensive—a couple hundred dollars each, but they’re beautiful—handmade, good quality. Real artistic pieces.” Abby had loved one with a colorful starburst pattern; the needlework had been exquisite.
Tina simply nodded, looking cautious, waiting for more.
“I thought we could take one or two, see how it goes. What do you think?”
Tina frowned. “I don’t know. Locals wouldn’t buy them, would they? Anyone who wants a quilt around here makes their own.”
“Yes, but tourists…”
“It’s a lot of money for a bedspread.”
“I know.” And it was a lot more than anything they’d sold in the shop before. Her father, Abby knew, wouldn’t approve, not that she’d mentioned it to him. Still, she knew what he’d say. Too much risk. Too much money, laying out hundreds of dollars for a couple of quilts that no one in their right mind would buy. “Still, it might be worth a try,” Abby said firmly. “Just one or two, to see.” She had dreams for this shop, dreams that felt small and yet still seemed too big. Both Tina and her father were far more cautious, which was saying something, considering how cautious she was generally. Yet the shop felt like the one thing in her life that had gone right, that could still go somewhere, if she let it. She loved coming up with new ideas for it—and, more than that, she needed to. She needed some part of her life to feel exciting, or even just possible.
“So, what is this I hear about some Brit visiting you?” Tina asked, putting her elbows on the counter as she leaned forward, her flyaway white hair pulled back into a bun, her round, smiling face alight with interest. Clearly it was far more interesting to gossip than talk shop.
Abby rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “How did you hear about him?”
“He’s renting from a friend of mine, Pete Holmwood, out by the lake. And he’s shopped in town. He bought organic coffee at the Pick ’n Save.” Tina raised her eyebrows. “Fancy. Everyone’s wondering about him.”
“Of course they are.” With a population of fifteen hundred, Ashford residents always recognized one more, especially if he had a British accent and bought organic, drove a rental car and asked lots of questions. Marked as different in a dozen ways.
“Well?” Tina prompted. “Give me the lowdown.”
“There isn’t much to say.” Abby hesitated, knowing her father wouldn’t want their business bandied about, but, in this case, what harm could it really do? Whatever might have happened between Tom Reese and Sophie Mather had ended seventy years ago or more. “His grandmother had a medal of my grandfather’s from the second world war, and he wanted to return it to us.”
“Really?” Tina looked intrigued, more than either Abby or her father had been, and she regretted admitting this much, even though she told herself again that it didn’t really matter, despite how reluctant her father had seemed about the whole thing. “Why did she have it? Did they have some wartime romance?” She let out a dreamy sigh. “How romantic would that be?”
“I don’t know if they did or not. Apparently my grandad never mentioned it, and my dad doesn’t want to, either.” Abby gave her what she hoped was a meaningful look. Tina knew how taciturn her father could be, just as everyone in Ashford did.
“Does this Englishman know anything more?”
“Not really.” Abby hesitated, then, because she wanted to feel as if she had something of a life, she added, “But maybe he’ll tell us more. He’s coming to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Ooh.” Tina clasped her hands together, looking far more thrilled than Abby wanted her to be. Soon, all of Ashford would be talking about Abby Reese and her Englishman.
“It’s not a date,” she warned her friend. “Just a thank you, for coming all this way.”
“Right. But the real question is, do you think he’s good-looking?”
Abby thought about Simon’s floppy hair, his hazel eyes, his wiry frame and the way he made her smile. “I suppose,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, even indifferent, but the belly laugh that Tina let out told her she’d failed.
By five-thirty the next evening, everything was ready. The lasagne—Abby had decided not to go overbo
ard with anything fancy—was bubbling away in the oven, and the garlic bread was ready to go in. The table was set, and she’d bought a gallon of Breyers mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert, feeling that baking a cake would be a step too far. She didn’t want to seem eager.
She wasn’t eager, she reminded herself. This really was just a simple thank you. Neighborly politeness, nothing more.
David came into the house at quarter to six, giving the set table a rather baleful look before heading upstairs to wash.
Abby ran her fingers through her hair and checked her reflection in the hall mirror—she wore her dark brown hair in its usual braid down her back, and she’d exchanged her workday clothes of T-shirt and shorts for a denim skirt and sleeveless top. Was it too much? Was she trying too hard? She had no idea. She’d long ago lost the ability to judge these kinds of things.
Shannon kept wanting her to have a makeover, dye her hair or wear something racy, but Abby just wasn’t interested. “You have the soul of a sixty-year-old,” her friend had said, shaking her head, and Abby had just smiled. It was easier to laugh it off than think about why she was that way, and how she didn’t think she’d ever change.
The doorbell rang, and Bailey’s paws skittered across the floor as she matched Abby’s quick pace to discover who had come calling.
“Hello!” Simon beamed at her from behind a ridiculously large bouquet of brown-eyed Susans. “Aren’t these marvelous? We don’t have them in the UK, but I’ve always loved them. They look so friendly.”
“Yes, they do, don’t they?” Abby took the flowers, brushing her nose against their velvety brown centers as Simon bent down to give Bailey a pat. “Thank you so much. What kind of flowers do you have in England?”
“Oh, your run-of-the-mill roses,” Simon said in such a deliberately dismissive voice that Abby had to smile. “Lilies. Lilac. Bluebells. All very boring stuff.”