by Kate Hewitt
“It’s really not a date.”
“You are going out alone with a man of similar age to you. For you, that’s a date. That’s practically marriage.”
Abby had been able to hear the smile in Shannon’s voice, but the remark had stung just the tiniest bit. Yes, for her, because her life was so small and boring. Not for anyone else.
“You know what I mean,” Shannon had said, her tone gentler, and Abby knew she’d picked up on that fraction of a second of silence.
“I’m really not thinking of it that way,” she’d said, except she knew she was. Sort of.
Even now she was trying to tell herself that this didn’t mean anything, that she wasn’t sure she wanted it to. She and Simon were from different continents, different worlds. It wasn’t like this could go anywhere, if “it” even started at all, which it probably wouldn’t.
Yet, despite all those warnings and caveats, she couldn’t deny it felt—fun—to be spending the day with someone. To not know exactly, down to the minute, how the hours would pass. To feel that little leap in her belly and prod it curiously.
“Are you ready?” Simon asked, smiling up at her.
“Yes, I think so.” She turned back to the house to get her purse, not that she’d even need it, before closing the door and coming down the steps.
Simon looked exactly the same, his hair ruffled from the window, his eyes glinting hazel. A few freckles had come out on his nose, thanks to the summer sun.
“Do you always wear a button-down shirt?” Abby asked, and he laughed.
“Pretty much. I’m terribly boring, aren’t I?”
“No, I just wondered.” She smiled, before getting into the passenger seat, telling herself not to be so nervous. The last thing she wanted was Simon to pick up on it. “So who are the Bryants, exactly?” she asked as he headed back down the drive, the dust billowing out behind them. “And what do you know about them?”
“Not much, really.” Simon flexed his hands on the steering wheel as he shot her another quick smile, eyes crinkling, the whole gamut. Abby’s stomach leapt again. “I came across them when I was doing an internet search on Tom Reese. I searched something like Wisconsin GIs and stumbled on Douglas Bryant. He’d written a memoir that he’d had published with a small press some years ago, although I’ve yet to get my hands on a copy. He served in the artillery, came to the UK in ’43. That’s about all I know.”
“And he married a British woman?”
“Yes, a nurse named Stella from Wolverhampton. They came back here. And that’s it, as far as I know.” He turned to give her a wry grimace. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much mystery or drama, but it will be interesting to hear their perspective on the war. And, who knows? Perhaps it will shed some light on your grandfather’s situation somehow.”
“Maybe,” Abby said doubtfully. She couldn’t see how two strangers would tell her anything about Tom Reese, but she supposed learning a little more about the war could be interesting. And, truthfully, she just wanted to spend an afternoon away from Willow Tree, with Simon.
She gazed out the window at the farms flashing by, big red barns in yellow-green fields, the landscape of her life. So familiar, if she closed her eyes, she could see it all perfectly, down to every last detail—the split in the fence post, the weathered billboard for the Tristan Crist Magic Theatre in Lake Geneva, the farmhouse with two dusty pickup trucks in the drive and an American flag on the front porch. She knew it all. She’d lived it all, hadn’t lived anything else.
Why did she feel the tiniest bit restless, even bored by it, now?
She couldn’t let herself be bored. She didn’t have that freedom, that right.
Abby pressed her hand against the window for a moment, a way to anchor herself, and Simon glanced at her again.
“Shall I roll down the windows? Get some fresh air?”
“All right.”
He pressed a button and the windows came down, the warm breeze rolling over her like a wave. She put one hand to her hair in its usual braid, wisps flying around her face.
“I’m going to look like a total mess by the time we get there.”
“You look lovely.”
The sincerity in his voice would make her blush if she let it, but Abby didn’t respond. She turned back to the window, looking out at the view she knew so well, letting the details soak right into her.
It was only twenty minutes to Genoa City, a town of about three thousand. Simon followed the satnav on his phone to a modest ranch house on the outskirts of the town, with a neat yard and a minivan in the driveway.
“So, we’re seeing Helen Wegman, the Bryants’ daughter, married to Ralph,” he briefed her as he turned off the engine and rolled up the windows. “They’re in their early seventies—retired, spent all their lives here in Genoa City.”
“Sounds familiar.”
Simon flashed her a quick, commiserating smile. “Do you feel like you’re looking into your future?”
Abby glanced at the little house. Her whole life in Ashford, alone? This, and nothing more? There was no reason to think why not, and yet she had to suppress a sudden visceral shudder at the thought. “Not quite,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Good.”
Abby decided there was no need to unpack that statement as they got out of the car and headed up to the house.
Helen Wegman answered the door as soon as Simon had rung the bell.
“You must be Simon. You look English.” She gave them both wide smiles. “And you are…?”
“Abby Reese. And I’m not English.” She smiled back. “A genuine Wisconsinite, from over near Ashford.”
“Well, welcome both of you.” Helen stepped aside so they could come into the small living room; Abby took in a three-piece suite in blue corduroy and a lot of family photos. “Ralph had to run some errands, but he’ll be back shortly. I’ve gotten some old mementoes and things out—I thought you might want to have a look.” She turned to Simon. “You said you’re writing a book…?”
“Hoping to.” He smiled wryly. “I only just started, but I’m gathering information, so anything you could tell us about your parents’ romance during the war…”
“Well, they did like to talk about it,” Helen said with a laugh. “Love at first sight, they said it was.”
“How did they meet?”
“Oh, that’s quite a story, let me tell you. But, first, can I get you something to drink? Eat?”
Simon glanced questioningly at Abby, who shrugged back.
“Yes, thanks, that would be lovely.”
“Oh, your accent!” Helen laughed and shook her head. “You sound like something on one of those British dramas. I’ve got lemonade…”
“I love lemonade,” Simon declared, and Abby smiled.
“American lemonade,” she reminded him quietly as Helen bustled back to the kitchen, and Simon gave her a quick, laughing look.
“But of course.”
They settled onto the sofa, sitting on each end, and glanced at the various memorabilia Helen had got out—a wedding photo, a worn and faded ration book, a war medal. Simon picked up the photograph and studied it. Abby leaned over so she could have a look.
“Why did everyone in the 1940s look so glamorous?” she asked as she gazed at the picture of the woman with her dark hair done up in a French roll. The man wore his army uniform, his hair slicked back with pomade. They were both wearing wide smiles, looking happy and full of life, rather different from the subdued looks of her own grandparents in their wedding photo.
“I think it was the lipstick,” Simon remarked thoughtfully. “And the hair. Makes it all seem very stylish.”
“You can’t even tell if she’s wearing lipstick,” Abby protested. “It’s a black and white photo.”
“Don’t you think? Her lips look so dark. If this were a color photo, they’d be bright red, I’d bet.”
“Maybe. Did women have lipstick during the war? Weren’t things like that difficult to get hold of?”<
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“Everything was, or so it seems, but people found ways to make do. I read in a book somewhere that women used boot polish for mascara and beetroot for lipstick.”
“Goodness.” Abby couldn’t imagine it; she never wore makeup, not even a slick of lip gloss or hint of concealer. There usually wasn’t any point, and she hadn’t even thought of it for today.
“‘Beauty is a Duty’, I believe the phrase was,” Simon remarked.
“That sounds a bit sexist.”
“I suppose everything was a bit sexist back then, but that was the amazing thing about the war—it gave women the opportunity to do things they never were able to before.”
“That sounds like another book.”
Simon smiled at her. “Maybe it is.”
“Here we are,” Helen announced as she came into the room with a tray of lemonade and the ubiquitous cheese platter—a seeming necessity when entertaining in Wisconsin. She distributed the drinks as Simon and Abby murmured their thanks, and then she settled herself in an armchair opposite them before nodding at the photo Simon had put back on the table. “That’s my parents. Douglas and Stella Bryant.”
“They look like a lovely couple.”
“They were.” She smiled fondly. “And so in love, right till the end.” Laughing self-consciously, she dabbed at her eyes. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For your marriage?”
Abby glanced at Simon, who had a strangely serious look on his face, something close to sadness. Looking at him, she felt jolted, as if she’d missed the last step in a staircase.
“I would think so,” she said when he didn’t seem as if he was going to respond. “Although, I must admit, I don’t have any experience, myself.”
“Oh…” Helen glanced between the two of them with confusion. “You’re not…”
“No, no,” Abby said quickly. “I only met Simon last week. He’s researching my grandfather as well, who fought in the war.” She could feel herself speaking too quickly. “So how did your parents meet?”
“Sorry, I just assumed…” Helen shook her head and then sat back, settling herself more comfortably in her armchair. “It’s such a sweet story. My dad was sent to England in 1943, before the D-Day invasion. He was in the artillery, kicking his heels up somewhere in the Midlands before being mobilized. From the stories he told, you’d think it was a party every day. Dances, going to the pictures… he was a good-looking man, as you can see, and although he never said it quite so bluntly, I think he could have had his pick of women.”
“I’ve heard it was tough on the poor Tommies,” Simon said with a small smile. He had recovered his usual relaxed and engaging manner. “The GIs had everything—smart uniforms, more money, cigarettes, chewing gum.”
“Yes, I suppose they did. Although my mother always said she fell for his smile.”
“I’m sure she did.” Simon nodded towards the photo. “He had a good one.”
“Anyway, they met at a dance put on by the American Red Cross, in Wolverhampton. They used to do that for the soldiers—they’d been away from home for months, or sometimes even years, and they got homesick. They had all sorts of things to help them feel more at home. I remember my dad used to tell me about Rainbow Corner in London, where he went when he was on leave. It had everything—a movie theater, a barber’s, a corner drugstore, an endless supply of Coca-Colas.” She smiled. “I’d have liked to have seen it. In any case, my mother wasn’t going to go to this dance—she wasn’t much of one for things like that, but her friend dragged her along. My father knew how to cut up a rug for sure—he was on the floor with a different girl for every dance. They couldn’t have been more different.”
“So what happened?” Abby asked, genuinely curious.
“My mother caught my father’s eye. Not with anything she’d done—she was standing against the wall, wishing she could go home! But my father liked the look of her, and he asked her to dance. She decided she liked his smile and so she said yes. They danced every dance together after that, even though my mother had two left feet. And the rest, they say, is history.” Helen sat back, satisfied.
“That’s lovely.” Simon nodded towards the war medal on the coffee table—the same kind of Purple Heart that was now in her father’s bedroom. “That was his?”
“Yes, he was shot in the shoulder during the Normandy landings. Put him out of action for two months. He was so annoyed he got shot, but he was proud too. Always liked to tell the story.”
Which was about as different from her grandfather as could be, Abby thought, who had never talked about it and given away his medal besides. “What about your mother?” she asked. “She didn’t mind moving all the way to America?”
“No, she’d lost both her parents in the war, and she didn’t have any siblings. I think she was more than glad to go. Dad’s family took her in, and they stayed right here in Genoa City their whole lives.”
They chatted a bit more, and Simon gamely took a cracker and an orange cube of cheddar cheese from the platter, but there wasn’t much more to learn, and there was certainly no mystery. Still, it was interesting to hear about Helen’s memories of her parents’ experiences during the war, and it made Abby wonder even more about her grandfather… and Sophie Mather.
“Maybe she had family who could tell you more,” Abby said when they’d said their goodbyes to the Wegmans. Ralph had come in for the last few minutes, shaking their hands and seeming pleased they’d come.
“I know she did,” Simon answered as he opened the passenger door for her. Abby felt strangely pleased that he knew immediately whom she’d been talking about. “She had parents, of course, and a sister, Lily—I believe her name was—although I think they lost touch a long time ago, maybe even right after the war. At least, I think that’s what Mum said. She met her once, when she was a little girl, but I think Lily died a while ago, I don’t know how or why, or whether she had family.” He shook his head helplessly as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“Why do you think she and Sophie lost touch?”
Simon spread his hands. “I don’t know that, either. I think there was a lot of personality in the family—my grandmother, as well as my mother.” He paused, as if he were going to say more. “They were very dramatic, emotional people.” A tension had crept into his voice, his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing.
“Well, you know what they say,” Abby said, only semi-joking as Simon started the car, “dysfunctional families are ones with people in them.”
“Right.” He managed a small smile before seeming to shake off his dark mood, the way a dog shook off water. “Anyway, looking back, I don’t suppose you realize at the time that you’ve lost touch with someone. You just see them less and less, a gradual slipping away. I think that’s how it might have been for my grandmother and her sister.”
“So you never met Lily.”
“No, not that I can remember.” He considered for a moment. “I’m quite sure I didn’t.”
Simon started to reverse out of the driveway, and Abby waved to the Wegmans, who were still standing on the front doorstep.
“And when you’re a child,” he continued ruminatively, “you don’t think about the adults in your life having lives of their own, do you? They’re just part of the backdrop—weekend visits, slipping you a sweet or a fiver. When I was older, I asked my grandmother a bit about the war—I did my thesis in university on the Mass Observation Project, and I wanted her input.”
“The Mass—what? What was that?”
“People were encouraged to keep diaries during the war, to record their thoughts and feelings as well as what they got up to, and then send them to a national review. It’s a fascinating glimpse into what life really was like back then. I wrote about whether the diaries were an accurate reflection of wartime life, or if people were writing down what they thought others wanted to read. Anyway, I asked Granny about it, but she didn’t have much to say, at least that was personal. She’d talk about rationing or the Anderson shelte
r in their back garden, but it all seemed pretty removed from what she was experiencing or feeling. And she didn’t mention Tom Reese until shortly before her death.” He shrugged. “Your father is right in that, I think. There are some things people just don’t want to talk about. I would have asked more, but it felt invasive.”
“I can understand that.” Abby knew she certainly wasn’t one to press anyone about anything. And yet the result was a vacuum of knowledge, a yawning ignorance, and one that she felt now more than ever.
Lily and Sophie. Two sisters, eighty years ago, and somehow her grandfather had been involved. How? Why? What had he needed to forgive Sophie Mather for?
“Do you have to get back?” Simon asked. “Or would you like to grab some lunch?” They were driving through Genoa City’s main drag, a friendly-looking street with a variety of brick and clapboard buildings on either side, looking as if it had fallen straight out of the 1950s. Simon nodded towards an old neon sign above a small diner. “That place looks like it could have been around in the Bryants’ time.”
“Yes, something out of that Rainbow Corner Helen mentioned.”
“So are you all right to stay out a bit longer?”
Abby hesitated, caught between temptation and a niggling anxiety. Would her father come back to the house for lunch and notice she was missing? Would he care? She was thirty-two years old. She didn’t need to answer to him for absolutely everything. She just felt like she did, an endless atonement for the way she’d once failed.
“Yes, although I should get back fairly soon to let Bailey out,” she said at last. “But another hour can’t hurt.”
Faye’s Diner was nearly empty when they walked through the door, a waitress behind the counter pouring coffee for a lone customer at a table in the back.
Simon slid into a red vinyl booth in the window with an expression of delight.
“This place is amazing. I’d say it’s retro, but I don’t think it’s ever changed. It’s vintage.”
“Hopefully the food isn’t,” Abby quipped as she took one of the slightly greasy laminated menus that had been stuck between the salt and pepper shakers and perused the usual offerings—all-day breakfast, burgers and hotdogs, club sandwiches and fries.