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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.
