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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.”
