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“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.”
“I doubt that.” Back in the kitchen, Abby reached for one of the dusty crystal vases kept in a high cabinet and rarely used. She gave it a quick wipe down before filling it with water. “So, what have you been up to over the last few days?”
“Not much, really. Recovering from jet lag, relaxing by the lake.”
Abby put the flowers in the middle of the table as Simon leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. He wore another button-down shirt, this one in pale blue, and a pair of faded jeans. Abby wondered if British men never wore shorts. Even though it was evening, the kitchen felt stuffy and hot, especially with the oven on.
“And what about your book?”
“Ah, yes. My book.” Simon made a comical grimace. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how much material I have. I’m afraid I might have gone on a bit of a wild goose chase with this, and I’m starting to wonder if it leads anywhere.” For a second, Abby saw something under his wry, laughing tone, something surprisingly bleak, but it was gone in an instant.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t help you more.”
“Not your fault. I simply hoped for more than there was, or at least was known, and I’m not sure there is.”
“What about the other couple, in Genoa City? You mentioned their kids wanted to talk to you?”
“Yes, there’s that, but, from all accounts, there’s not much mystery to it. A happily-ever-after, the end. Still, I’m going to see them on the weekend.”
Abby checked the lasagne, bubbling away, and then put the garlic bread in the oven. “Do you really think there’s some mystery to this medal?” she asked, glad her father was upstairs and couldn’t hear.
“I don’t know,” Simon said slowly. “I sort of think there is, especially because of your father’s reaction.”
She glanced at him, and saw he was looking straight and steadily at her, and she felt that same strange shivery sensation she’d felt before, like an invisible fingertip was trailing up her arm. Ridiculous.
“Why would my grandfather give Sophie his medal?” Abby wondered aloud. “As a keepsake, a way to remember him?”
“Perhaps.”
“That doesn’t seem too mysterious. If they had a wartime romance, it obviously didn’t last, but perhaps they parted on good terms.”
“Then why would my grandmother say she hoped he could forgive her?”
Abby paused, considering. “Maybe he asked her to come to America with him and she said no?”
“Perhaps, but it felt like something more than that. Like… a grievance.”
