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Abby stood on the porch as Simon came up the dusty drive in his rental car, one hand waving out the window as he pulled up in front of the farmhouse.
She hadn’t told her dad where she was going today; she didn’t usually and, in any case, he was out in the orchard spraying all afternoon, and it had seemed easier not to say anything. She’d given Bailey her morning walk and was meant to be balancing the farm’s books and getting ahead on the publicity for the harvest weekend they held every year, but she could work this evening, and it wasn’t pressing anyway.
Simon turned off the engine and climbed out of the car, smiling at her in a way that made her stomach give a little leap. She never did stuff like this. Never went anywhere much, and certainly not with a man she found attractive. Because, yes, she was willing to admit she found Simon Elliot attractive, which was why she felt so nervous now, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. This didn’t have to be a big deal. She’d told Shannon it wasn’t, when her friend had called her asking about “her Englishman”.
“He’s not mine,” Abby had protested, but Shannon wasn’t having it.
“Not according to the Ashford grapevine. First dinner, now a date?”
How, Abby wondered, did everyone know everything in this town? She could guess how it had happened—Simon had mentioned something to Betty at the Citgo Station, and she’d passed it onto her husband Merv, who worked at the hardware store. He’d told Shannon’s mother, who stocked shelves there part-time, and there they were.
“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.
