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“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?”<
