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“Because I don’t want it!” David’s voice rose. “Even if it doesn’t make sense to you, why can’t you respect that?”
Abby cringed, not at her father’s angry tone, but the despair and grief she saw on his face. Guilt corroded her insides, reminded her of all she had to make up for—would always have to make up for, no matter how hard or long she tried. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just… I don’t understand why this is such a big thing. Grandad’s been gone for thirty years. Whatever happened, whatever he did, surely it doesn’t matter anymore?”
“It matters to me.” David heaved a heavy sigh. “Memories matter, Abby. The way you think of someone, what you know about them, how they live on. Surely you can appreciate that? Especially when they’re all you have.”
“I know that,” she said quietly. Of course she knew that. She could never forget it. Her mother and brother were frozen forever in time, forty-five and fifteen. She sank into a chair at the kitchen table, and Bailey immediately put her head on her knee, her liquid brown eyes gazing up at her unblinkingly. “But I didn’t realize your memories of Grandad were…” She paused, her thoughts so tangled. “Complicated.”
“It wasn’t complicated, what I asked,” David returned flatly. “To drop it.”
Abby kept her gaze on Bailey, her hands sliding almost mechanically over her fur. Of course she’d known this was painful for her father. He’d made it plenty clear, and she’d kept her meetings with Simon secret for a reason. She’d tried to hide that she’d gone into the attic at all. Guilt, her constant companion, pressed even closer. “I’m sorry,” she said after a long, tense moment. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” He sounded weary, which was worse than if he’d stayed furious.
“Why can’t you tell me?” The challenge was unexpected for both of them. Abby never challenged her father. She managed him, it was true, with careful, gentle handling, but she didn’t oppose or question him. Yet now, for a reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she was. “Why can’t you tell me whatever it is you’re hiding about Grandad?” she asked, trying to keep her voice reasonable. Gentle. “Is it something about the war? Something you don’t want people to know? Who is Matthew Lawson?” The questions spilled out of her, surprising them both.
David’s face darkened as he shook his head, a vehement back and forth that reminded Abby of an angry bear. “I don’t want to talk about this, Abby.”
“I know you don’t, but it’s my family too. Don’t I have a right to—”
“No.” The word was flatly spoken, an absolute. When it came to their family, she didn’t have any rights, period. She’d lost them.
“That’s not fair,” Abby said quietly, her voice so low she half-hoped her father hadn’t heard her.
“Not fair?” he
repeated. “Do we really want to talk about what’s not fair?”
“Dad.” The word caught in her throat. She couldn’t bear him to dredge up that.
“Please, Abby.” The anger drained away, leaving her father looking like a broken man, his shoulders slumped, his voice faltering. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you, and it’s all old history, but… I can’t stand the thought of that guy writing our family’s history in a book. Poking and prying into private matters.”
“He wouldn’t have to put in a book,” Abby said quietly. “And even if you told me, I wouldn’t necessarily tell him. Not if you didn’t want me to.” Although she hadn’t exactly respected her father’s wishes in this matter so far.
“It’s not worth knowing.” David slumped into the chair opposite her, and detecting a mood as ever, Bailey moved her head from Abby’s knee to her father’s. With a sad smile, he stroked her head. “Remember when we got this old girl?”
“Yes.” Her father had brought Bailey home one spring day, a golden fluffball of fur, after their old sheepdog Sam had died. Abby had been delighted with the puppy, who seemed less of a working dog than the loving companion they both needed—and still did. “She’s been a good friend.”
“Yes.” David’s gnarled hand rested on top of Bailey’s head. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, and Abby tensed in surprise. Her father never apologized. “I know I seem unreasonable. But this is painful for me. I don’t… I don’t want it dredged up. Any of it. I know it may not seem important to you, but… some things are better left unknown.”
Abby’s throat felt tight. The deep sadness, and even grief, in her father’s voice made her eyes sting. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know you didn’t.” But she had. With a sigh, he heaved himself up from the table. “Let’s just leave it,” he said, and Abby felt as if that were the catchphrase of their lives. Leave everything behind, never talk about it, and yet still it loomed, forefront and center of their lives.
David didn’t wait for her reply, and Abby watched miserably as he shuffled out of the room. She listened to the sound of the front door close—a soft, despairing click, rather than an angry slam—and she brushed at her eyes impatiently.
This was why she never lost patience with her father, never left Willow Tree. Instead of being coldly furious, he became pathetically broken. And it was her fault. She knew she had to make peace with that somehow—Shannon had told her many times, a therapist she’d seen briefly had told her repeatedly, she knew it in her bones—but conversations like this one had the old, awful guilt rearing up, taking over. It’s my fault he’s like this. My fault our family is broken.
Abby took a deep breath and tried to focus. Mechanically, she went to the fridge to take something out for dinner. Her mind felt frozen as she started chopping an onion, her eyes smarting from the activity, which was better than crying because she felt so frustrated, so despairing, so sad.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years she’d lived with her dad, lived with the guilt. Found happiness in small but significant ways, yes, thank goodness. Shannon. The shop. Harvest festivals and summer fairs, chatting with customers, having dinner with a few friends. Bailey. She’d made a life, but she knew, at some basic heart level, she hadn’t been truly happy, not deep down, in a contented, settled sort of way. She’d always been looking for something.
And you think you’ve found that with Simon?
The scoffing voice in her head almost seemed audible, a silent, sneering echo that reverberated through the room. Abby paused, knife in midair. Was that what was going on here? She was clinging to some pathetic romantic fantasy that belonged in a romcom or a frothy novel, not real life? Simon might have kissed her, but she barely knew him, and in any case, he was going back to England—when? A few weeks, he’d said. She was being ridiculous.
She’d let her interest in Simon guide her actions, make her dig into her grandfather’s past even though she’d known—she’d absolutely known—that her father was reluctant. More than reluctant, even. Whatever secret her father was protecting—and Abby could not even begin to imagine what it was—it wasn’t her right to dig it up and expose it to the light, to cause him more pain than she already had.
Abby resumed chopping the onion, determined now, her movements swift and purposeful. When Simon came, she’d tell him he needed to stop his research into her family, and the mysterious Matthew Lawson. She didn’t want to know who he was, or why Tom Reese had his medal, and Sophie Mather had his. She didn’t need to know any of it. She didn’t even want to, anymore. It didn’t matter. She could choose for it not to.
