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ABBY
Oak Bluffs was a pleasant “Senior Living” facility on the outskirts of Minneapolis, overlooking the wide winding path of the Minnesota River.
“Guy Wessel lives in his own apartment,” Simon explained as he pulled into a parking lot by a series of single-floor buildings. “Which is pretty amazing at his age.”
“How old is he?”
“Ninety-seven. He joined up in 1942, as soon as he turned eighteen.” He shot her a quick smile. “But that’s all I know, really. That, and that he knew Matthew Lawson, and called him a friend.”
“We’ll know a lot more soon,” Abby answered. “Hopefully.”
The last few hours of driving had been easy and companionable, relaxed rather than intense after their conversation at the cook shanty. It was as if something had loosened between them, or perhaps just in Abby herself—a tangled knot whose complicated strands were just beginning to separate and reveal themselves.
It had been so very pleasant to simply be with someone, without heavy conversation or the need to skirt serious issues. Abby had switched her phone off, not wanting to worry about calls from her father, asking where she was, or texts from Shannon, seeing how she was. Right now she was with Simon, and she was absolutely fine.
The car parked, Simon paused for a moment as he glanced at her with his wonderfully crooked smile. “Are you ready to do this?”
“Yes.” Abby wasn’t sure if she actually thought—or hoped—Guy Wessel would have inf
ormation for them or not. It wasn’t even about that, she was beginning to realize, not really. Coming to Minneapolis with Simon wasn’t even about Tom Reese or Sophie Mather. It was about her stepping out of her carefully constructed comfort zone, which hadn’t been all that comfortable, in the end. It was about daring to do something different for once, and then daring to see where it might lead.
“Let’s go, then,” Simon said with a smile, and Abby nodded.
They both got out of the car and Simon started looking for number six, Guy Wessel’s apartment. A few minutes later, as they walked along a pleasant path lined by rhododendron bushes, they found it, and he pressed the doorbell.
“Coming,” a surprisingly strong voice called out from within. “Just takes me a minute.”
Abby and Simon exchanged curious smiles and then, a few moments later, the door was unlocked and opened and a man stood there, white-haired and stooped over, his face as wrinkled as a walnut, his dark eyes full of both warmth and acuity.
“Well, well,” he said as, with the help of a cane, he shuffled back a step. “Come in.”
The apartment was small, with a spare, military neatness, a living room with a kitchenette and a bedroom and bathroom down a small hall.
Guy led them to one of two sofas underneath a picture window and gestured for them to sit down before he gently eased himself into a chair opposite, lying his cane to one side and resting his hands on his knees as he appraised them each in turn.
“So you must be Simon,” he said, before turning to Abby. “But I don’t know your name, miss.”
“Abby Reese,” she supplied with a smile. “I’m the granddaughter of Tom Reese.”
“Ah.” The man nodded, the single syllable seeming to possess a wealth of meaning that made Abby suddenly feel nervous. What if she did find something out here? She hadn’t actually expected anything more than an old man’s vague recollections of someone she didn’t even know, but what if Guy Wessel had something specific to say, not just about Matthew Lawson, but about her own grandfather? Her own life? Looking at his sharp eyes, his kindly if rather knowing smile, she had a sudden, uneasy feeling he might.
Guy turned back to Simon with an air of expectancy. “So you, young man, were asking about Matthew Lawson, as he was known.”
“Was known?” Simon raised questioning eyebrows. “It’s the only name I’ve heard.”
“Well, it wasn’t his real name, of course.” Guy looked between the pair of them. “But I guess you didn’t get that far in your research?” he surmised with a slight smugness that made Abby smile. Here was a man who was enjoying having—and telling—a secret.
“The only thing we know about Matthew Lawson,” Simon said with a self-deprecating smile, “is that he was in the 82nd Airborne, and he received a Distinguished Service Cross for acts of bravery in May 1945, which came into the possession of Abby’s grandfather, Tom Reese.”
“Ah,” Guy said again, sounding unsurprised, and Abby felt a frisson of apprehension ripple through her.
“What do you know about him?” she asked.
“About your grandfather? Not very much at all, I’m afraid. Not as much as you do, I’m sure. I only talked to him a handful of times, if that. We didn’t move in the same circles, as it were, even though we were both in the 508th.”
“Oh.” Abby wasn’t sure whether she felt disappointed or not.
“But Matthew Lawson, I knew quite a bit,” Guy continued. “If I can say that. We were Ritchie Boys together.”
