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“Thank you.”
I raise my finger to my lips and shush her silently.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I showed Lo to the guest room next to mine. It was the right thing to do, and she didn’t argue. I suggested a walk in the afternoon that she gladly accepted, so we hooked the dogs up and ambled through the nearby park for nearly two hours while the dogs romped around, oblivious to the heaviness hanging in the air surrounding their owners. She didn’t speak once, and I didn’t try to force her, my main objective to just be there with her. To let her try and process her loss. But I fear there’s not enough time in the world.
When we got back to my place, I forced her to eat a sandwich—tuna, no cucumber—and drink some tea, and I let her go up to her room when she silently slipped out of the kitchen. She needs space. I’m willing to let her have as much space as she needs.
I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on emails in my home office, and checking in with Tia, Todd, and Pops. Their compassionate tones were nearly too much to bear, and it made me appreciate all the more what Lo’s had to contend with these past few years. It also made me wonder where her friends were. Where were the two women she’d gone out for drinks with? Where is the group of friends from their wedding photos? Why weren’t they the ones Lo called at the hospital? Why is she so alone?
My family and friends are offering me comfort, and yet it’s not I who has lost someone. Technically, I’ve found someone. I should be delighted, my friends and family should be delighted, but the circumstances surrounding my journey to finding my one true love can’t allow me to celebrate it. How can I when I’ve watched Lo’s world fall apart? I can only pray that I can put it back together for her. I want to be the man who helps her find happiness again.
Staring at the Google search bar on my screen, I tap in “Mildred Rose” and begin to scroll through the results. There aren’t many, and most of them are obituaries. My heart sinks as I click my way through all the articles, looking for key information that’ll tell me if any of these Mildred Roses are Pops’s Milly. None were born in 1927 or 1928. Not one. Biting my lip, I click on one final result, a page from the BT Phonebook. I’m not optimistic as I read the address in Brighton, but it’s my only shot. I call the landline number given, and it rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when a female voice answers. A sweet, old female voice.
I sit up straight in my chair, wishing I’d prepared better for this. “Hello, I’m hoping you can help me.”
A tut comes down the line. “I have double glazing, I have a new boiler, and I don’t want cavity wall insulation,” she declares.
I smile a little. “I’m not a salesman.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m looking for a lady called Mildred Rose.”
“Who’s asking?”
I clear my throat on a hesitant laugh. “My name is Luke Williamson. I’m the grandson of Bert Williamson.” There’s a shocked inhale of breath down the line. It makes me sit up in my chair, alert. “Is that name familiar to you?”
“Yes,” she barely whispers. “Yes, it is.”
“Milly?”
There’s a long, long silence, and for a moment I panic that she might hang up. “Yes.”
I breathe out, a million questions charging forward. “You met my grandfather in 1946.”
“I did. He nearly ran me down on a flaming pushbike.”
My grin is face-splitting. “It’s his favorite story. He tells me it all the time.”
“All the time? Oh my gosh, he’s still alive?”
“Oh, yes. He’s alive and kicking all right.” I chuckle, hearing her gasp, before silence falls again. “Are you okay?”
“I just need to sit down, dear. Oh my goodness. How is he?”
“He’s very well, thank you. Frequently causing havoc in the independent retirement home where he lives.”
She chuckles too, and it’s the sweetest sound. “He was always a comedian.”
“Nothing’s changed, Milly. Can I call you Milly?”
“Of course you can, my dear. You must get your chivalrousness from your grandfather. Are you close?”
“Very. At the risk of sounding mushy, he’s my hero.”
“He was my hero too.” She pauses for a beat, and then sighs. “But it wasn’t meant to be. You must be the son of Bert’s son, yes?”
“Yes,” I confirm, knowing she’ll be remembering the reason Pops walked away from her.
“And why on earth are you calling me?”
I go in for the kill. She can only say no, and Pops will never have to know. “How would feel about seeing Pops again?”
She inhales sharply. “See Bert? Does he want to see me?”
