Into the Darkest Day: An emotional and totally gripping WW2 historical novel
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Into the Darkest Day
An emotional and totally gripping WW2 historical novel
Kate Hewitt
Books by Kate Hewitt
Into the Darkest Day
A Hope For Emily
No Time to Say Goodbye
Not My Daughter
The Secrets We Keep
A Mother’s Goodbye
This Fragile Life
When He Fell
Rainy Day Sisters
Now and Then Friends
A Mother like Mine
Writing as Katharine Swartz
The Vicar's Wife
The Lost Garden
The Second Bride
The Other Side of The Bridge
AVAILABLE IN AUDIO
A Hope For Emily (Available in the UK and the US)
No Time to Say Goodbye (Available in the UK and the US)
Not My Daughter (Available in the UK and the US)
The Secrets We Keep (Available in the UK and the US)
A Mother’s Goodbye (Available in the UK and the US)
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Not My Daughter
Hear More from Kate
Books by Kate Hewitt
A Letter from Kate
A Hope For Emily
No Time to Say Goodbye
The Secrets We Keep
A Mother’s Goodbye
Acknowledgments
*
To my old friend Greg Evans, for giving me the germ of the idea for this story, and to Cat and Jim, just because I wanted to dedicate a book to you. Love, K.
Prologue
The street is empty, the city a palette of grays, as she looks out the window and waits. She has been waiting for months, years, her whole life. And she does not know when—or if—the waiting will end.
She understands that promises can’t always be kept, and she knows better than to ask or expect words put to paper, not when the whole world has been held in the balance, life itself no more than a dandelion clock in the wind.
Still, she cranes her head to look down the street; the only signs of life she sees now are two raggedy children chasing a cat, and a charwoman lugging her pail. It is late afternoon, the sky a heavy gray, the world dispirited.
It has been three months since the victory in Europe, nearly a month since the war the world over has ended, and yet no one seems able to summon much effort to celebrate, never mind rejoice. Perhaps they are too weary; they have forgotten how to hope.
As she scans the empty street, she does not know if she hopes or not. Her belief feels more certain than that, a hope with a sure foundation, and yet even so she does not know what will happen.
He will come, she thinks.
As the sunlight is leached from the sky, she lets her mind drift. The night at The Berkeley, when they danced and drank champagne. The moment at the stairs to the Underground, and then again in the narrow little hall, when she handed him his coat and the world seemed to tilt as she forgot how to breathe.
Every memory is precious, because she knows that they are all she might have. He has not written since September last year, not one word. Perhaps he is dead. She thinks she would know that; fancifully, she believes she would feel it, but perhaps she wouldn’t. Perhaps she’ll never know.
The possibility sits inside her like a stone, a lifetime of this. There could be worse things, she tells herself practically, and of course she knows there could be. Far worse. The news has come from Germany, the terrible photographs she can’t bear to look at, and yet neither can she make herself look away. Yes, far, far worse than this.
She puts one hand on the cool glass and spreads her fingers wide as a sigh escapes her, a sound of acceptance rather than defeat. Darkness is starting to fall, like a mist creeping in. Not today, then, but perhaps tomorrow.
She will keep waiting. No matter how long, no matter how futile, she will wait.
Part I
Chapter One
ABBY
Abby Reese watched the dust rise from the dirt road in a golden-brown plume, obscuring the car that was causing it, although she knew who was driving. At least, she acknowledged as she stood on the farmhouse’s front porch, one hand wrapped around a weathered wooden post, she knew of the driver. She’d never met Simon Elliot, and had only heard of him a few weeks ago. Yet now he was almost here, and she had no idea what to expect—a flicker of curiosity was championed by a deeper sense of trepidation, born from experience. Abby didn’t like the unexpected.
The dust cloud grew larger as the car continued down the drive, a straight shot of dirt road that Abby knew like her own hand. All thirty-two years of her life had been spent on Willow Tree Orchards, in the southern heartland of Wisconsin, the gateway—or at least one of them—to the state and its many lakes.
She straightened, her hand tightening around the post, fingers pressing into splintered wood. Next to her, her golden retriever Bailey’s tail thumped a staccato beat on the weathered boards of the porch, both of them waiting and watching as the car pulled up in front of the farmhouse and the driver cut the engine, leaving a stillness behind like an echo. She couldn’t see him through the darkly tinted windows, and she had no idea what he would look like when he opened the door—old or young? Tall or short? All he was to her at this point was a name.
Three weeks ago, Simon Elliot had written her an email through the orchard’s website, utterly out of the blue, asking to visit her and her father here in Wisconsin. The only other time she’d communicated with him was two days previous, when he’d sent a confirmation email of his visit, after he’d arrived in Chicago all the way from England. And now he was actually here, to give her—or, really, her father—something that belonged to the family. Something neither of them had even known about, or so her father said.
The car door opened and Abby stepped down from the porch, Bailey trotting at her heels. A smile flirted with her mouth and then slipped away. Nerves danced in her belly, along with a curiosity she couldn’t suppress, even though at least part of her wanted to.
“You must be Abby.” The man who emerged from the dust-streaked car had floppy brown hair, glasses, and kind eyes—brown and warm, like mahogany, like chocolate. The warmth of his expression had Abby’s smile finding its way back. The nerves settled down and her curiosity, although still wary, sharpened just that little bit.
“Yes… and you must be Simon.” Obviously. She let out a little laugh, because he was smiling and suddenly this didn’t seem as hard as she’d thought it would be. “Welcome to Willow Tree Orchards.”
“Thank you. And who is this?” He nodded towards Bailey, who was sticking to Abby’s side.
“This is Bailey. You’re all right with dogs?” Not th
at Bailey could do much damage. She was ten years old, a tired, faithful old girl.
“Oh, yes, certainly.” Simon bent down to pat Bailey’s head before he straightened and looked around, seeming delightfully pleased by everything he saw. “What a beautiful place you have here.”
Abby followed his gaze, taking in the familiar sight of fields rolling to a sunny horizon, the apple trees in full, verdant leaf in the distance, the clapboard farmhouse that was a hundred years old and looked it, all under a picture-perfect blue sky. Something settled in her bones, a rightness that she clung to. Yes, this was home. This was good.
“Thank you,” she said as she started towards the screen door that led inside the house. “Would you like to come in? I’ve made lemonade.”
“American lemonade?” he asked with a sparkle to his eye, and Abby nodded. What other kind was there? “Marvelous. I’d love some, thank you.”
“How long did it take you to drive from Chicago?” she asked as she led him inside, relying on the usual pleasantries to pave the way, at least until she found her social footing.
“Not long at all. An hour and a half, if that. I was expecting it to be longer. You always hear about the great distances in America, everyone taking a trip, give or take a thousand miles.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” Not that she’d taken many, or really, any. But that was okay. That had been her choice, made deliberately and definitively, fifteen years ago.
Abby moved down the hallway with its faded runner and the grandfather clock against the wall, still ticking time away after seven decades of standing sentry, to the kitchen at the back of the house—a large, friendly room where she spent a good deal of her time, whether it was with her laptop and paperwork spread out at the old, square table, or standing by the stove, stirring something or other, while Bailey flopped at her feet.
How many evenings had she stood or sat here and watched the sun sink towards the orchards, its golden rays spreading along the backyard like melted butter? How many mornings had she cradled a cup of coffee and watched the mist melt into shreds of fog as the sun burned the last of it away?
Now she took in the view of the backyard, the burgeoning vegetable garden, and then the orchards beyond, their thick green leaves hiding the first small fruits of the season. It was early July, with still over a month to go before the first varieties of apples could be harvested—a busy time of year patrolling the orchards and inspecting the trees for insects or disease, as well as keeping their small farm shop, Abby’s own brainchild, running.
She reached for the pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade that had been chilling in the fridge and poured them both tall glasses, while Simon stood in the doorway, jangling the keys in his pocket and looking around. “I suppose it’s cooler on the front porch,” she said. “If you don’t mind going back outside?”
“Sounds perfect.”
She handed Simon his glass of lemonade and he took a sip, smiling in pleasure at the taste.
“Ah, I’ve missed this.”
“Do you not have lemonade in England?”
“In some places, but lemonade is generally the fizzy drink, not fresh-squeezed. Like Sprite.”
“I see.” Abby nodded. She’d never known that, but why should she? She hadn’t been anywhere in the world but Wisconsin, save for a couple of vacations when she was a child—the ubiquitous trip to Disney, and one golden summer road trip to the Grand Canyon, which felt like a million years ago, sepia-tinted in her mind, frozen forever. “Well, enjoy,” she told him as she led the way back outside.
“Your father?” Simon asked carefully as they stepped back onto the front porch, the old boards creaking under their footsteps, Bailey between them. “Is he…?”
“He’s in the barn at the moment, inspecting a delivery of pesticide,” Abby answered. “Organic,” she added. “We do everything sustainably here.”
“So I saw on your website.” Simon gave her a glinting smile, and she looked away, finding herself just a little bit disconcerted by his easy, rather bookish charm. He looked very British, she decided, in battered cords, a slightly crumpled button-down shirt, and wire-framed glasses.
His accent sounded sophisticated—or what did the British say? Posh. It sounded like something she’d hear on one of the BBC dramas she sometimes watched on Netflix.
“So, will he be coming back soon?” Simon asked as they settled in rocking chairs on the porch, and Bailey sprawled contentedly between them. The day was warm and drowsy, a few bumblebees tumbling lazily through the still air, the scent of honeysuckle that climbed up the side of the house as sweet and heavy as perfume.
“Yes, when he can.” Abby injected a note of positivity in her voice that she didn’t necessarily feel. The truth was, when Abby had read Simon’s first email out to her father, she’d been surprised by his clear reluctance to summon any interest. He’d stated that he didn’t need to know about any medal, because the past was in the past, where it belonged. Abby had thought why can’t we live that way then? but, of course, she hadn’t said anything. They were living that way. Sort of.
Still, she hadn’t understood her father’s obvious reticence. These were different ghosts they were dealing with.
Based on his lack of enthusiasm for Simon’s visit, it hadn’t surprised her when he’d gone out to the barn right before Simon was meant to arrive. It bordered on rude, but Abby knew it wasn’t meant to be, or at least she hoped it wasn’t. It was just her father’s way of dealing, or not dealing, with something he didn’t like.
Abby was well-used to his ways, had learned a tried-and-tested method of handling him that her best friend Shannon said was dysfunctional but Abby preferred to think of as expedient. Besides, Shannon didn’t know everything, even though she thought she did. Only Abby and her father did, though they never talked about it. Only she and her father knew how to move carefully around the ghosts that drifted through every room of the house. Only she and her father knew why they were there—what had really happened the day her mother and brother had died.
“I hope he does come,” Simon said with another one of his engaging smiles, the kind that crinkled eyes and wrinkled a nose and made Abby feel like smiling back. “It was his father after all, isn’t that right?”
“Tom Reese? Yes, he is—was—my father’s father.” Abby shook her head slowly. “Although neither of us know how your grandmother could have ended up with his war medal. My father didn’t even know he had been given one in the first place.”
“I’m afraid I don’t really know why she had it, either. My grandmother didn’t tell me that part, at least not exactly, although she gave a few hints.”
“It’s very strange…”
“But intriguing, don’t you think?” Simon leaned forward, his face alight with interest, his brown eyes sparkling behind his glasses.
Abby rolled her glass, damp with condensation, between her palms.
“Yes, I suppose it is.” She knew she sounded wary, by the way Simon’s smile faltered as his curious gaze scanned her face.
When she’d read Simon’s first email, she hadn’t known what to think.
Hello, you don’t know me, but I know of you—at least a bit! My grandmother Sophie Mather died a few months ago, and she was in possession of your grandfather Tom Reese’s Purple Heart medal, awarded during his active service in the second world war. She told me she wanted it returned to “its proper owner”.
I’ve read on your website that your grandfather passed away some time ago, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I presume the proper owner would now be you or your father. I’m coming to the United States this summer for an extended visit, and would love the opportunity to return the medal to your family.
Abby had read it all, her mind both blank and spinning. Sophie Mather? What medal? And a visit?
“Do you know anything about your grandfather’s war service?” Simon asked and she looked up, shaking her head.
“No, not really.” Not at all, actually. All Abby knew wa
s that Tom Reese had fought in Europe in the Second World War, come home to Minnesota, and then moved with his young bride Susan to Wisconsin. He’d bought Willow Tree Orchards in 1951, and died when Abby was a toddler, forty years later, a heart attack when he was seventy-one. Her grandmother had died three years after that.
Abby didn’t remember either of them really at all, save for a few vague recollections of her granny—a powdered, wrinkled cheek pressed to hers, and a tin of boiled sweets kept high on a shelf in the pantry, doled out at special moments. There was only one portrait of them to go by, hung in the hall, of Tom and Susan’s wedding day, black and white, both of them looking serious and old-fashioned, even a little bit grim.
And yet, somehow, Simon Elliot’s grandmother back in Britain had been in possession of Tom Reese’s war medal. There had to be a reason.
“It was clearly very important to her,” Simon said after a moment. “He was. The tone in her voice, the way she talked about him—they clearly had a friendship of some sort.”
Abby shifted in her seat, the rocking chair giving a protesting creak. “I really don’t know anything about it. I’m sorry…”
“He never mentioned my grandmother?” Simon asked, sounding both earnest and disappointed. “Sophie Mather? Not even in passing?”