by Kate Hewitt
“You made it.” Simon came out onto the little porch of his cabin, resting his hands on the railing as he smiled his welcome. “What do you think of my palace?”
“It’s amazing. Prime real estate, right here.”
“I know, right? Though somehow I don’t think Andrew Holmwood is going to sell to Wisconsin’s next water park.”
“No?” Abby met Simon’s dancing gaze, her mouth tugging upwards as it always seemed to do in his presence. His happiness, his joy, felt infectious. Easy. “His family’s probably been here for a hundred years.”
“A hundred and fifty.”
She laughed, and he nodded towards the thermos and Tupperware in her arms. “What have you brought me?”
“Cookies and lemonade.”
“You angel.” Grinning, he liberated her parcels from her, taking them inside.
The medal was in her shoulder bag, still wrapped in its handkerchief.
Abby followed him inside—the cabin was simplicity itself, a corner carved off as a kitchen, a folding table with two chairs, and a double bed in the corner. The best thing about it was the large window overlooking the lake.
“It’s rather basic, but it does the job,” Simon said. “Are you hungry? I’ve made chicken salad sandwiches.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Why don’t we go outside? It seems criminal to stay a second in here with a day like this one.” Simon gathered up all their provisions and they headed back out.
The shoreline of the lake was a strip of scrubby sand and not much more, the water shallow and clear, looking almost golden in the sunlight, the colors of everything—the sky, the lake, the trees—so bright and pure it hurt Abby’s eyes, even as it made her want to stare and stare, take it all in.
“How do you cope with these summers?” Simon asked as he spread out a blanket for them to sit on. “I mean, day after day of the most gorgeous weather. How do you not talk about it all the time, just exclaiming over how amazing it is?”
“Isn’t that what you Brits do? Talk about the weather?”
“Only because it’s so miserable.” He sat down, then patted the space next to him. “Now show me this medal.”
Shyly, as if she were offering him a treasure—and perhaps she was—Abby took the wrapped medal from her bag and handed it over as she sat down. Simon unwrapped it with the reverence it seemed to deserve, studying it carefully, holding the heft of it in his hand.
“Wow,” he said quietly.
“I have no idea why my grandfather had it.”
“Or why my grandmother had his Purple Heart. It’s a case of musical medals.”
She gave a small smile. “Yes, maybe.”
Simon turned to look at her, his expression serious, the medal resting in the palm of his hand. “You know this is a different kettle of fish, though, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a Distinguished Service Cross. They didn’t hand those out like candy. Not, of course,” he added quickly, “that they did that with Purple Hearts. But to put it into perspective… they gave out over a million Purple Hearts to soldiers wounded or killed during the Second World War, and just five thousand Distinguished Service Crosses, for acts of extraordinary bravery.”
Abby leaned back on her hands as she considered the differential. “Wow.”
“So how did your grandfather get Sergeant Matthew Lawson’s?” Simon wondered out loud.
Abby shrugged, smiling. “Like I said, I have no idea.”
“Take a guess, though.” Simon wrapped the medal back in the handkerchief and placed it on the blanket between them. He leaned back, his hands nearly touching hers. “What do we know?” he mused out loud.
“That Tom Reese was in the 82nd Airborne, and he was wounded in Belgium in December 1944.”
“And Matthew Lawson?”
“Was also in the 82nd Airborne, and did something very brave a little while later?”
“Yes, he must have. So they must have known each other.”
“I suppose, considering one had the other’s medal. But where does your grandmother fit into this?”
“She was in love with them both? Or perhaps both of them were in love with her.” Simon’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at her. “She was quite a looker, in her day. Very glamorous.”
“You’re a bit of a romantic, aren’t you?” Abby teased, only for Simon to look at her seriously, making her heart stutter.
“I like to think I am.”
Abby looked away; she couldn’t think what else to do. She stared blindly at the tranquil surface of the lake, wishing moments like this didn’t discomfit her quite so much. She was a grown-up, for heaven’s sake. She should be able to handle a little light flirting.
“Why,” Simon asked after a moment, “do I keep sensing something sad from you? Is it because of your mother and brother? I would understand if it was that, of course. But… am I wrong in feeling like it’s something different, or maybe just more?”
Abby blinked, her gaze still firmly on the lake. “I’m not sad.”
“No, you’re right, not sad, not exactly. But…” Simon paused, weighing his words. “You don’t seem entirely happy.”
She forced herself to look at him. “I thought we were talking about Matthew Lawson.”
“Can’t we talk about each other too?”
“Then tell me something about you. When you ask me these questions…” She took a quick, raggedy sort of breath. “I’m not used to it. I don’t like talking about it. It feels… it feels like peeling back my skin.”
“Ouch.”
“I know.” She managed a small smile. Simon returned it, his eyes so gentle. She could fall in love with him, Abby realized with a jolt. She had so little experience of men, of life, that she could fall right in love with the first decent guy who walked up to her. Who was kind. The thought was completely alarming.
“You want to know something about me?” Simon mused out loud. “All right, then.” He paused, his gaze on the tranquil surface of the lake. In the distance, Abby heard the buzz of a motorboat. “I’m divorced.”
SIMON
Abby didn’t move, but Simon felt her surprise, a palpable thing, a substance between them, creating a barrier, just as he’d known it would.
“Oh,” she said after a moment. Did she sound disappointed? Why wouldn’t she be, if something was happening between them, which Simon was sort of starting to hope there was, even in this very early stage? No one wanted to deal with that kind of messy emotional baggage unless they had to. “What happened?”
Where even to begin? His failings or hers? One had begat the other, he supposed.
“The easy answer is that my wife left me. She had an affair with the handyman who was working on our house. But…” He let out a breath. “The long answer is, I wasn’t very good at marriage.” He winced at how he’d phrased it, because that made him sound like some philandering jerk, and he may have been many things, but he hadn’t been that. “I was very young when I got married. Twenty-two, and I wasn’t much good with the emotional stuff. I think it had to do with the way my mother was… she could be incredibly volatile, her emotions up and down in a matter of seconds. My way of dealing with that was to shut down, in a way. I became remote, at least when things got intense. Emotionally unavailable, was how my ex-wife put it, and I came to realize she had a point.” Because emotion, intensity, had scared him. Still did, which maybe was why he liked Abby—because, like him, she was contained. He kept it light and she kept it back. They were surprisingly similar, even if they showed it in different ways.
“You were emotionally unavailable?” Abby’s eyebrows rose. “Because, I have to say, you certainly seem pretty in touch with your emotions now.”
Simon gave a soft huff of laughter. “On the surface, maybe. But, yes, I do hope I’ve learned something from everything that happened.”
“I feel like I’m the emotionally unavailable one,” she said, meaning it, Simon thought, as
a bit of a joke, but it made them sound like a couple and he could tell she realized that as she looked away quickly.
“Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to you,” he returned before he had time to think it through.
Abby jerked back to face him, her eyes widening, and belatedly Simon realized what he’d said. He’d been following the train of his thoughts without meaning to verbalize it out loud.
“That was not the best time to say that,” he admitted in a slightly strangled voice.
“You’re blushing.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m embarrassed.” Here he was, talking about the breakdown of his marriage, his failure as a husband, and he’d just told this lovely woman that he was attracted to her. Really smooth. Really great timing.
Abby simply stared at him, and recklessly deciding he might as well go the distance, Simon leaned forward and kissed her.
ABBY
The feel of Simon’s lips on hers, cool and soft, was the equivalent of putting her finger in an electric socket and having no idea what might happen. Every sense suddenly sprang to buzzing, panicked life. Where did that come from? Lips on lips, so close. She’d forgotten what it felt like.
Abby hadn’t been kissed for two years. She’d gone through most of her twenties with barely a smack or a buss, and actually it had been okay. Mostly. Yes, she’d had some yearning and loneliness like any normal woman, but she’d kept herself busy with the orchard and the shop and keeping the home front going. She hadn’t wanted the emotional mess of a romantic relationship.
But now she resented the yawning lack of experience, the emotional emptiness of an entire decade, when she felt as if she had to remember how to kiss by reading an instruction manual, her brain telling her body what to do.
Eyes, close. Lips, open, but not too wide. But she didn’t want to breathe into his mouth, that would be gross, surely. What if she passed out from holding her breath? How did she do this?
And then, suddenly, she remembered; it was really just like riding a bike, except a thousand times nicer.
Simon’s hand cupped her cheek and she leaned into him as his lips moved gently over hers and her eyes fluttered closed and it felt entirely natural and right.
It lasted a couple of seconds, if that, and then it was over.
Simon eased back with a self-conscious smile and worried eyes. Abby’s breath came out in a rush; she’d been holding it after all.
“Well, then.” His gaze moved over her face, as if checking for injuries. Was she okay with the kiss? his slightly anxious expression seemed to be asking. Yes, Abby realized, she was, even though she had no idea what it meant, if anything. It had just been a kiss, after all. “So.” He smiled, seeming content with whatever he saw in her face. “Why would someone give up a Distinguished Service Cross… unless he’d died?”
Abby had the urge to shake her head to clear it. They were talking about Matthew Lawson again, but she was still reliving those three seconds of wonder. But surely it was better to move on… the last thing either of them wanted was an analysis of what had just happened.
“Do you think he died?” she asked, doing her best to seem normal, as if a simple little kiss hadn’t blown her world apart, which it shouldn’t have.
Simon considered her question for a moment. “We could look it up, I think. They have a registry online for DSCs, like they do for the Purple Heart.”
“So we could find out?”
“It depends on how much is recorded. Usually there’s at least some reference to what the Cross was awarded for, as well as birth and death dates of the recipient.”
Abby hesitated, wondering again how her father would feel about any of this, and then she nodded. This wasn’t even about Tom Reese anymore; it was about the mysterious Matthew Lawson, whom her dad most likely had never heard about. It was about a mystery that was drawing her and Simon together, never mind what her father thought. She didn’t need to think about him now. She didn’t want to. “Okay, she said. “Why not?”
Simon slid his phone out of his pocket. It only took a few seconds for a registry of names of DSC recipients, some accompanied by photos, to appear on the phone screen. A minute or so passed as he scrolled through the names, and then he sucked in his breath.
“Here he is.”
Abby leaned forward, her arm brushing his shoulder. The little bit of contact felt weirdly natural now; there was both an ease and a heightened awareness between them, thanks to that kiss. Abby didn’t know how the two states could co-exist, only that they did, at least in her. She had no idea how Simon felt. He’d been married, after all. She hadn’t fully processed that, or what it meant. They were in different stratospheres experience-wise.
Simon clicked on Matthew Lawson’s name; there was no accompanying photo. The information was brief, and mostly what they already knew. Simon read it aloud: “Awarded for Actions during WWII. Service: Army. Rank: Master Sergeant. Regiment: 508th. Division: 82nd Airborne. Citation: The President of The United States of America, authorized by Act of Congress… yes, yes… for extraordinary heroism in connection with military operations against an armed enemy…” He lowered his phone to look at Abby. “It’s just the usual patter.”
“So no more information?” She realized she was disappointed.
“There’s something, look.” He showed her the screen. “Born in 1921, date of death unknown.” He frowned. “So does that mean he died during the war, or that he didn’t and they lost track of him over the years?”
“If he died in action, surely it would be noted?”
“Yes, I rather think it would. Which means Lawson was most likely alive when he gave his DSC to your grandfather.”
“Maybe he didn’t give it,” Abby thought out loud.
Simon turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You think your grandfather nicked it?”
“No, not necessarily. Maybe Matthew Lawson lost it, and my grandfather found it.”
“Why wouldn’t he return it, then?”
“I don’t know,” Abby admitted. “Obviously. But anything could have happened. Maybe he tried.”
“Possibly.” Simon slid his phone back into his pocket. “Although he could have sent it to a centralized office somewhere and had it forwarded on. It seems odd he would have kept it, if he meant to return it to him. I could dig a bit more, most likely. There might be a Facebook group or something online for veterans of the 82nd Airborne. Someone might even still be alive who remembers him.”
“They’d have to be a hundred years old.”
“Yes, but it’s not impossible.”
She let out a little laugh. “This has really whet your appetite, hasn’t it? Even more than Sophie Mather and Tom Reese.”
Simon smiled self-consciously. “Somehow it feels like more of a mystery. A Distinguished Service Cross, hidden away all these years. Aren’t you curious?”
“Yes, a bit.” Abby straightened, wrapping her arms around her knees as she hugged them to her chest. “Do you think they were friends?”
“It seems likely, but who knows?”
“And what about your grandmother?”
“I feel like she must have been involved in some way, considering she had Tom’s medal, but I can’t figure out how.”
“It all feels so far away, from this.” Abby nodded to the lake, the sunshine. “But it really happened. It was important to the people involved. It seems so strange.”
“It does.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and, with a flutter of nerves, Abby wondered if he would kiss her again. She wondered if she wanted him to, and thought she did, even if it felt scary, like leaping wildly into the unknown. The question was moot, because he didn’t.
“Maybe you’ll show me around Willow Tree one of these days?” he said instead. “I’d like to see it, if your dad doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t think he would.” She smiled wryly. “He’s not some ogre, you know. He’s just a cautious man.”
“I know.” Simon grimaced wry
ly. “But I’m not sure he’s taken a liking to me.”
“More what you’re doing, perhaps.” Maybe she should tell her dad about the Cross. It seemed silly to be so secretive about it, like she’d been a little girl digging through her parents’ drawers, when it really wasn’t like that. She had every right to look into her ancestry, find out something that had happened before her father was born, something that couldn’t possibly matter to anyone now. She wished she didn’t feel guilty, but it was an emotion she’d got used to long ago, especially when it came to her dad.
“Why don’t we have our picnic?” Simon suggested. “I’m starving.”
Abby nodded, relieved to be on easy ground. And it was easy, to eat sandwiches and chat about nothing in particular; she offered up some trivia about Wisconsin, and told him her favorite apple among the varieties they grew, as well as a little bit about the gift shop. In return, Simon explained why he loved history, and how inexplicable cricket was, and how he’d never been waterskiing but wanted to try.
By the time Abby was packing up a few hours later, she was pleasantly sleepy and sunburned, content in a way she hadn’t been in a long time. They’d made a plan for Simon to come to the farm for lunch the day after next, and she’d give him a tour.
“And meanwhile I’ll try to look up some information about this Matthew Lawson,” he told her. “And Tom Reese, for that matter. See what I can find.”
He didn’t kiss her when they said goodbye, and Abby had to sternly tell herself that she didn’t mind. One kiss did not a relationship make. Even she, in her woeful inexperience, knew that.
Besides, the Holmwoods had come out of their farmhouse to say hello, and it would have been awkward to do anything but wave. It probably would have been awkward anyway. There would be time later, if that was what she actually wanted.
She was still lost in a pleasantly vague daydream about Simon kissing her as she showed him the apple orchard, the bright green leaves hiding them from view like something out of a frothy romance novel, as she pulled up in front of the farmhouse, and then climbed the porch steps to let herself in. The screen door had just closed behind her with a satisfying slap when she heard her father’s voice.
