by Kate Hewitt
“So am I,” Abby said softly. “But I’m glad this has all been brought out into the light.”
“So am I.” He slapped his thighs and rose from the chair as Bailey circled him. “I should get on, check things.”
It was five o’clock in the evening, but Abby didn’t protest. He needed a moment. She did, as well.
Her father gave her a nod that for once didn’t feel like a terse dismissal, but an acceptance, almost as good as a hug. Abby nodded back, a beginning.
She didn’t know how long she sat at the table, staring into space, trying to make sense of the jigsaw of memories, of emotions, and only able to leave it a jumbled mess, a piece found there, another one slotted in. Her grandfather. Her father. Her mother and Luke. Simon…
At some point, her phone buzzed. She slid it out, and saw it was a text from Simon.
I’ve found Matthew Weiss.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ABBY
“He married my great-aunt!”
Simon sounded almost giddy with the knowledge, so much so that Abby had to laugh.
“What? Really?” They were sitting in Simon’s little cottage, his laptop on the table between them, as the afternoon sunshine poured in, the day after Abby had returned from Minneapolis. The relentless humidity had finally broken, if not the heat. The colors had returned, under a blazing blue sky—the shimmer of the lake, the verdant green of the grass, thanks to the rain overnight. The world in Technicolor, once more.
“Yes, it’s crazy, isn’t it? I was searching online, looking up every Matthew Weiss from here to Timbuktu, and getting nowhere. Do you how many Matthew Weisses there are?”
“I have no idea,” she confessed with a laugh.
“Well, neither do I, but a lot. So then I decided to talk to my sister, the one who loves all the genealogy stuff?”
“Eleanor.”
Simon smiled. “That’s right. And, on a desperate hunch, I asked her what she knew about Lily. Not much, as it turned out, and she never met her either, but she had a bunch of certificates in a file—my grandmother had kept them, a whole load of dusty papers that didn’t seem all that interesting. But one of them was a marriage certificate between Lily Mather and Matthaus Weiss, New York City, 1946.”
“They married,” Abby said, a grin spreading across her face. “They stayed together.”
“They must have emigrated, which is why I suppose I didn’t hear about them as a child. It’s too bad, considering I spent a year in Philadelphia, but I suppose my grandmother and my great-aunt must have been virtually estranged by then.”
“So you could have found out about Matthew all along.” Abby shook her head. “He was right there, waiting for you.”
“But I wouldn’t have been able to find out all the things we know now.”
And that she knew, as well. Abby hadn’t yet had a chance to tell Simon about her grandfather, or, more crucially, her dad. So many things had happened—some seventy years ago, some yesterday. So many important, life-changing things, and she was still trying to come to terms with all of it.
“I wouldn’t have connected Tom Reese to Matthew Lawson, for one,” Simon continued. “Isn’t it strange? This whole story, from one medal to another, Germany and back, has led us right back home. To family.”
And that was a good place to be. This morning, Abby and her father had eaten breakfast together—mostly in silence, but he’d poured her coffee and he’d asked her about her plans for the day. Small steps, those first halting, stumbling ones as they learned how to walk. How to be.
“So do you think they really had their happily-ever-after?” Abby asked, a bit wistfully. “Do you know if they had children? You’d have second cousins…”
“I do,” Simon said. “Three. I actually found Lily on Facebook. Look.” He typed a few words into the search bar and then pushed the laptop over so Abby could see the screen.
It was Lily Weiss’ Facebook page, now a memorial. She scrolled through, smiling a bit at the photos of a small, white-haired woman surrounded by grandchildren; another one of her with Matthew, both of them wrinkled and frail, but with big smiles.
“I can’t believe that’s actually them.”
“They lived in Albany,” Simon told her. “He worked as an accountant. She was a schoolteacher. And they were part of a charity that fostered Jewish children, refugees from the camps. They had over twenty live with them at various stages, over the years.”
“You found all this out on Facebook?”
“They link to a website.” He grinned. “They sound as if they were kind of incredible, if I’m honest. I wish I could have known them.”
“It’s a shame Lily and Sophie drifted so far apart.”
“It is. But knowing how high-strung my grandmother could be, and the distance…” He shrugged. “I can understand how it happens.”
Abby thought of Maggie, and nodded. Yes, it could happen all too easily.
“Lily died only two years ago, sadly,” Simon continued, and Abby let out a soft sound of distress, even though she supposed it should have been expected. “I didn’t know about it at the time. My grandmother must have, though—she had her marriage certificate, after all. She must have received some of Lily’s things after she’d died.”
“Wow.” Abby shook her head slowly. “It’s so much to take in. You could meet your second cousins! Where do they live?”
“All in America, as far as I can tell. One in New York, another one in Seattle. It’s so weird.” He let out a little laugh. “I have family I didn’t even know about.”
“I suppose I do too, if I consider Tom Reese’s family that we never met… those grandparents, that whole branch of my relatives.”
Simon raised his eyebrows. “You sound like you know something.”
“I do,” Abby said. “But I’m not sure how important it is, in the end.”
“Tell me?”
And so she did, sharing the secrets that no longer needed to be kept about Tom Reese’s cowardice, and Sophie’s tempestuous declaration, and how it had ended between them, with Sophie keeping Tom’s medal as a keepsake.
“Wow,” Simon said when she had finished. “Wow.”
“If Sophie hadn’t broken it off, or if she’d changed her mind, we would have been related,” Abby said with a little smile. “Or really, I suppose, I’d never have been born.”
“I don’t like to think of that.” He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers one by one, a deliberate act.
Abby’s heart caught in her chest, like someone had thrown it at a wall. She didn’t know what was coming, didn’t even know what she wanted to hear. I really like you, but… It’s been fun, hasn’t it? Or maybe just I’m sorry I have to go so soon.
“Abby.”
She made herself look at him and smile. “Yes.”
“I don’t want this to end here.”
Surprised by his certainty, she could only stare for a moment as she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. “But you live in England,” she finally managed. “And my life—my life still is at Willow Tree.” Even if she was only just starting to imagine that it might not be always. Or at least not just. But that was too far into the future to think about now, or to pin hazy hopes on it.
“I know. I’m not saying it will be easy.”
“What are you saying, then?”
“I don’t know.” He let out a little laugh, endearing in its uncertainty. “I’m saying I want to see you again. You could visit me in Cambridge. Meet Maggie.”
Surprised, she eased back a little. “You want me to meet Maggie?”
“Maybe. I called her last night. I’ve been WhatsApping her this whole time, but she’s never responded. But I realized that’s a bit like cheating, the coward’s way out, to just send a text. So I rang and she answered and we talked for twenty awkward and rather excruciating minutes, but in the end it was okay. I think. Sort of?” He gave her a lopsided smile, pain shining in his eyes. None of this was easy. Tha
t was why it hadn’t happened before. “I spoke to Sara, too, about stepping up a bit more. She liked the idea.”
“That’s wonderful, Simon.”
“And us?” He prompted. “If you think there could be an us, even if just one day?”
She stared down at their joined hands, her mind doing somersaults. “I don’t know,” she said slowly.
Simon wilted a little, although he tried to rally. “I understand.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she explained. “It’s not that at all. It’s just…” Things still felt fragile with her dad. And Willow Tree was her home. And even though she was trying, trying so hard, to make changes in her life, could she really do this? Did she want to risk what she’d only just started to have for something neither of them was ready to name? “I don’t even have a passport.”
“It’s quite easy to get one. Just fill out a form.”
She smiled at that. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.”
What if she went to Cambridge, and whatever they’d shared here didn’t transfer? What if she came for a week or even two, and they remained awkward strangers the whole time, exchanging rather shamefaced smiles as they realized they really didn’t have anything in common after all, and it had just been one of those intense holiday things?
“Just think about it,” Simon said, and squeezed her hand.
SIMON
He left three days later, three glorious days he’d spent with Abby, on the farm, in town, and even another memorable lumberjack platter at the cook shanty. The last night, they’d had dinner with David, and Simon was gratified that the old man actually made an effort. It was awkward rather than easy, but it was the attempt that was important.
But none of it still felt settled as he said his goodbyes on the weathered porch where he’d first made her acquaintance, what felt like a lifetime ago, when he’d seen the pain in her eyes and wondered at it. Three short and yet endless weeks. He couldn’t believe he was already going back, even as he felt he’d been here for ages.
“This doesn’t have to be goodbye,” she reminded him as she nervously tucked her hair behind her ears, Bailey sitting loyally by her feet. “Not a final one, anyway. We can just say ‘see you later’, and give a wave.”
“I don’t want to give a wave.”
“You know what I mean—” Abby was cut off as he kissed her, pulling her close, reveling in the feel of her against him. Her eyes closed and his did too, and the kiss went on, a wish and a keepsake, and hopefully more than that. A promise.
He wanted to tell her that he was falling in love with her, that he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of holding her like this, but he suspected those were the kinds of sentiments he didn’t think either of them were ready for. The last few weeks had been wonderful and intense and yet also fragile.
He understood Abby’s reticence about committing to some sort of future; part of him felt it too, and yet he still wanted to try. Try hard. For once in his life he didn’t want to back away, hands in the air, deciding it was all just a little too intense, a bit too much for him. For once he wanted to give a relationship everything he had, even if it hurt. Even if it didn’t work out, although he hoped it would.
“You’re going to miss your plane,” Abby said when he finally let her go, his head spinning, and, he suspected, hers too.
“Would that be a terrible thing?”
“Yes, it would, because Maggie is waiting for you.” She gave him an encouraging smile, the firm look of a teacher with a wayward pupil, although her eyes were dancing.
“Not at the airport. I could call her and tell her I’d got held up.”
“You don’t want to do that, Simon.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes full of warmth.
“No, I don’t.” He smiled and stepped back, even though he didn’t want to. It really was time to go.
As he climbed in the car, he marveled again at how much had changed in such a short time. It was as if he was seeing the entire world through a different lens, and every few seconds he’d startle himself with the unexpected perspective. How strange, he thought, not for the first time, that so much has changed, and all because of people who will never know how they’ve affected me. Helped me. Helped us.
One last wave, and then he was starting the car, a cloud of dust kicking up as he drove down the dirt track, Abby waving in his rearview mirror. He kept her in his vision as long as he could, wanting to imprint her there, determined to believe he would see her again, even though they’d made no promises.
Sometimes you just had to trust. To accept, to forgive, and finally, to hope.
Holding onto his smile, Simon turned onto the main road that headed south to Chicago.
ABBY
The house was dim and quiet as Abby went back inside, breathing in the peaceful stillness. Sorrow tugged at her even as a smile came to her lips. There really was so much to be thankful for.
She walked slowly back to the kitchen, savoring all the familiar sights—the grandfather clock, the photo of her grandparents, the dried roses in a vase that had been there since she was a child. Home.
As she stood in the doorway, for a second she could see her mother standing at the stove, humming under her breath, giving her one of her quick, distracted smiles. Everything okay, sweetheart?
Yes, Abby thought. Yes, actually, Mom, everything is okay.
With a smile still on her lips, she took out her phone and typed in a search for airline tickets to London.
Epilogue
He stands on the cracked pavement in front of the block of flats—dilapidated, nondescript, but he knows the building so well. He has been dreaming of being here, of mounting these weathered steps, for the last year and a half.
For the last half-hour, he has simply been standing there in the cold, braving the icy drizzle of a wet January afternoon, unsure if he can bring himself to ring the bell. If he can face her—and, more importantly, if she can face him.
He has been back in London for nearly a week, finally a free man. He has filed all his reports, handed in his uniform, been given his suit of civilian clothes and a small grant to see him through, for a little while at least.
He saw Tom Reese as well, at the army headquarters, both of them being demobbed. They did an almost comical double take at the sight of one another, and then gave surprised and sheepish smiles. Just as he’d thought all those months ago, they were seeing the war out together.
Tom had loitered while he’d filled out his forms, and then, to his surprise, he’d asked him to go for a drink. He’d agreed, and they’d spent fifteen minutes somberly sipping watery pints before Tom had finally spoken.
“Sophie broke it off, because of what I did. I told her, in the end. I couldn’t bear her not knowing, not if we were going to marry.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were inadequate, but he realized he meant them. He’d known Tom had loved her.
“She was so angry. And disappointed too, which was worse. She threw my ring back at my face and shouted at me that she thought I was a better man than that.” Tom’s voice had choked. “I thought I was, too.”
“It was only one moment,” he said quietly. “Surely we are all allowed those.”
Tom shook his head. “It was a moment that cost men their lives. I can’t forgive myself that. Abruzzo? The sergeant next to you? He took a bullet in his arm for me at the Waal.” His face twisted. “And I as good as killed him.”
“No,” Matthew said quietly. “The Nazis killed him.”
“But they might not have, if I’d kept my position.” Tom released a shuddering breath. “It’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. I know that. At least I wasn’t court-martialed, thanks to you.” He gazed down, unseeing, at his pint. “I gave Sophie my Purple Heart. I want her to have something to remember me by, and maybe—maybe to make her see I wasn’t always a coward.”
The aching regret in his voice made Matthew reach for the medal that had been heav
y in his pocket since he’d taken off his uniform. He hadn’t known what to do with it; he certainly didn’t want it. Not after Henck. Not after he’d realized what he too was capable of. He’d had six months with the wretched thing pinned to his chest, a constant reminder of his failure. “I want you to have this,” he said, and offered the Distinguished Service Cross to Tom, who blinked down at it in surprise.
“What… I didn’t know… why were you given it?”
“For an interrogation I did, after V-E Day.” The words burned in his chest, along with the knowledge. “It doesn’t matter.”
Tom was quiet as he ran one finger over its crenelated edge. “And why would you give it to me?”
“You fought more than I did.” As he said the words, he realized how true they were. “Six months of hard fighting.” Tom had been among those to climb up the banks of the Waal, straight into enemy fire. He’d fought through the streets of Nijmegen, had been there for the horrendous surprise attacks at the start of Ardennes. Somehow, in the midst of it all, Matthew had forgotten all that. Now he remembered.
“It’s yours,” Tom said.
“No,” Matthew answered, meaning it. “It’s yours.” He didn’t want it. And Tom deserved something for his courage. He realized he didn’t blame Tom for a moment of madness—hadn’t he had one, as well? Weren’t they both as guilty and as innocent as the other?
Tom’s fingers closed around the medal. He looked strangely moved, a throb of emotion in his voice as he spoke. “Thank you.”
The rain has drenched his overcoat and hat. A woman next door keeps coming to the grimy window and shooting him suspicious looks from behind some dingy net curtains. Without his uniform, he is nothing more than a vagrant, just one more hollow-eyed man who wanders through the city, looking as lost as he feels. Is this all that is to become of them?
He should ring the bell. He wants to. He has lifted his hand more than once, only to have it fall back limply to his side each time. What if she sees the emptiness in him? What does he have to offer her now? And yet he longs to see her. He longs for it with a desperation and an urgency that he thought he hadn’t had it in him any more to feel, but he realizes now, to both his gratitude and terror, that he does.
