At last Abby came to the final letter in the box. More worn than the others, the last letter was short and completely devoid of the flowery language Abby had come to associate with Kristian and Edith’s romance; the scribbled lines caused her to put down her teacup and a chill washed over her skin despite the heat of the sun.
I’m coming home. Wait for me, meine Liebling. The three of us will finally be together.
Her brow puckered at the endearment that was written in what she suspected was German. Her gaze skimmed to the top of the page once more as a strange feeling washed over her. It was dated October of 1943.
Ten months before Iris’s birth.
CHAPTER 11
Tom loved the satiny feeling of wood beneath his fingers. It was almost like it was still alive and he treated it that way, deferring to each species’ particular characteristics. Right now he was working with a smooth, hard oak, something rugged and timeless. His plans were for an entertainment unit, stained a dark walnut, with doors that would hide away the television and components. When closed, it would resemble a wardrobe and melt into the décor of the library without a problem.
Of course there was a chance she wouldn’t want it, in which case he’d maybe sell it. That’s what he did with most of his handiwork.
He kept telling himself that, especially when he started to feel rather uncomfortable about the fact that he was making a piece of furniture for her. Or when he started examining his motives for doing so. Did he have feelings for Abby? It appeared he did, on some level. He wouldn’t have kissed her otherwise. Wouldn’t be thinking about her all the time.
Still, it wasn’t like he was in love with her. And the piece was as much for the house as it was for her, wasn’t it?
He’d only ever made furniture for a woman once before, though, and that little fact nagged at him like a black fly bite that needed scratching. He’d been starting out then, learning his craft, and he’d made a coffee table out of pine for Erin. He’d pictured giving it to her and then making end tables to match and putting them in the apartment they would share …
He’d been pretty young and naïve back then. And when Erin had married Josh, Tom had taken an axe and found great pleasure in smashing the table to splinters, then burning it on the brush pile.
He frowned, looked at his measuring tape, and then measured again just to be sure before taking the piece of wood to the table saw to cut.
The shrill whine of the saw was fading and the discarded end thrown in
to a pile when he looked up and saw Rick Sullivan standing in the doorway to his workshop.
“Hey,” he said, pushing his safety glasses to the top of his head. “What brings you out here?”
Rick appeared sober for once, and Tom was glad. Everyone in town knew that Rick had struggled since coming back from the Middle East. No one was allowed to hail him as a hero—he’d turn around and walk away from any group or individual who tried to portray him as one. He had a prosthetic where his left hand used to be.
But Rick only needed his right hand to lift a bottle, trying to drown out the demons who chased him. Tom had more patience than most with Rick because he understood how easy it could be to get pulled under when despair took over. That didn’t extend to making excuses for him all the time.
Rick came farther inside the shop. “What are you building this time?”
“An entertainment unit. Just getting started on it, though.”
“The Foster place must be keeping you busy.” Rick picked up a piece of bird’s-eye maple and examined it, then put it back down again.
“Pretty busy, yeah. But I still like doing this in my downtime. It … calms my brain.”
Rick’s gaze met his, and understanding flowed between the two of them.
“Thanks for the drive a few weeks ago,” Rick offered, putting his right hand in his pocket.
“I didn’t mind.” Tom wasn’t about to deliver a lecture on drinking. He knew if he did, Rick would turn around and walk out.
“We go way back, don’t we, Tom?”
There was something in Rick’s voice that made Tom pause. He looked over at his friend. Rick had let his hair grow a little after leaving the Marines, losing that jarhead look, and he didn’t have the big build of the Arseneault men. Just a shade under six feet, he fit into the “lean and tough” category. Since coming home, he’d lost some of that wiry physicality, but the hard lines in his face remained. He looked like he’d seen far too much for a man his age.
“Way back to first grade.” Tom grinned, pulling over a sawhorse and sitting on it. “When Jimmy Dawes cleaned my clock for touching his Spider-Man lunch box and you punched him and told him to leave me alone.”
Rick grinned. “Jimmy needed to get over himself. Still does.”
Tom laughed. “Pull up a pew, Rick, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Rick grabbed a second sawhorse and perched on the seat. “Couple of things. First of all, is it going to be a problem if I come to this shindig your cousin’s planning for Saturday night? She said no, but I knew you’d tell me straight.”