Читать книгу The Letter - Elizabeth Blackwell - Страница 6

Lydia

Lydia Prescott couldn’t remember the first time she met Henry Armstrong. He seemed to have always been there, in the background, waiting for her to notice him. All her life she would wonder how a connection so strong could have started so unremarkably, how their first encounter could have passed without a foreshadowing of the bond that was to come.

Then again, Lydia had blocked out many things during those first months in Knox Junction. The move had passed in a blur. Packing up the house in a flurry of boxes. Mother’s tears as she whispered rebukes to Father about disgracing the family. Father telling Lydia she couldn’t go back to school to say goodbye. Filing behind her parents through cavernous Union Station in Chicago on the way to the train south. Something had gone wrong with Father’s job, something shameful, and now they were starting over. Lydia was eleven, old enough to know not to ask questions. Faced with a family teetering on the edge of disaster, she was determined to help her parents maintain a pretense of happiness. Lydia’s younger sister, Nell, then only eight, didn’t yet possess the mental sensors to pick up their parents’ simmering tension.

“What’s our new house like?” Nell asked, after Mother had settled them in their private train compartment. Lydia took this as a good sign; surely the money couldn’t all be gone if they were still able to travel like this.

“I don’t know,” Mother said in the clipped tone that had become her normal speech pattern “I haven’t seen it.”

“It’s very nice,” said Father “It looks like a farmhouse. Lots of room to play outside.”

“Is there a beach?” Nell asked.

“No,” Mother said.

“It’s in the middle of cornfields,” Lydia explained. “Nowhere near Lake Michigan.”

Nell’s eyes began to water. “But I like the beach,” she whined.

Their old house—the place Lydia still thought of as home, although she knew it would have to be sold—had been only two blocks from the beach. Lydia and Nell had spent the summer digging with shovels, searching for buried treasure. They’d walked the tree-lined streets of Winnetka, the tranquil Chicago suburb that felt like a small town, albeit one where all the residents could afford sprawling brick or wood-frame homes with wraparound porches and separate entrances for the staff in back. Winnetka was where couples moved when they wanted to raise their families somewhere safe and idyllic. Not a place where families suddenly left in disgrace. Lydia’s friends had told her they’d write, but she knew they wouldn’t. Nell was having a harder time realizing that their life there was over.

“Does the house have an attic?” A favorite winter activity had been to rummage through Mother’s old trunks of clothes, playing dress-up.

“I don’t know,” said Mother, staring out the window.

“I don’t think so,” Father said. “But there’s a pretty room I think you’ll like. With pink flowered wallpaper.”

“I don’t want pink!” Nell began to wail “I want blue!”

Lydia reached around her sister’s shoulders and squeezed tight. “I’ll take the pink room if you want,” she said. She watched her parents for their reaction. True to form, Mother hardly paid attention and Father gave her an approving smile.

Still, brave as Lydia tried to be, she couldn’t hide her disappointment when the train pulled into Knox Junction, her new hometown. It was a creation of the railroads, a small gathering of buildings that sprang up at the intersection of the lines running north to Chicago and west to Des Moines. It had begun with a hotel, expanded to a few shops and houses, but never developed into anything more than a minor transportation center in the midst of farmland. Knox Junction might call itself a town, but there was only one paved road, and tractors outnumbered cars.

Lydia watched Mother’s face crumple with disappointment as they slowed down at the station. She forced the muscles around her mouth to prop up her lips in an approximation of a smile.

“We’re home, aren’t we, Father?” Lydia said.

Father rubbed his hand over the top of her head. If hiding her fear and anger would keep her family together, if pretending happiness could somehow erase the shame hovering over them like a fog, Lydia was determined to put up a brave front.

“Yes,” said Father. “Home.”

The house, while smaller than the one they’d had in Winnetka, wasn’t nearly as bad as Lydia had feared. For Knox Junction, it was positively palatial: four bedrooms, a deep porch lined with white columns, an enormous kitchen with walk-in pantry. Even Mother nodded approvingly. Living in such a home seemed to bode well. Surely the family of the town’s new doctor, living in one of the finest houses in town, would be greeted with excitement and respect?

Lydia’s hopes of being embraced by Knox Junction were soon shattered. On her first day of school, she could feel the eyes of her classmates focus on her with confusion rather than welcome. Had Henry been the only one to look at her as more than a suspicious outsider? He must have been there, in that room, but she couldn’t remember him. To Lydia, all those faces blended together, a blank wall she could never penetrate. Cheery Nell had an easier time of it. Within a few weeks she was walking home from school chattering about the funny rag dolls she’d played with at recess.

But for Lydia, school was a disaster. In her first school year at Knox Junction, she made exactly one friend, Melanie Dixon, whose parents ran the town’s hotel. Being raised among travelers had broadened Melanie’s outlook. She was the only classmate who treated Lydia as a normal person, rather than an interloper.

Lydia had developed a habit of reading during recess, a routine that shielded her from the fact that the other girls ignored her, while simultaneously insuring a reputation as stuck-up and proud.

The book that day was Little Women. Lydia had only gotten through the second chapter when she saw Melanie’s face peering at her over the top.

“Do you like to sew?” she asked.

The question was so unexpected, Lydia didn’t know how to respond. Was Melanie trying to make some connection between sewing and the book? Was this a test, something she’d be teased about later?

Lydia shrugged. “I’m not very good,” she said.

“I could teach you if you want,” Melanie said. “But, you see, I thought I’d make something for the social, and if you want some help with your dress…”

“The social?” Lydia asked.

“Don’t you know? We always have one on a Friday afternoon in June, to celebrate the end of the school year. We don’t have dates, exactly, but there’s dancing with the boys.” Melanie smiled in anticipation, and her round cheeks and kind dark eyes were such a welcome sight that Lydia smiled back.

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s the sort of thing I’d do….” she began, then stopped herself. She heard how her own words sounded the second they flew out of her mouth—“not the sort of thing I’d do”—and she realized that distancing herself to be protected from rejection could only lead to more rejection.

“That is, I’m not a very good dancer,” Lydia said. “But I’d be happy to help you with your dress, if you want.”

“Can you do embroidery? There’s a darling pattern I’d like to put along the bodice.”

Lydia nodded. “That sounds like fun. Could you show me how?” Lydia’s previous sewing experience had been strictly practical—mending holes and finishing hems—and Mother never failed to criticize her crooked seams and uneven stitches. But Lydia was willing to risk bloody fingers if it meant having a friend.

The friendship that blossomed between the two girls was rooted in pity (on Melanie’s part) and gratitude (on Lydia’s). But lasting friendships have been built on shakier ground, and gradually Melanie softened Lydia’s wariness. Lydia absorbed Melanie’s passion for sewing, and Melanie marveled over her ability to sketch a dress pattern. Lydia had never thought much about her talent for art. She’d been drawing and painting as long as she could remember. But through Melanie’s admiring eyes she began to see her way with shapes and color as something special. Her own particular gift.

But encouraging Lydia’s love of art was only one of the ways Melanie changed Lydia’s life. The other had to do with Henry Armstrong.

It was a week or so before the social, an event Lydia had grudgingly agreed to attend. The future had seemed especially precarious then, in the spring of 1942. Adults talked worriedly about Pearl Harbor and France and the draft. A sense of unease had penetrated even isolated Knox Junction, as boys from the surrounding farms talked about joining up and the men gathered at the general store talked ominously of gasoline rations. The glares between Mother and Father continued to make Lydia’s home a battlefront.

The social would at least be a distraction from Lydia’s daily routine, although she dreaded spending the afternoon as a wallflower. She’d secretly experimented with different hairstyles in the bathroom mirror at home, taking out her pigtails and attempting to brush her thick, chestnut-brown hair into glamorous waves. But once she’d achieved the desired effect—her dark brown eyes, framed by long lashes, peeking around the swirls of hair—she could tell it wasn’t enough. Her thin lips and narrow nose accentuated the suspicious gaze with which she greeted the world. She would never be pretty enough to make boys overlook her schoolmarm reputation.

“Of course someone will ask you to dance!” Melanie declared when Lydia threatened once again not to go.

“Who? Lyle Shea?” Lydia threw out the name of a boy who was best known for bragging about his hogs. Lydia doubted he’d ever read anything other than the Farmers’ Almanac.

“Oh, I know someone who’s sweet on you,” said Melanie with a teasing grin.

“Who?”

“Henry Armstrong.”

Lydia knew who he was by then, but not much more. Henry. Slim, wiry, with lightly freckled cheeks and thick blond hair that stuck up in a cowlick on the back of his head. Henry, who sat in the back of the classroom and never spoke. A farmer’s son who disappeared for a week or two in April to help with the planting. Indistinguishable from all the rest of them—or so Lydia thought.

“Henry? What makes you say that?” she asked Melanie.

“The way I’ve seen him stare at you,” Melanie said. “He looks at you more than any other girl.”

“Did he say something?”

“No. But you know how boys are,” Melanie said with a wise nod. Lydia wondered about her friend’s qualifications as an expert in male behavior. As far as she could tell, Melanie’s interactions with boys consisted of fluttering her eyelashes, giggling and not much else. Still, this news about Henry was intriguing. Not that she cared about him, particularly; she hardly knew him. But the idea that anyone might be paying attention to her was encouraging.

Despite Melanie’s promising news, the social itself went as badly as Lydia imagined it would. The boys lined up against one wall, the girls against another, and a good half hour passed before anyone dared cross to the middle of the room. Eventually, a few awkward pairings stomped across the floor, under the watchful eyes of parental chaperones. Melanie even danced with Lyle Shea, rolling her eyes behind his back for Lydia’s benefit. Lydia remained with her back pressed against the wall, despite Melanie’s whispered attempts to find her a partner when she thought Lydia wasn’t listening.

Henry Armstrong wasn’t there.

Unable to bear the humiliation any longer, Lydia finally strode outside, wincing at the sun hovering over the horizon. She saw Mrs. Glover, the woman who ran the general store and acted as local postmistress, sweeping up the store’s front porch before closing. Lydia dashed across the street.

“Mrs. Glover,” she called out. “I don’t suppose you received a package for me, did you?”

Mrs. Glover leaned against the broom with a weary expression that signaled her lack of enthusiasm at being the local representative of the U.S. Postal Service.

“Well, now, I might have.”

Even Mrs. Glover’s sourness couldn’t dispel Lydia’s excitement. “May I come in and get it, please?”

The woman sighed heavily. “I was about to close up, but I suppose if you’re quick about it…”

Lydia raced inside and ran behind the counter where Mrs. Glover piled oversize mail. The box was toward the bottom—how long had it been sitting there? Her name was clearly marked, along with her address. But the Knox Junction postal service did not include home delivery. It was up to each family to appear up at Mrs. Glover’s to claim their boxes and envelopes—when she felt like retrieving them.

“Thank you!” Lydia called as she ran down the steps. She couldn’t wait until she got home to open it. Instead, she walked quickly to the porch swings at the Knox Junction Hotel, sat down and tore open the packaging. Nestled inside the box was the latest selection from the Book-of-the-Month Club. The subscription had been a gift from Father on her last birthday. Since Knox Junction had no public library, it was her one connection to the outside world. Each new delivery felt like Christmas.

She was about to pull the book out of the box when she noticed a shadow hovering over her. She glanced up and locked eyes with Henry Armstrong.

For a moment, they stared at each other in silence. His hair had been flattened with pomade, and he was wearing a stiffly pressed white shirt. His fingers twitched as they moved in and out of his pockets.

“Uh, is the, uh, social over, then?”

“I’m not sure,” Lydia said. “I left early.”

Henry looked down at his shoes, while Lydia smoothed the paper wrapped around her book. Those two sentences were more words than they’d exchanged during the entire school year. And that could’ve been the end of it—Henry might have said thank you, and turned toward the school, and Lydia might have walked home and delved into her book and never given Henry another thought.

But something about the package in Lydia’s lap caught Henry’s attention.

“Book-of-the-Month Club?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Lydia, surprised.

“My mother used to get those.”

“Oh?”

“Well, she hasn’t for a while now. But she kept all her old ones. I read them when I get the chance.”

Somehow, in that moment, with hardly anything being said, everything was said. Henry read books, and his mother used to read books, but something had happened and there was no money for indulgences such as Book-of-the-Month Club, so Henry had to work as hard as everyone else, but sometimes, at night when he wasn’t too exhausted, he would read and escape into other worlds. Just like Lydia.

“What’s your favorite?” Lydia asked.

Henry shrugged and shifted his weight from side to side. “I dunno,” he said. “There was one I read not too long ago—Lost Horizon. That was good.”

Lydia smiled. “I read that one, too. Shangri-La. I love books that make you feel you’ve gone somewhere else.”

“Away from Knox Junction?”

“I don’t mean—It’s not that I don’t like it here…” She watched as Henry’s face was transformed by a smile, his clear blue eyes twinkling at her. He looked like a little boy, delighted by a new discovery. Lydia couldn’t help smiling back.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “Nothing interesting ever happens around here.”

“Well, there’s the social.” Lydia glanced up at him. “I don’t want to keep you, if you were going over there.”

Henry shook his head. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said. “How ’bout you?”

Lydia laughed. “I’m terrible.”

And then Lydia was no longer conscious of talking to a boy—a boy who might actually have some kind of interest in her, no less. She just knew that she wanted the conversation to continue, because there was something about him that made her comfortable. When Lydia offered to show Henry her new book, she knew he’d sit down next to her.

“You know, if you like to read, we’ve got heaps of books,” Lydia said as Henry settled on the swing. “I’d be happy to lend you some.”

“Thank you.” His obvious delight at her offer was enough to start a warm rush in Lydia’s stomach. Years later, she realized it was the first hint of the feeling that would one day turn to love.

The war affected Knox Junction only gradually at first. A few local boys joined up, including Henry’s older brother, Timothy. Lydia’s mother had to bring a ration book whenever she wanted to buy sugar or coffee. For Lydia’s family, however, the war brought redemption. A few doctors from neighboring towns signed up with the medical corps, leaving her father as the sole physician for miles around. Now, rather than struggling to build a practice, he found that demand for his services had soared. Before the family’s abrupt departure from Chicago, Lydia had overheard snippets of her parents’ conversations, the contemptuous accusations her mother had flung at him regarding “that poor Miller woman.” Lydia knew that one of Father’s patients had died, and that death had something to do with their disgrace. She’d wondered if Father would ever practice medicine again.

Now that the war had tripled his business, Lydia watched her father revert to the confident physician he had once been. The more patients he treated, the more his shoulders straightened, and the more Lydia heard the sound of whistling in the morning. He made fewer trips to the liquor cabinet after dinner. No longer was Lydia awakened by the sound of harsh voices from her parents’ room.

After school let out for the summer, Mother took Lydia and Nell north to Wisconsin, to Grandmother’s vacation house on Lake Geneva. Mother claimed it would be good for the girls’ health—“The air here is oppressive. I can’t bear it”—but Father’s health seemed less of a concern, as he stayed behind.

To one of Grandmother’s elderly neighbors, Mother explained the move to Knox Junction as a patriotic duty. “We all must make our sacrifices,” she said. “They don’t have nearly enough doctors there, and with the war on, David is needed more than ever.

“It’s a simpler life,” Mother told one of her childhood friends, who lived in a three-story mansion on Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. “So much better for the children.”

Whether these polite society ladies believed Mother’s explanations or merely pitied her, the result was the same. She was welcomed back into the world where she’d grown up, a world of garden parties and croquet matches and leisurely rides on family sailboats. A world Lydia had once believed she was part of. But now she saw it as a brief, idyllic escape. Come September, she’d be back in Knox Junction. That had become her real life.

Lydia had given Henry the address in Lake Geneva on their last day of school, not expecting anything to come of it. But to her great surprise, he did write. And although his letters were short, to the point and distinctly lacking in poetry, she ripped each one open eagerly.

Dear Lydia,

How are things up there? Have you gone swimming in the lake? The only place I’ve ever gone swimming was the water hole behind our barn. It’s all dried up now. It’s scorching hot here. How’s the weather?

Her letters back were chattier, but similarly superficial:

The women here go to great lengths to track down nylons. They all whisper about who can get them as if they’re planning a bank robbery. But I don’t imagine you’re too interested in ladies’ fashions. Sorry I don’t have anything more interesting to write about—it’s a rather dull routine here. A morning walk, lunch out, afternoon swim, tea with friends of my grandmother’s, followed by dinner with someone even more boring. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here younger than forty. It actually makes me look forward to high school. Although, I still can’t quite believe it—high school! What do you think it will be like?

Knox Junction was too small to support a high school, so students took a half-hour bus ride to nearby Fentonville. During the first few weeks of school, the bus seating settled into a pattern that remained for the rest of the school year. Lydia and Melanie would board the bus first, in town. Later along the route, Henry would get on and sit in the row in front of them. He’d stretch his long legs out along the seat and turn sideways toward the girls, nodding his head once. Sometimes he’d lean back against the window and drift off to sleep. Other days he would halfheartedly respond as Melanie attempted to drag him into conversation.

“What do you think of those Fentonville girls, Henry?” Melanie asked one morning toward the beginning of their freshman year. She flashed Lydia a meaningful glance.

“I dunno,” he said.

“Some of them act like big-city girls, don’t you think?”

Henry shrugged. “Maybe.”

Melanie shook her head, annoyed. She told Lydia later, “Doesn’t Henry look like a big scarecrow?” A growth spurt had left Henry awkwardly tall and skinny; he walked as if he was still learning to work his new arms and legs.

“Did you see him this morning, with his hair all pointed up?” Melanie giggled. “It’s just like straw!”

To the girls at Fentonville, his lanky body, uneasy posture and obviously handed-down, too-short trousers marked him as a poor prospect. Melanie had stopped teasing Lydia about him. High school offered all sorts of new potential beaus—Henry Armstrong was old news.

“He’s not that bad,” protested Lydia. But when he wore overalls to school—which he did far too often—he did look like a country bumpkin. Exactly the sort of person the ladies at Lake Geneva would disapprove of.

Without ever discussing it, Lydia and Henry kept their interaction at school to a minimum. But somehow they found moments to talk away from school, Sunday afternoons when they’d stroll along the wide road out of town, searching for a perfect vista for Lydia to sketch. They talked about books, about his brother’s letters from overseas, about Chicago, which Henry had never visited. There were no nervous attempts to grab Lydia’s hand or stuttering declarations of feelings. They were simply friends. And Lydia never felt she needed anything more.

By their sophomore year, Lydia and Henry had expanded their friendship to help navigate the perils of high school. He asked her to the homecoming dance, saving her from the embarrassment of not being asked by anyone else. They began doing homework together at her house. Lydia’s father would sometimes give Henry a ride home in his car, one of the few in town that received ample gas rations.

They might have continued that way for years, neither of them breaking the rhythm of companionship. But the war shattered their comfortable routine.

It was the spring of 1944. Henry didn’t board the bus one morning, and he wasn’t in math class at the start of the day. Mr. Andrews called roll and noticed that Henry was absent.

“Has anyone seen Henry Armstrong?” he asked.

“He wasn’t on the bus,” Melanie offered.

“That’s an unexcused absence,” Mr. Andrews said, marking it down in his book.

Even one unexcused absence was unusual for someone as conscientious as Henry, and when he wasn’t at school the next day, Lydia began to worry. She wondered whether she’d be brave enough to telephone his house later. She’d only met his parents once, when they came to the school’s annual concert. They were even more soft-spoken than Henry, nodding silently when Henry introduced them. Lydia wondered if they’d remember who she was.

“Um, Mr. Andrews?” George Foster, known as one of the loudest boys in the school, raised his hand.

“Yes, George?”

“My mother heard something about the Armstrongs. I don’t know if I…” George seemed unsure, a rarity for him.

“Please come up,” said Mr. Andrews. George whispered in his ear. Lydia, from the front row, heard the name of Reverend McDeal, the minister at Knox Junction’s only church.

Mr. Andrews was quiet for a moment, gazing down at the floor. “Thank you, George,” he said finally. “Take your seat.”

Lydia waited for an announcement, but Mr. Andrews continued with roll call and then began reviewing the previous night’s homework. Lydia felt her stomach tense with worry. If Reverend McDeal had been called, someone in the house must be very sick. Was it Henry’s mother or father? Could it be Henry himself?

By lunchtime, Lydia couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. She lingered beside the table where George and his fellow baseball team members sat, drumming up the courage to speak.

“What are you doing here?” asked one of the older boys, a junior or senior.

“I, uh…George?” Lydia’s voice was trembling. “Do you have a minute?”

George was obviously shocked at being approached by his class’s designated bookworm. He grinned at the other boys as he stood up, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. Lydia motioned him to follow, and she led him to a far corner of the lunchroom, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Today, in Mr. Andrews’s class, you said something about the Armstrongs.”

George’s self-satisfied expression gave way to wariness.

“Yeah.”

“Is something wrong with Henry?”

George looked at her, his face uncharacteristically blank.

“Please,” Lydia begged.

“Well, I guess everyone’s going to hear about it anyway. It’s not Henry, it’s his brother. Killed in action.”

A heavy chill settled over Lydia’s body, making her feel as if she were encased in ice. Timothy. Henry’s only sibling, the older brother he idolized. The person Henry’s father was training to take over the farm. His mother’s pride and joy.

Lydia moved through the rest of the day in a haze, sick whenever she thought of Henry and what he must be going through. She was desperate to talk to him, but terrified at the idea of reaching out. She couldn’t possibly call the house. What if his mother answered the phone, hysterical? What would she say? Stopping by for a visit was out of the question. Seeing the Armstrongs in person, devastated by the news, would be unbearable.

Shortly after returning home from school, Lydia told her mother she was going out to draw. She’d lose herself in something to take her mind away from what had happened. Spring in northern Illinois could shift from freezing to broiling within twenty-four hours, but that afternoon there was still a chill in the air. She tossed a scarf around her neck and pulled on her gloves, tucking her sketch pad under one arm and putting a small box of pastels in her pocket.

She set off down the main road out of town, which led past Henry’s farm. She wasn’t planning on going to the house, not exactly. But she needed to be closer to him, even if he didn’t see her or know she was there. If the connection between them was so strong that his grief affected her physically, maybe he’d sense her nearness and draw some small comfort from it.

The farmhouse where Henry lived lay at the end of a dirt track off the main road. Lydia stopped at the turnoff and looked toward the house. The only vehicle parked in front was Henry’s father’s truck. No visitors.

She was just trying to decide whether to turn back or keep walking, when she noticed a movement in some trees to her right. She clutched her sketch pad, struggling to come up with an excuse for why she might have chosen this particular spot to draw. Then she saw a glimpse of light hair through the branches. It was Henry.

Lydia’s fear about what to say instantly vanished. She dropped her paper and raced over the grass, calling his name. His body stiffened when he heard her voice. As she approached, and saw his face drawn with despair, his eyes rimmed with red, she knew that words wouldn’t be enough. She flung herself against him and hugged tight, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His thin frame felt surprisingly solid to her—what little substance he had was all wiry muscle and bone. One hand rested gently on her shoulder, the other tentatively patted her back.

“You heard,” he said quietly, the words muffled by their embrace.

“Yes,” Lydia said. “All day, I’ve been so worried. I can’t imagine what it’s been like.”

She felt him shudder as he tried to speak. She kept her eyes pressed shut, afraid to see him in such pain.

“It’s been awful,” he whispered. “My Ma…I don’t know what’s going to happen to her. It’s like she’s dead, too. Pop’s doing his best, but…”

Lydia rubbed her hands against his back, as if the pressure could push out the hurt.

“Tim was their favorite,” Henry said. “Everybody loved him. He was going to take over here someday. He was the one who tended to this apple orchard—did I ever tell you that? He had a knack for growing things. He said I wouldn’t have to worry about Ma and Pop, he’d take care of them while I went off and saw the world.” Henry’s body began shaking with sobs.

“It’s going to be all right,” Lydia murmured, although she knew it wouldn’t. She repeated the words softly, in the tone Mother had used when she was a child, frightened awake by a bad dream.

Henry’s fears tumbled out of him—his terror that his parents would never recover, the way he could barely face his own mother, the emptiness that stretched before him without end. Lydia kept her arms pressed around him. Not looking at him, knowing that he’d stop talking if he met her eyes.

Eventually, Henry’s heaving breaths slowed down, and his voice drifted off into silence. His face was red from crying. Lydia pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket and handed it to him.

“Sorry about that,” Henry said, his voice returning to its usual flat tone.

“Don’t worry,” Lydia whispered. “I’m glad you told me.”

“There’s no one else I can tell,” he said. “No one to talk to. Except you.”

They looked at each other, and between them flashed an acknowledgment that everything had changed. A moment before it happened, Lydia knew it was coming, knew Henry would put his hands against her cheeks and guide her face toward his, knew their lips would meet in a soft kiss. Lydia tasted a trace of salty tears on Henry’s lips, and she closed her eyes tightly to stop herself from crying.

They might have stood there for a minute, or it could have been hours. Time stopped in that moment, underneath Timothy’s apple trees. Henry’s strong arms enveloped Lydia’s narrow shoulders, as if he was comforting her now, reassuring her that together, they could get through anything.

“Lydia,” he whispered, his lips pulling away from hers and brushing against her cheek. “I’m sorry….”

She reached up and moved his mouth back toward hers. “I’m not,” she said.

Henry’s mouth twisted slightly to one side, as if he was unsure whether to move it toward a smile or a sob. “I love you so much,” he said.

“I love you, too.” She said the words because it seemed right, but as soon as she’d spoken, she knew they were true.

Then their lips were together again, and his tongue found hers, and they were locked together in a desperate embrace, their mouths hungry for each other in a way that left them gasping for breath. His fingers were tangled in her hair, while her hands pressed against his lower back, pulling him tighter against her. Finally, they drew apart, both shaken. Henry dropped his head and rested his face against Lydia’s shoulder.

“Promise you’ll never leave me,” Henry said.

“I won’t,” she said. “I won’t.” And in that moment, she meant it.