But he lived and thrived apart from her, and it threatened to drown her. Never again would she see him. Never would she read his handwriting or hear his voice change or watch him become a father himself. Never would she know how he did in school or on the playing field or on the job. Never would she meet his friends or his wife or her own grandchildren.
Aleida knelt by the bed until the pain subsided to a bearable level. It would never entirely go away, and yet the peace remained. She’d done the right thing for her son.
Her doorbell rang, and she rose to her feet and straightened the skirt of her dress. The lady upstairs had borrowed a bit of butter the other day and promised to pay Aleida back when she received her next ration.
Aleida opened the door.
Hugh stood in the hallway in a khaki raincoat and a fedora, both sprinkled by raindrops.
Her chest squeezed hard. She thought she’d never see him again.
“Good afternoon.” He removed his hat and smoothed his wavy hair. “I do apologize for visiting against your wishes, but—”
“I thought you were in Scotland.” Her words tumbled out. “That—that’s what Louisa said.”
“I was.” He frowned and blinked a few times. “I was transferred back to London. You—you cut your hair.”
Aleida fingered the pageboy cut, the ends flipped under a few inches below her chin. “I did.”
“It’s very pretty. Very becoming.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t come today—I promise, I didn’t come to try to win you back.”
Of course, he didn’t want to win her back after how she’d treated him, and she fought back a wince.
“No,” he said. “I came because of Theo.”
Her mind careened in another direction. “Theo?”
“May I come in?” He gestured to the door, and his frown cut deep. “I do believe you should sit down for the news. For happy reasons.”
“Yes. Of course.” She stepped back and reached for the English cure for every awkward situation. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.” He entered the flat and hung his hat and raincoat on the coatrack.
Aleida sat on a sofa and gripped her hands in her lap. What news could Hugh have about Theo? And what sort of happy news would require her to sit?
“I returned from Scotland an hour ago and ran into my friend Tony Da Costa at the Tube station. Tony’s an American reporter.” Hugh cocked his head at the coatrack, on whichTheo’s little coat and hat no longer hung—then he whipped his gaze to her, to her hair—and his eyebrows sprang high.
From those clues, he’d realized something had changed—because he knew her so well.
Grief washed through her. She’d lost such a good man, such a wonderful romance.
But she hefted her chin high. “An American reporter, you say?”
“Yes.” Clamping a black portfolio under one arm, Hugh tugged down the sleeves of his gray suit jacket. “Tony and I met in Belgium last May. He followed the refugees during the exodus. One day he took photographs of a Dutch woman and her son sitting under a tree by the road.”
All at once she could see the golden barley waving in the sun, feel the solid weight of her boy in her lap, and taste his sweet hand against her lips. “The photos ... Theo and me.”
“Yes.” Hugh’s smile grew, crinkling the skin around his hazel eyes.
Aleida gasped and pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I warned him—the reporter. Sebastiaan was furious.”
“He threatened to destroy Tony’s career.”
“Sebastiaan—that night—that’s when he gave Theo away.”
Hugh huffed. “Thanks to Tony, we can undo some of the damage your husband did. Tony never published those photographs, as he promised. But he did print them.” He sat in an armchair at the end of the coffee table.
Aleida’s gaze locked on the portfolio in his lap. Could it be ...?
