“But she grew up straight and sure and—and yes, maybe a little sad at times, but strong, too. She had a core of strength in her. Like polished diamond. I’ve—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Listening to this man as he grasped for words to describe a woman he’d known decades ago, at times sure and at times lost, I wanted to ask if he’d loved her. A question you could only ask certain people: friends, yes, but I’d never dare ask my parents, because what if the answer was no? And the answercouldn’tbe no, not the way they parented, as an indisputable team. The questionwas too much, too personal, the answers too dangerous.
And yet here, with this man who was practically a stranger, I could almost ask. He seemed almost like a character in a story himself, just like O’ma, and I wanted to drink in every word he was willing to spill.
Except he wasn’t a character, and he looked so sad right now, and I hardly needed to ask, not when I’d read his letters. (Don’t do anything stupid. I love you.) And O’ma wasn’t a fairy-tale heroine, either. Her story didn’t begin and end with the war. To act as though it did shortchanged everything else she’d experienced. Her story was complicated and messy, many stories wrapped in one, with no neat bows.
And right now, I wanted to know this story, with all its cuts and bruises. “How did the two of you...”
Edward looked at me again, but this time I didn’t think he saw a granddaughter or a delinquent, but someone from the past. He smiled wistfully. “I came back one summer during college and she was here. I’d never paid any attention to her before, but—I don’t know. She was pure emotion. She felt so much. I don’t think we ever felt so much as when we were young.” He blew out a long breath. “We were so young.”
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “How did you feel?”
He leaned back in his chair and let out a half laugh. “It was so long ago. I don’t remember the details so much.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “I felt... like I’d been standing in a room with no light and she was an incandescent flame. I remember her smile. I remember...” He shook his head.
“What?”
He met my gaze. His looked, suddenly, tired. “I remember I cried when she left.”
Regret pulsed through me. “I’m sorry.”
Edward didn’t respond.
Noah hadn’t spoken in several minutes, but he’d tightly kept hold of my hand. I glanced at him now, worried he’d be upset about how emotionally his grandfather had spoken about a woman who wasn’t his grandmother. Why was it so much easier to talk to strangers rather than family about intimate details? Because strangers judged less? Cared less?
Because we didn’t have to worry about damaging carefully constructed family relationships?
I took a deep breath. “Why did she leave?”
“She wanted a job in the city. She wanted her independence. Her parents were gone—I think she felt like a charity case. Shewasn’t. But she felt like one.”
“But why—why did you two stop seeing each other?”
“Ah, well.” He let out a heavy sigh. “These things happen.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “They just do.”
All right, apparently it wasn’talwayseasier to push with people you didn’t know. “Why did she want the necklace back so badly?”
“The necklace.” He waved a hand. “What a mess.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “It just was.”
“What happened to it?”
Now he started to frown. “It was a difficult situation.”
“How come?”
“It was,” he said, his voice rising.
“Okay.” I’d agitated him too much. “She wanted it back, right? Do you know why?”
His face crumpled, and he looked at his grandson. “Noah.”
