Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Hannah
“Not funny, O’Malley.” I frowned at him. A hint of a smile lifted his lips and caused a ridiculous fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach.
How good this man looked with finger-combed bedhead, a pecs-hugging black T-shirt, and faded jeans, should have been a crime.
Needing some space, I went in the opposite direction toward a seamstress’s dummy that had a vintage dress pinned to its frame.
The pale blue satin was dusty and the lace overskirt had gaping holes as if years of neglect or a moth had eaten away at it.
“I wonder who was making this.” I examined the skirt gently between my index finger and thumb. I glanced up to find Simon watching me. I smiled and said, “It’s not Pops’s color.”
His small smile flashed and again I felt dizzy from the impact, which was crazy given that it was such a minimal tip to his lips or maybe it was because his smile was so tiny that it seemed to have more impact.
It was as if he was on constant emotional lockdown and getting a sign of amusement from him felt like a huge achievement.
Despite his stoicism, O’Malley had a dependability about him that I liked. He was kind to Dude, even willing to sing to him during a storm. And over the past three weeks, he’d been so understanding, allowing me to grieve and process my loss, which was a major green flag for me.
“I think that carpet predates the grandfathers, don’t you?” I was relieved. The thought of having more stuff of our grandfathers’ to sort through felt overwhelming. It was much easier to deal with a stranger’s possessions.
My unspoken plan had been to soften Simon into seeing this house as an heirloom itself.
The last place his grandfather had been happy, and hope that it convinced him we shouldn’t sell.
Of course, if we didn’t sell, we’d have to figure out how to share the house and that could be weird.
Would we time-share it as I’d suggested before?
He’d get it for six months and then I’d get it for the other.
Or could we be housemates? I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
The man was too attractive for my own good and I did not do relationships—not that he was interested in one with me, but still.
After my marriage had crashed and burned, I had vowed to be done with long-term relationships.
I had yet to meet a man I wanted in my life for more than a week or two, tops.
After two months of cleaning out and repairing this house, I was positive I would be tired of Simon’s tousled hair, soulful eyes, broad shoulders, the citrus-and-sun smell of him, and how great he was with Dude.
Yeah, absolutely, 100 percent sick to death of him, no question.
“Spencer, you all right?” Simon waved at me from across the attic.
“Huh? What?” I asked.
“I think I’ve found something that might have belonged to our grandfathers.”
I hurried across the attic. Plumes of dust shot up from the floor and I sneezed once, twice, three times.
“Bless you.” Simon moved aside and pointed to an item tucked behind an old bassinet.
The paint was faded and it was missing wheels but the handlebars and seats were intact. “Is that…?”
“A tandem bike!” Simon announced as enthusiastically as if he’d found bars of gold.
Then he smiled at me—with teeth!—and a wicked dimple appeared in his right cheek, causing my brain to flatline.
Serious Simon was ridiculously handsome but grinning Simon was dead sexy.
I turned away before my condition became permanent.
“You honestly think that belonged to our grandfathers?” I asked.
“It could have,” he insisted. “I’m surprised they put it up here, though.”
“Why? This is obviously the place where things go to die just like those ancient snowshoes.” I gestured to the antique pair hanging on the wall.
Simon left the tandem bike frame and moved over to an old army duffel bag. It had been tossed unceremoniously in the corner and he approached it with caution as if he expected a raccoon to leap out—maybe that was just me. He grabbed the handle and another cloud of dust went up.
“Maybe it isn’t theirs,” I said. Remembering that his grandfather had shipped out for Vietnam just after he’d met Pops made me nervous that it was Gramps’s and that its contents might cause Simon to suffer a grief bomb.
Simon flicked the tag on the bag. The name “Private O’Malley” was typed on the thick paper tag that was yellowed with age. “It’s Gramps’s.”
I put my hand on his arm and squeezed. He glanced at me and I could see the same pain in his eyes that I’d seen in my own mirror over the past few weeks.
“It’s probably just his uniform.” His voice was gruff and he cleared his throat.
“Right.” I hoped my voice sounded encouraging and not worried.
Simon hefted the bag out of the corner and dropped it on the ground at our feet.
The top was a knotted drawstring and he worked at the tie, not making much progress as his hands were squared off and calloused.
“Let me try,” I offered. He moved aside and I dug my fingernails into the knot, trying to pry it loose. It took several attempts but finally the cord unraveled and I pushed it back to Simon.
“Thanks.” He glanced at me and then at the bag. With a bracing inhale, he pulled the top of the bag open. He used his phone to shine a light into the interior. It looked to be neatly folded fatigues. Just a uniform, then.
Simon emptied the bag, setting the clothing at our feet. When I thought he was done, he reached in and pulled out a dark blue, almost black, leatherette case. Simon popped the lid and we both took in a medal hanging from a purple ribbon with a profile of George Washington on it.
“Oh, wow.” I glanced from the box to Simon to gauge his reaction. His face was its usual blank canvas upon which no emotion showed. I forced myself to be patient and let him process.
“Gramps was awarded the Purple Heart for a head injury he received by grenade shrapnel while he was serving as a ‘tunnel rat’ during his tour as a mechanized infantryman,” Simon explained.
“He never talked about it, but my father did. He searched Gramps’s town house, looking for this.
” He handed the leatherette case to me and glanced around the attic.
“And to think Gramps just shoved it in his duffel and tossed it up here.”
“I imagine he had many conflicting emotions about Vietnam.” I hoped I wasn’t crossing a line by saying as much.
“I wouldn’t know. As I mentioned, he never talked about it.” Simon shook his head. “When I think about how young he was when he shipped out. Eighteen years old seems like a kid to me. I’m almost twice the age he was when he was sent halfway round the world. He and his battalion were just boys.”
I handed the medal back to him. “Will you give it to your father?”
“No.” There was no hesitation. “If Gramps had wanted him to have it, he would have given it to him.”
Not for the first time, I suspected there was conflict in the O’Malley house. I didn’t ask. If Simon wanted to share, he would. It wasn’t for me to pick at his festering wounds even though I was absolutely racked with curiosity.
I reached into the bag to make certain it was empty while Simon examined Gramps’s uniform. My fingers brushed a piece of paper or cardboard. I gently pulled it out. I went to hand it to Simon but paused when I recognized one of the two young men in the photo.
“Pops,” I gasped. Simon dropped the fatigues he was holding and leaned close, his side pressed to mine, and he said, “Gramps.”
The photo was creased and faded but I’d know Pops’s bigger-than-life smile anywhere.
He stood on a pier that I’d seen in Cape Split—here?
—and he had his arm around the shoulders of the man beside him, who had his arm around Pops’s shoulders and was grinning just as broadly.
They were in bathing suits standing in front of an old building with a sign that read The Scoop.
They looked impossibly young and innocent.
“This must be from the summer they met.” I turned to look at Simon to see if he agreed.
He continued to stare at the photo and nodded.
I saw it then, the way his hair flopped over his forehead, the square line of his jaw, and the lean but well-muscled physique.
Simon looked so much like his grandfather—even the dimple that had about knocked me out he’d clearly gotten from the man in the photo.
“No wonder Pops fell for him,” I said. Simon cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Gramps was a hottie.”
“I don’t know about that.” He looked uncomfortable.
“I do,” I scoffed. “You look just like him.”
Simon went perfectly still. His gaze flitted to mine and held me pinned in place with the intensity of his stare.
Oh, shit, shit, shit, did I just say that out loud? I tried to save myself. “Of course, I mean that in a purely platonic nonobjectifying way.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up and that imperceptible smile curved his lips, making me dizzy. His voice was low when he said, “So, what you’re saying is you think I’m hot.”
I rolled to my feet and turned away before he could see my face turn red. Judging by the heat I could feel burning in my cheeks, I was going to have the complexion of an overripe tomato in three, two, one.
“No, I said Gramps was hot. You’re like third-generation hot.” I glanced at him over my shoulder while trying to hide my face behind my hair.
“But still hot,” he said with that damn smile barely curving his mouth.