Libby shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Lofton. And congratulations on the law degree.”

“Thank you,” Lofton said. “Mom tells me you took some amazing pictures at Ginger’s wedding.”

“I think I got a couple of great shots.” For some reason, she felt the need to toot her own horn.

Ted handed Libby and Lofton glasses of red wine. “I opened a bottle Elaine and I bought in Naples last year while in Europe. Seemed the perfect night to try it.”

The warm fruity flavor tasted good, and the alcohol would soon take the edge off. “I saw Colton’s truck out front.” She wasn’t going to ask a forward question about whether he was coming or not, even though she hoped the extra place setting was for him. “How is the greenhouse coming?”

“It looks fantastic,” Elaine said. “The vines are all stripped away, and the inside is all cleaned out. We’ll have to walk down after dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

“Next up is to remove the stone flooring and excavate down so he can install a new gravity-fed water system. That starts in a day or two. I have a few of Olivia’s early gardening journals. You said you were interested.”

“That would be great. I’ll have them back to you shortly.”

“There’s no rush,” Elaine said.

“Are you giving Libby my great-grandmother’s journals?” Lofton asked.

“Sure,” Elaine said. “Libby is photographing the estate for me. If we go into this wedding venue business as you have been suggesting, then we’ll need photographs with background history.”

Lofton’s polished finger tapped against the side of her glass. “Yes, but she doesn’t need the journals.”

“Lofton, help me with the grill,” Ted said. “I don’t want to burn the steaks.”

As if sensing a warning in her father’s tone, Lofton grinned. “Sure, Daddy.”

Lofton and Ted retreated to the grill. Libby took another sip of wine.

“You know what?” Libby said. “I’ll take a raincheck on the journals. I don’t have time to read them anyway.”

“You strike me as the kind of woman who finds the time, and Lofton has just become a little overprotective since I got sick. Don’t worry about it. I’ll send them to you.”

“Did I miss much?” Colton’s deep voice mingled with Sam and Jeff’s chatter. Margaret walked beside him carrying a bowl of potato salad. Colton had a platter filled with steamed corn on the cob.

The boys ran past Libby and straight up to Lofton, who promptly grabbed Jeff by the midsection and turned him upside down. Jeff laughed and flailed his arms as Sam jumped up and down, begging, “Pick me up!”

Margaret set her bowl of salad on the table, glancing up at Elaine. The two exchanged glances, but Libby couldn’t decipher their silent communication.

“Last summer the boys spent a lot of time with Lofton,” Elaine explained.

“They ask about her all the time,” Colton said.

“I wish she were staying longer this summer. She and Ted have such fun together,” Elaine said. “But she’s clerking in DC. Very big step for her.”

Libby sipped her wine, remembering the last time she and her father had had real fun together. She had to go back a few years and sort through the days before she’d met Jeremy.

They had been cleaning out the family attic. He had found a box of Libby’s baby clothes. Tiny pink, yellow, and white outfits adorned with ruffles. The fancier frocks looked almost pristine, but it was a faded pink New York Jets T-shirt covered with washed-out milk and juice stains that almost brought her father to tears. “You just about lived in this the year you turned two.”

“Who bought me a Jets T-shirt?”

“I’m not sure,” he’d said. “You spent most of that summer digging in the dirt.”

She thought back to that little T-shirt and wondered if it had been one of the few things her father had saved in the boxes stacked neatly in his office. For the first time since she had moved back to Bluestone, she wanted to open those boxes.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SADIE

Tuesday, March 3, 1942

Bluestone, Virginia

The war is gearing up. Towns as small as Bluestone have sent boys down to Fort Benning. We hear the daily reports about what’s happening in Europe and the Pacific, and we’re all itching to jump in the fight. From what the brass is saying, once we get to Europe, it won’t take long for us to end it. Can’t beat an American fighting boy.

Sadie stared at Johnny’s sure-and-steady handwriting, and she pushed the letter across the kitchen table to her mother. “He sounds full of fire.”

The letter went on to say that some of the boys had already been in air raids throughout Britain. He was openly worried about Danny. The war was much different than he had imagined.

But she did not read this part to her mother. Johnny knew their mother could not read and trusted Sadie to use her discretion.

Her mother took the letter and smoothed her hands over the page, as if touching the ink was her way of hugging her son. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything about Danny?”

“No, Ma, no mention of Danny.” Unlike Johnny, who wrote almost weekly, Danny had written only one letter since he had joined the army in 1938.

“I sure do miss those boys. When do you think they’ll be home?” Her mother carefully folded the envelope and tucked it in her pocket. Later it would go in the cigar box with the others for safekeeping.

“I don’t know. But I sure hope it’s soon.” The ground was still hard from the winter and would not thaw for another few weeks. That was when she and her mother would begin tilling the soil for the kitchen garden.

Sadie smoothed her hands. “You heard what I read. I wish he wouldn’t worry about how I mix the mash for the moonshine.”

“He worries because you always add too much sugar.” Smiling as if she and Johnny had shared a private moment, her mother picked up one of Johnny’s socks she had been darning. The sock was at least ten years old and now too small for Johnny, but that did not stop her mother from sewing up the hole and then carefully removing the threads over and over. The stitches never seemed to be perfect enough for her boy.

“What does Miss Olivia say about England?” her mother asked. “She should know.”

“She talks about the gardens mostly. Her parents had a greenhouse by their home in the country.” The greenhouse was no longer filled with flowers but with vegetable plants. Two days ago, they had driven into Charlottesville, and Miss Olivia had mailed a package to her parents. It had been stuffed with canned milk, tea, potted meat, and tinned biscuits.

“I heard Mr. Sullivan saying the Germans are still bombing England,” her mother said.

“There seems to be no end in sight.”

A frown furrowed her mother’s brow. “It’s a dangerous place to be.”

“Johnny won’t be near London.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I asked Miss Olivia,” she lied. “Miss Olivia said he’d be staying in a safe place. Besides, he’s tough. He’s outrun enough revenuers and the sheriff. No German is going to catch him.”