She hesitated. Were your promises merely a symptom of the war? Didn’t you feel the same way about me? And she realized that her precious memories, created under the duress of Luftwaffe bombs, may have been distorted dreams. Lies. Suddenly, her elation was buried in an avalanche of heartbreak. She wanted to cry. But despite how much the truth would sting, she needed to know what had happened. “Be an egg,” she whispered to herself. She took a deep breath, attempting to gather her fortitude, then led him to the cottage.

A few minutes later, they sat in the kitchen with a pot of freshly brewed tea. Susan’s hand trembled as she stirred milk and sugar into his cup.

“Thank you,” Ollie said. He took a sip and returned his cup to the table. “You look the same.”

Susan, seated on the opposite side of the table, glanced down at her tea. The reflection of an old woman peered back at her. “I thought you were dead.” The harshness of her words cut the air.

Ollie lowered his head.

Unable to bring herself to look at him, Susan fixated on a deep scratch in the tabletop.

“I saw an article in the paper,” he said, breaking the silence. “I spoke with Lydia and Niles Googins. They told me where to find you.”

Susan forced herself to take a sip of tea, hot and bitter. “Perhaps you should have called.”

Ollie cleared his throat. “I guess I was afraid that you wouldn’t want to see me.”

Susan added a lump of sugar to her tea. She stirred. The spoon clanged against the cup.

Ollie glanced around the cottage, then pointed to a framed photograph on the wall. “Your family?”

Without looking up, Susan said, “My daughter, Clover, and my grandchildren, Evie and Hugh.”

“They’re beautiful.” He took notice of another photo. “Your husband?”

Susan nodded, feeling her stomach tighten. “Duncan at his retirement party.” She paused then said, “He passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” He gripped his cup. “Did you have a good life?”

Susan looked up. She crossed her arms and nodded.

“I’m glad,” he said.

Confused about how to respond, Susan asked, “Do you have children?”

“No, unfortunately,” Ollie said.

“Married?”

“Once.” He paused. “Anna died from leukemia in ’52.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

She swallowed. “You never remarried?”

Ollie shook his head.

“Where do you live?”

“Portland.” He took a sip of tea. “Maine,” he added.

Oliver from Maine, Bertie’s voice crowed in her head.

“I retired there after working in Boston for a regional airline.”

“You got to fly?” Susan asked.

Ollie nodded.