Billy Boyle (Billy Boyle World War II, #1)

by James R. Benn

I found her place easy enough and her, too, for that matter. She was sitting on a worn wooden bench in a small garden in front of her cottage. It looked like a house to me, but I figured it was one of those English things. I pulled the BMW into the drive and switched it off. The driveway was packed dirt with weeds sprouting out of it, wildflowers forcing their way through the hard surface. She looked over at me as calmly as if Americans on motorcycles showed up every day. I took off my goggles and Parsons field jacket, and attempted to make myself presentable. I brushed the dust off my pants, put on my fore and aft cap at just the right angle, and walked into the garden. She sat still, gazing at the flowers. “Nice garden, Mrs. Brey.” She nodded, ever so slightly, and looked up at me with moist eyes. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, limp and damp from her tears. “Yes, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die now . . .” “Now that you’re being transferred?” “No. Now that Richard’s . . . gone. He always tended them. Said a home needed flowers blooming around it first thing in the spring. He always looked forward to springtime.”