The Husband She Can't Forget. Patricia Forsythe

a joy to see.

      Carly examined the base and bottom to locate the artist’s name but couldn’t read the faint markings. “Whoever did this was a master craftsman. The attention to detail is amazing. You can even see her eyelashes and the lunules on her fingernails. See?” She pointed out the half-moon shapes at the base of each nail. “And the hands are perfectly done, the mark of a talented artist.” She ran the tip of her calloused finger over the delicate hands. “Is it Wendolin as a little girl?”

      Luke shrugged. “I think so, but I’m not sure. I have a few pictures of Omi when she was little, but they’re not very clear. Whoever the family photographer was, he felt obligated to stand at the top of the most distant hill to get everyone in the picture, so there are no close-ups of anyone’s face.” He held up the fabric that had been wrapped around the statue. “This is definitely a flag, pre–World War II German. I wonder why this was used.”

      “Maybe they kept the flag because they were giving up their country but not their nationality. Seriously, Wendolin never talked to you about this?”

      “Very little. I remember her saying she wasn’t brave, but I never knew what she meant by that.”

      They both looked at the statue again and Carly ran her hand over the flag. “It’s possible, too, that if the statue is valuable, someone wanted to make sure it was wrapped in natural fabrics rather than synthetics...” She paused. “Although, now that I think about it, the 1930s weren’t exactly rife with nylon and, of course, polyester wasn’t created until 1941.”

      Luke grinned and raised his eyebrows at her. “I wouldn’t know and I have to wonder how you do.”

      She shrugged. “I must have read it somewhere and it stuck in my head.”

      Carly ran her fingers over the figure, imagining they were touching soft hair, the fabric of a skirt, the gloss of shiny dress shoes. Although the little girl looked happy, enthralled by the tiny scrap of nature that had lit upon her fingers, the tableau made Carly sad. She glanced up and said as much to Luke.

      “Why sad?” Luke asked.

      “I’m not sure, except that it’s a moment frozen in time and...and Wendolin moved on from this beautiful moment and never recaptured it. Maybe it’s not so much sadness I’m feeling as it is melancholy or nostalgia.”

      Luke frowned as he gave the statue a considering look. “Wait a minute, I do remember this. When I was small, it sat on a table in Omi’s living room. I wanted to play with it, but, of course, she didn’t want me to break it, so she must have put it away then never got it out again, at least, not where I could see it.”

      Carly cradled it in her hands then looked up with tears spilling from her eyes. “I can’t accept this, Luke. It’s a family heirloom.”

      “She wanted you to have it.”

      Carly went to find a tissue and took several minutes to compose herself. When she returned to the living room, Luke had replaced everything in the trunk and put the lid on. The statue stood in the middle, a happy little girl, frozen in time.

      “Thanks, Luke,” she said through trembling lips. “I’ll always treasure it.”

      “I know.”

      Luke reached into his pocket and took out his keys.

      Carly felt an unexpected surge of relief. Although she’d been anxious since Luke’s arrival, she had tamped down the strongest feelings of regret, sorrow and angry betrayal. She had thought those feelings had been conquered long ago, but she’d been wrong. Now he was leaving and she wouldn’t see him again. The emotions he’d stirred up could be laid to rest for good.

      Deep in her own thoughts, she barely noticed that Luke hadn’t moved toward the door. When she did, she gave him a questioning look. “Is there something else?”

      He tilted his head and glanced away from her then back. He rocked slightly on his heels.

      “Luke...?”

      “There’s something else I need to tell you, Carly.”