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“That is impressive,” Lorna says, and I turn to see her and Chuck regarding me with a slight lessening of hostility.
“Thank you,” I say and smile at them. “I was good, thanks partially to my misspent youth.”
“So why did you leave then?” Chuck asks, reaching over to spear another olive. “How did you end up here?”
My mood darkens, the warmth inside me dissipating despite Sara’s continued gentle touch. I didn’t know if I would go there—if I could bring myself to go there—but I see now that I have to, that if I omit this important part, the Weismans will sense it and I’ll lose a chance to gain their trust.
“A few years into my service, work brought me to a small mountain village in Dagestan, where I met a young woman,” I say evenly, pulling my hand out of Sara’s hold. “She became pregnant, and we got married.”
Lorna’s eyes widen. “You have a child?”
“Had,” I say, and despite my best efforts, the word comes out harsh, almost bitter. “Pasha, my son, and Tamila, my wife, were killed seven years ago. Daryevo, the village where they lived, was mistakenly thought to be harboring terrorists, and dozens of innocents were killed in a NATO-led strike.”
Sara’s parents gape at me, their faces pale and eyes full of disbelief.
“I don’t understand,” Chuck says after a long, heavy moment. “How could something like that happen? And wouldn’t that kind of horrible error have been all over the news? What you’re saying is…” He shakes his head and reaches for a glass of water with an unsteady hand.
“It’s hard to believe, I know, Dad,” Sara says. “But I can tell you that it’s true. I saw the pictures with my own eyes. It happened, and it was horrible.”
Lorna stares at her daughter, then turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Peter.” Her voice softens further at whatever she must see on my face. “How old was your son?”
“He would’ve been three the following month.” A surge of anguish chokes me, and I stand up, unable to look at Sara’s parents. Walking over to the stove, I pick up the pot of pasta and return with it to the table, using the time to compose myself.
“I hope you like this kind of marinara sauce,” I say in a calmer tone, putting a solid portion of the sauce-covered linguini onto Sara’s plate before doing the same for her parents. “It’s a little different from what you’d buy at the store.”
Sara’s mother winds her fork in the linguini and takes a bite, then gives me a tremulous smile. “It’s very good, Peter. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I feel Sara’s delicate hand on my knee, squeezing lightly, and when I look at her, I see that her hazel eyes are much too bright. She doesn’t say anything, but the elusive warmth returns, thawing the icy block that formed inside me at the recollections.
Sara’s father pointedly clears his throat. “So, um… how did you end up here, then? After, you know.”
I take a breath. This is where I have to be careful not to disclose too much.
“There was an investigation,” I say, meeting Chuck’s gaze. “One that resulted in the guilty being officially absolved of blame and the whole incident being dismissed as ‘one of those things that happen in that part of the world.’ I didn’t accept that outcome, and since my superiors were complicit in the cover-up, I left my job. I then traveled the world, working as a security consultant, and eventually, I ended up in Chicago, where I met your daughter.”
“How did you end up in trouble with the authorities, then?” Lorna asks, eyeing me with wariness tinged with a touch of sympathy. “Did it have something to do with what happened to your family?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. As I mentioned before, it’s classified.” I pause, letting them draw their own conclusions, and when no more questions are immediately thrown at me, I look them both in the eye and say quietly, “Lorna, Chuck—I hope I can call you that?” At Lorna’s nod, I continue. “I can’t lie to you about the kind of man I am. I didn’t grow up in a nice neighborhood, and I didn’t go to school to be a doctor or a lawyer. I’m a soldier by training and inclination, and I’ve seen and done things you most likely can’t imagine. But I do love your daughter. I love her with everything I am. She’s the only person who matters to me in the world, and I would do anything for her.” Turning to Sara, I gather her hand in mine and say with complete truthfulness, “I would give my life to make her happy.”
57
Sara
I have no idea how I thought the dinner would go, but the last thing I expected was for Peter to bare his soul to my parents, to disarm them with sincerity instead of squashing their objections with arrogance and veiled threats.
