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She jumped when Desmond dropped next to her on the couch in a sprawl, his arms outstretched across its back. She hadn't seen him come in.
Moving to the side, she instinctively put space between them. Then, realizing what a foolish picture she must make hunched over the arm of the couch, she leaned back, trying to act casual. As if she couldn't feel the heat of his arm behind her shoulders. As if the hairs on the back of her neck weren't standing on end, drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. Yes, that was a good analogy. He radiated invisible lines of force, too. And she felt herself aligning with them, as if she had no control over herself.
She needed to distract him, distract herself. Her fingers brushed across the discarded coloring book, and she held it out to Desmond.
"I was admiring your daughter's work." She forced a lighthearted smile. "Although I didn't realize princesses had green faces."
"I'm happy she finally mastered staying on the paper. Realistic colors come later, when she's older. Don't you remember that from your own youth? Or were you the youngest?"
"I was an only child." She turned aside, discouraging any comments.
Her mother had denied her the chance to have siblings. True, she had half-brothers and -sisters. But they didn't count. She'd never known about them while she was growing up.
They'd grown up with the father she'd thought was dead. She clenched her jaw, fighting against the bitter anger she still felt toward her mother.
He brushed his fingertips across her shoulder. "I didn't mean to offend you."
He must think she was angry at him. She forced her rigid muscles to relax, and leaned her head back against his arm. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then counted to ten and let it out.
"You didn't. You just reminded me of something."
He curled his arm around her shoulders, offering silent sympathy. She soaked up his warmth and vibrancy, feeling the life beginning to flow back into her.
"You're doing so much for me, and for Gillian." He hesitated, his uncertainty only making him more appealing.
"You seem so sad," he continued. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No." She shook her head and looked away. Her eyes felt funny again, and she didn't want him to think she was crying. "It's nothing. Old news, over a long time ago."
He reached out, cupping her chin in his hand, and turned her to face him. She still refused to look at him. He held her jaw until she met his gaze.
"It may be over, but you're not over it. Perhaps talking
about it will help."
She'd never told the whole story to anyone before. Why would she, when they'd only use it against her? But Desmond was different. She felt that she could confide in him. The unfamiliar trust surprised her.
"I never knew my father," she began. "When I was a little girl, I'd spend hours in front of his picture. I made my mother tell me the stories about him over and over again, until I thought I knew every minute of their two years together."
He placed his hand over her chilled fingers, fisted in her lap, and gave them a reassuring squeeze. She searched his eyes, but saw no hint of censure, only encouragement.
"Everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for the Vietnam War Memorial," she continued. "When I told my mother we should go see it, she became distraught. She forbade me to go anywhere near it."
"But you went?"
"I went." Rebecca smiled wryly, "I always was very determined."
"I'd noticed." He returned her smile, but also tightened his grip on her hand.
"I emptied out my savings account and bought a bus ticket from upstate New York all the way to Washington. The line for the memorial was very long, full of people bringing gifts and mementos for the loved ones they'd never had a chance to say good-bye to. Somehow, I felt connected to all of them, bound by a common purpose. We all wanted to see the wall and touch the one special name chiseled into the stone, as if that could make the deaths real. As if that could bring them home."
She bit her lip, determined not to cry. The day was engraved upon her memory, as if it had been only yesterday. The elderly man in front of her, leaning on a cane and smelling of camphor, who clutched a pair of shoes to his chest. The weeping woman behind her, who held a bouquet of carnations and babbled on about how they were her son's favorite flower. And between them, the girl whose innocent love was about to be destroyed by the cold, hard truth.
Desmond pulled her close, cradling her in the warmth of his embrace. His arms held her safe, protecting her from her memories, until she could continue her story. She listened to the steady thud of his heart beneath her head, felt the rise and fall of his chest with each slow inhale and exhale of breath. Gradually her pulse slowed to match his, and her breathing steadied. But she didn't move, unwilling to look at his face as she finished her tale.
"When my turn came, I stepped up to the directory of names, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. I knew the date I wanted, and ran my finger down the list, looking for Private Charles Morgan. He wasn't listed."
"Not listed?"
