Familiar Stranger
Page 22
“Thank you, darling,” he said softly.
“For what?” she asked.
“For letting me know what it feels like to come home.”
Epilogue
July 4, 2001
The day was hot and still. In the distance, the United States Marine Band was tuning up as people continued gathering on the mall between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. In a few moments, David would join his family for the festivities, but there was something he’d left undone. Something he’d done at the Wall every Fourth of July since its inception.
He started down the pathway in front of the memorial, trying not to think of what had happened here only a few short days before. With the sun beaming down on his bare arms, he should have been sweltering, but his mind was locked into a storm, and the rain pouring down—and his brother pointing a gun at his chest.
Dozens and dozens of people lined the path along the Wall, each paying their own tribute to a loved one on this day of independence. The rose he was carrying felt heavy in his hand—a burden he didn’t want to bear. Unconsciously, his fingers clenched, and as they did, a thorn pricked. He winced, but considered the pain as no less than he deserved.
Ten, maybe twelve steps more and he would be there—at the place where Frank had died. He couldn’t look down—wouldn’t look down—yet when he got there, his gaze automatically fell to the place where Frank had fallen.
He paused, staring at the concrete until his eyes began to burn. Finally he sighed.
Nothing.
They’d left nothing behind—not even a bloodstain marred the place where he had died.
He turned, searching the Wall for Frank’s name and then moving through the crowd to touch it, tracing each letter with his fingertip, as if the simple act might resurrect and save a man who’d most likely gone to hell.
“Family?”
He turned. A stately, gray-haired woman dressed in black was standing at his side.
He nodded.
She pointed with a long, perfectly manicured fingertip. “That’s my husband’s name right below.”
He looked. “Anthony C. DeFranco,” he read, only afterward realizing that he’d read it aloud.
“I called him Tony,” she said, and then dabbed a handkerchief beneath the lenses of her sunglasses. “We’d been married six weeks when he got drafted.” She sighed. “I never saw him again.”
“I’m very sorry,” David said.
She sighed. “Yes, I know. We’re all sorry, aren’t we? But it happened and all I could do was go on.” She shrugged, as if to indicate it was out of her hands. “What could I do? I was still alive, wasn’t I?”
Then she walked away, leaving David with her simple truth.
He turned again, this time looking at Frank’s name with new emotion. The woman was right. Even though Frank had died only days ago, technically, he’d been dead for forty years and God knows, David had grieved for him more than most.
It was time to move on.
After all, he was still alive.
He laid the red rose at the base of the wall, touched Frank’s name one last time and then turned, looking back up the path at the way that he’d come.
Cara was there, as were all of her children. They’d taken to him in spite of themselves, and God willing, they had years and years left to learn to love.
He started to walk, moving against the stream of people who were still filing down—through a group of teenage girls, past a couple arm in arm, then behind a solitary man in an outdated uniform—until Cara was in his arms.
He held her there without speaking beneath the heat of the sun, cherishing the beat of her heart against his chest.
“Okay?” she asked quietly.
He made himself smile, and as he did, realized that for the first time in years it felt right.
“Yes, okay.”
“Then let’s go home.”
They walked away, losing themselves and the past in the gathering crowd.
Author Note
I was born during a war, grew up within another, and raised my children during the tragedy that became Vietnam. When I saw a grandchild being born during a war called Desert Storm, I wondered if it would always be so—that we seemed destined to annihilate our youngest and best at least once in every generation.
I lost family and loved ones during the first three wars and watched in horror as the last one was played out on television for all the world to see.
It doesn’t seem enough to be dedicating this simple book to them, to all the men and women who have fought over these past one hundred years to keep our country free, but I’m doing it just the same. I’m doing it because I can, and because, after all the time that has passed—other than remember that they lived—it’s all I can do.
For my father, Master Sergeant Herman A. Smith, and for all the ones who came before and after, I offer you my heartfelt thanks.
Daddy, I wish you were still alive to read this.
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given
to Sharon Sala for her contribution
to the A Year of Loving Dangerously series.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-0500-0
FAMILIAR STRANGER
Copyright © 2001 by Harlequin Books S.A.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Visit Silhouette at www.eHarlequin.com