Against All Odds

by Hannon, Irene

  “You’re shivering,” Coop greeted her, a worried frown furrowing his brow as he scrutinized her. “You need to get out of the cold.”

  As if to reinforce his comment, a sudden gust of wind whipped past, bringing with it a few icy pellets of sleet. “I just need a minute to say good-bye.”

  Without waiting for a response, she tucked the envelope the secretary had handed her into a side pocket of her purse and walked over to the casket. The bleak, gray sky was fitting on this somber day, she reflected, as another pellet of sleet stung her cheek. It mirrored her mood. For a few brief days, she’d allowed herself to hope that perhaps she and her father could find a way to reconnect. But that hope had died with him, on an operating table thousands of miles away. She would never have the chance to reconcile with the man who’d been her father in name only.

  “I’m sorry we never had the chance to mend our relationship,” she whispered, leaning close to touch the polished mahogany, fighting back tears. “And I’m sorry for all the years we missed. I guess I’ll never know why you preferred your job to Mom and me. But I choose to believe it wasn’t a personal rejection. And that maybe, in your heart, you never stopped caring about us. That despite our estrangement, you loved me. And I also want you to know I forgive you, as Mom did long ago.”

  Pausing, Monica fished a tissue out of her coat pocket and dabbed at her tender nose. Then she closed her eyes and spoke in the silence of her heart.

  Lord, I ask that you bring my father home to you. Despite his faults, I know he was a good man who did important work. Please forgive him for his failings in this life, as I have. And grace him with your forgiveness and peace in the next.

  When she turned back, only Coop and Mark remained at the gravesite. Her driver stood attentive and waiting by the back door of the limo that had picked her up. The Suburban Coop and Mark had driven was parked farther down. All of the other mourners had departed.

  They came forward to meet her in silence, each taking an arm to guide her toward the waiting car. She stumbled once on the uneven turf, and their grip tightened, steadying her.

  “Are you okay?” Worry roughened Coop’s voice.

  “Yes.” She kept her head down, blinking back the tears that had blurred her vision and caused her to trip.

  She didn’t speak again until they stopped a few steps from her car. Mark released her arm, but Coop’s grip remained firm. “Thank you both for coming. It can’t have been easy to attend two funerals in one day.”

  “We needed to be at both,” Coop said.

  “I did too, considering Agent Minard died trying to protect me.”

  “His family understood. They mentioned the note you sent. And we saw the flowers.”

  “It seems like such an inadequate gesture in light of their loss.”

  Another gust of wind whipped past, hard enough to rock her, and Coop urged her toward the car. “You need to get out of the cold. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “I’m going to stop by my father’s apartment.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to that?”

  “No. But I’d like to see the place he called home.”

  “Would you like some company?”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Don’t you have to go back to work?”

  “I do,” Mark chimed in. “But Coop took the day off.”

  “If you’d rather be alone, though, I understand.”

  She searched his face. “If you have the time, I’d appreciate it. And I have the driver for the whole day. He can drop you off at your place before we head back to Richmond.”

  “Sounds like my cue to exit.” Mark took Monica’s hands and leaned down to brush his lips over her cheek, his expression sober. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will. Thank you for everything.”

  With a half salute, Mark strode off toward the Suburban.

  Once in the car, Monica gave the driver her father’s address and settled back in the seat. As she set her purse beside her, Coop startled her by reaching for her hands and stripping off her gloves. “What are you doing?”

  “Warming up your hands.” He cocooned her fingers between his and massaged them gently as he issued an additional instruction to the driver. “Stop at a Starbucks, if you don’t mind. This woman is in desperate need of a cup of hot chocolate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Coop, that’s not necess—”

  “Yes, it is. Your hands are like ice.”

  “They’re getting warmer now.” As were other things, she realized, watching his strong, lean fingers caress her skin.

  Thirty minutes later, fortified with the hot chocolate, Monica inserted the key in her father’s small apartment. When the door swung open, however, she hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” Coop rested a hand on her arm from behind.

  “Now that I’m here, I feel like an intruder invading his personal space.”

  “You’re his only family. There’s no one else to do this. But it doesn’t have to be done today.”

  “There’s no reason to put it off, either.” Straightening her shoulders, she stepped across the threshold and into the small foyer.

  Coop followed, shutting the door behind them. He took her purse and helped her off with her coat, and she crossed to the living room, surveying the austere, modern furnishings. A sleek buff-colored leather couch. Side chairs in burgundy. A glass-topped coffee table resting on a carved stone base. A couple of unusual steel lamps. No clutter. No personal touches. No sign that this was anything more than a display unit.

  Her shoulders drooped a bit in disappointment. Monica had hoped the apartment would offer a few insights about the man who had fathered her. But nothing in this cold, impersonal space provided a clue about who he was as a person.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone even lived here.” Disheartened, she checked out the galley kitchen and small dining area, speaking over her shoulder to Coop.

  “It’s the tidiest bachelor pad I’ve ever seen,” he concurred, shoving one hand in the pocket of his slacks while perusing the living room furnishings.

  The cooking and eating areas carried out the same contemporary, minimalist theme, and Monica dismissed them with a cursory sweep to head down the small hall. The first door she opened revealed a chair and a small desk with a tangle of wires underneath, suggesting her father had used this room as an office during his brief stopovers between assignments.

  That left his bedroom.

  Considering the lack of personality in the rest of the apartment, she had little hope it would offer any hints about what made him tick, either. And at first glance, it didn’t. The queen-size bed was covered with an off-white comforter, and a dark-teal-colored bolster pillow was propped against a beige leather headboard. A glass-topped table edged in chrome stood beside the bed, topped with a sleek clock radio.

  Her attention was caught, however, by an ornate wooden chest, Middle-Eastern in design, that stood at the foot of the bed. It was the only thing she’d seen in the apartment that hinted at his global travels. The piece must have had special meaning to him, she speculated, moving closer to run her fingers over the smooth relief carvings and inlay.

  Curious about the contents, she bent to lift the lid as she gave the rest of the room a quick scan. And then she froze. On the otherwise-bare top of a chest of drawers stood a framed photo, the faces dated but instantly recognizable. Her mother and father stood close together behind an eight- or nine-year-old Monica, and everyone was smiling. They looked like a perfect family.

  The chest forgotten, Monica walked across the room and picked up the unfamiliar photo. She had no recollection of posing for it, nor could she remember ever seeing it. The color had faded a bit, washing out the skin tones. There was a ghostly quality to the image, as if the camera had captured a scene that didn’t really exist.

  And, in truth, it hadn’t, Monica acknowledged with a pang, fingering the edge of the frame. They had never been the happy family depicted in this froze
n moment.

  Yet all these years her father had kept this. And the fact that it was the sole personal item on display lent it added significance. Did its presence mean he was sorry he’d lost the family represented in this photo? Did he look at it last thing at night and first thing in the morning and regret what he’d thrown away? Did he wish the picture represented reality rather than illusion?

  As she pondered those questions, Monica set the frame back in its place and returned to the ornate carved chest at the foot of the bed. It, too, seemed out of place in this sterile environment. Did it contain a few more clues about David Callahan, the man?

  Trying not to get her hopes up, Monica lifted the lid. And almost dropped it when she found a copy of her book staring back at her.

  With a hand that was far from steady, she picked up the volume. It was well-thumbed, she noted, as if it had seen much use. Had her father not only read it, but reread it? Several times?

  Her mind whirling with unanswered questions, she focused again on the chest. It contained one more object, she discovered. A leather-bound scrapbook. Placing her book on the bed, she lifted the album and sat with it in her lap on the single chair in the bedroom. It took her a full sixty seconds to work up the courage to look inside.

  And there she found a chronicle of her life. School pictures, obviously forwarded by her mother. Copies of report cards. An invitation to her high school graduation. And numerous press clippings. About her fellowship, her appointment at the university, a talk she’d given, her book.

  There was only one conclusion to draw. Her father had followed her life. Had participated in it. As a spectator, true, but he’d participated nonetheless.

  She was stunned.

  How long she sat there, grappling with the implications of what she’d discovered, she didn’t know. But finally a soft knock on the half open door drew her attention. “Monica? Everything okay?”

  At Coop’s concerned question, she drew a shaky breath. “Yes. Come in. I found some . . . interesting . . . things.”

  He pushed open the door, and she gestured to the photo, her book, and the opened scrapbook in her lap. “My father did have a few personal things, after all.”

  Coop glanced at the items the diplomat had held most dear. Reminders of a life he’d given up . . . and a decision he’d perhaps come to regret. “It’s not much to show for a life on a personal level, is it?”

  “He had his work. Maybe that was all he needed. Maybe that’s all a lot of men need.” Her voice was tinged with sadness.

  “I used to think that. I don’t anymore.”

  At his quiet response, she looked up at him, her gaze searching, seeking the significance behind his words. But he shuttered his eyes and held up the envelope the secretary of state had handed her. “I found this on the floor in the foyer.”

  “It must have fallen out of my purse. The secretary gave it to me after the service. He said the embassy staff found it on my father’s desk. Do you mind if I open it now?”

  “Not at all.”

  She put the album and book back in the chest and closed the lid. The chest, its contents, and the photograph she’d keep. The rest of the furnishings meant nothing to her. Nor to her father, she suspected. “Let’s go back in the living room. There’s nowhere in here for you to sit.”

  He followed her, but instead of claiming one of the chairs he walked over to a window and stared out at the view while she sat on the couch, slit the envelope, and began to read.

  My Dear Monica: It’s one in the morning on Thursday. In seven hours I meet with the secretary of state. In eleven hours, if we choose not to deal with the terrorists, they will begin executing hostages.

  Attempting to sleep this night is an exercise in futility.

  As I struggle to discern the right course of action, I find myself recalling our brief phone conversation earlier this week . . . and thinking about the words I should have said. But expressing emotion has never been my strong suit. It has always been easier for me to consign my feelings to paper than to verbalize them. Tonight, as I pray that the current crisis will be resolved with no loss of life, I also ask the Lord to allow us to keep our dinner date in Washington—and to give me the courage to tell you face-to-face what I script here at this late hour.

  Many years ago, when your mother gave me an ultimatum to choose between family and career, I believed the world would be a better place if I gave my life to the diplomatic service. In my arrogance, I was convinced my contribution would be worth the sacrifice to me and to my family. And much as it pains me to admit it, I was also selfish. The excitement of life in the fast lane, of hobnobbing with the world’s power brokers, appealed to me. My choice had nothing to do with my feelings for you and your mother and everything to do with misplaced priorities. Neither of you did anything wrong; the fault lay with me.

  As the years passed and the glamour of my job faded, I recognized the egotism behind my motives and realized my mistake. While I achieved all my professional goals, my personal life was empty. Elaine kept me informed of your activities, and after she died I continued to follow your career, relishing your accomplishments from afar. Often I was tempted to call you. But I understood your resentment and could think of no way to bridge the gap between us. As you so aptly put it in your excellent book, I didn’t know how to talk the walk.

  I still struggle with expressing emotion. And I expect I always will. But I’ve resolved to at least attempt it when we meet. I’ve wasted too many years watching your life from the sidelines instead of participating. If I can convince you to forgive me, to give me the second chance I know I don’t deserve, I will do my best to tell you how sorry I am for the choices I made. And to tell you how much I love you.

  I hope the Lord grants us the oppor—

  The letter ended mid-sentence, with a line that squiggled across the page.

  For several minutes after she finished reading, Monica stared at the handwritten page. She’d had no idea her distant, reserved father had harbored such deep feelings. Had he given voice to them sooner, they might have reconciled long ago.

  But perhaps not, she admitted. In fairness, she couldn’t lay all of the fault for their long estrangement on him. Her resentment had run deep, and despite her faith, it had taken the recent traumatic events to compel her to consider forgiveness.

  Now she’d never know where her change of heart might have led.

  Nevertheless, her father had given her a priceless gift, she realized. An expression of love in the personal effects he’d left behind, and an affirmation of love expressed in words.

  In the end, he’d talked the walk.

  Monica didn’t notice the tear trailing down her cheek until a gentle touch wiped it away. As Coop sat beside her, she blinked to clear the moisture from her eyes.

  “You okay?” He stroked a finger over the back of her hand.

  “Yes.”

  She ran her thumb across the letter, tempted to share the personal document with him. She wanted Coop to know her father had regretted his reticence. And that he was sorry about some of his choices in life. Perhaps the message would resonate with the strong, tough, high-achiever sitting beside her, who kept his own emotions on a tight leash. Who had admitted that as a boy, his fondest wish had been for his undemonstrative, distant father to simply notice him. Who’d decided, after that wish had gone unfulfilled, that pinning his happiness on someone else’s approval and acceptance was too risky.

  If Coop was willing to learn from her father’s mistakes, she had a feeling it could change his life.

  And hers.

  If he wasn’t, it was better to know that now.

  Summoning up her courage, she held out the letter. “Would you like to read it?”

  For a long moment, Coop looked at the handwritten message. “Are you sure you want me to?”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated, grappling with the significance of her gesture. Knowing his response would have a huge impact on their future. And then, making
his decision, he reached out and took the single sheet of paper.

  As Coop scanned the note David Callahan had written to his daughter, he realized that the diplomat had been more similar to his own father than he’d suspected . . . and similar to him in many ways, as well. All his life, Coop had favored stoic strength over emotions. It was safer. Once you let someone get close, exposed your deepest feelings, you became vulnerable. Susceptible to control—and hurt. He’d taken that risk as a child with his father, only to get burned. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat.

  But neither did he want to end up like David Callahan, isolated and alone because he couldn’t find the words that would connect him to another human being—nor the courage to say them.

  The term “crossroads” flashed through his mind as he read the words the diplomat had penned alone, late at night, in a sterile room thousands of miles away from home. He stood at such a juncture now. If he continued down the path he’d been traveling for thirty years, he’d lose any chance of connecting with Monica. Her book was clear on that point. Nothing less than full disclosure in a relationship would suffice for her.

  Could he live up to that expectation? Could he overcome the fears about trust he’d articulated to her earlier in the week, during their discussion about faith? Fears about whether commitment diminished freedom and chipped away at individuality, and which pertained as much to human love as to divine? Yet she’d countered by saying such trust and commitment were liberating. That they freed a person to be exactly who they were, without fear or pretense.

  That concept was foreign to Coop in everything but a professional setting. There, in the field, he’d seen it demonstrated. Because he trusted his fellow HRT members with his life, he was able to accomplish more on missions than he would ever be able to do alone. His team allowed him to be the best he could be.

  Could the same be true in loving relationships?

  Until Monica entered his life, he’d never met a woman who piqued his interest enough to raise such questions. And a week ago, testing that theory would have scared him more than any of the explosive situations he’d encountered since joining the HRT. But he was smart enough to recognize a good thing when he saw it. And he saw it now, sitting next to him. Monica Callahan was the complete package—innate intelligence, strength of character, and a tender heart all wrapped up in russet hair and deep green eyes and a trim, toned body that kicked his libido into overdrive. If he let her walk away because he was afraid, he knew he’d regret it to the day he died.