Into the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Even after nearly eighty years of living, Vince knew few things absolutely for sure. But one of those things he knew in his heart was that if he had been at Pearl Harbor and mortally wounded from shrapnel from a Japanese bomb, he would have fought death tooth and claw to keep from leaving behind a world that had sweet Charlie Fletcher living in it.

  She was sitting, right now, on a chair in a living room–like set in this TV studio, her knees primly together, her back straight as a board. She’d been sitting just like that, at her secretary’s desk in the senator’s office in Washington, D.C., the first day Vince laid eyes on her.

  Another thing Vince knew after all those years, well over fifty of ’em spent married to sweet Charlie, was that in truth he had no goddamned right to be jealous of Jim Fletcher.

  Fletcher’d had Charlie for one year.

  Vince had had her for a lifetime.

  “He truly was a remarkable man,” Charlie was saying now to young Tim Bradley, the host of this show being made for the History Channel, as the studio cameras rolled.

  December was approaching and the anniversary of the Japanese attack was rolling around again. Since most of the men who’d actually been at Pearl Harbor during the battle were finding it more and more difficult to walk and talk, folks like Bradley were interested in interviewing the people who’d known the heroes of that fateful day.

  And Medal of Honor winner Lieutenant James T. Fletcher had been one hell of a hero, there was no denying that.

  The man had thrown himself on top of an admiral, saving the officer’s life, shielding him from shrapnel that would have torn him apart. And then when other men—medics—tried to keep Fletcher from bleeding to death, he’d refused to go to the hospital. Instead he’d led those very men—untrained, untried men—to an antiaircraft gun. With Fletcher’s lead, they got it up and firing. Took out a fair number of Japanese planes. Enough to make a significant difference to save God knows how many American lives.

  But it had not been without a price.

  Vince watched the TV monitor, watched Charlie as she spoke in her usual no-nonsense manner to Tim Bradley.

  “The sacrifice he made—that all the young men who fought and died to defend our country made—is awe inspiring.” She smiled so sadly, so like she’d smiled in the early days of their friendship, that it nearly broke Vince’s heart. “Of course, at the time, I was not inspired. I was devastated. I loved him, and he was dead.”

  “What did you think when you heard the news that your husband was being given a posthumous Medal of Honor?” Bradley asked.

  “First husband,” Vince muttered a correction. What was he? Chopped liver? It was weird, hearing Charlie talk about Fletcher again. During all these years they’d been married, neither of them ever mentioned him.

  But maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe she’d needed to talk about the guy.

  Look at the way she’d jumped at being interviewed when the producer of this show had called.

  She’d loved him, she said, and he was dead.

  On the video monitor, Charlie shifted her weight and crossed her legs. At eighty-three, she still had a great pair of legs. She looked like she belonged on that TV screen. Like a movie star. But then again, Vince had always thought that. Right from day one. The woman was gorgeous. She still was.

  “What did I think? I thought, ‘Posthumous—what an awful word.’”

  “And when you heard the stories of his bravery at Pearl Harbor…?”

  “I thought, ‘Why did you do that? James, you stupid ass.’”

  Bradley gave a burst of laughter, and Charlie made a face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I probably can’t say that on television, can I? But you did ask.”

  “It’s okay,” Bradley assured her. “It’s fine.”

  “I was twenty-two when he died,” she told him. “I didn’t read the reports and records of what happened until years later. I couldn’t stand to. My mother-in-law—his mother—somehow managed to read them. She told me what James had done.”

  She laughed softly, sadly, her eyes out of focus, remembering.

  Vince remembered, too. He remembered how wounded she’d been when he’d almost literally fallen into her and Edna Fletcher’s lives. Jim had been dead for nearly two years, and Charlie was still raw from it.

  “I’d asked her to come and stay with me in Washington when the news of the attack on Pearl Harbor was first announced. We knew James was stationed in Hawaii, we knew the attack was horrendous, that lots of our boys had died, but that’s all we knew. So I called Mother Fletcher and asked her to come. I pretended it was so I could comfort her in case we got bad news, but the truth was she came and she comforted me. Can you imagine getting a telegram telling you that your only child is dead?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, she lived it. We lived it. Lots of mothers and wives did after December seventh. Edna Fletcher was a Gold Star Mother after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. And at twenty-two, I was a war widow. And yes, we were presented with James’s Medal of Honor shortly after that. But it was cold comfort, sir. I know from shows like this one that James will be forever remembered and revered as a hero. That’s as it should be. But I hope he’ll also be remembered as a greatly loved husband and son. That’s how I remember him.”

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to us, Mrs. Fletcher,” Bradley said.

  Mrs. Fletcher.

  For the first few weeks after they’d met in the senator’s office, Vince had called her that.

  “Is the senator in, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “He is, Private DaCosta, but I’m afraid—”

  “Vince.”

  “—his schedule is completely full again today.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  She was sympathetic but firm. “He can’t see you today.”

  “I’ll wait. Maybe something will open up.”

  “Private—”

  “My name is Vince.”

  She gave him that look. Exasperated and disapproving and yet laced with something else. Something that made him more determined than ever to stay. “Go home, Private DaCosta. Leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you if something opens up and—”

  “I’ll wait, thanks. Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “It’s Mrs. DaCosta now,” Charlie told the interviewer.

  “Of course,” he said. “You were twenty-two when he died.”

  “Life goes on.”

  “It does,” Bradley agreed. “You do the best you can with the hand you’ve been dealt.”

  And fate had dealt her Vince DaCosta. No doubt about that. He’d made it impossible for her to shut herself away from life, to spend the rest of her days as Jim Fletcher’s grieving widow.

  Or had he? Hearing her talk about her first husband now gave him pause.

  All these years, and he’d never dared to sit down with her, to look into her eyes, and to ask her, “Do you still miss him?”

  He’d never dared, because deep inside, he was afraid that the answer was yes.

  So he’d worked his butt off to be the best damn second choice she’d ever had. He’d made her smile, he’d made her laugh, he’d given her a home and a family. He’d loved her completely, unequivocably, unconditionally.

  But he’d never given her a chance to put Fletcher properly and permanently to rest.

  “Vince.”

  He looked up to find Charlie off the set and halfway to the door to the parking lot, looking back at him with that same exasperated look that he’d come to know so well.

  “I said, we’re done,” she told him. “We can go now.”

  “Sorry,” he said, digging into his pocket for the car keys.

  “You didn’t hear me,” she said.

  Not this again. She thought he needed hearing aids, of all the ridiculous ideas. It was true he had to turn up the TV a little bit louder when the ball game was on, but that was just part of turning eighty. Hearing aids were expensive, and they had better things to do with their
hard-earned money. “I wasn’t listening. I was woolgathering.” He held the door for her. Changed the subject. “You were great.”

  She looked anxious. “You think? I wasn’t sure what they wanted, and then…Did you hear me say ass?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Oh, dear. That’ll make it into the program, guaranteed. Did Joanie call?”

  Vince checked the messages on his cell phone for any sign that his granddaughter had phoned. “No, but remember she said she probably wouldn’t have time to get in touch until tomorrow.”

  “I know. I’m just anxious to see her.”

  “She also said she’ll be in town for about four weeks. We’ll get a chance to spend some time with her.”

  “I’m afraid that she doesn’t realize just how bad Donny’s gotten,” Charlie said as Vince unlocked their car from twenty feet away.

  Best invention since the PC, this keyless entry. Vince loved technology. Couldn’t wait to see what they’d come up with next.

  “She knows, Charles. She talks to him on the phone.” Vince opened the car door for her.

  “That’s not the same as visiting.”

  “Well, she’s here, she’ll visit. And maybe she’ll get him to stop being such an ass and start taking his meds again.” He made sure her coat wouldn’t get caught before he shut the car door, then went around to the other side.

  “It’s all your fault, you know,” Charlie said with a laugh as Vince got behind the wheel. Her smile still killed him. “Before I met you, I wouldn’t have dreamed of uttering the word ass in public, let alone on national television.” She paused. “Think they’ll use that part of the tape?”

  He looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. More than fifty years of marriage, and he really didn’t have to say anything. She knew darn well what he was thinking. And he could predict exactly what she’d say next.

  “Well, too bad,” she said. “It was the truth. They asked, and I answered.”

  He started the car. “Well, good.”

  “I’m not worrying about it,” she said, a slight frown furrowing her brow.

  This was the moment right here where it absolutely wouldn’t do either of them any good if he laughed. Even a smile could be dangerous and could segue into either “Vince, Don’t Laugh, This Is a Serious Thing,” or “I Know You Think Otherwise, Vincent, but I Am Not Really Worrying When I Bring Up a Subject and Talk about It to Death.”

  They’d been having variations of those two conversations on a pretty regular basis for nearly six decades.

  Neither was even remotely possible for him to win.

  Which was all right with Vince, because his goal with Charlie was not—and had never been—to win. It was part of her nature to worry things to death. He knew that about her before he’d asked her to marry him.

  For some reason she seemed to believe that worrying was a bad thing, and she was therefore determined to try as often as possible to convince both of them that she honestly wasn’t worrying.

  It hadn’t taken Vince more than a decade to figure out that the trick was to let her go ahead and talk a subject to death if she wanted. Because the real trouble came when she held her worries inside.

  He’d learned to be subtle in his attempts to soothe her fears and always to agree completely when she said she wasn’t worrying.

  But it was hard, at times, not to laugh.

  This time, however, all he had to do was think about everything that Charlie had been hiding inside all these long years.

  Did she ever think what if? What if Jim Fletcher hadn’t died that day? What if he’d survived the war? Did she ever wonder how different—how much better—her life would have been?

  He glanced at her as he pulled out of the studio parking lot. “That must’ve been hard. Talking about it like that.”

  “I’m glad he’ll be remembered,” she said.

  “He has been,” Vince said quietly. Every day for nearly sixty years. Every day since Vince found out that the impossibly efficient and improbably young Mrs. Fletcher, who was a secretary in Senator Howard’s office, had been widowed by the war.

  Every night, too. Yes, Vince had certainly remembered when he’d slipped into bed beside Jim Fletcher’s wife. He’d remembered every night that he hadn’t been with Charlie, too—when he’d been training to return to the war, back when he’d fought for his country, back when there was a very real chance that he wouldn’t come home, either. Oh, he’d thought about Fletcher just as much on those nights, too.

  Yeah, it was obvious to Vince now that between him and Charlie, Lt. James Fletcher had been anything but forgotten.

  THREE

  “ARE YOU CRAZY?”

  Muldoon laughed. “No, sir. She wanted a demonstration of the obstacle course, so I thought we could give her something that would really make an impact.”

  Lt. Sam Starrett used a finger to pull down one slat in the office blinds to get a better look at Joan, who was waiting outside, lifting her face to the warmth of the sun. “That’s not her, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus, Muldoon…”

  Muldoon couldn’t keep himself from bristling. “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Sam said hastily. “I didn’t mean…No offense, Mike. She’s very attractive, if you go for, you know, that type, which I should have remembered that you do.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I just thought, from what you were asking…I mean, I thought she’d be a total babe. You know, in a more entirely obvious way. I mean, I’m sure she’s…” He laughed ruefully, rolling his eyes and settling back into his chair. “Look, go and do whatever you want to do. Just try not to kill her, okay? The White House might get pissed.” He consulted a roster on his desk. “Use Jenk, Gilligan, and Cosmo. They’re all yours for the next few hours. If you kill her, hide the body.” He turned back to his paperwork.

  Muldoon had the permission he needed, and Sam had virtually dismissed him, but he couldn’t manage to turn and walk out the door.

  “You need something more?” Sam asked, eyeing him warily from his seat behind his desk.

  “Believe it or not, Lieutenant, there are men who walk this earth who actually think about things other than when is the next time they’re going to get laid.”

  Sam put down his pen and sighed. “Well, all right then, Mr. Pure as the Driven Snow. If by saying that, you’re attempting to convince me that you fall into that somewhat dubious category, then tell me why the hell you’re trying so hard to impress her.”

  It was a good question. Why was he trying so hard to impress Joan DaCosta?

  Was it because she’d so clearly doubted the fact that he was a SEAL? Was it because she was exactly his so-called type—a strong, take charge, outgoing, opinionated woman—and yet, after spending several hours together, she hadn’t given him even the slightest indication that she was interested in taking him back to her hotel room and keeping him up all night?

  Sam was watching him, and now he laughed softly. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to ask her to dinner?”

  Now what was Muldoon supposed to say? That she was supposed to ask him? That that’s how it had always worked in the past? The woman—usually someone more mature, who knew exactly what she wanted and liked—would approach him.

  Because somewhere down the line, God had played a practical joke and given the fat kid a makeover—a trim, muscular body and a face that women seemed to like to look at from an intimate perch atop him.

  They sought him out.

  All he had to say was yes or no.

  When it came to Joan DaCosta, his answer was yes all the way. He liked her. She was funny and smart with a vivacious, expressive face, sparkling eyes, and a generous, full, sexy mouth that was quick to curve into a smile. She was tall, with long legs and a curvy body that a guy wouldn’t be afraid would snap like a twig if she wanted sex that was even the least little bit rough.

  He would bet big money that she liked
sex that was physical, sex that was filled with laughter and an incredible amount of honest passion. As opposed to some women who wanted their sexual encounters to mimic the still-life mood of a perfume commercial.

  Muldoon could imagine them both tearing off their clothes and going at it the second he locked her hotel room door behind them.

  Except they were almost done for the day and Joan hadn’t raised the question. She hadn’t given him one even slightly heated look. She hadn’t dropped even the tiniest hint that told him he was, indeed, going to end up anywhere near her hotel room.

  Wow, he was pathetic. He really had come into Sam’s office to set up this demonstration of the BUD/S obstacle course because he wanted to impress her, because he hoped that if he did impress her, maybe he’d get laid.

  What a loser.

  “I just want her to take me a little more seriously,” he told Sam now. It wasn’t a complete lie. “I’m supposed to keep her fully occupied for the next few days and evenings, too, and…”

  Sam leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You were actually ordered to—”

  “No! Sir. No. Wow, that came out wrong. Commander Paoletti assigned me to stay with her, to keep her far away from the areas where the team is prepping for the upcoming op, and to try to talk her out of this entire presidential visit that’s being planned. It’s just kind of hard to do any of that when she thinks of me as Junior.” She’d called him that a few times today, which had stung. “I just…want her to see what I’m capable of.” And if she suddenly saw him as someone worthy of spending the night with in the process, well, wouldn’t that be a shame.

  “Okay,” Sam said with a shrug. “Go show her.” He sat up. “What time is it?” he asked, spinning in his seat to check the clock on his computer. “Oh, fuck! I am so screwed.”

  “Anything I can help with?” Muldoon asked.

  “How’s the work on that time machine coming?” Sam asked. “Unless you’re ready to test it, there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to save my balls.” He shook his head in disgust. “Shit. Mary Lou was working today, and this morning she was dropping all these hints about me stopping in for lunch. I even called and said I was coming. But now her shift ends in five minutes and I’m so fucking cooked because I’m already not coming home this evening because of that night exercise. I can’t believe I fucked this up. I could’ve canceled out all the shit I’m going to get about tonight’s training with very little effort.”