"Family can do that," he said. "Something you want to get off your chest?"
I stared at the hunk of pie on my fork, scowling. "I appreciate that, but I've spent years processing things on my own, and I'm fine. I can handle it," I said.
"I don't doubt that in the least," he said as he tapped the ceramic dish with his fork. "But being able to handle it doesn't mean youhaveto handle it."
"I'm still working my way through that concept," I said.
"And where is Doctor Acevedo?"
I folded my arms on the cool marble countertop and shook my head. "I don't know. Around here somewhere. It's a big house."
"I'd bet he wants to know where you are," the Commodore said.
"You're right," I said. "But I'm sure he knows I can't go far unless I'm leaving by sea, and it's nine degrees outside."
"Don't tell me this is cold for an Icelander like you," he said, chuckling.
I shrugged in response. I still preferred Mediterranean winters.
"Wesley tells me you've spent some time together in Italy," the Commodore continued, referring Will and Lauren's brother. "He's fond of you."
Wes and I hung out whenever we were in the same area at the same time, which hadn't been recently. We'd caught up with each other once before I moved to Iceland, and then again when I was at Oxford.
Me and Wes, we knew the highs and lows of expat life. The States weren'thometo us anymore, and our families…well, they were complicated. Me because I was learning how to mend fences and him because he believed his father to be a brutal homophobe.
I wasn't sure how the man in front of me, the one spooning whipped cream onto every single bite of pie, was that kind of monster.
"He's a good guy," I said. "Knows his ways around Europe."
"He is a good man, and a good sailor," the Commodore agreed.
"Do you tell him that?"
He focused on scraping the butternut squash from the piecrust, and didn't meet my eyes. "I do, but your question indicates I could do it more often." He tapped his fork against the dish again and looked up at me. "We miss him. It would be good to see more of him."
"Coming home can be hard," I said. "When you've been gone…it's hard to figure out where you belong after all that time away. It's hard to take it all in, when…when there's so much, so quick."
"I used to think that, too," he said, "while I was deployed. It was difficult coming home, even when I wanted to be there. Being away changes you, and you can't explain all those changes to your family. I always thought Judy and the kids struggled with me coming home, too. Finding a place in the rhythm of their lives."
He reached for another pie, and tore off the tinfoil covering. I'd wondered why we'd stocked this event with more than a dozen pies, but I was starting to understand it now.
"Now that my boys have been deployed, and my daughter chooses to make her life in Boston," he said, "I know that coming home is a lot easier than I thought. It doesn't matter where they've been, what they've seen or what they've done. I only want to see my kids, and there are no other expectations. Nothing they do, nothing that theyare, nothing changes that."
"Hey."
We looked up, startled, and found Shannon on the doorway. "Froggie just nursed again, and now I'm starving. Any apple-cranberry pie left?"
The Commodore swung a stern glance in my direction.
"I ate it," I said. "All."
Shannon raised an eyebrow at the Commodore. "Judy is worried about your cholesterol," she said.
"And that's why I'm sticking to cholesterol-free scotch." He lifted his glass as proof, but didn't set the fork—loaded with chocolate crème pie—down.
Shannon pointed at me while keeping her gaze trained on the Commodore. "She only likes cranberries in sauce form."
"Is there no honor among thieves?" he grumbled, and Shannon shook her head. "Sit down, sweetheart. What can I get you?"
