“Ah, first boyfriend,” he commented.
She would have had plenty of them. It was the eyes. A man, or a boy hoping to become one, could get lost in them and never want to find his way out again.
“The love of my life,” she admitted with another self-deprecating laugh. “Then, he was the love of Misty Anderson’s life. He became a dentist.” She shook her head, not certain why she was telling him all this.
“Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against dentists. I just could never be married to one.” She paused, thoughtful.
“What would dinner conversations be like?How many root canals did you do today, dear?“I’ve been grateful to Misty Anderson ever since.”
She caught the sideways look he gave her, a half-smile.
“Why the military?” she asked, watching the way he glanced past her, watching everything and everyone.
“Nothing as lofty as your reasons for choosing theology, or journalism. I wasn't exactly priest material.” He leaned over as if he was about to share some deep, dark secret.
“It was a school trip when I was fourteen years old.”
She'd expected something along the same lines that had influenced her brother to follow their father’s military career—growing up in that environment, family tradition, the thrill foradventure that had turned into something far different in the real world of war and death.
He rubbed a hand across his chin as if considering how much to confess. “I was a bit of a handful then, and my marks at school showed it.”
“I can’t imagine.”
She could though. He would have had some of that height then, with those dark brooding eyes, raised by a single mother who worked and couldn’t know where he was all the time, and with the questions all adolescents have about life, hormones, and how they can get out of that next math test.
“Ah well, it was a trip to the Memorial at Lochaber in the Highlands. I almost didn’t get to go.” He shrugged. “My marks weren’t high enough and something about my attitude at the time.”
“Really?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “I wanted to go in the worst way, if nothing else for the chance to get away from the classroom. To Anne’s surprise, I managed to pull my marks up at the last minute.” He made a confession.
“I copied Julie Hennessey’s paper, changed it around a bit so our teacher, Sister Margaret Alice, wouldn’t be suspicious.”
“Imagine that.” She listened, and caught a glimpse of something besides the pain and loss, the uneasiness of crowded places, the hard, dark things that he’d seen and things he'd done.
“At first it was all about a day off from school,” he explained. “The memorial is impressive enough, this massive statue of three soldiers out there in the middle of nowhere. Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, had the first commandoes of World War II train there in that God-forsaken place.
“But the thing that stayed with me was the people who came from all over to see it. Ordinary people—young, old, men, women, and some who had served in the military, all quiet like ina church. It didn’t matter the age, there was a respect, along with sadness, pride, and memories.
“They brought things to lay at the memorial in remembrance—flowers, pictures, or a token of some kind. Some of them were so young not even knowing the reason they were there. Others scattered ashes of a loved one, like they were bringing them home to join their brothers who had served. There was something in each of them, sadness to be sure, but pride as well, something to hold onto, to believe in.”
He looked over at her then. “There are things that change you, set you on a certain path that you’re not even aware of at the time. Then one day, it’s there, and you look back and see how the way was set, the things that mattered.”
Things that mattered.
He had found that at a memorial to fallen soldiers, and the things that mattered became the people he fought for and the men he served with.
“Did Anne ever find out that you copied Julie Hennessey's paper?”
“I told her about it years after.” He shook his head. “Strange, I received a higher grade on that paper.” Then he gestured to the overhead video display.
They were only ten minutes away from the port at Calais.
It was impossible not to search the crowd as passengers made their way back to their automobiles when the announcement went out. He kept a tight hold on her hand as they descended the stairs to the car deck.
Her cell phone went off as they reached the rental car, a text message popping up on the read-out.
“Diana Jodion will meet with us after her last class at the university.”
