“Are you go­ing to ha­ve both si­des of this con­ver­sa­ti­on, or am I al­lo­wed to spe­ak now?” The ol­der man’s amu­sed drawl was a gen­t­le, but un­mis­ta­kab­le, re­bu­ke.

  Do- Lord pres­sed his lips to­get­her and nod­ded.

  “I’m not hol­ding you res­pon­sib­le for Del­vec­chio, and ne­it­her is an­yo­ne el­se. But I am wor­ri­ed abo­ut you. You ha­ven’t be­en yo­ur­self sin­ce Af­g­ha­nis­tan. You fa­ke be­ing la­id-back bet­ter than an­y­body I know, but you’re too tight. I know you’ve got a deg­ree in cli­ni­cal psycho­logy, but you can’t tre­at yo­ur­self. Find so­me­body to talk to, get it off yo­ur chest, and get yo­ur he­ad back whe­re it ne­eds to be.”

  Lon was thin­king post-tra­uma­tic stress. The tho­ught had oc­cur­red to Do-Lord too. It ex­p­la­ined the dif­fi­culty pa­ying at­ten­ti­on, the sen­se that so­me na­me­less so­met­hing was wrong, the op­pres­si­ve bo­re­dom. He was su­re it ex­p­la­ined the crazy mo­ment in Af­g­ha­nis­tan when he’d al­most fi­red on a man he was tas­ked to pro­tect. He still wo­ke up in a cold swe­at from nig­h­t­ma­res in which he saw Cal­ho­un in his rif­le sco­pe and did squ­e­eze the trig­ger.

  He’d put the who­le event down to com­bat stress, so­me aber­ra­ti­on in­du­ced by the fa­ti­gue of un­re­len­ting vi­gi­lan­ce in a land whe­re the enemy co­uld be an­yo­ne, an­y­w­he­re. The po­pu­lar press of­ten at­tri­bu­ted Post-Tra­uma­tic Stress Di­sor­der (once cal­led “bat­tle fa­ti­gue” un­til it was re­cog­ni­zed that many pe­op­le who hadn’t be­en in wars had the sa­me symptoms) to one hor­ri­fic, tra­uma­tic event.

  In fact, pe­op­le we­re ama­zingly re­si­li­ent, and one ter­rib­le event in an ot­her­wi­se stab­le, sup­por­ti­ve en­vi­ron­ment didn’t usu­al­ly in­du­ce PTSD. In­s­te­ad it was an ac­cu­mu­la­ti­on of stres­ses: be­ing in con­s­tant dan­ger from which the­re was no es­ca­pe, as­sa­ults on the emo­ti­ons which one da­re not fe­el, mo­ral­ly am­bi­gu­o­us si­tu­ati­ons which many we­re far too yo­ung to com­p­re­hend, much less grap­ple with, that even­tu­al­ly over­w­hel­med the mind’s de­fen­ses.

  The men he was res­pon­sib­le for, he ca­re­ful­ly mo­ni­to­red for signs of com­bat stress, but ap­pa­rently it had snuck up on him. He still co­uldn’t be­li­eve that, even for a se­cond, he had ris­ked the ca­re­ers of every man in the unit, es­pe­ci­al­ly Jax’s, his best fri­end. His own ca­re­er he wo­uldn’t ha­ve ne­eded to worry abo­ut. So­me­one wo­uld ha­ve se­en to it that he left Af­g­ha­nis­tan in a body bag. And he wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught the pu­nis­h­ment just. He was gra­te­ful that the de­eply in­doc­t­ri­na­ted ide­als of lo­yalty, res­pon­si­bi­lity, and awa­re­ness of con­se­qu­en­ces had pul­led him back from the brink, but the sha­me of that mo­ment craw­led up his fa­ce in a hot slit­her. He co­uldn’t pos­sibly, ever, tell an­yo­ne.

  Anyway, he al­re­ady knew what a the­ra­pist wo­uld tell him. In Af­g­ha­nis­tan, tho­ugh he had do­ne what he sho­uld, he hadn’t do­ne what he wan­ted to. The­re­fo­re, what was tro­ub­ling him now was lack of clo­su­re.

  He was de­ter­mi­ned to stop thin­king li­ke a hot­he­aded te­ena­ger and start thin­king li­ke a SE­AL. Whet­her ca­used by PTSD or not, if he had li­ved up to his pro­mi­se, in­s­te­ad of bur­ying his past when he bu­ri­ed his mot­her, the mo­ment in Af­g­ha­nis­tan wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve hap­pe­ned.

  When he ma­de the vow with a te­ena­ger’s in­ten­sity, he’d wan­ted jus­ti­ce and se­en it in black and whi­te, a li­fe for a li­fe. With plan­ning, not­hing wo­uld be easi­er than to kill Cal­ho­un. But now that he’d had ti­me to think ra­ti­onal­ly, a cle­an he­ad shot was too go­od for the se­na­tor. If he tho­ught abo­ut jus­ti­ce for his mot­her in a ba­lan­ced way, Cal­ho­un hadn’t mur­de­red Do-Lord’s mot­her. He had des­t­ro­yed her li­fe. It was a sub­t­le, but im­por­tant dis­tin­c­ti­on.

  So, thin­king li­ke a SE­AL, he ne­eded to do the most da­ma­ge to Cal­ho­un’s li­fe with the le­ast ex­pen­di­tu­re of re­so­ur­ces. That was exactly what Cal­ho­un had co­ming.

  The first step was to gat­her in­tel­li­gen­ce, and he had be­gun. He had bo­ught a che­ap lap­top to be des­t­ro­yed la­ter, which he used only for sur­fing the Net for every de­ta­il he co­uld gle­an abo­ut Cal­ho­un. Even­tu­al­ly, he wo­uld le­arn whe­re Cal­ho­un was vul­ne­rab­le.

  Most men re­tur­ning from dep­loy­ment had the oc­ca­si­onal ima­ge or idea they co­uldn’t dis­miss. He had it un­der con­t­rol. His symptoms we­ren’t an­y­t­hing to worry abo­ut un­less they didn’t go away. He slid his tra­de­mark lazy smi­le on­to his fa­ce ho­ping it was go­od eno­ugh to get past Lon’s ra­dar. “You’re right. I gu­ess I just fe­el sorry for Car­mi­ne-it’s a to­ugh bre­ak. It sucks, and I wo­uldn’t want it to hap­pen to an­y­body.”

  Lon ap­pe­ared sa­tis­fi­ed. “Right. In ca­se a bo­ne mar­row tran­s­p­lant will help, Davy will ta­ke blo­od sam­p­les from an­yo­ne who wants to do­na­te. In the me­an­ti­me, see if the­re’s an­y­t­hing Car­mi­ne or his fa­mily ne­ed.” Lon sho­ved out of his cha­ir. “But whi­le you’re at it, plan to get away. You know I’ll ap­pro­ve le­ave an­y­ti­me you ask. We call the world of ope­ra­ti­ons the ‘re­al’ world, but if we re­al­ly be­li­eve that’s re­ality, we’re in tro­ub­le.”

  Chapter 2

  Ses­soms Cor­ner, North Ca­ro­li­na

  The tra­iler he grew up in co­uld ha­ve fit­ted, with ro­om left over, in­to the do­ub­le par­lor of the la­te Vic­to­ri­an ho­use whe­re a wed­ding bre­ak­fast for Jax and his bri­de Pic­kett was ta­king pla­ce. A cor­ner of Do-Lord’s mo­uth kic­ked up in amu­se­ment. The most ro­om wo­uld ha­ve be­en left at the ce­iling. De­co­ra­ted with in­t­ri­ca­te crown mol­ding, the­se ce­ilings we­re easily fif­te­en fe­et.

  Pa­in­ted a che­er­ful li­me gre­en and fil­led with com­for­tab­le up­hol­s­te­red so­fas and cha­irs as well as what even he re­cog­ni­zed as pri­ce­less an­ti­qu­es, the­se we­re cle­arly ro­oms to be li­ved in, not just dis­p­la­yed to com­pany. The ho­use had be­en in the fa­mily for over a hun­d­red ye­ars, and oil por­t­ra­its of an­ces­tors, not all ter­ribly go­od, we­re scat­te­red among hun­ting sce­nes and lan­d­s­ca­pes.

  By the ti­me he’d hel­ped him­self to the sa­usa­ge cas­se­ro­le, fru­it com­po­te, fri­ed gre­en to­ma­to­es, ve­ni­son lo­in in gravy, and grits on the tab­le in the di­ning ro­om, the autumn le­af de­sign on the por­ce­la­in pla­te was com­p­le­tely ob­li­te­ra­ted. He car­ri­ed it very ca­re­ful­ly ac­ross pri­ce­less Ori­en­tal car­pets, gra­te­ful he wasn’t ex­pec­ted to ba­lan­ce it on his knee. The warm sunny day, unu­su­al­ly balmy for No­vem­ber in North Ca­ro­li­na, had al­lo­wed the hos­tes­ses to set tab­les out­si­de on the wi­de por­c­hes whe­re thick whi­te pa­int gle­amed on co­lumns and ra­ils.

  A light bre­eze car­ri­ed the scent of autumn le­aves and the earthy tang of new­ly-dug pe­anuts. It flut­te­red the pe­ach tab­lec­loths and pla­yed with pretty girls’ ha­ir. A co­up­le of the girls smi­led in­vi­tingly. He smi­led in re­turn, but he set his pla­te down at an empty pla­ce at the tab­le whe­re Jax’s bri­de, Pic­kett, sat with two of her co­usins. Pic­kett lo­oked bright as an autumn le­af her­self with her gold tum­b­le of curls and oran­ge silk dress.

  Last night at the wed­ding re­he­ar­sal, Jax had ca­ught him wat­c­hing Pic­kett and le­aned over to say, “Pic­kett’s mi­ne. Get one of yo­ur own.” Jax’s words kept re­ver­be­ra­ting in his mind. They pop­ped up at the od­dest, and so­me­ti­mes most in­con­ve­ni­ent, ti­mes. Jax had sa­id them in jest-well, partly in jest. Jax la­ug­hed when he sa­id it, but the­re wasn’t a do­ubt in Do-Lord’s mind he’d al­so be­en war­ned away.

  Jax had it wrong. Do-Lord li­ked Pic­kett. He tho­ught she was per­fect-for Jax. Du­ring the re­he­ar­sal he hadn’t be­en eye­ing Pic­kett so much as trying to un­der­s­tand how she ca­me to be best fri­ends with Em­mie Cad­din­g­ton, who was the ma­id of ho­nor. Pic­kett and her sis­ters, who we­re her ot­her at­ten­dants, we­re all re­mar­kably pretty, re­mar­kably po­ised wo­men, whi­le the fri­end had to be one of the blan­dest pe­op­le he’d ever se­en. It was li­ke she in­ten­ded to be a no­nen­tity, but in a re­ver­se way she sto­od out pre­ci­sely be­ca­use the­re was not­hing abo­ut her to draw the eye. Still, birds of a fe­at­her flock to­get­her. Puz­zling how she co­uld be Pic­kett’s fri­end was a way to ke­ep him­self en­ter­ta­ined thro­ugh the in­ter­mi­nably silly pro­ce­edings.

  SE­ALs be­li­eved in re­he­ar­sal. A prac­ti­ce run for the ce­re­mony was the first item on the three-day wed­ding agen­da that had ma­de to­tal sen­se to Do-Lord-un­til he fo­und out it was bad luck for the bri­de to re­he­ar­se her own part, so she sat on a pew, whi­le the ma­id of ho­nor pre­ten­ded to be the bri­de. SE­ALs re­he­ar­sed one anot­her’s ro­les all the ti­me. But un­less they tho­ught Em­mie wo­uld marry Jax if Pic­kett was out of com­mis­si­on, ma­king her re­he­ar­se Pic­kett’s ro­le in ad­di­ti­on to her own didn’t ma­ke a lick of sen­se.

  He al­so hadn’t se­en why Em­mie, who­se arm was in a co­balt blue sling (the only co­lor­ful thing abo­ut her) had to mi­me ben­ding down to stra­ig­h­ten Pic­kett’s tra­in, which as ma­id of ho­nor was one of her du­ti­es. She sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en do­ing it at all. Be­ing ab­le to use only one arm ma­de her clumsy, and it had to hurt li­ke hell. He was stan­ding right the­re, he co­uld mo­ve the damn tra­in. He’d gi­ve her cre­dit. She hadn’t com­p­la­ined on­ce, but he’d be­en so ir­ri­ta­ted af­ter a whi­le, he’d had to find a way to ta­ke his mind off it.

  Pic­kett smi­led and in­di­ca­ted the empty cha­ir when she saw him ap­pro­ach the tab­le. Do-Lord ca­re­ful­ly la­id his fork to the left of his pla­te and put his kni­fe on the right. Chi­efs we­re ta­ken in hand by ol­der chi­efs as so­on as they we­re pro­mo­ted and ta­ught tab­le man­ners that co­uld get them thro­ugh a for­mal se­ven-co­ur­se ban­qu­et. The wed­ge of qu­ic­he on Pic­kett’s pla­te lo­oked un­to­uc­hed. Of­fe­ring to ser­ve ot­hers be­fo­re se­ating one­self was go­od man­ners, but it was ge­nu­ine con­cern that ma­de him ask, “Can I get you an­y­t­hing from the buf­fet?”

  Pic­kett sho­ok her he­ad. “Thank you, but I ha­ve to le­ave in a mi­nu­te. Jax and Tyler will be he­re so­on, and I can’t let Jax see me. Bad luck, you know.”

  Oh yes, the no­ti­on that it was bad luck for the gro­om to see the bri­de be­fo­re the wed­ding. The­re se­emed to be no end to tra­di­ti­ons and su­per­s­ti­ti­ons sur­ro­un­ding a wed­ding. No li­mit to how se­ri­o­usly in­tel­li­gent, edu­ca­ted pe­op­le to­ok them. “Why is it bad luck?”

  “Be­ca­use, if he se­es her, he might chan­ge his mind,” one of the co­usins joked with a hor­sey la­ugh. Bet­we­en guys a jab li­ke that might be a sign of af­fec­ti­on, but Do-Lord didn’t miss the way she flic­ked her eyes to see if the punch con­nec­ted.

  Pic­kett la­ug­hed too, but the cor­ners of her mo­uth lo­oked tight.

  He pre­ten­ded to think it over. “Naw. That ca­in’t be it. A smart man li­ke Jax? He knows he’s get­ting the pret­ti­est girl he­re-don’t you think?” Do-Lord kept his co­un­t­ry-boy smi­le un­til she drop­ped her eyes.

  “Ever­y­body has al­ways sa­id Pic­kett’s sis­ter Gra­ce is the be­a­uty of the fa­mily. Pic­kett’s the smar­test.” The ot­her co­usin co­ve­red Pic­kett’s hand. “But I ha­ve to say, Pic­kett you lo­ok the pret­ti­est to­day I’ve ever se­en you.” Me­aning what? What was the mat­ter with the­se pe­op­le? “I’m so happy for you,” she ad­ded with a ge­nu­ine smi­le.

  Pic­kett squ­e­ezed her co­usin’s hand in re­turn, then fol­ded her nap­kin. “Well, I don’t know what my bad luck wo­uld be, and I don’t want to find out. I’m go­ing to ta­ke my le­ave now.”

  In a few mi­nu­tes the ot­her two wo­men ex­cu­sed them­sel­ves.

  Alo­ne at his tab­le at last, Do-Lord chec­ked the mas­ter sche­du­le of events he’d lo­aded in­to his smart pho­ne, cross-re­fe­ren­ced with di­rec­ti­ons to every bre­ak­fast, lunch, din­ner, and dan­ce, and the na­mes of the hosts with deg­ree of kin­s­hip to Pic­kett’s fa­mily. Eti­qu­et­te de­man­ded he thank his hos­tess be­fo­re de­par­ting. As so­on as he fo­und at le­ast one (the­re we­re twel­ve), he co­uld re­turn to the ho­tel and nap aw­hi­le.

  Do- Lord re­tur­ned his pho­ne to his belt and hef­ted his empty pla­te. It didn’t se­em right to le­ave it on the tab­le.

  “He­re, I’ll ta­ke that.” Pic­kett’s grey-ha­ired gre­at-aunt spo­ke from his el­bow. Her com­p­le­xi­on was ar­t­ful­ly pre­ser­ved. Ex­cept for the ob­vi­o­usly yo­ung, all the wo­men ap­pe­ared at le­ast twenty ye­ars yo­un­ger than they pro­bably we­re. “Isn’t it ni­ce the we­at­her has co­ope­ra­ted? On the Sa­tur­day af­ter Than­k­s­gi­ving, you ne­ver know what the we­at­her will do. But with Pic­kett’s sis­ter Gra­ce di­rec­ting the wed­ding, why am I sur­p­ri­sed? Ever­y­t­hing she do­es is per­fect.” The old lady rat­tled on in se­emingly inex­ha­us­tib­le chat­ter. This was the wo­man he was lo­oking for. He cal­led up the cor­rect le­ave-ta­king phra­ses and wa­ited for an ope­ning. “No­body el­se co­uld ha­ve pul­led off a wed­ding with only a month’s pre­pa­ra­ti­on,” she con­ti­nu­ed. “It won’t be what it co­uld ha­ve be­en, of co­ur­se, but Gra­ce swe­ars Pic­kett wan­ted a small wed­ding. You sho­uld ha­ve se­en the wed­dings we did for Pic­kett’s ol­der sis­ters,” she sig­hed. “Still, fa­mily has to rally at ti­mes li­ke this, don’t you think?”

  Do- Lord wo­uldn’t know. His fa­mily had con­sis­ted of him­self and his mot­her. When So­ci­al Ser­vi­ces had re­tur­ned him to his mot­her, he’d ma­de su­re any shor­t­co­mings abo­ut his ho­me li­fe we­re ne­ver no­ti­ced aga­in. The­ore­ti­cal­ly, he must ha­ve had gran­d­pa­rents, co­usins, may­be aunts and un­c­les, but not a one that he knew of had ever ral­li­ed.

  “Yes ma’am.” He used the smi­le ol­der la­di­es in al­most any cul­tu­re re­ac­ted well to. “Ha­ving fa­mily you can co­unt on ma­kes all the dif­fe­ren­ce.”

  Emmie Cad­din­g­ton was lo­oking for a man. In a very short-term-go­al, tem­po­rary sort of way, that is. Right now, be­fo­re the wed­ding bre­ak­fast co­uld bre­ak up, she ne­eded to find Ca­leb Du­la­ude, the one ever­y­body cal­led Do-Lord.

  Eas­tern North Ca­ro­li­na men carry nic­k­na­mes li­ke Pot­lik­ker and Choo-choo to the­ir gra­ves wit­ho­ut loss of dig­nity. Among them, a na­me li­ke Do-Lord was unex­cep­ti­onal, but so­me­how, she co­uldn’t ma­ke her­self use it. Des­pi­te his down-ho­me per­so­na, his rust-red ha­ir, and the tan-over-frec­k­les skin of an out­do­or­s­man, the­re was an aus­te­re in­teg­rity to his fe­atu­res, not as ob­vi­o­us as han­d­so­me­ness, that ma­de the na­me all wrong for him.

  Whe­ne­ver she saw him she lon­ged for her pen­cil, or bet­ter yet, pen and ink to tra­ce the re­la­ti­on­s­hips of bro­ad, rat­her pro­mi­nent brow rid­ges and lon­gish no­se, un­com­p­ro­mi­sing che­ek­bo­nes, and mo­bi­le mo­uth. When he was a boy, he’d pro­bably be­en on the ho­mely si­de. Bony fe­atu­res li­ke his wo­uld ta­ke so­me gro­wing in to.

  Even the un­con­s­ci­o­us fle­xing of her fin­gers as she men­tal­ly drew him star­ted up the throb in her sho­ul­der. Ha­ving her right arm im­mo­bi­li­zed in a sling whi­le a dis­lo­ca­ted sho­ul­der he­aled was the re­ason, the only re­ason, she ne­eded him. If she hadn’t be­en in de­ni­al abo­ut how long it wo­uld be be­fo­re her arm was usab­le, she wo­uldn’t ha­ve wa­ited so long be­fo­re se­eking him out.

  Of co­ur­se, she might not ha­ve be­en in de­ni­al, if the tho­ught of be­ing an­y­t­hing but ca­re­ful­ly po­li­te to him wasn’t anat­he­ma to her. He and tho­se li­ke him rep­re­sen­ted ever­y­t­hing she tho­ught the world wo­uld be bet­ter wit­ho­ut.

  Pic­kett’s sis­ter Gra­ce, her knit dress of la­pis silk jer­sey na­iling the “dressy ca­su­al” the in­vi­ta­ti­on had cal­led for, hal­ted Em­mie’s at­tempt to thre­ad her way thro­ugh the crowd aro­und the buf­fet tab­le.

  Every few mil­len­nia na­tu­re re­ac­hes the apex of an evo­lu­ti­onary li­ne and pro­du­ces a cre­atu­re so per­fect, so ex­qu­isi­tely adap­ted to its eco­lo­gi­cal nic­he, that it se­ems the en­vi­ron­ment was ma­de only to be a set­ting for it.

  Such a cre­atu­re was the ex­ce­edingly well-na­med Gra­ce. She was ab­so­lu­tely ever­y­t­hing a yo­ung mat­ron of her class sho­uld be. She was be­a­uti­ful, smart, alar­mingly com­pe­tent, and ti­re­less in her de­vo­ti­on to her fa­mily and her li­fe’s work, which was (as the ol­dest of the sis­ters and her mot­her’s right hand) to pre­sent them to the world as po­lis­hed and per­fec­ted as she co­uld ma­ke them. Aiding her mis­si­on, she had the sub­li­me con­fi­den­ce of one who has ne­ver qu­es­ti­oned, or ne­eded to qu­es­ti­on, her pla­ce in the gre­at sche­me of things.

  “Whe­re are you go­ing,” Gra­ce as­ked, “and with that lo­ok on yo­ur fa­ce?”

  Emmie wasn’t su­re what ex­p­res­si­on might be on her fa­ce, but she didn’t miss the lo­ok of exas­pe­ra­ted af­fec­ti­on with which Gra­ce swept Em­mie’s be­ige Land’s End bla­zer and mat­c­hing be­ige skirt. Em­mie wasn’t by na­tu­re re­bel­li­o­us. With her lo­gi­cal mind, the tho­usand slip­pery ru­les go­ver­ning style we­re simply in­com­p­re­hen­sib­le. By the ti­me she’d en­te­red col­le­ge she was al­re­ady a true ec­cen­t­ric-a nerd who co­uldn’t even con­form to the ru­les of nerd-dom. She had ac­cep­ted her sin­gu­lar sta­te and co­me to pre­fer it. Ac­cep­ting it was easi­er than trying to fit in.

 

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