CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“BUCK?” THE SCENT formed around me like a life preserver, buoying me. Next came the voice. Not Evie, but Marisol—the perfume closer than the dry cleaning. Tears beaded in the corner of my eyes, my shirt damp from human embrace. Holding me from behind, her arms still draped over my chest, Marisol had propped me up against herself. Broken, full of regret, I couldn’t keep the tears from falling.

I placed my hand over hers, over the beating of my heart. “Marisol.”

“You’re back.”

“How long?”

“Nearly an hour.”

I tensed, trying to stand.

Marisol held me in place. “No rush. We’re still under house arrest.”

The events of the last several hours returned with crystal clarity, squeezing the air from my lungs. I breathed deep, noticing my surroundings for the first time. “Marisol the person.”

She nodded, the movement jostling me slightly. “You found me.”

The room existed as total contrast to the rest of the house, every piece of furniture thoroughly used, stained by human touch. The carpet hadn’t been updated with the rest—a brown, wooly shag consisting of faded worms of wool. Its fibers smelled heavily of the final component of Marisol’s smell, cheap pine freshener.

The objects on the dresser were helter-skelter, some having spilled to the carpet. Upon opening my hand, I realized the disorder had been my doing. Unfurling rigid fingers, damp with sweat and creased by the small picture frame locked within their grasp, I found both of their smiling faces staring back at me.

For several seconds I lost myself in those smiles, until the mystery of the picture’s existence tugged at me. When had Marisol and Evie been together, both smiling and carefree? The lab mixer—the informal ribbon cutting almost two years ago. I hadn’t known a picture of the two had been taken. I decided to leave it in my grooved palm a while longer, shifting my gaze toward the mess I’d made of the dresser.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No need. I was tired of hiding.” I tilted my head for a better view of another picture I’d knocked to the floor. “The seizures are a part of me. Now you know.” It was of an older man standing behind Marisol at a formal military event. “Your father at your academy graduation?”

“I know the feeling.”

“Oh? And what have you been hiding?” A slight tremble coursed through Marisol’s body, her hand shifting in mine.

“Everything. Marisol the person, as you so adeptly put it. For the past eleven years, I’ve locked my personal life in this room. Nothing out. No one in, until now.”

“Why?”

“Personality is a liability in my line of work.”

“No. Why this room?” I looked again at the picture on the floor, the stolid yet proud expression of the man behind his daughter. No, not stolid. Startled. The closer I looked, I recognized the inexpressible expression. Joy, pride and love all bound together by fear—the fear of losing your little girl. “This was your father’s room. Eleven years ago, he died.”

“Eleven years ago he retired from life. Death was never really his style.” Her arms went totally slack around me. “You wanna know what he did? The final moment between us before he died? He saluted. No hug. No tears. No, ‘I love you, Sol. You’ve made me proud.’ He saluted. Then he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? You didn’t—”

“For fathers, all of us.” I sat up. She let me go. “None of us are perfect.” I stretched across the floor to pick up the picture of her graduation, depositing the one of Marisol and Evie in its place.

Finally I turned to face the mysterious woman who had known exactly what size and brand of trousers I wore, who had cherished a two-year-old photo of herself with my teenage daughter, who had saved my life. “He didn’t mean for you to pick up where he left off.” I held the photo out to her. “He wanted anything except for you to assume his cage.”

She shook her head. “It was our only family tradition. This property was given to my grandfather as a reward for faithful service. Loyalty to country above all else.”

“You’re wrong.” I scooted up beside her, both of us sitting on the worn shag carpet, leaning against the bed. I held the photo directly in front of her eyes. “Look more closely. What do you see?”

For several seconds she refused to look at the photo. “I see a soldier passing the baton to the next generation.”

“I see a father scared out of his wits. I see a man accustomed to following and giving orders, sure. But nothing in his training had equipped him for raising a little girl. And you know what, no one ever shook his hand to congratulate him with a job well done or to let him know the mission had been accomplished. No. Somehow, quietly, without him noticing, his job had just ended. His girl had grown into a woman. And the job he’d never known how to do, the job he’d screwed up in innumerable ways had miraculously become his proudest accomplishment. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling he hadn’t done a God-blessed thing.”

I shook the picture in front of her. “Look at him.” I swallowed hard. “I see a confused father, proud of the woman you’d become despite his feeble efforts, and scared he’d never see his little girl again.”

Trembling, she chewed her lip before slowly taking the picture. “He wouldn’t be proud of what I’ve become.” With that she laid her head on my shoulder and shook quietly, pouring out the grief of a daughter whose father had been too scared to do anything less than perfect.

There was nothing else to say other than, “I’m sorry.”