21

School the next day held a surreal quality. The principal insisted on meeting with them and spent twenty minutes basically saying nothing of any importance. They were passed on to the counselor, who danced around the unspoken question, which was, were they in some form of well-hidden shock? They listened to both of the women invite them to skip the final few days of school. But Carver’s instructions had been very clear. They were to find a new normal and stick to it.

The other students didn’t help, the way they kept coming up between classes and surrounding them with comments meant to claim the events as their own.

“My folks drove us past the place yesterday. We were amazed you walked away.”

“I looked at that, and it was like, which terrorist did you get mixed up with.”

“I was so scared. I mean, this is little Raleigh.”

“My dad said it looked like Beirut.”

“It was wild, looking down into your cellar. I thought, it had to be a bomb, right . . .”

The comments swiftly grew old.

They had to endure a second session with the counselor and principal after their last class. Neither Sean nor Dillon said much, basically because they had no idea what would get them out of the offices faster than silence. When they emerged that afternoon, Carver was there standing beside a white Malibu that shouted rental. He wore a buttoned-down version of civilian gear—navy jacket and summer-weight grey trousers and blue shirt and striped tie. The second sleeve was filled and the scar was gone.

Carey’s home was between the Oberlin Road shopping district and the main NCSU campus. The one-story ranch was set a full two hundred feet from the road, surrounded by pines that whispered a soft welcome. Two massive oaks rose from the backyard, like they were peering over the roof, wanting to have a good look at these newcomers.

When they pulled into the curved drive and rose from the car, Sean realized that the home hid a unique beauty in plain sight. The whole place had a slightly Oriental cast. The cedar-shingle roof was peaked at both ends and ended in stubby carved arms that curved up slightly. The windows were oversized and topped by little copies of the cedar roof. The doorway was peaked and the door bound by ornately carved iron. The drive curved around and ended by a shield of huge magnolias that welcomed them with the fragrance of late spring blossoms. The front walk was slightly raised and shaped from raw planks that grew into a broad open patio, framed by the same carved wood as the roof. A second walk connected to the garage, which had been built to model the home. The walks and the patio were bordered by bonsai gardens and lights shaped like Japanese lanterns.

Carey crossed the patio accompanied by her father, whom she introduced by his first name. John Havilland looked every inch a professor, from his scattered and unruly thatch of grey hair right down to his blue socks and open-toed sandals. He was tall like his daughter and would probably have been handsome, except for how he carried himself in a slight stoop. Sean thought his face had been permanently creased through the effort of bearing his loss.

Professor Havilland shook their hands and said, “Carey tells me I owe you a very great debt.”

Dillon had never handled praise well, and today he played the mute. So Sean said, “We’re just glad we were there, sir.”

“As am I. Believe you me.” The professor gave their car a pointed look. “Your parents aren’t with you?”

Carey protested quietly, “Dad.”

Sean knew Dillon wouldn’t say the words, so he did. “Things around our home haven’t been great for a while.”

“Longer,” Dillon said to the ground at his feet.

“Losing the house basically gave them a reason to get a divorce. When we told them we wanted to find a place of our own, they seemed to expect it.”

There followed an awkward silence, until Carver said, “I understand you recently lost your wife. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

“Mom was an art historian,” Carey said. “Her specialty was the Orient. We see her everywhere, so we’ll never move. Right, Pop?”

Professor Havilland nodded and asked, “What brings you here, Colonel?”

“These young men will be serving as my research assistants this summer. We have also become friends. I thought it would be appropriate if we met.”

Whatever the professor was about to ask next was cut off by his daughter asking, “Dillon, what’s wrong?” When Dillon remained silent, she pressed, “Won’t you tell me?”

But Dillon just kicked the earth at his feet. So Sean said, “We’re surrounded by everything we’ve never had.”

It just tore Sean up inside, saying those words. He was so ashamed. But then Dillon lifted his head and shot him a look of pure gratitude. And he knew he had done the right thing.

Carey looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not the place,” Sean said.

“Well, it is in a way,” Dillon corrected.

“Sure. But what I mean is . . . your family made this a home. You stay here because your mom’s still here.”

“We’ve never had that,” Dillon said, still kicking at a root. “Not one single day.”

The moment was captured by Carver settling his hand on Dillon’s shoulder. “This is your life now. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s not about where you sleep. It’s about the life you build for yourself. It’s the perspective you take on tomorrow.”

Sean felt like he was both deeply involved and able to take a mental step back, far enough to see the professor smile softly and Carey reach for her father’s hand. They stood like that for a timeless moment, the wind humming through the pines overhead, the tall cane chattering a soft agreement.

Then the professor said, “Why don’t we show you your new home.”

The loft was one grand room, emphasis on the word grand. The cathedral ceiling was blond cedar planks, same as the floor, all tongue and groove and hand-finished, or so John Havilland explained to Carver. The twin beds were sectioned off by painted screens that slid shut or could be shunted over to one side. The living area ran into the kitchen, which opened onto a rear balcony. Sean and Dillon did a gingerly walk-around, having trouble taking in the fact that this might be theirs. Their home. All the while, the professor continued his gentle probing of Carver.

“What is the subject matter of your study, Colonel?”

“Special forces.”

“You were involved in this branch?”

“I still am, to an extent. I serve as consultant on military matters to several groups.”

“Including the government?”

Carver did not respond.

“I see. Well. May I ask why you selected these two young men?”

“In my initial meeting with them, I perceived a special aptitude.” Carver chose his words very carefully. “I gave them a chance, and they excelled. Their work to date has been of exceptional quality. They show great potential.”

Sean watched as Carey glowed with pride over Dillon being praised. Her father saw it too. Sean knew the professor was aware of Carey’s feelings for his brother. And the man wasn’t certain how he felt about it. But all he said was, “Boys, do your plans include careers in the military?”

“I’m more interested in investigative sciences,” Dillon replied.

Professor Havilland was clearly not expecting that sort of precise response from a seventeen-year-old. He took a moment for that, then asked Sean, “What about you?”

“I’m thinking more of a role in government,” Sean replied.

“Like your father, then.”

“Definitely not,” Sean said.

Carey’s father just nodded, like Sean’s response made all the sense in the world.

Dillon was still zoned out, so Sean decided it was his role to say, “We want to pay rent for this.”

“I appreciate the thought, boys, but it’s not necessary.”

“Sir, we’re getting money from the company as well as our folks.” They had worked out the strategy with Carver on the way over. “We want a place we can call home. Not just for a couple of weeks. For good.”

The declaration caught the professor off guard, particularly when he saw the glow to his daughter’s features. “What about your parents?”

Dillon repeated Sean’s words, more forceful this time. “We want a place we can call home.”

“I see. Or rather, I think I do.” He met his daughter’s gaze, saw the entreaty, and said, “Tell you what. Let’s give it a month’s trial run, then we’ll have this discussion for real. All right?”