12

“Let me guess,” Marjorie Ryker said. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

Marcus was amazed to see that she was awake, showered, dressed, and had made a big breakfast for them both and that her suitcase was already packed and by the door.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, coming into the kitchen and giving her a kiss on the forehead.

“How often do I get to stay with you, much less dote on you a little?”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed, pouring him a DSS mug of black coffee. “Now, go sit down.”

She served him a Denver omelet, homemade hash browns, asparagus, several strips of bacon—crispy, just the way he liked—and a glass of orange juice.

“You made all this while I was in the shower? When did you even go shopping?”

“After the ceremony when you went back to work,” she said as she served herself.

“I thought you went to visit Dad’s grave,” he said, sitting at the head of the table.

“I did,” she replied, sitting beside him. “After that.”

Marcus thanked the Lord for the food and for his mother’s tireless love and kindness toward him. Before he could say amen, she added her own word of thanks that the Lord had rescued Marcus and his team out of Lebanon, that he was finally safe and beginning to heal, and that those responsible for these wicked attacks had been brought to justice.

“So tell me—why in the world are you wearing a suit?”

Marcus looked up at her. “Because after I take you to the airport, I’m going to work.”

“They don’t give you time off after being kidnapped and tortured?”

Marcus laughed. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“You need to rest, Marcus. You need to give your body time to heal. And not just your body.”

“What can I say, Mom? There’s just a mountain of work on my plate.”

“Like what? Abu Nakba is dead. Kairos has been decimated. The Supreme Leader of Iran just died. Moscow is quiet. So are the North Koreans. The Chinese are a problem, I grant you. But they’re not about to assassinate anybody in the State Department. The world is quiet, Marcus. Isn’t it enough already? Maybe it’s time to come back to Colorado. Spend time with your family. Hike some fourteeners again. Clear your head and start thinking about your future.”

“Eat your breakfast, Mom,” he said, taking a swig of coffee. “It’s getting cold.”

For the moment, she let it go. They talked for a while about how the Nationals were doing so much better than the Rockies. As they cleared the table, she told him how she’d run into Elena’s mother in the supermarket a few weeks back and been invited over to the Garcias’ for dinner.

“Wow, it’s been so long.”

“You’re telling me—years.”

“So how’s Louisa doing?”

“Pretty well, actually. She said she’s volunteering a lot more at their parish these days. And they’re raising money for a scholarship fund named after Elena, for at-risk kids to come to their high school.”

“And Javier?” he asked.

“Well, you know, good days and bad,” she said as they loaded the dishwasher.

“And did I come up at all?” he asked tentatively.

“One step at a time, sweetheart, one step at a time.”

“So what did you talk about?”

“Mostly their vacation in Rome last summer and the Vatican—and the pope’s upcoming visit, of course. They’re excited about that.”

Religion had always been a touchy subject between Elena and her parents. They were devout Catholics. She had not only become a Protestant in high school but an evangelical of all things. That hadn’t exactly gone over well, especially with her father, but during their marriage they had done their best not to let it be a point of friction. Marcus hadn’t seen his in-laws since the funeral, having been effectively declared persona non grata. Maybe now things were beginning to thaw. He certainly hoped so.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the car headed to Reagan National Airport.

“So listen, I have to ask you,” his mother began. “Why wouldn’t you come with me to Arlington yesterday, after the peace signing?”

“Mom, we covered this already. Debriefings at the Pentagon. After-action reports to write. The papal visit is coming up. Four cities. It’s a logistical nightmare.”

“You can’t take an hour off to pay respects to your father?”

“Not right now. Not this week.”

“How often do I come to Washington?”

“You should come more often.”

“You should invite me more often.”

“I should, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Look, I’m just not a fan of cemeteries, okay?” he told her. “Too many friends there. Too many ghosts.”