photographs the proud soldiers would show her ever had to suffer the pain of losing a husband.
Her thoughts would then shift to her older brother Michael, now a farmer and happily married family man, who’d risked his own life as a war photographer for so many years. She’d been a typical, self-absorbed teen girl when he’d returned home to Castlelough, but she’d never forget his distant, thousand-yard stare.
While preparing for her first USO tour, she’d read up on life in a war zone, and a quote that had stayed with her was one about how, by looking in the eyes of a soldier, you’d know how much war he’d seen. She’d witnessed that same battle-weary fatigue in too many eyes in Iraq and Afghanistan. Which was why, although the visits proved both physically and emotionally exhausting, she continued to return, because the pleasure she felt when something she said could coax a soldier or Marine out of that numbness, when the rigid muscles in a face would actually loosen enough to smile, was priceless.
J. T. Douchett had that look. Oh, on one level, he was alert, ready to leap into action if necessary. But that was instinct, developed by years of training and experience. Emotionally, he was as numb as many of those troops she’d met. As sad-to-the-bone as her own brother had been.
And, just as her family had fretted over Michael, who hadn’t wanted their attention, surreptitiously watching J.T.’s family as she worked the crowded room with a practiced skill, Mary sensed they hadthe same concerns. Even as they chatted with friends and neighbors, their eyes would continually drift back to the former Marine. Who had cleaned up really well and was wearing a dark charcoal suit and white shirt. The only jarring, yet interesting, detail was the tie sporting a Tabasco red crawfish.
She’d been grateful that the schedule had allowed her some time to herself this afternoon. Because she’d been so shaken when he’d taken off those glasses, allowing her to look into those granite gray eyes from her dream, she wasn’t sure she could have just jumped right into chatting everyone up this evening.
Not having wanted him to know how upset she’d been, she’d turned away, and on trembling legs walked over to the balcony, looked out at the lighthouse flashing its warning, and wished that she’d had some sort of advance warning before getting on that plane in L.A.
It didn’t make sense. Despite what Kate had said about her mother sending her a man, despite the fact that she spent much of her time in make-believe worlds, Mary had discovered that, deep down, she was as levelheaded as her older sister. And her grandmother, who admittedly could be called eccentric, but certainly possessed more than her share of Irish pragmatism.
She’d have to think about how she’d come to dream of J. T. Douchett before she’d met him, later. When she had yet more time alone to sort it through, and his mere, overwhelming presence didn’t have her mind turning circles, like a leaf caught in an eddy.
After doing her best to charm the members of thecity council, the Rotary Club, the chamber of commerce, and the historical society, the filmmakers whose work had been chosen to be shown at the festival, along with a gaggle of red-hatted women all dressed in purple, she turned toward J.T.
“I could use a bit of fresh air. Would you like to come outside with me?”
He glanced out the windows. “It’s raining.”
“Just a mist,” she countered. “And if you’d be concerned about melting, we’ll stay on the porch.”
“It wasn’t me I was thinking about,” he said, his shoulders stiffening.
She suspected that had been true for some time. “Just for a moment.”
“Your call.” He shrugged and followed her out onto the front patio.
“This is lovely,” she said as they stood beneath the purple, green, and gold neon BON TEMPS sign. The lighted arched bridge leading across the bay looked like a picture postcard. A plaintive air,
Her thoughts would then shift to her older brother Michael, now a farmer and happily married family man, who’d risked his own life as a war photographer for so many years. She’d been a typical, self-absorbed teen girl when he’d returned home to Castlelough, but she’d never forget his distant, thousand-yard stare.
While preparing for her first USO tour, she’d read up on life in a war zone, and a quote that had stayed with her was one about how, by looking in the eyes of a soldier, you’d know how much war he’d seen. She’d witnessed that same battle-weary fatigue in too many eyes in Iraq and Afghanistan. Which was why, although the visits proved both physically and emotionally exhausting, she continued to return, because the pleasure she felt when something she said could coax a soldier or Marine out of that numbness, when the rigid muscles in a face would actually loosen enough to smile, was priceless.
J. T. Douchett had that look. Oh, on one level, he was alert, ready to leap into action if necessary. But that was instinct, developed by years of training and experience. Emotionally, he was as numb as many of those troops she’d met. As sad-to-the-bone as her own brother had been.
And, just as her family had fretted over Michael, who hadn’t wanted their attention, surreptitiously watching J.T.’s family as she worked the crowded room with a practiced skill, Mary sensed they hadthe same concerns. Even as they chatted with friends and neighbors, their eyes would continually drift back to the former Marine. Who had cleaned up really well and was wearing a dark charcoal suit and white shirt. The only jarring, yet interesting, detail was the tie sporting a Tabasco red crawfish.
She’d been grateful that the schedule had allowed her some time to herself this afternoon. Because she’d been so shaken when he’d taken off those glasses, allowing her to look into those granite gray eyes from her dream, she wasn’t sure she could have just jumped right into chatting everyone up this evening.
Not having wanted him to know how upset she’d been, she’d turned away, and on trembling legs walked over to the balcony, looked out at the lighthouse flashing its warning, and wished that she’d had some sort of advance warning before getting on that plane in L.A.
It didn’t make sense. Despite what Kate had said about her mother sending her a man, despite the fact that she spent much of her time in make-believe worlds, Mary had discovered that, deep down, she was as levelheaded as her older sister. And her grandmother, who admittedly could be called eccentric, but certainly possessed more than her share of Irish pragmatism.
She’d have to think about how she’d come to dream of J. T. Douchett before she’d met him, later. When she had yet more time alone to sort it through, and his mere, overwhelming presence didn’t have her mind turning circles, like a leaf caught in an eddy.
After doing her best to charm the members of thecity council, the Rotary Club, the chamber of commerce, and the historical society, the filmmakers whose work had been chosen to be shown at the festival, along with a gaggle of red-hatted women all dressed in purple, she turned toward J.T.
“I could use a bit of fresh air. Would you like to come outside with me?”
He glanced out the windows. “It’s raining.”
“Just a mist,” she countered. “And if you’d be concerned about melting, we’ll stay on the porch.”
“It wasn’t me I was thinking about,” he said, his shoulders stiffening.
She suspected that had been true for some time. “Just for a moment.”
“Your call.” He shrugged and followed her out onto the front patio.
“This is lovely,” she said as they stood beneath the purple, green, and gold neon BON TEMPS sign. The lighted arched bridge leading across the bay looked like a picture postcard. A plaintive air,
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