The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy Page A

father, like daughter,’ I said, pointing to the bottle.

‘Please help yourself,’ she said. I poured myself another slug of bourbon, but this time restricted myself to a small sip. Sara Smythe settled herself into the sofa, then touched the top of my hand.

‘I do want to apologize for the extreme methods I used to get you over here. I know I must have seemed like an old nuisance, but …’

I quickly withdrew my hand.

‘I just want to know one thing, Ms Smythe …’

‘Sara, please.’

‘ No. No first names. We are not friends. We are not even acquaintances …’

‘Kate, I’ve known you all your life.’

‘How? How have you known me? And why the hell did you start bothering me after my mom died?’

I tossed the photo album on to the coffee table, and opened it to the back page.

‘I’d also like to know how you got this?’ I said, pointing to the clipping of Ethan in the Allan-Stevenson school newspaper.

‘I have a subscription to the school’s newspaper.’

‘You what?’

‘Just like I had a subscription to the Smith College paper when you were there.’

‘You’re insane …’

‘Can I explain …’

‘Why should we be of interest to you? I mean, if your photo album is anything to go by, this hasn’t been a recent fixation. You’ve been tracking us for years. And what’s with all the old pictures of my dad?’

She looked at me straight on. And said, ‘Your father was the love of my life.’

    Part Two
Sara

    One

W HAT’S MY FIRST memory of him? A glance. A sudden over-the-shoulder glance across a packed, smoky room. He was leaning against a wall, a glass of something in one hand, a cigarette between his teeth. He later told me that he felt out of place in that room, and was looking across it in search of the fellow who had dragged him there. As his eyes scanned the guests, they suddenly happened upon me. I met his gaze. Only for a second. Or maybe two. He looked at me. I looked at him. He smiled. I smiled back. He turned away, still seeking out his friend. And that was it. Just a simple glance.

Fifty-five years on, I can still replay that moment - nanosecond by nanosecond. I can see his eyes - light blue, clear, a little weary. His sandy hair, buzz-cut down to short-back-and-sides. His narrow face with sharply etched cheekbones. The dark khaki Army uniform which seemed to hang so perfectly off his lanky frame. The way he looked so young (well, he was only in his early twenties at the time). So innocent. So quietly preoccupied. So handsome. So damn Irish.

A glance is such a momentary, fleeting thing, isn’t it? As human gestures go, it means nothing. It’s perishable. That’s what still amazes me - the way your life can be fundamentally altered by something so ephemeral, so transitory. Every day, we lock eyes with people - on the subway or the bus, in the supermarket, crossing the street. It’s such a simple impulse, looking at others. You notice someone walking towards you, your eyes meet for an instant, you pass each other by. End of story. So why … why? … should that one glance have mattered? No reason. None at all. Except that it did. And it changed everything. Irrevocably. Though, of course, neither of us knew that at the time.

Because, after all, it was just a glance.

We were at a party. It was the night before Thanksgiving. The year was 1945. Roosevelt had died in April. The German High Command had surrendered in May. Truman dropped the bomb on Hiroshima in August. Eight days later, the Japanese capitulated. Quite a year. If you were young and American - and hadn’t lost anybody you loved in the war - you couldn’t help but feel the heady pleasures of victory.

So here we all were - twenty of us, in a cramped third-floor walk-up apartment on Sullivan Street - celebrating the first Thanksgiving of peace by drinking too much and dancing too raucously. The average age in the room was around twenty-eight … which made me the kid of the group at twenty-three (though