âHey, Sam, how about joining us for a drink at the officersâ club?â
Major Sam Griffin, United States Air Force, glanced at the young lieutenant lounging in his office doorway, arched an eyebrow at the familiarity of his address, then smiled in spite of himself. Billy Fonteneaux was one of the more promising young fighter pilots under his command, and his southern Louisiana charm made it all too easy to forgive the lack of decorum he tended to exhibit during his off-duty hours.
âI might just do that,â Sam replied, then turned back to the stack of mail he had been sorting. âAre you heading over there now?â
âWe were on our way when I noticed your light was still on. Figured it couldnât hurt to ask, but if you have other plans alreadyâ¦â
âActually, I donât,â Sam admitted with a rueful twist of his lips.
Returning alone to his bachelor quarters to nuke a frozen dinner in the microwave wasnât exactly the kind of plan Lieutenant Fonteneauxâs teasing tone had implied.
âSo what do you say, Major? Have a beer with us, why donât you?â
âI canât make any promises,â Sam hedged after a few momentâs consideration. While the prospect of sharing a little lighthearted camaraderie with his junior officers was tempting, he preferred not to commit himself completely. âI have to clear up a few things around here first, then Iâll see how I feel.â
âGood enough, sir.â Satisfied, Billy sketched a jaunty salute, then turned away.
As the lieutenantâs footsteps faded down the hallway, Sam sat back in his chair, the stack of mail he had received that afternoon temporarily forgotten.
There had been a time when he wouldnât have thought twice about accepting Billy Fonteneauxâs invitation. A time when heâd had a reputation for being the life of the party wherever he happened to be stationed. But that hadnât been the case for years nowâalmost four years, to be exact.
At thirty-five, he was still a relatively young man, and he wasnât tied down by a wife and children. But his younger brotherâs death had changed him in ways that were undeniable. Something had died inside him on that late June day as heâd sat on the roadside, cradling Teddyâs lifeless body in his arms.
Donât go there, Sam warned himself.
There was nothing to be gained by resurrecting the past. What was done was done, and no matter how long he wallowed in his bitter, painful memories, that would never change.
Forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand, Sam sorted through the few remaining envelopes addressed to him. Nothing of any real importance, he noted. Bills from a couple of credit-card companies along with statements for his bank and brokerage accounts that he trusted would assure him he was still financially solvent.
He had hoped there would be a letter from his mother, but heâd quickly seen that there wasnât. Aside from the postcard she had sent over a month ago while visiting friends in Seattle, he hadnât heard from her in almost six weeks. Not all that unusual, really, and certainly nothing to be concerned about. Mail from the States to the air base in Italy could sometimes take awhile. And since sheâd been away recently, she probably had quite a bit of catching up to do around the house.
Sam supposed he could call, but he was never quite sure what to say to her. Though he had never had reason to doubt his motherâs love for himâquite the contrary, in factâthey had never been close. At least not as close as she and Teddy had been.
Sam had bonded more deeply with his father, perhaps because he and Caleb Griffin had been a lot alikeâphysically, as well as emotionally. Sam, too, had felt suffocated by life in small-town Serenity, Texas. And he, too, had found a way to leave, although not quite as dramatically or as devastatingly as his father had.
Once again, Sam caught himself venturing into a place he would rather not go. Forcing his thoughts away from the tragedy of his fatherâs suicide twenty-five years ago, he vowed to write to his mother later that evening. By putting pen to paper, he could maintain the distance he needed and delay callingâ
Tossing aside an application for yet another credit card, Sam frowned, then sat back in his chair, his gaze locked on the last envelope in his stack. The handwriting hadnât been familiar, so his attention hadnât been caught by it when heâd first glanced through his mail. But now, finally registering the return address, he experienced a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.