fluttering
because her date was late. They churned for Mike. A
month had passed since they’d admitted their growing
feelings. Four weeks of ignoring the sparks ricocheting off
the walls whenever they were in the same room.
Yet, neither made a single move to cross the
imaginary line drawn in the sand.
The tension skyrocketed this afternoon when she’d
told Mike and Katy she wouldn’t be there for supper
because she had a date. She might as well have dropped a
live bomb on the floor if the shocked horror on their faces
was anything to go by.
Cyn cringed at the memory. Katy had run from the
kitchen. After one accusatory glance in her direction,
Mike had followed his daughter without saying a word.
Cyn made her fifth trip across the room and stood in
front of the full-length mirror, twisting her body one way
and then the other. Slip not showing. Hair in place.
Where was John? According to her bedside clock, he was
fifteen minutes late.
She picked up the picture on her bureau and ran her
finger over Peter’s image. Her vision blurred. The frame
clattered to the floor. Mike stared back, instead of Peter.
She squeezed her eyelids tight. When she opened them,
Peter once again smiled at her.
A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Coming,” she
muttered. Another knock. This time loud enough to be
considered rude.
She opened the door and stared in amazement at the
young man standing stiff on the threshold, a frown etched
48
Bridge of Hope
on his forehead. Her gaze traveled over his three-piece
suit and came to rest on spiffy black wing-tip shoes.
Somehow this young professional bore no resemblance to
the man with whom she’d shared conversations in the
library. She’d been looking forward to a friendly casual
dinner, sharing a few laughs. Somehow she doubted her
scenario would play out.
“Cynthia, are you ready?” His terse tone grated on
her nerves. “We’ll be late. I made reservations for eight.”
His gaze passed down her body in one quick sweep.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know she’d come up
lacking. Maybe she should say good night right now and
save them both from a boring evening. “Actually I’ve been
ready for at least thirty minutes. You’re twenty minutes
late.” John’s open-mouthed expression was priceless. She
damn near burst with pride that she’d stood up for
herself. Brushing by, she flounced down the stairs without
looking back to see if he followed.
Once on the highway, John maneuvered the red
sports car like a pro, weaving in and out of traffic.
“Handles like an obedient woman,” he bragged and
ignored the blare of a horn from an outraged motorist he’d
just cut off.
“Excuse me?” She hoped the ice in her voice froze his
ass. His gaze slid to her, and the idiot had the audacity to
grin. “Lighten up. I’m joking.”
Somehow she doubted it.
At sixty miles per hour he managed to read a
billboard touting the Republicans in 2008. “Dream on you
conservative bastards. It’s time for the liberals to have a
say with what goes on in the world.” He reached over and
patted her knee. “Don’t you agree, Cynthia?”
The way he said Cynthia irritated her like a
toothache. “Sorry. I’m a registered Republican.”
“You’re kidding?” He swerved into the passing lane
and barely missed rear-ending a Toyota. “I don’t see you
49
Pam Champagne
as a conservative. How can you back the party that’s put
us in the middle of a bee’s nest in the Middle East?”
“My husband gave his life for his country in Iraq.”
Long moments passed. It didn’t bother her in the
least that she’d more than likely made him
uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, but because of your loss, you of all people
should want the US to pull out of Iraq. It’s all about oil,
you know.”
The throb in her head kept time with the boom of the
bass on the radio. She flicked off the switch and then sat
in painful silence for the rest of the
because her date was late. They churned for Mike. A
month had passed since they’d admitted their growing
feelings. Four weeks of ignoring the sparks ricocheting off
the walls whenever they were in the same room.
Yet, neither made a single move to cross the
imaginary line drawn in the sand.
The tension skyrocketed this afternoon when she’d
told Mike and Katy she wouldn’t be there for supper
because she had a date. She might as well have dropped a
live bomb on the floor if the shocked horror on their faces
was anything to go by.
Cyn cringed at the memory. Katy had run from the
kitchen. After one accusatory glance in her direction,
Mike had followed his daughter without saying a word.
Cyn made her fifth trip across the room and stood in
front of the full-length mirror, twisting her body one way
and then the other. Slip not showing. Hair in place.
Where was John? According to her bedside clock, he was
fifteen minutes late.
She picked up the picture on her bureau and ran her
finger over Peter’s image. Her vision blurred. The frame
clattered to the floor. Mike stared back, instead of Peter.
She squeezed her eyelids tight. When she opened them,
Peter once again smiled at her.
A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Coming,” she
muttered. Another knock. This time loud enough to be
considered rude.
She opened the door and stared in amazement at the
young man standing stiff on the threshold, a frown etched
48
Bridge of Hope
on his forehead. Her gaze traveled over his three-piece
suit and came to rest on spiffy black wing-tip shoes.
Somehow this young professional bore no resemblance to
the man with whom she’d shared conversations in the
library. She’d been looking forward to a friendly casual
dinner, sharing a few laughs. Somehow she doubted her
scenario would play out.
“Cynthia, are you ready?” His terse tone grated on
her nerves. “We’ll be late. I made reservations for eight.”
His gaze passed down her body in one quick sweep.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know she’d come up
lacking. Maybe she should say good night right now and
save them both from a boring evening. “Actually I’ve been
ready for at least thirty minutes. You’re twenty minutes
late.” John’s open-mouthed expression was priceless. She
damn near burst with pride that she’d stood up for
herself. Brushing by, she flounced down the stairs without
looking back to see if he followed.
Once on the highway, John maneuvered the red
sports car like a pro, weaving in and out of traffic.
“Handles like an obedient woman,” he bragged and
ignored the blare of a horn from an outraged motorist he’d
just cut off.
“Excuse me?” She hoped the ice in her voice froze his
ass. His gaze slid to her, and the idiot had the audacity to
grin. “Lighten up. I’m joking.”
Somehow she doubted it.
At sixty miles per hour he managed to read a
billboard touting the Republicans in 2008. “Dream on you
conservative bastards. It’s time for the liberals to have a
say with what goes on in the world.” He reached over and
patted her knee. “Don’t you agree, Cynthia?”
The way he said Cynthia irritated her like a
toothache. “Sorry. I’m a registered Republican.”
“You’re kidding?” He swerved into the passing lane
and barely missed rear-ending a Toyota. “I don’t see you
49
Pam Champagne
as a conservative. How can you back the party that’s put
us in the middle of a bee’s nest in the Middle East?”
“My husband gave his life for his country in Iraq.”
Long moments passed. It didn’t bother her in the
least that she’d more than likely made him
uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, but because of your loss, you of all people
should want the US to pull out of Iraq. It’s all about oil,
you know.”
The throb in her head kept time with the boom of the
bass on the radio. She flicked off the switch and then sat
in painful silence for the rest of the
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