staircase to the lobby below. Cooper was in the kitchen, nursing a glass of ice water.
“Hello, son. Austin Brownlee.” He extended his hand to the SEAL.
“Calvin Cooper.” He said as he shot a quick glance at Libby. She felt her heart race.
Dr. Brownlee seemed to wince as the SEAL’s large hand enveloped his. Libby sensed the civility of the evening had just passed. She braced herself.
After her dad extricated his paw from the sailor’s grip, Cooper nodded to Libby. She felt her cheeks flush. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a frown wash over her father’s face.
“I’m Libby.” She did not extend her hand.
“Libby,” the SEAL said and tipped his head.
“We do serve alcohol in this house. What can I get you?” her father asked.
Coop held up his glass, tinkling the ice cubes. “I’m good.”
The silence was awkward. Did he have a past drinking problem? Growing up, Libby’s family discussions often centered on addictive cycles.
“Probably wise in your line of work.” Her dad dismissed Cooper’s comment and stepped up to the wet bar off the kitchen. Libby felt concern when she watched him pour himself half a tumbler of amber liquid and down it in one gulp. Although she knew her father had been dreading this little party tonight, she didn’t think it had anything to do with his drinking. And he was dosing, self-medicating. Something was very wrong with the famed psychiatrist.
“Please,” her mother interjected, gesturing to the front of the house. “Let’s go sit in the living room, shall we?”
Libby watched as both men inhaled sharply, and in tandem, while they moved into the expansive room. She knew this was not a meeting either one of them wanted.
Why did he come?
Dr. Brownlee went to the mantle over the fireplace and retrieved the picture of Uncle Will, an exact younger copy of her father’s face. The smiling young man was wearing a sailor uniform. When Libby was little, her father had told her what every bar and stripe and medal meant. She focused on the SEAL Trident that was prominently displayed at the top. It was especially painful today to look into the eyes of her father after she’d gazed at the baby-faced picture of young Uncle Will, who died more than twenty-five years ago.
“This is Will.” Her father deposited the gold-framed photograph into the large hands of the SEAL. Then her dad turned and filled his glass with ice as he prepared himself another drink, leaving the young man to ponder the face of the fallen soldier.
That’s your third, Dad. Damn it, what’s wrong?
Cooper was breathing hard, and Libby knew he was working to keep strong emotions in check. He held the frame carefully, almost delicately. Then his expression changed into a faint smile of recognition, like he was staring into the face of a young, innocent child. Slowly, the SEAL rose, and, using both hands, he carefully placed the picture back on the mantle. Then he adjusted its position, perfectly centered on the painted mantelpiece. He stared at it a long time before he turned, looked directly into Libby’s eyes, and then diverted his gaze down.
Dr. Brownlee cleared his throat, his refreshed drink in one hand, and seated himself on the sofa next to his wife. Libby sat to their right. Brownlee took his wife’s hand and spoke to their entwined fingers.
“So, you want to tell us what this is all about, son?”
Cooper stiffened, raised his chin like his shirt was too tight at the neck. He gave a shrug of his massive shoulders and started a difficult speech Libby suspected had been rehearsed several times.
“We are given a KA-BAR knife when we get our Tridents, upon graduation from BUD/S. Each one is engraved with the name of a fallen SEAL, someone who was a specialist in our chosen discipline. I’m a medic. I believe Will—your brother—was a medic as well.”
“Yes. He wanted to be a doctor.”
Cooper nodded. “I have thought about that myself.” He slipped his hands into his
“Hello, son. Austin Brownlee.” He extended his hand to the SEAL.
“Calvin Cooper.” He said as he shot a quick glance at Libby. She felt her heart race.
Dr. Brownlee seemed to wince as the SEAL’s large hand enveloped his. Libby sensed the civility of the evening had just passed. She braced herself.
After her dad extricated his paw from the sailor’s grip, Cooper nodded to Libby. She felt her cheeks flush. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a frown wash over her father’s face.
“I’m Libby.” She did not extend her hand.
“Libby,” the SEAL said and tipped his head.
“We do serve alcohol in this house. What can I get you?” her father asked.
Coop held up his glass, tinkling the ice cubes. “I’m good.”
The silence was awkward. Did he have a past drinking problem? Growing up, Libby’s family discussions often centered on addictive cycles.
“Probably wise in your line of work.” Her dad dismissed Cooper’s comment and stepped up to the wet bar off the kitchen. Libby felt concern when she watched him pour himself half a tumbler of amber liquid and down it in one gulp. Although she knew her father had been dreading this little party tonight, she didn’t think it had anything to do with his drinking. And he was dosing, self-medicating. Something was very wrong with the famed psychiatrist.
“Please,” her mother interjected, gesturing to the front of the house. “Let’s go sit in the living room, shall we?”
Libby watched as both men inhaled sharply, and in tandem, while they moved into the expansive room. She knew this was not a meeting either one of them wanted.
Why did he come?
Dr. Brownlee went to the mantle over the fireplace and retrieved the picture of Uncle Will, an exact younger copy of her father’s face. The smiling young man was wearing a sailor uniform. When Libby was little, her father had told her what every bar and stripe and medal meant. She focused on the SEAL Trident that was prominently displayed at the top. It was especially painful today to look into the eyes of her father after she’d gazed at the baby-faced picture of young Uncle Will, who died more than twenty-five years ago.
“This is Will.” Her father deposited the gold-framed photograph into the large hands of the SEAL. Then her dad turned and filled his glass with ice as he prepared himself another drink, leaving the young man to ponder the face of the fallen soldier.
That’s your third, Dad. Damn it, what’s wrong?
Cooper was breathing hard, and Libby knew he was working to keep strong emotions in check. He held the frame carefully, almost delicately. Then his expression changed into a faint smile of recognition, like he was staring into the face of a young, innocent child. Slowly, the SEAL rose, and, using both hands, he carefully placed the picture back on the mantle. Then he adjusted its position, perfectly centered on the painted mantelpiece. He stared at it a long time before he turned, looked directly into Libby’s eyes, and then diverted his gaze down.
Dr. Brownlee cleared his throat, his refreshed drink in one hand, and seated himself on the sofa next to his wife. Libby sat to their right. Brownlee took his wife’s hand and spoke to their entwined fingers.
“So, you want to tell us what this is all about, son?”
Cooper stiffened, raised his chin like his shirt was too tight at the neck. He gave a shrug of his massive shoulders and started a difficult speech Libby suspected had been rehearsed several times.
“We are given a KA-BAR knife when we get our Tridents, upon graduation from BUD/S. Each one is engraved with the name of a fallen SEAL, someone who was a specialist in our chosen discipline. I’m a medic. I believe Will—your brother—was a medic as well.”
“Yes. He wanted to be a doctor.”
Cooper nodded. “I have thought about that myself.” He slipped his hands into his
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