him.
He went back to bed, and in the morning when he woke he found that another trinket had been left for himwhile he slept. It was a garden-variety rock the size of a book of matches and the color of dirt. He held it in his palm, seeing that it was unremarkable in every way except for one.
Its edges had been worn away by water, sand, and the passing of time, carving it into the shape of a heart.
* * *
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Rusty waved the group inside the tavern, his face lit up with surprise. “It’s our very own Navy Lieutenant Duncan Flynn! We wondered when you’d make an appearance.”
“Good to see you, Rusty.”
While Rusty wiped down a table for five by the marina-side windows, Duncan shook hands and got slapped on the back more times than he cared to count. He handled the questions about his injuries and the raid with as much grace as he could muster, but Clancy wasn’t pleased with his performance.
“Come on, now,” he whispered as they approached the table. “These are our locals, and you’re a hero to them.”
Duncan did his best to tamp down the rage he suddenly felt. “Clancy,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting next to his brother, “I am no one’s hero.”
Once Nat, Ash, and Frasier were seated, Rusty came by with Frasier’s usual Guinness on tap, a martini for Nat, and a Sam Adams for Ash, who scowled when it got placed in front of him. Maybe Ash needed a couple more weeks before he was ready for another night on the town.
Rusty slid an ice water over to Clancy, who was on duty, and then looked at Duncan with anticipation.
“What can I get the man of the hour? It’s on the house, whatever it is.”
“That’s awful kind of you, Rusty, but I’m not drinking much these days. I think an ice tea would do the trick.”
“You got it, son.” Rusty placed his hand on Duncan’s shoulder before he hustled off.
The men didn’t say anything for a moment, and Frasier looked out the window like a grumpy kid who’d just been dragged into the principal’s office. As previously discussed, Clancy would be taking the lead in dressing down his father tonight. They decided it was the only option since Nat was too buddy-buddy with Frasier; Ash was too polite and respectful; and Duncan was too straightforward to be effective.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Frasier said, still looking out the window.
“Here you go!” Rusty arrived, setting the ice tea glass on a coaster. “You boys let me know what else you need, all right?”
“Da.” Clancy waited until Rusty was out of earshot. “We need to talk this out. What you did last night to Ma was, well . . .”
“Totally whacked,” Nat said.
“It made everyone extremely uncomfortable,” Ash said.
“That dinner was a fuckin’ soup sandwich,” Duncan said.
“What the hell is a soup sandwich?”
Duncan forgot that his everyday expressions were a foreign language to anyone who hadn’t served in the military, so he cleared it up for Clancy. “Think about it—what would it be like to try to eat a sandwich made of soup?”
“It would be fucked-up,” Nat answered.
“Exactly. Cheers.” Duncan clicked his ice tea to Nat’s martini.
“All right. Let’s sort this out.” Clancy had summoned his official talk-the-guy-off-the-ledge tone of voice. “Da, what were you thinking?”
Frasier turned to look at his two sons. “I don’t expect you to choose my side. None of you have ever chosen my side.”
“There are no sides to this,” Clancy said.
“Sure there are.” Frasier spread his hands as far apart as they would go on the tabletop, nearly knocking over Nat’s martini in the process. “This is your mother’s side.” He slammed his left hand down hard. “And this is mine.” He did the same with his right hand. “It’s been like that since I drove the fishery into the ground twenty-odd years ago.”
Clancy shot a quick glance to Duncan before he spoke to his father. “It
He went back to bed, and in the morning when he woke he found that another trinket had been left for himwhile he slept. It was a garden-variety rock the size of a book of matches and the color of dirt. He held it in his palm, seeing that it was unremarkable in every way except for one.
Its edges had been worn away by water, sand, and the passing of time, carving it into the shape of a heart.
* * *
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Rusty waved the group inside the tavern, his face lit up with surprise. “It’s our very own Navy Lieutenant Duncan Flynn! We wondered when you’d make an appearance.”
“Good to see you, Rusty.”
While Rusty wiped down a table for five by the marina-side windows, Duncan shook hands and got slapped on the back more times than he cared to count. He handled the questions about his injuries and the raid with as much grace as he could muster, but Clancy wasn’t pleased with his performance.
“Come on, now,” he whispered as they approached the table. “These are our locals, and you’re a hero to them.”
Duncan did his best to tamp down the rage he suddenly felt. “Clancy,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting next to his brother, “I am no one’s hero.”
Once Nat, Ash, and Frasier were seated, Rusty came by with Frasier’s usual Guinness on tap, a martini for Nat, and a Sam Adams for Ash, who scowled when it got placed in front of him. Maybe Ash needed a couple more weeks before he was ready for another night on the town.
Rusty slid an ice water over to Clancy, who was on duty, and then looked at Duncan with anticipation.
“What can I get the man of the hour? It’s on the house, whatever it is.”
“That’s awful kind of you, Rusty, but I’m not drinking much these days. I think an ice tea would do the trick.”
“You got it, son.” Rusty placed his hand on Duncan’s shoulder before he hustled off.
The men didn’t say anything for a moment, and Frasier looked out the window like a grumpy kid who’d just been dragged into the principal’s office. As previously discussed, Clancy would be taking the lead in dressing down his father tonight. They decided it was the only option since Nat was too buddy-buddy with Frasier; Ash was too polite and respectful; and Duncan was too straightforward to be effective.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Frasier said, still looking out the window.
“Here you go!” Rusty arrived, setting the ice tea glass on a coaster. “You boys let me know what else you need, all right?”
“Da.” Clancy waited until Rusty was out of earshot. “We need to talk this out. What you did last night to Ma was, well . . .”
“Totally whacked,” Nat said.
“It made everyone extremely uncomfortable,” Ash said.
“That dinner was a fuckin’ soup sandwich,” Duncan said.
“What the hell is a soup sandwich?”
Duncan forgot that his everyday expressions were a foreign language to anyone who hadn’t served in the military, so he cleared it up for Clancy. “Think about it—what would it be like to try to eat a sandwich made of soup?”
“It would be fucked-up,” Nat answered.
“Exactly. Cheers.” Duncan clicked his ice tea to Nat’s martini.
“All right. Let’s sort this out.” Clancy had summoned his official talk-the-guy-off-the-ledge tone of voice. “Da, what were you thinking?”
Frasier turned to look at his two sons. “I don’t expect you to choose my side. None of you have ever chosen my side.”
“There are no sides to this,” Clancy said.
“Sure there are.” Frasier spread his hands as far apart as they would go on the tabletop, nearly knocking over Nat’s martini in the process. “This is your mother’s side.” He slammed his left hand down hard. “And this is mine.” He did the same with his right hand. “It’s been like that since I drove the fishery into the ground twenty-odd years ago.”
Clancy shot a quick glance to Duncan before he spoke to his father. “It
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