tilted to the side, an eyebrow arched in a silent What are you doing? Stephen settled back against the cushioned booth.
“I overslept.” She ran her fingers through her honey-blond hair, which still looked tousled, as if she’d rushed to meet him without bothering to brush it. “I, um, started watching a movie and fell asleep.”
“Understandable.” Stephen paused as the waitress appeared at the table, two short brown braids framing her round face. “I’ve gotten all the way to water—” He motioned to the basket. “—and bread. Do you want something else to drink?”
She turned her attention to the waitress. “Sprite or Seven-Up, whatever you serve.”
“And we’ll need a few minutes to look at the menu, please.”
By the time he finished his request, Haley was flipping through the selections, leaving him to do the same. Again. When the waitress returned, they placed their orders and then sat in silence. Haley Ames was not the chatty type.
Fine. He’d start. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“My best friend, Claire, convinced me it was the right thing to do.” She unwrapped her silverware, clinking the forks and knife against the wooden table, and began folding her cloth napkin.
If he knew how to contact her best friend, he’d have thanked her. Maybe sent her flowers. “I suppose I should have called instead of just showing up at your door.”
Electric-blue eyes snared his. “You don’t think that would have freaked me out, picking up the phone and hearing Sam’s voice on the other end? You sound exactly like him. That’s what threw me the other night.” Haley looked down. Smoothed out the napkin, only to start folding it again. “I mean, I know Sam is dead . . . but there I was, hearing his voice again . . .”
Stephen kept his eyes trained on Haley’s fingers as they folded the cloth napkin. Fold. Unfold. Fold again. She didn’t mince words. No saying Sam was “gone” or “in heaven” to soften the reality that a sniper’s bullet had killed his brother. Heblinked once, twice, hoping to relieve the sting of tears at the back of his eyes, the dryness gathering in his throat.
“I hadn’t thought about that. And, to be honest, it never occurred to me that Sam wouldn’t have told you about me.”
“Did you tell people—friends, girlfriends—about Sam?”
Stephen couldn’t dodge the questions in Haley’s gaze. He remembered all the times he hadn’t mentioned Sam, treated him as if he were the invisible man instead of an unadulterated reflection of himself. When someone asked if he had family, he usually mentioned his father, his stepmother—and Pete, his half brother. But not Sam.
Haley had no problem interpreting his silence. “I didn’t think so. If you didn’t tell people about Sam, why did you think he would talk about you?”
“You’re his wife . . .”
“Obviously he didn’t want me to know about you. Estrangement ripples out to other relationships.”
His pressed his lips together. Now she was some kind of psychoanalyst? “I told my best friend, Jared, about Sam.”
“One person.”
Why was she excusing Sam and accusing him? Ridiculous question—she’d married Sam and didn’t even know Stephen existed until last night. Beneath the table, Stephen clenched and unclenched his fists. He didn’t have to justify the last twelve years of his life. That’s not what this meeting was about. He just wanted answers.
“So how did you and Sam meet?”
“Oh, that.” She released the napkin and moved it to her lap, then tucked a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. “At a mutual friend’s wedding. Sam was a groomsman and I was a bridesmaid—so cliché, right? One of the few times he ever saw me in a dress.”
“When did you and Sam get married?”
She closed her eyes, as if mentally calculating. “It was three years last October. We got married in 2009, right before one of his deployments.”
“So Sam loved being in the
“I overslept.” She ran her fingers through her honey-blond hair, which still looked tousled, as if she’d rushed to meet him without bothering to brush it. “I, um, started watching a movie and fell asleep.”
“Understandable.” Stephen paused as the waitress appeared at the table, two short brown braids framing her round face. “I’ve gotten all the way to water—” He motioned to the basket. “—and bread. Do you want something else to drink?”
She turned her attention to the waitress. “Sprite or Seven-Up, whatever you serve.”
“And we’ll need a few minutes to look at the menu, please.”
By the time he finished his request, Haley was flipping through the selections, leaving him to do the same. Again. When the waitress returned, they placed their orders and then sat in silence. Haley Ames was not the chatty type.
Fine. He’d start. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“My best friend, Claire, convinced me it was the right thing to do.” She unwrapped her silverware, clinking the forks and knife against the wooden table, and began folding her cloth napkin.
If he knew how to contact her best friend, he’d have thanked her. Maybe sent her flowers. “I suppose I should have called instead of just showing up at your door.”
Electric-blue eyes snared his. “You don’t think that would have freaked me out, picking up the phone and hearing Sam’s voice on the other end? You sound exactly like him. That’s what threw me the other night.” Haley looked down. Smoothed out the napkin, only to start folding it again. “I mean, I know Sam is dead . . . but there I was, hearing his voice again . . .”
Stephen kept his eyes trained on Haley’s fingers as they folded the cloth napkin. Fold. Unfold. Fold again. She didn’t mince words. No saying Sam was “gone” or “in heaven” to soften the reality that a sniper’s bullet had killed his brother. Heblinked once, twice, hoping to relieve the sting of tears at the back of his eyes, the dryness gathering in his throat.
“I hadn’t thought about that. And, to be honest, it never occurred to me that Sam wouldn’t have told you about me.”
“Did you tell people—friends, girlfriends—about Sam?”
Stephen couldn’t dodge the questions in Haley’s gaze. He remembered all the times he hadn’t mentioned Sam, treated him as if he were the invisible man instead of an unadulterated reflection of himself. When someone asked if he had family, he usually mentioned his father, his stepmother—and Pete, his half brother. But not Sam.
Haley had no problem interpreting his silence. “I didn’t think so. If you didn’t tell people about Sam, why did you think he would talk about you?”
“You’re his wife . . .”
“Obviously he didn’t want me to know about you. Estrangement ripples out to other relationships.”
His pressed his lips together. Now she was some kind of psychoanalyst? “I told my best friend, Jared, about Sam.”
“One person.”
Why was she excusing Sam and accusing him? Ridiculous question—she’d married Sam and didn’t even know Stephen existed until last night. Beneath the table, Stephen clenched and unclenched his fists. He didn’t have to justify the last twelve years of his life. That’s not what this meeting was about. He just wanted answers.
“So how did you and Sam meet?”
“Oh, that.” She released the napkin and moved it to her lap, then tucked a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. “At a mutual friend’s wedding. Sam was a groomsman and I was a bridesmaid—so cliché, right? One of the few times he ever saw me in a dress.”
“When did you and Sam get married?”
She closed her eyes, as if mentally calculating. “It was three years last October. We got married in 2009, right before one of his deployments.”
“So Sam loved being in the
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