uncle Bill. When he left Bill’s home, his ulcers left, too.
That fall, Holly also left. Brian was now alone with Bill.
Just home from work at Long John Silver’s, Pace walked into her bedroom. At her feet were Chris Hatton’s freshly packed bags.
“I can’t trust you,” he said, his dark eyes hard. “I was going through your things, and I found this bag of weed.” It was about a quarter bag of marijuana. “And I found these pipes.” He shoved the pipes into her face.
“Well, they’re not mine,” said Lisa. “I’m just keeping them for a friend of mine because his mom always snoops through his things.”
“You’re lying. You always lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. For real, it’s not mine.”
“I want you to get rid of it. I want you to flush it down the toilet.”
They argued until Pace stamped into the bathroom, opened the bag of marijuana, watched it fill the toilet bowl, flushed the toilet, and threw the pipes into the trash.
Hatton stomped out the door and didn’t return until late that night.
“Where’ve you been?” she questioned, now the angry one.
“Out.”
“You smell like smoke. Have you been at a bar?”
“No.”
Hatton eventually admitted that he’d been riding patrol with a Round Rock police officer. That ticked Lisa Pace off. Sometimes she got sick of him desperately looking for excitement.
There was that Navy SEAL dream of his; when in reality, the job he had applied for in the Navy involved a lot of mundane painting of the ship. She climbed into bed and went to sleep. So did Hatton. He slept till almost noon.
Hazel Franzetti, Lisa’s mother, couldn’t stand the way Chris Hatton slept all day and slept through everything, including roaring vacuum cleaners.
On July 20, 1992, Chris Hatton left for the Navy. That fall, he graduated from Navy boot camp in San Diego. Lisa Pace went to watch him graduate, and he gave her a sapphire-and-diamond ring for her birthday.
Several days later, he sent her flowers and a card, also for her birthday. By then, he was writing to her almost every day.
On October 3, 1992, at 9:40 P.M ., on board ship, Hatton wrote Lisa: “I’m getting really good at this type of work.... If I could only manage money, too, I’d be the perfect housewife.” He added, “There’s only seventeen more days, and I’ll get to see you.”
From the time he hit ship, Chris Hatton hated the Navy and hated the ship—it was cold, it was dark, the food was horrible, he constantly had bronchitis due to the mold and stale air in the sleeping quarters. He hated the hours—painting all day, on watch all night, with only three hours of sleep. He could no longer watch TV all night and sleep all day. It was a far cry from swimming and fighting as a Navy SEAL.
On October 6, 1992, he wrote that he believed he and Lisa were truly meant for one another, that he wanted her to go to college, for him to get a “good-paying civilian job,” and then he “would ask for your hand, actually all of you, in marriage.”
On October 20, Chris Hatton flew to Texas on a two-week leave.
“My pass is for only three days,” he told his family so that he could spend all of his time with Lisa. “I lied to them so I wouldn’t hurt their feelings,” he told Lisa. She noticed that Chris Hatton often lied in the name of not hurting feelings.
But the day before Halloween, he and Lisa drove to the small town of Copperas Cove to visit his grandparents. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but Lisa thought it’d be cute if he showed up at the Hattons’ door in his sailor suit, as if he were trick-or-treating.
So while Pace drove her 1980 Ford Pinto, Hatton changed into his Navy uniform. When he rang the doorbell, his grandmother looked at him as if to say, “Who’s this?”
Then Chris smiled. There was no mistaking that gorgeous grin. His grandmother broke into her own huge smile. “Come in, come in.”
Sounding almost like a bird, she ordered, “Eat, eat,
That fall, Holly also left. Brian was now alone with Bill.
Just home from work at Long John Silver’s, Pace walked into her bedroom. At her feet were Chris Hatton’s freshly packed bags.
“I can’t trust you,” he said, his dark eyes hard. “I was going through your things, and I found this bag of weed.” It was about a quarter bag of marijuana. “And I found these pipes.” He shoved the pipes into her face.
“Well, they’re not mine,” said Lisa. “I’m just keeping them for a friend of mine because his mom always snoops through his things.”
“You’re lying. You always lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. For real, it’s not mine.”
“I want you to get rid of it. I want you to flush it down the toilet.”
They argued until Pace stamped into the bathroom, opened the bag of marijuana, watched it fill the toilet bowl, flushed the toilet, and threw the pipes into the trash.
Hatton stomped out the door and didn’t return until late that night.
“Where’ve you been?” she questioned, now the angry one.
“Out.”
“You smell like smoke. Have you been at a bar?”
“No.”
Hatton eventually admitted that he’d been riding patrol with a Round Rock police officer. That ticked Lisa Pace off. Sometimes she got sick of him desperately looking for excitement.
There was that Navy SEAL dream of his; when in reality, the job he had applied for in the Navy involved a lot of mundane painting of the ship. She climbed into bed and went to sleep. So did Hatton. He slept till almost noon.
Hazel Franzetti, Lisa’s mother, couldn’t stand the way Chris Hatton slept all day and slept through everything, including roaring vacuum cleaners.
On July 20, 1992, Chris Hatton left for the Navy. That fall, he graduated from Navy boot camp in San Diego. Lisa Pace went to watch him graduate, and he gave her a sapphire-and-diamond ring for her birthday.
Several days later, he sent her flowers and a card, also for her birthday. By then, he was writing to her almost every day.
On October 3, 1992, at 9:40 P.M ., on board ship, Hatton wrote Lisa: “I’m getting really good at this type of work.... If I could only manage money, too, I’d be the perfect housewife.” He added, “There’s only seventeen more days, and I’ll get to see you.”
From the time he hit ship, Chris Hatton hated the Navy and hated the ship—it was cold, it was dark, the food was horrible, he constantly had bronchitis due to the mold and stale air in the sleeping quarters. He hated the hours—painting all day, on watch all night, with only three hours of sleep. He could no longer watch TV all night and sleep all day. It was a far cry from swimming and fighting as a Navy SEAL.
On October 6, 1992, he wrote that he believed he and Lisa were truly meant for one another, that he wanted her to go to college, for him to get a “good-paying civilian job,” and then he “would ask for your hand, actually all of you, in marriage.”
On October 20, Chris Hatton flew to Texas on a two-week leave.
“My pass is for only three days,” he told his family so that he could spend all of his time with Lisa. “I lied to them so I wouldn’t hurt their feelings,” he told Lisa. She noticed that Chris Hatton often lied in the name of not hurting feelings.
But the day before Halloween, he and Lisa drove to the small town of Copperas Cove to visit his grandparents. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but Lisa thought it’d be cute if he showed up at the Hattons’ door in his sailor suit, as if he were trick-or-treating.
So while Pace drove her 1980 Ford Pinto, Hatton changed into his Navy uniform. When he rang the doorbell, his grandmother looked at him as if to say, “Who’s this?”
Then Chris smiled. There was no mistaking that gorgeous grin. His grandmother broke into her own huge smile. “Come in, come in.”
Sounding almost like a bird, she ordered, “Eat, eat,
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