would be the first one—as a matter of fact, he had been the first one. “Juliet,” he’d said. “You’re too young to have your future end with my life.”
But there wasn’t room in her heart for anyone else. There wasn’t.
“Well, I’m at least as normal as you,” Marlys declared.
Not even close , Juliet wanted to retort, but she’d managed to play peacemaker for this long so she swallowed the words. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“It’s too late for that, don’t you think? With the anniversary of Dad’s death coming up, the rumors are swirling again, you know. I hear it at the club, in the shop, around all the old family friends. Deal Breaker. Happy Widow.”
“Marlys—”
“If only you’d been there for Dad on the day he died. But I forget where you were again? Oh, yeah, a spa .”
Spa. How Juliet had come to hate those three letters arranged in that particular order. It had been all over the cable channels. They’d run footage of the place’s fancy double doors, zeroing in on the discreet placard that read CELL PHONES OFF BEFORE CROSSING THIS THRESHOLD.
Without thinking, Juliet had complied with that order. So when she returned home to the terrible news, she’d been glowing from a facial and sporting a fresh pedicure.
“Marlys, of course I didn’t know what would happen.” This wasn’t the first time she’d defended herself. But Marlys, the press, and many in her social circle had continued to look on her with suspicion.
“It hasn’t helped that you don’t talk to your old friends. Aunt Helen said you won’t return her calls.”
“Aunt Helen” was Helen Novack, a contemporary of Wayne’s, someone he’d known since childhood, and who’d never warmed up to Juliet. So Marlys was right, she had been dodging Helen’s calls and ignoring others. The “old friends” had been Wayne’s old friends and not hers. Without him, would they have anything to talk about? And if they got together, wouldn’t the “without him” be just that much more painful?
But the grief counselor had told her she’d have to push herself to be sociable. And while she might not yet be ready for Helen and that circle, she could look at the dinner tomorrow night as practice.
The sense of purpose lifted her mood a little. A dinner party. Tomorrow night. She turned toward her cookbooks.
Marlys’s box sat in the way. She slanted the brunette a look. “What is this?”
“Showed up at home and addressed to you,” Marlys said. “From the publishing house.”
“The books.” Juliet’s mood bobbed higher. “It must be the books.”
Ignoring Marlys’s blasé shrug, Juliet armed herself with a knife and sliced through the packing tape, anticipation making her breath come faster. Beneath the flaps and a wad of crumpled paper were two stacks of hardback books, their covers gleaming. General Matters: My Military Life & More, by General Wayne L. Weston. Juliet stared. Here it was, Wayne’s dream.
Here it was, Juliet’s hope. Her hope that whatever tarnish their marriage had brought to his reputation would be polished away by his life story in his very own words.
Despite her casual attitude, Marlys crowded in for a look. It was she who reached in to take hold of the top copy to survey the front cover with eager eyes. It was a dark silhouette of a man, the red, white, and blue of the American flag rippling behind him.
Slowly, Juliet reached inside to retrieve her own book. Her palm slid across the sleek front, and then she turned it over. Wayne.
It was a wonderful photo of him, black-and-white, which played up his silver hair and dark, watchful eyes to their best advantage. With her forefinger, she traced the edges of his military brush cut and then let it fall to find the curve of his black eyebrows and then the line of his firm lips.
Oh, Wayne.
Was it really natural? she wondered to herself. Was it really natural or forgivable, that though her gaze drank in her beloved’s face, the
But there wasn’t room in her heart for anyone else. There wasn’t.
“Well, I’m at least as normal as you,” Marlys declared.
Not even close , Juliet wanted to retort, but she’d managed to play peacemaker for this long so she swallowed the words. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“It’s too late for that, don’t you think? With the anniversary of Dad’s death coming up, the rumors are swirling again, you know. I hear it at the club, in the shop, around all the old family friends. Deal Breaker. Happy Widow.”
“Marlys—”
“If only you’d been there for Dad on the day he died. But I forget where you were again? Oh, yeah, a spa .”
Spa. How Juliet had come to hate those three letters arranged in that particular order. It had been all over the cable channels. They’d run footage of the place’s fancy double doors, zeroing in on the discreet placard that read CELL PHONES OFF BEFORE CROSSING THIS THRESHOLD.
Without thinking, Juliet had complied with that order. So when she returned home to the terrible news, she’d been glowing from a facial and sporting a fresh pedicure.
“Marlys, of course I didn’t know what would happen.” This wasn’t the first time she’d defended herself. But Marlys, the press, and many in her social circle had continued to look on her with suspicion.
“It hasn’t helped that you don’t talk to your old friends. Aunt Helen said you won’t return her calls.”
“Aunt Helen” was Helen Novack, a contemporary of Wayne’s, someone he’d known since childhood, and who’d never warmed up to Juliet. So Marlys was right, she had been dodging Helen’s calls and ignoring others. The “old friends” had been Wayne’s old friends and not hers. Without him, would they have anything to talk about? And if they got together, wouldn’t the “without him” be just that much more painful?
But the grief counselor had told her she’d have to push herself to be sociable. And while she might not yet be ready for Helen and that circle, she could look at the dinner tomorrow night as practice.
The sense of purpose lifted her mood a little. A dinner party. Tomorrow night. She turned toward her cookbooks.
Marlys’s box sat in the way. She slanted the brunette a look. “What is this?”
“Showed up at home and addressed to you,” Marlys said. “From the publishing house.”
“The books.” Juliet’s mood bobbed higher. “It must be the books.”
Ignoring Marlys’s blasé shrug, Juliet armed herself with a knife and sliced through the packing tape, anticipation making her breath come faster. Beneath the flaps and a wad of crumpled paper were two stacks of hardback books, their covers gleaming. General Matters: My Military Life & More, by General Wayne L. Weston. Juliet stared. Here it was, Wayne’s dream.
Here it was, Juliet’s hope. Her hope that whatever tarnish their marriage had brought to his reputation would be polished away by his life story in his very own words.
Despite her casual attitude, Marlys crowded in for a look. It was she who reached in to take hold of the top copy to survey the front cover with eager eyes. It was a dark silhouette of a man, the red, white, and blue of the American flag rippling behind him.
Slowly, Juliet reached inside to retrieve her own book. Her palm slid across the sleek front, and then she turned it over. Wayne.
It was a wonderful photo of him, black-and-white, which played up his silver hair and dark, watchful eyes to their best advantage. With her forefinger, she traced the edges of his military brush cut and then let it fall to find the curve of his black eyebrows and then the line of his firm lips.
Oh, Wayne.
Was it really natural? she wondered to herself. Was it really natural or forgivable, that though her gaze drank in her beloved’s face, the
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