grave. Abby shakes her head. “John wanted to be cremated,” she said. “We both do.” At least they had discussed that much at the funeral of one of John’s college teammates who had died in an accident. The kid’s parents had made the unfortunate choice to have the casket open, and the body laid out in a bed of satin looked nothing like the vibrant defensive end who had helped the Scarlet Knights to victory. “No open coffin,” John said. “That’s just creepy. And burn what’s left of me. Ashes to ashes.”
“Cremation is a viable option,” Sgt. Palumbo says, “but you don’t need to make any decisions right now. Sleep on it. Discuss the possibilities with family if you like, and I’ll be here to assist you when the time comes.”
“And you know I’ll help, too.” Suz reaches across the table and squeezes Abby’s wrist. “I’ve been through it before.” The tip of Suz’s nose turns bright red and tears shine in her eyes.
Abby places a hand over Suz’s and nods. The wounds are still fresh from Scott’s death and now Suz is here to suffer again. It’s so wrong.
Sgt. Palumbo excuses himself to talk to someone in the living room, and Abby takes a deep breath.
“This is surreal. These people in my house. All the food and conversation. It seems festive, and maybe that’s not wrong. John would hate for anyone to wax morose over him.”
“At least you’ve got Sharice. She’s quite the diplomat,” Suz says, and they both glance out toward the living room. Although Abby cannot see her mother-in-law she can hear her remarking on how she’s going to extract the secret recipe for someone’s sour cream noodle casserole.
“Sharice is so good with things like this,” Abby says. She had long admired her mother-in-law’s ability to hostess with charm and grace.
“And she’s all-army. She really knows the culture. She and Madison were a tremendous help when we lost Scott.”
Over on the rocking chair, John’s teenage sister Madison holds Sofia in her lap, reading The Very Noisy Morning for the umpteenth time. How good of Madison to entertain Sofia when she herself is hurting. She and John were close.
“Yes, Noah will be home just as soon as they can get him the flights back,” Sharice is saying. “Certainly in time for the funeral. It will be good to see him.”
Abby’s mouth puckers involuntarily. “Thank God Noah didn’t get taken out, too. At least he’ll have some answers when he gets here, some specifics of what happened to John.”
“I’m sure he will, sweetie,” Suz says.
“As if that matters. I mean, if he’s really gone, knowing the details isn’t going to bring him back. I’m sorry, my mind isn’t working properly anymore.”
“No need to apologize. You’re not supposed to be sweet and rational right now. You’re supposed to throw up your arms and holler and blubber. Let it go like an elephant trumpeting over the savannah.” Her arms flailing, Suz lets out a wild, bestial howl.
Silence falls over the house. A moment later two women peek into the kitchen. “Everything okay in here?” a woman with short-cropped black hair asks cautiously.
“We’re just mad as hell,” Suz answers. “But all things considered…” She shrugs. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“It’s a difficult time,” says the woman with black hair.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” the other woman says, crossing to Abby. Her startlingly blue eyes shine with compassion, and Abby realizes it’s Peri Corbett, from across the way. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“I will,” Abby promises, warmed by the genuine sincerity of the people who’ve dropped everything to come to her house this afternoon.
“I got a fresh pot of coffee here,” Suz says. “Can I get you a cup, Peri?”
As normal chatter resumes, Suz serves up two mugs, then heads out to the living room with the coffeepot in hand. She passes Sharice under the arch, offering a refill.
“No, thanks.” Sharice shakes her head briskly. “Any more coffee and I’ll be bouncing from wall to wall.” She places her mug in the sink and then turns to Abby, who can sense her mother-in-law gearing up for an important question.
Abby glances up at her, encouragingly.
“I want you to know,” Sharice says confidentially, “Jim just got a call from his C.O., who says there’s a good possibility that John will be honored posthumously. There’s talk that the president might even attend his funeral.”
Abby feels her lips shaping an “O” of surprise, but she cannot form a response.
“That would be wonderful,” Peri says, “and well-deserved. After all, he is a hero. He made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.” The woman with the dark hair sniffs, and suddenly her eyes are glossy with tears, her nose red. Without a word she grabs two tissues and blots at her eyes.
“What happened?” Suz returns with the empty coffeepot. “Did I miss something?”
“John’s going to get some medals,” says the woman with dark hair. “He’s a national hero.”
Why? Abby wants to ask. Because he used to be a football player? She turns away from everyone, looking down at the table. John used to sit in this chair. When he wasn’t deployed, he ate breakfast here. They dined at this table, sometimes by candlelight. She presses one palm flat against the wood, knowing that John would not want to be favored. Suz’s husband, Scott, also lost his life in Iraq, but there was no talk of the president attending his funeral. Why do they want to make a fuss over John?
“I don’t see that we have any choice now,” Sharice says. Leaning against the counter, she lifts her chin and stares off with a lofty expression, as if she can see destiny shining in the distance. “We’re going to have to bury him at Arlington Cemetery.”
With those words, Abby feels control slip through her fingers like white sand drizzling onto the beach. Having grown up in Sterling, Virginia, she was well aware of the national cemetery at the edge of Washington, D.C., its white-studded hillsides reserved for veterans and the historically famous. Heroes and presidents and Supreme Court justices. It hardly seemed a fitting place for the man she loved, the man who’d written of his doubts recently, of the futility of war, the darkness in taking another man’s life.
“It would be wonderful to see John honored that way,” Sharice goes on. “A military procession, twenty-one gun salute…”
“Arlington Cemetery…” Jim Stanton appears in the doorway, his gray-peppered head just clearing the arch—a tall man, like his sons. Since this morning’s news, his skin seems pale, his posture somewhat stooped, contrary to his usual proud military bearing. “I’ve read that they’re running out of real estate there, but no doubt they’ll make an exception for us. John was loved by all. If he’s there, people who don’t know him personally will have a chance to visit his graveside.”
“It can be tough to get into Arlington Cemetery,” says Sgt. Palumbo, stepping up beside John’s father. “But I don’t think it would be a problem getting John a burial there.”
“John wanted to be cremated,” Abby says, feeling as if no one is listening.
Ashes to ashes…he used to say.
She closes her eyes and suddenly she is viewing a young couple honeymooning in France. The dark-haired young woman walked arm-in-arm with her husband through a flower market, surrounded by towering stalks and colorful blossoms. In the market he bought her a single rose, a powdery shade of coral with a burst of sweetness. The satin petals were smooth against her cheek as she and John strolled through the sunny square of Montmartre, passing an artist at work, a vendor selling homemade jewelry, a kiosk.
“When I pop off, I want to return here,” he said. “Promise me you’ll bring