Back Cover Text
Dear Emily,
Forgive my familiarity. We’ve never met and yet I feel as though I know you. You will be receiving formal notification, but I couldn’t leave it at that. The decision has been made to officially pronounce Winston’s death. This will award you the death benefits and pension you deserve, and yet somehow, I sense that isn’t what matters to you.
As Winston’s immediate superior I could go on about the standout soldier he was. But during this last tour... I walked into the trap with him. Ahead of him. I unknowingly led him to his eventual death. He saved my life. And we spent days in hiding together. Perhaps I am being selfish, but I need you to know that you are all that kept us alive. His talk of you. His love for you. His belief that that kind of love was real.
In any event, it’s been two years since he left to find water for us and never came back. Two years since I was discovered by friendly forces. Two years of trying to understand why I am here and he is not. He had everything to live for.
Please know that for the rest of my life, I am here for you, a willing servant, pledging to have your back or do whatever I can for you, no matter what...
A signature followed. Contact information. Emily couldn’t see any of it through her tears. She wadded up the letter and threw it across the room, half watching as it hit the wood blinds open to the California sunshine outside her living room window. Their living room window.
Dressed in black pants that hugged her ankles, a loose cream-colored sheath, and a short black-and-cream three-quarter-sleeve open sweater, with three-inch black stilettos, she tried to pretend that this day was like any other, that she hadn’t been up all night, that she was prepared for the meeting she would be leading that morning in the largest conference room of the LA marketing firm she’d been with since college.
The forty-five-minute drive north might have been preparation enough if she hadn’t spent the past twelve hours vacillating between grief that cut the air out of her lungs and an anger that was equally debilitating.
In the ten years she’d been with the firm, she’d never called in sick. She’d been at work when officials had come to her two years before to inform her that Winston was missing in action in Afghanistan. She’d remained in her office, mostly comatose, but there, until the end of the day, but had put in for a couple of vacation days before she’d left.
She usually scheduled vacation for birthdays and anniversaries.
And this?
What was it really, but a formality? Something everyone around her assumed?
Good news, even, as it released benefits to her that she didn’t already have.
She didn’t
