“What?” Laru asked innocently. “It’s no secret that every time that man looks at you his eyes get as shiny as new pennies.”
“Well, he’s not invited. It’s ladies only. Rich ladies, and as we both know, that’s not his type,” Macy said, pointing at herself, and making Laru laugh. “Besides, he’s in San Antonio for a couple of days.”
Satisfied with her appearance, Macy walked outside to check on everything once more. Ernesto, Laru’s handyman, was out front, sweeping the flagstone porch. “If you see a bunch of women in fancy hats, send them on around, will you?” she asked, indicating the walkway around the side of the house. “Gracias!”
Macy followed the path around the corner of the house. Laru was right—the setting was truly lovely, and her tables looked perfect. But as Macy stood there admiring her work, Milo shot past.
“Hey,” Macy muttered. Milo was not the sort of dog to run. Generally, he was much happier lying around in the shade. But when he emerged from between the tables, she saw that he had a grungy rope toy in his mouth. Out from beneath another table shot a beagle in hot pursuit.
“Hey!” Macy shouted as Milo headed for the river. “Milo, no!” she cried. But Milo dove heedlessly into the river, paddled around, then climbed up on the bank, taunted the beagle with his toy, and dashed up to the tables, where he paused to shake the water off his coat.
“No!” Macy cried.
The beagle barked, and Milo was off again.
“Macy Clark?”
Startled by the sound of a male voice, Macy whirled around and came face to face with an army officer in full dress uniform. Her heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here? Finn was dead. Dead for three miserable, long years. Three years in which Macy woke up every morning to face the heartache of him being gone all over again, missing her sun and moon, realizing that it wasn’t a bad dream, that he wasn’t going to come through the door with his tanned arms and his straw hat pulled low over his eyes, grinning like he wanted her with syrup for breakfast.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am—I am Lt. Colonel Dan Freeman with the United States Army,” he said. The bags under his eyes made him look like a sad old hound dog. “I need to speak with you, please.”
“Me?” she said as Milo and the beagle dashed in between them. “Is it the fundraiser?” she said, thinking wildly that perhaps the Army didn’t approve. “It’s the fundraiser, isn’t it?”
“The fundraiser?”
“The Lifeline Project,” she said. “My friend Samantha and I—we wanted to help the families of fallen soldiers because they really need more than just the death gratuity. Not that the gratuity isn’t generous. It is! But there is all this…this emotional stuff that money can’t fix. So we started the Lifeline Project. That’s okay, isn’t it? Surely that’s okay.”
What was she saying? She didn’t need the army’s permission! Macy was rambling, which wasn’t like her at all, but there was something about the officer’s demeanor, his blank look, that made her anxious. “You’ve never heard of us, have you?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Macy swallowed down a very bad feeling.
A barking dog, a sound of a car’s wheels crunching on the gravel drive in front filtered into her consciousness. Someone shouted, “Bad dog!”
“What is it?” Macy asked softly. “What has happened?”
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
Now Macy’s belly swooned. “Sir…I am about to host a fundraiser.”
“It can’t wait, ma’am,” he said, and smiled. “Maybe we can sit at one of those tables.”
“How did you find me?” she asked, ignoring his gesture toward her tables.
“Your neighbor told me you were here and was kind enough to give me directions.”
“Okay,” she said resolutely, despite the rubbery feeling in her legs. “Okay, Lt. Colonel Freeman, you can’t tell me anything worse than what the Army has already told me, right? So please, whatever it is, just say it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lt. Colonel Freeman said. He kept his hound dog eyes steady on her as he reached into his coat pocket, took out an envelope and held it out to her.
Her heart pounding, Macy stared at it. She didn’t want to touch that envelope. It was impossible that it could contain anything that had to do with her—Finn is dead! He’s dead, he’s dead! The officer shifted slightly, moving the envelope closer to her, and Macy reluctantly took it. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly open it; the envelope fluttered to the ground as she unfolded the letter.
“Ma’am, if I may,” the officer said. “The secretary of defense regrets to inform you that we have made a gross error in concluding Sergeant Finn Lockhart was killed in action because he has indeed been found alive. On June eighteen, at oh two hundred hours…”
Macy never heard the rest of what he said. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t speak, and everything began to swirl around her. The last thing Macy saw was Lt. Colonel Dan Freeman lurching forward to catch her as she melted.