“That table with the reserved sign on it is ours,” Major Johnson said. “I don’t see Kevin yet, but I’m sure he’ll be right in. I’ll go get coffee. Want something to eat?”
“Thank you, no. Thanks to Hattie, we had plenty to eat on the plane,” Quinn told him.
Johnson smiled. “Her late husband enlisted just out of college,” Johnson said. “And Hattie herself started an organization called Civilians for Soldiers to raise money for the Wounded Warrior Project and the USO. Too bad there aren’t more of her in the world.”
“Amen,” Danni told him. She knew that Hattie was a true philanthropist, quietly supporting a number of worthy causes, but this was one she hadn’t known about.
Danni headed toward their table, but Quinn obviously didn’t feel like sitting yet; he walked back and forth near the entrance then paused to listen to the harpist.
Danni’s eyes were caught by a small beautifully—but also uniquely—set table, with a small metal frame in the center that held a typed sheet of paper. She moved closer to read what it said.
The Fallen Soldier’s Table
This table, set for one, is small, symbolizing the frailty of one prisoner alone against his or her oppressors.
The tablecloth is white, symbolizing the purity of their intentions to respond to their country’s call to arms.
The single red rose in the vase signifies the blood they have shed in sacrifice to ensure the freedom of our beloved United States of America.
This rose also reminds us of the family and friends of our missing comrades who keep the faith, while awaiting their return.
The yellow ribbon on the vase represents the yellow ribbons worn on the lapels of the thousands who demand with unyielding determination a proper accounting of our comrades who are not among us tonight.
A slice of lemon on the napkin reminds us of their bitter fate.
The salt sprinkled on the plate reminds us of the countless fallen tears of families as they wait.
The glass is inverted—they cannot toast with us this night.
The chair is empty—they are not here.
The candle is reminiscent of the light of hope that lives in our hearts to illuminate their way home from their captors, to the open arms of a grateful nation.
Reading the beautiful words, Danni felt the sting of tears at her eyes.
Real ones, she thought. Not the petty tears that plagued her when her feelings were hurt or she was worried about things that might not even be real.
She tried not to look around at all the men and women in the room who were in wheelchairs, who were fitted with prosthetics. She knew they didn’t want pity.
“Danni!”
She turned gratefully to see Major Johnson walking her way, balancing three cups of coffee. She hurried over to grab one. “Oh, thank you. I could have stood in line with you,” she said.
“That’s okay. I want you to meet Corporal Kevin Hart. Kevin, Danni Cafferty,” Johnson said, stepping aside.
For the first time she could see the man who had been standing behind him.
Kevin had been gorgeous. His hair was the color of wheat, his eyes a brilliant blue. He had the look of a Midwestern farm boy with Scandinavian antecedents. He was tall, and he seemed to manage well on his prosthetic leg. He smiled as he shook her hand, and the smile almost reached the half of his face that still bore the scars of the explosion and surgery.
“Thank you so much for seeing me—us,” she said. “Quinn is right over there. He hears music and he’s suddenly lost.”
Kevin’s smile turned rueful. “Like Arnie. He was the only guy who didn’t mind being woken at the crack of dawn by a bugle—as long as it was played well.”
“I’m not sure how I’d feel about a bugle in the morning,” Danni said. “But that harpist is really good.”
Hart nodded. “The USO takes care of us. Even here, they bring in all kinds of people to entertain us. But you came to talk about Arnie. I loved him. I’ll help you in any way that I can.”
Quinn had apparently noticed that Johnson was back and was with Kevin Hart, because he headed right over.
“You want anything, Kevin?” Johnson asked as Quinn approached.
“Nope. And you know me, Doc. If I wanted it, I’d go get it. Part of the therapy,” he explained, looking at Danni. “So tell me. I wrote letters, you know. I wrote to Arnie’s parents. I wrote to the New Orleans police. I knew Arnie didn’t leave work one night and suddenly decide he was going to pick up a heroin habit, much less commit suicide.”
“Why don’t you three take the table?” Johnson said after Quinn reached them and introduced himself. “You can talk while I go over and see how Private Osborn is doing.”
“Will do,” Kevin said, heading for the table. Quinn and Danni followed.
“We don’t believe he committed suicide or that it was an accidental OD, either,” Quinn said. “What we do believe is that someone was after his sax. Unfortunately, if you wrote a letter to the police, some poor first-year file clerk probably just filed it away, given that there was already an official cause of death.”