“Lina. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”
“These two came looking for you at the house.”
Gloria stepped forward. “Mr. Mercer? We’re the Jorgansens from Mobile, Alabama. You probably remember my e-mail? We’re the ones who wanted a private, special tour of the cemetery? You see, my husband, Hank, has a real love for World War II history. Tell them, Hank.”
“A real love,” Hank said.
Howard nodded thoughtfully, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Well, there’s just the one tour, but I’m sure Sonia would be happy to take you. Why don’t you two head inside and she’ll get you started.”
Gloria clapped her hands. “Mr. Mercer, I can hear you’re a Southerner yourself. Where are you from? Tennessee?”
“South Carolina.”
“That’s what I meant. South Carolina. And who is this lovely young woman who came to our aid? Your daughter?”
He paused for a nanosecond. Just long enough for me to notice. “Yes. This is Lina.”
And we just met last night.
Gloria shook her head. “Glory be. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a daddy and his daughter look quite so different. But sometimes it’s like that. I got this red hair from my great-aunt on my mother’s side. Sometimes the genes just skip a few generations.”
We both looked at her skeptically. There was absolutely no way Gloria’s red hair had come from anywhere but a box, but you had to admire her commitment.
She squinted at me, then turned to Howard. “Is your wife Italian?” She pronounced it “Eye-Talian.”
“Lina’s mother is American. She looks a lot like her.”
I shot him a grateful look. Present tense keeps things a lot less complicated. But then I remembered his and Sonia’s conversation on the porch, and I turned away, sucking my grateful look right back into my eyeballs.
Gloria put her hands on her hips. “Well, Lina, you just fit right in here, don’t you? Look at those dark eyes and all that gorgeous hair. I’ll bet everyone thinks you’re a local.”
“I’m not a local. I’m just visiting.”
Hank finally found his voice. “Gloria, let’s shake a leg. If we keep chatting like this, we’re going to miss the whole dang-blasted cemetery.”
“All right, all right. No need for strong language. Come on, Hank.” She gave us a conspiratorial look, like her husband was a little brother we were all being forced to hang out with, and then she opened the door. “You two have a good day now. A-river-dur-chee!”
“Wow,” Howard said when the door had closed behind them.
“Yeah.” I folded my arms.
“Sorry about that. People don’t usually go to the house. And they’re usually a little less . . .” He paused, like he thought he could come up with a polite word to describe the Jorgansens. Finally he just shook his head. “Looks like you’re headed out for a run.”
I looked down at what I was wearing. It was such a habit to get dressed this way I hadn’t even thought about it. “I usually go first thing.”
“Like I said, you’re welcome to run through the cemetery, but if you want to get out and explore, just head out those front gates. There’s only one road, so you shouldn’t get lost.”
The visitors’ center door opened again and Gloria poked her head out. “Mr. Mercer? This woman in here says the tour only lasts thirty minutes. I specifically requested two hours or longer.”
“I’ll be right in.” He glanced at me. “Enjoy your run.”
As he walked away I impulsively stepped forward so I could see both our reflections in the glass door. Gloria may be ridiculous, but she hadn’t been afraid to point out the obvious. Howard was well over six feet tall with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes. I had dark features and had to buy all my clothes in the petites section. But sometimes genes just skip a few generations.
Right?
I jogged out the front gates of the cemetery and crossed through the visitors’ parking lot. Right or left? I guess it didn’t matter. I just needed to get away from the cemetery for a while. Left. No, right.
The road that ran past the memorial was only two lanes, and I stuck to the strip of grass along the side, picking up my pace until I was almost at a sprint. I could usually outrun disturbing thoughts, but this one was pretty hard to shake. Why don’t I look anything like Howard?
It was probably just one of those things—I mean, lots of people look nothing like their parents. Addie was the token blonde of her family, and there was this guy I’d grown up with who was taller than both his parents by the sixth grade. But still. Shouldn’t Howard and I look at least a little bit alike?