“I want to help,” Ruth told his mother.
“Nonsense,” Barbara Gordon said as she tore lettuce leaves into a large wooden bowl. “I’m just so pleased to finally meet you. It was as if Paul had some secret he was keeping from us.”
Ruth smiled and sipped her glass of iced tea.
“My father was career military—in the marines,” Barbara said, chopping tomatoes for the salad. “I don’t know if that was what induced Paul to join the military or not, but I suspect it had an influence.”
“How do you feel about him being stationed so far from home?” Ruth asked, curious to hear his mother’s perspective. She couldn’t imagine any mother wanting to see her son or daughter at that kind of risk.
Barbara sighed. “I don’t like it, if that’s what you’re asking. Every sane person hates war. My father didn’t want to fight in World War II, and I cried my eyes out the day Greg left for Vietnam. Now here’s my oldest son in Afghanistan.”
“It seems most generations are called upon to serve their country, doesn’t it?” Ruth said.
Barbara agreed with a short nod. “Freedom isn’t free—for us or for the countries we support. Granted, in hindsight some of the conflicts we’ve been involved in seem misguided, but unfortunately war appears to be part of the human condition.”
“Why?” Ruth asked, although she didn’t really expect a response.
“I think every generation has asked that same question,” Barbara said thoughtfully, putting the salad aside. She began to prepare a dressing, pouring olive oil and balsamic vinegar into a small bowl. “Paul told me you have a problem with his unwillingness to leave the marines at the end of his commitment. Is that right?”
A little embarrassed by the question, Ruth nodded. “I do.”
“The truth is, as his mother, I want Paul out of the marines, too, but that isn’t a decision you or I can make for him. My son has always been his own person. That’s how his father and I raised him.”
Ruth’s gaze followed Paul as he stood with his father by the barbecue. He looked up and saw her, frowning as if he knew exactly what she and his mother were talking about. Ruth gave him a reassuring wave.
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” his mother asked, watching her closely.
The question took Ruth by surprise. “I’m afraid I am.” Ruth didn’t want to be—something she hadn’t acknowledged openly until this moment. He’d described his reluctance to hand her his heart to break. She felt the same way and feared he’d end up breaking hers.
There seemed to be a tacit agreement not to broach these difficult subjects during dinner.
The four of them sat on the patio around a big table, shaded by a large umbrella. His mother had made corn bread as well as the salad, and the steaks were grilled to perfection. After dinner, Ruth helped with the cleanup and then Paul made their excuses.
“We’re going to a movie?” she whispered on their way out the door, figuring he’d used that as a convenient pretext for leaving.
“I had to get you out of there before my mother started showing you my baby pictures.”
“I’ll bet you were a real cutie.”
“You should see my brother and sister, especially the nude photos.”
Ruth giggled.
Instead of the theater, they headed for Lake Washington and walked through the park, licking ice-cream cones, talking and laughing. Ruth couldn’t remember laughing with anyone as much as she did with Paul.
He dropped her off after ten, walked her up to the front porch and kissed her good-night.
“I’ll pick you up at noon,” he said. “After your morning class.”
“Noon,” she repeated, her arms linked around his neck. That seemed too long. Despite her fears, despite the looming doubts, she was in love with him.
“You’re sure your grandmother’s up to having company so soon?” he asked.
“Yes.” Ruth pressed her forehead against his shoulder. “I think the real question’s whether we’re ready for the next installment. I don’t know if I can bear to hear exactly what happened to Jean-Claude.”
“Perhaps not, but she needs to tell us.”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “She couldn’t talk about it before.”
“I know.” Paul kissed her again.
Ruth felt at peace in his arms. Only when she stopped to think about the future, their future, did she become uncertain and confused.
Seven
RUTH AND PAUL sat with Helen at the kitchen table in her Cedar Cove house as rain dripped rhythmically against the windowpane. The day was overcast and dreary, as it frequently was during spring in the Pacific Northwest.
Helen reached for the teapot in the middle of the table and filled each of their cups, then offered them freshly baked peanut-butter cookies arranged on a small dessert plate. Ruth recognized the plate from her childhood. She and her grandmother had often had tea together when she was a youngster. Her visits to Cedar Cove were special; her grandmother had listened while Ruth chattered endlessly, sharing girlish confidences. It was during those private little tea parties that they’d bonded, grandmother and granddaughter.
Today the slow ritual of pouring tea and passing around cookies demanded patience. Ruth badly wanted to throw questions at Helen, but she could see that her grandmother would resume her story only when she was ready. Helen seemed to be bracing herself for this next installment.
“I’ve been thinking about the things I mentioned on your last visit,” Helen finally said, sipping her tea. Steam rose from the delicate bone-china cup. “It was a lot for you to absorb at one time.”
“I didn’t know anything about your adventures, Grandma.” And they truly were adventures, of a kind few people experienced these days. Real adventures, with real and usually involuntary risks.
Helen grimaced. “My children didn’t, either. But as I said before, it’s time.” Helen set the fragile cup back in its saucer. “Your father phoned and asked me about all of this.” She paused, a look of distress on her face. “I hope
