Resting his hands lightly on her shoulders, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. The contact was gentle, caressing. Yet the impact of it reverberated through every nerve in his body, leaving him feeling as unsteady as a newborn colt. He’d shared plenty of kisses with lots of women through the years, but the unexpected potency of this one jolted him.
Shaken, he pulled back a few inches. Her lips were parted, her respiration shallow and rapid. He was pretty sure she didn’t realize she was clutching the front of his jacket, bunching the leather fabric in both hands.
“I-Is that part of the job too?” She sounded as wobbly as he felt.
“I’m not on duty now, Monica.” His voice came out husky, intimate, as he kneaded her slender shoulders, his fingertips tingling from the warmth of her skin radiating through her blouse. Touching her felt good. And right. Walking away felt wrong. But he knew staying wouldn’t be wise, even if she’d accepted his offer. In fact, it would be dangerous.
Calling on every ounce of his willpower, he released her and stepped back. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And I’ll see you Tuesday at the funeral.”
“Okay.”
Bending, he hefted his bag and stepped through the door. He heard it close behind him as he strode toward the car where Mark waited, and when he glanced back, Monica had disappeared.
But as he climbed into the car and Mark pointed it toward Quantico, Coop knew that no matter how many miles separated them, she wouldn’t disappear from his heart.
Today, tomorrow, or ever.
25
The pure, plaintive notes of “Taps” floated through the still air, sending a chill up Monica’s spine that had nothing to do with the thirty-one-degree temperature on this late February afternoon. Unlike most of the mourners gathered around her father’s flag-draped casket for the graveside committal at Arlington National Cemetery, she didn’t even feel the cold air. She was too numb.
So much had happened in the past ten days. Too much to process. The events had a surreal quality to them that was heightened by the ethereal rendering of “Taps.”
But the words of the navy chaplain who’d conducted the service, the rifle volley that had preceded the playing of “Taps,” the presence of the secretary of state a discreet few steps to her left, and the flag-draped casket waiting to be lowered into the cold ground confirmed that every nightmare moment had been all too real.
At least she’d been spared the ordeal of planning the details of this service, she reflected. As Coop had predicted, her father had outlined his wishes for this eventuality, freeing her from the burden of all but a few decisions. Besides, as she’d discovered, the military was thorough about such matters. They had procedures and protocols for everything, down to the minutia of which seat was reserved for the NOK—next of kin. Left front. Where she sat now.
In most circumstances, Monica would find such rigid strictures oppressive and stifling. But on a day like this, when her brain wasn’t operating at full efficiency, she was glad the strict protocol rendered thought unnecessary. They’d even sent a limo for her, freeing her from transportation logistics, and supplied an escort from the State Department to guide her through the ceremony.
The only thing they hadn’t provided was a shoulder to cry on.
As the bugler sounded the final notes of “Taps,” she searched the small crowd for Coop. He and Mark had been waiting in the background when she arrived at the cemetery. They’d attended the nine o’clock service in Philadelphia for Terry Minard, the agent who’d been killed at the safe house, and driven straight from there to Arlington. She’d wanted desperately to go to the agent’s funeral too, but the secretary of state had expressed a strong interest in attending her father’s service, and one o’clock today had been the most convenient time for him. She’d caved under pressure from the State Department—and regretted it ever since.
She found Coop in the spot he’d claimed near the back of the crowd. He was watching her, as he had been whenever she’d looked his way during the ten-minute service that had seemed endless. She could read the concern in his eyes even from a distance, and that did more to warm her than her heavy wool coat.
The final note of “Taps” faded, and she refocused on the scene in front of her. The members of the navy honor guard, in their dark dress uniforms, folded the flag into a precise triangle. The flag bearer presented it to the chaplain, who saluted it and approached her.
He had a kindly face, Monica thought as he drew near. One that had surely witnessed this exercise thousands of times. Yet she sensed he hadn’t become immune to the turbulent emotions pooled in the small groups of people who clustered each day in tight knots of grief on these quiet, solemn hillsides. The duty hadn’t become routine for him. She appreciated that.
He stopped in front of her and offered the flag.
“On behalf of the president of the United States, a grateful nation, and a proud navy, this flag is presented as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your father to his country and navy.”
Monica hadn’t expected the formulaic wording to move her, but as she took the flag she felt the pressure of tears in her throat, behind her eyes. “Thank you.”
He nodded, saluted the flag, and moved to the side.
An older woman, accompanied by a navy escort in full dress uniform, took her turn in the well-choreographed service. Monica had been briefed to expect an expression of sympathy from one of the “Arlington Ladies”—wives and widows of military personnel who attended every service in the cemetery. The woman’s quiet, sincere words of comfort touched her too.
Finally, a man in civilian attire stepped forward. “The service has ended. You may now return to your cars.”
As Monica stood, the secretary of state approached her. She’d often seen the man on TV, but his real-life presence added to the surreal quality of the occasion. He held out his hand, and she found hers taken in a warm clasp.
“Ms. Callahan, I want you to know how much all of us at the State Department respected and admired your father. He was a man of the highest integrity, and your loss is shared by all of us.”
“Thank you.”
“The president and vice president asked me to convey their deepest condolences as well.”
Monica acknowledged the expression of sympathy with a dip of her head.
The formalities attended to, the timbre of the man’s voice shifted. “On a more personal note, I considered David a good friend and confidante. I’m not a man whose trust is easily earned, but your father had mine. I’ll miss him very much.” He cleared his throat and reached inside his overcoat to withdraw a thin, legal-sized envelope. “When the embassy staff in Kabul was collecting his personal items for shipment back to the States, they found this on the desk in his quarters. I wanted to deliver it to you myself.” He handed it to her. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through, Ms. Callahan. If there’s anything the State Department can do to assist you, please let us know.”
“I appreciate that. And thank you for attending today.”
“Considering all David Callahan meant to this country and to me, I couldn’t be anywhere else.”
Once the secretary departed, a steady line of sympathizers moved past Monica. A few of her colleagues from the university had come up for the service, but most of the people were strangers. Residents of her father’s world, members of an elite circle she knew nothing about.
Coop and Mark brought up the rear, waiting until the crowd had dispersed before stepping forward.
“You’re shivering,” Coop greeted her, a worried frown furrowing his brow as he scrutinized her. “You need to get out of the cold.”
As if to reinforce his comment, a sudden gust of wind whipped past, bringing with it a few icy pellets of sleet. “I just need a minute to say good-bye.”
Without waiting for a response, she tucked the envelope the secretary had handed her into a side pocket of her purse and walked over to the casket. The bleak, gray sky was fitting on this somber day, she reflected, as another pellet of sleet stung her cheek. It mirrored her mood. For a few brief days, she’d allowed herself to hope that perhaps she and her father could find a way to reconnect. But that hope had died with him, on an operating table thousands of miles away. She would never have the chance to reconcile with the man who’d been her father in name only.
“I’m sorry we never had the chance to mend our relationship,” she whispered, leaning close to touch the polished mahogany, fighting back tears. “And I’m sorry for all the years we missed. I guess I’ll never know why you preferred your job to Mom and me. But I choose to believe it wasn’t a personal rejection. And that maybe, in your heart, you never stopped caring about us. That despite our estrangement, you loved me. And I also want you to know I forgive you, as Mom did long ago.”
Pausing, Monica fished a tissue out of her coat pocket and dabbed at her tender nose. Then she closed her eyes and spoke in the silence of her heart.
Lord, I ask that you bring my father home to you. Despite his faults, I know he was a good man who did important work. Please forgive him for his failings in this life, as I have. And grace him with your forgiveness and peace in the next.
When she turned back, only Coop and Mark remained at the gravesite. Her driver stood attentive and waiting by the back door of the limo that had picked her up. The Suburban Coop and Mark had driven was parked farther down. All of the other mourners had departed.
They came forward to meet her in silence, each taking an arm to guide her toward the waiting car. She stumbled once on the uneven turf, and their grip tightened, steadying her.
“Are you okay?” Worry roughened Coop’s voice.
“Yes.” She kept her head down, blinking back the tears that had blurred her vision and caused her to trip.
She didn’t speak again until they stopped a few steps from her car. Mark released her arm, but Coop’s grip remained firm. “Thank you both for coming. It can’t have been easy to attend two funerals in one day.”
“We needed to be at both,” Coop said.
“I did too, considering Agent Minard died trying to protect me.”
“His family understood. They mentioned the note you sent. And we saw the flowers.”
“It seems like such an inadequate gesture in light of their loss.”
Another gust of wind whipped past, hard enough to rock her, and Coop urged her toward the car. “You need to get out of the cold. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I’m going to stop by my father’s apartment.”
“Are you sure you’re up to that?”
“No. But I’d like to see the place he called home.”
“Would you like some company?”
Her eyebrows arched. “Don’t you have to go back to work?”
“I do,” Mark chimed in. “But Coop took the day off.”
“If you’d rather be alone, though, I understand.”
She searched his face. “If you have the time, I’d appreciate it. And I have the driver for the whole day. He can drop you off at your place before we head back to Richmond.”
“Sounds like my cue to exit.” Mark took Monica’s hands and leaned down to brush his lips over her cheek, his expression sober. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will. Thank you for everything.”
With a half salute, Mark strode off toward the Suburban.
Once in the car, Monica gave the driver her father’s address and settled back in the seat. As she set her purse beside her, Coop startled her by reaching for her hands and stripping off her gloves. “What are you doing?”
“Warming up your hands.” He cocooned her fingers between his and massaged them gently as he issued an additional instruction to the driver. “Stop at a Starbucks, if you don’t mind. This woman is in desperate need of a cup of hot chocolate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Coop, that’s not necess—”
“Yes, it is. Your hands are like ice.”
“They’re getting warmer now.” As were other things, she realized, watching his strong, lean fingers caress her skin.
Thirty minutes later, fortified with the hot chocolate, Monica inserted the key in her father’s small apartment. When the door swung open, however, she hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Coop rested a hand on her arm from behind.
“Now that I’m here, I feel like an intruder invading his personal space.”
“You’re his only family. There’s no one else to do this. But it doesn’t have to be done today.”
“There’s no reason to put it off, either.” Straightening her shoulders, she stepped across the threshold and into the small foyer.
Coop followed, shutting the door behind them. He took her purse and helped her off with her coat, and she crossed to the living room, surveying the austere, modern furnishings. A sleek buff-colored leather couch. Side chairs in burgundy. A glass-topped coffee table resting on a carved stone base. A couple of unusual steel lamps. No clutter. No personal touches. No sign that this was anything more than a display unit.