Page 128 of Walking Wounded

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The Hopewell Art Institute occupies a converted warehouse space retrofitted with glass front walls, sleek gray hardwood floors, and chic industrial lighting that mimics the bare-bulb lamps that would have once illuminated the furniture stored here in a previous life. Tonight the lights are low, the music is soft, jazzy, and inoffensive, and though the paintings on the walls garner their share of attention, the focal point is the plethora of books, heaped artfully on a table in the center of the main room, all waiting to be signed. Luke has three new black pens in the breast pocket of his jacket, and clammy hands shoved in his pants pockets.

It’s happening.

Holy shit, it’s happening.

The gallery teems with men and women in cocktail finery, nibbling expensive mini quiches and sipping champagne that a crew of tux-clad wait staff continually replenish. Servers keep stopping on their rounds to offer Luke bacon-wrapped shrimp or chocolate-dipped strawberries, and he waves them away every time, stomach rolling.

An arm slides through his, and he recognizes Sandy’s perfume before she says, “Will you just look at this crowd? You’ve got somefans, honey.”

“They’re not fans,” he argues. “They’re people who like to show up to events when they have nothing better to do on a Tuesday night.”

“Oh no,” she laughs, and points to the book table where several attendees are paging through the hardbacks and talking animatedly to one another, heads bent together. “They’re here foryou, Author Man.”

“That’s what I keep telling him,” Hal says, joining them. “Maybe he’ll actually listen to you.”

Luke glances over at him, struck all over again by the breathtaking cut of his dark blue suit and the way it brings out lighter tones in his green eyes. Hal is the only thing that’s kept him even remotely calm in the weeks leading up to the launch. Through every crisis of doubt, every midnight deadline, every near-breakdown over a glass of Scotch and his editor’s notes, Hal said, “You’re amazing, baby, you’ve got this.”

Luke still doesn’t feel amazing, or like he’s got this, but Hal’s encouraging smile gives him life, so…here he stands, the night of his first ever book launch.

Hal touches his arm. “There’s your mom, I’ll go get her,” he says, and strides off to do so.

Luke spies his mother on the other side of the book table, dressed in the slim black dress he sent her last week, looking frail, beautiful, and totally out of her element.

“That’s your mama? She’s lovely,” Sandy says, patting his hand.

His throat is tight. “Thank you.”

His mom glances up as Hal nears her, recognition and relief touching her face. Luke can’t hear what she says to him, but the hug the two of them share is all anyone needs to understand that they love one another, as close as a biological mother and son.

Hal tucks her tiny hand into the crook of his elbow and steers her through the crowd. Luke sees the tears in her eyes five feet away, and Sandy lets him go so he can step forward and hug her.

“Hi, Mom.” His voice comes out choked and small.

“My baby’s an author,” she says, thin arms squeezing him tight. “I am so, so proud of you.”

She pulls back, eyes shining, and he knows they both miss Sadie terribly in that moment, just as they’ve missed her in every momentous moment since they lost her.

“Mrs. Keller?” Sandy asks, and Mom looks toward her. “Hi, I’m Sandy Maddox, it’s wonderful to meet you.” Her words, though trite, ring true and warm, because Sandy doesn’t do anything she doesn’t mean. Her smile is kind, and when she takes Mom’s hand, it’s with both of her own. “I can’t say enough good things about Luke. We just love your son. We’re not so happy, though,” she adds, side-eying Luke, “about missing the invitation.”

Mom laughs. “I’m lucky I got an invitation, trust me.”

“There were no invitations,” Luke says, sighing.

“No, it was a phone call, and I raised you better than that, Lucas,” Mom says.

Sandy laughs. “Oh, I like you. We’ll get on just fine.”

Luke leaves his mother in Sandy’s more-than-capable hands and tugs on Hal’s sleeve. “Any chance I can get a drink for the nerves?”

“One,” Hal says, and Luke sighs again. “More than that, and you’ll say something you’ll really wish didn’t get printed in the paper tomorrow.”

“God, I hate when you’re right.”

“No you don’t.”

They find the table where the beverages are stationed, which looks a bit like a champagne runway. There’s a bartender, though, and Hal orders a whiskey and Coke that Luke takes gratefully and sips faster than he ought to.

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