Page 97 of The Husband Hour
“Thanks.” She sniffed. They were right in front of Lucy. “I used to love this elephant.”
“What’s that restaurant right next door? Want to get a drink?”
They waited a half an hour at Ventura’s Greenhouse to get a table at the rooftop bar with a view of Lucy. The music was loud and commanding, courtesy of a live DJ.
“We’re the oldest people here,” she shouted.
“I know. I think we got reverse-carded—to see if we’re under thirty, not over twenty-one.”
She smiled. The waitress, sunburned and with a sheet of straight, white-blond hair, took their orders—a beer and an Italian hoagie for Matt, and for Lauren, a drink called a strawberry shortcake: ice cream, strawberry mix, and amaretto.
“Do you come here a lot?” he asked.
“I haven’t been here in, like, ten years.”
“Were you old enough to come here ten years ago?”
“No! That was the point.”
“I didn’t imagine you as a fake-ID type of teenager.”
“Stephanie was a bad influence. She lured me here with promises of a bird’s-eye view of Lucy.”
“Such a crazy idea for a building,” Matt said, looking at the six-story elephant. “Have you ever been inside?”
“My grandparents took me to the top every summer when I was little. We spent weekends at my grandparents’ house—the house I live in now. The car ride from Philly seemed endless, but as soon as I saw Lucy, I knew we were here. I would get so excited. It’s amazing how easy it is to be happy when you’re a kid.”
“This is a great town for kids. You’re lucky.”
“I know. I’m glad my sister is here this summer so my nephew can get to experience it.”
“You’re getting along with her?”
“I am.” She smiled. “I feel like we’re reconnecting a little.”
A strange expression crossed Matt’s face, a mix of surprise and puzzlement.
“What?” she said.
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Well, you originally weren’t happy about me interviewing her so I figured you two had some issues.”
“Don’t all siblings?”
He contemplated her question. “Not necessarily. I had more issues with my parents. I got along really well with my older brother.”
“I’m sorry that you lost him. Do you mind if I ask what happened?” She had met only a few people over the years who had lost loved ones in the military. Each time, she felt a compulsive urge for details, to know when and where and how the person had died, as if somehow it would help her make sense of what had happened to Rory. This, maybe, was the appeal of war-widow support groups. But she was no more inclined to join a group now than she had been when she was an army wife.
“It was a blast. An IED near his convoy.”
Her heart began to beat fast. “Like what happened to Rory?” she whispered.
“No,” Matt said. “There is a parallel to what happened to Rory, but that’s not it.”
Their waitress arrived with Matt’s beer and hoagie and Lauren’s frothy pink drink. Lauren pushed it aside.
“What, then?”
“Do you know what the signature wound of Iraq and Afghanistan is?” he said.
