Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

"Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time passing?

Where have all the soldiers gone?  A long, long time ago?

Gone to graveyards, everyone.

When will they ever learn?  When will they ever learn?"

Pete Seeger

Prologue

London, England: December 1968

At the breakfast table, Patrick Hogan placed a silver bow on a multicolored package.  The painfully thin young man put the wrapped package to one side and reached for an unwrapped gift. "Let me get this damned misery over with," he muttered.

He bent over to retrieve the riband he'd dropped, but Clouseau, the huge Himalayan, had already started batting it around the kitchen. "Thanks awfully for your help, Feline," Patrick remarked.  The cat ignored him completely.  GDP watched disdainfully from his cage.

He'd begun wrapping when his father, Robert, stumbled and shuffled into the kitchen. Without looking up, he called cheerfully, "Good morning, Dad.  Sleep well?"  Patrick heard his father head for coffeepot.  "Sorry, no coffee this morning.  You'll have to settle for tea."

Hogan felt vexed, but poured himself a cup anyway.  "I suppose I have you to thank for turning off my alarm clock?" he accused.  The parrot squawked loudly.  Hogan shot it an evil grimace.

"Well, in your condition, would you have appreciated it going off at 6:30 this morning?"  Patrick kept his head bent over his work.  "Face it, Dad, you and Mom came home very late and were quite giddy when you went to bed."

"Suzanne and I crashed and burned."  Hogan looked over the rim of his raised cup at his son.  He'd been startled when Patrick had first called Suzanne 'Mom'.  His son had been quick to explain that referring to them as 'Dad and Suzanne' had seemed to say that she wasn't part of the family, which most certainly was not the case.  And it hadn't seemed too respectful, either, so he'd adopted the American term as a way to express his respect and affection.  And you almost left me in tears that day, Patrick.

The young man giggled.  "If you say so.  I thought you both needed a bit of a lie-in, so I came in and turned the alarm off." He looked up at his father. "You and Mom were so sweet and adorable, curled up against each other, with Clouseau balled up at your feet."

Hogan ignored the wide, too cheery grin.  "So that's the other reason my head feels like a football."  Just as he glanced down, the heavy cat pounced on his foot.  He yelped, hurting his head.  GDP squawked twice.  He glared at the bird, rubbed a temple.  "Patrick, why the hell didn't you get the cat off the bed?  You know what happens to my nose when he does that."

With hands on hips, Patrick cocked his head.  "And wake you both in the resulting catfight?  Not ruddy likely.  Besides, he was SO happy.  I couldn't deny him."

Hogan downed the last of his tea and looked bleary-eyed at his son.  "But you could deny me the ability to breathe for the day?  Thanks a lot, kid!"

"So how was the ball?"

His father, unfazed at the change in subject, poured another cup of tea and leaned against the counter. His silk dressing gown fell open, revealing the half-buttoned pyjamas beneath. "Awful.  Ambassadorial positions are turning into purely political plums, and the current American ambassador is a heavy contributor to the Democratic Party.  The Democrats lost the election.  And when the Nixon administration gets settled, he's out of a job.  In short, the guy wasn't particularly pleased to be celebrating his last official Christmas in England.  Not that I care.  I won't miss him." 

"So which way did you vote?"

"I haven't voted in a presidential election since 1952."  He rubbed a finger along the side of his nose.  "I keep a weather eye on American domestic politics, but since I don't live there anymore, it's not that big a deal."  And at my level, I don't have to worry about losing my job.  I just have to implement new policy directives–when and if I get them.

"Don't you pay any mind to what goes on in States?  It is after all where you're from, your home?"

Ignoring the question completely, Hogan walked over to the breakfast table and put a finger down in the middle of the bow his son was trying to tie.  "Then, of course, there was the fact that Suzanne and the ambassador's wife were wearing the exact, same dress in the exact, same color."

"Are you serious? What did Mom do?"  The bow sat awkwardly on a misshapen package.

"Oh, nothing.  But I had to suffer the slings and arrows of the outraged female.  The ambassador's wife, who naturally came off second-best, played the cat to perfection, making cracks about the private nature of the wedding, Suzanne's being French, even my 'frail' hip."

"Crikey! What a witch!"

"The whole thing was going to be the usual deadly bore until Luigi Bonacelli showed up.  I'm still not sure how he finagled his way into the wingding, but thank God he did."  Hogan moved packages aside and sat down.  Standing up was getting to him.  "We talked about old times and the things that have changed since the war.  And best of all, he didn't fall in love with my wife this time." 

"What was that?"

"Bonacelli met your mother in Rome in early 1945 and fell madly in love with her.  He sent her florid love letters every month for almost 12 years.  They gave your mother the giggles and after reading some of them, I could understand."  Hogan couldn't imagine himself ever writing anything so embarrassing; Bonacelli had taken billing and cooing to Baroque heights.  "One came the month after she died.  I had to tell him his inamorata was gone."

Eyes unfocused, he gazed through the window, lost in the past until his son touched his elbow.  "I'm all right, Patrick.  Her death had the effect of repairing the rupture between me and Buonacelli."  He shook his head slightly–and regretted it.  "Anyway, we skipped out on the ball around midnight, and then spent too much time at a very good Italian restaurant drinking far too much asti spumanti and sambuca." His head rested between his hands.

Patrick leaned over him, concerned.  "Dad, why don't you go back to bed?  You look all in."

Smiling up at his son, he caught sight of the kitchen clock.  11:50am. "No such luck. I have to see Dr. Rathbone in about 3 hours." He made a face. 

"Things all right?" 

The car wreck in May had jarred his father's hip, but the damage–and the resulting pain–hadn't become apparent until July.  By August, the pain had become unendurable, movement virtually impossible, forcing surgery that had gone better than expected.

"Things are fine, Sport.  Rathbone is very pleased with my progress, but I can't say I'm impressed with him." 

Dick Reynolds had recommended him as the best orthopedic surgeon in London, but had warned that Rathbone was all science and little compassion.  That was putting it mildly, Dick.  Once my year of check ups are over, I never want to see that reptile again.  He forced himself to stand up.  "I suppose Suzanne went out already?"

"She and Rennie left about 10:30 this morning to finish their Christmas shopping."

"Oh, boy, there goes the bank account."

"I'll tell Mom you said that."

"Tattle-tale."  Giving his son a mock glare, he moved around the table.  "I'm going to take a shower.  If I'm not out in 20 minutes, you'll have to send the Navy after me."  He headed through the door, but turned back.  "By the way, Patrick, I'm not ignorant of what goes on in the States.  Not by any stretch.  I just don't plan to live there after I retire.  Home is Britain."  And God knows I can't wait to retire.

*****

Walking into the dim, smoky pub, Hogan carefully picked his way to the bar.  He hoisted himself onto a stool, waited for the publican to notice him.  The atmosphere of cigarette and pipe smoke made the American yearn for a cigarette, something he'd given up decades ago.  I'll have a cigar later, after dinner.


Peter Newkirk, now a greying, heavyset, ruddy-complected Englishman, popped up.  "The porter or the whiskey, colonel?"  He'd got a quick glimpse of the hawthorn cane.


"The whiskey, Newkirk, and yes, I've just been to see Dr. Rathbone."  He pronounced the doctor's name with real distaste.

Newkirk shuddered in commiseration.  "'E comes in 'ere occasionally.  Fair gives me the creeps, 'e does."

"Imagine being his patient."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind."  He set the neat whiskey down and refused payment.  "Least you can do is drink some of the profits you earn.  You don't do nowt else, sir."


"Except plough them back into this establishment."  Sipping his drink, Hogan remembered what a shock it had been--to them both--to find that Miri had bankrolled Newkirk.  That partnership had dissolved on her death, but he and the Cockney, much to the solicitors' disgust, had opted to renew the partnership under the old terms.  Only the names had changed:  The Emergency Tunnel had become The Major's Folly. Hogan could still hear his old comrade-in-arms' voice: 'And a right piece of folly, it were, too.'

"A penny for your thoughts, colonel." 

"They're not worth a plugged nickel."  He smiled broadly at Newkirk and kicked himself for lollygagging in memory lane. The Englishman was a sharp, shrewd observer in his own way, Hogan knew.

"And pigs fly, colonel."  But he changed the subject. "I got a letter from Louis LeBeau two days ago."

Hogan brightened.  "What does Louis have to allow?"

"'E's fine, business doin' well, the problems with 'is missus smoothed over...."

"His mother-in-law?"

"Wot else?"

Shaking his head ruefully, Hogan mused aloud, "Twice married, no mother-in-law at all.  Thank God."

"Lucky you," retorted Newkirk who wiped down the bar.

"So what else did Louis say?"  Hogan wasn't going to fish in troubled waters, not with the twice-divorced Newkirk.

"Louis' been natterin' on about a reunion of the fellas from Stalag 13."  Newkirk leaned an elbow on the bar, tossed the bar towel over his left shoulder.  "I'd like to see me old mates again, but I 'aven't 'eard much from the other side of the duck pond."

Hogan sat in silence and nursed his drink.  Already feeling somewhat nostalgic--Age getting the better of you, Rob?--he answered, "You know, that's a great idea.  Is the problem getting a hold of the guys in the States? I have to be there next month, so I can contact them from Washington.  I got cards this year from both Kinch and Carter." He snickered.  "Andrew's oldest daughter Annie is married and expecting her first child."

Newkirk's elbow slipped, almost causing his chin to hit the Guinness tap. "Blimey!  Andrew a grandfather?  'E'll be a ruddy 'overin' menace to 'is poor girl.  Worse than you by a long measure." 

"Thanks so much, Peter," Hogan responded only half-testily.  At Newkirk's arched eyebrow and wry expression, he had to concede.  "Okay, okay.  So I was a bit anxious.  Geez!  My only daughter's first child.  What did you expect?  Indifference?"

Newkirk laughed.  "Not at all, but anxious ain't the word for wot you were.  A bloody nervous wreck drivn' hevery body bonkers, you were."

Ignoring the too accurate description, Hogan abruptly switched back to the reunion.  "Anyway, so should I contact Kinch and Carter?  We should try not to conflict with Annie's due date."

Newkirk answered, "Yeah.  I'll talk to Louis about when's a good time and get back to you."

"Good."  The retired officer hadn't missed Newkirk's surprise.  "Shock you, did I?  Well, old bean, you've no idea what that command or the men in it meant to me."

The phone cut off any further commentary.  Newkirk stepped back to pick it up.  "Major's Folly."  He listened for a moment.  "Yes, ma'am, 'e's 'ere.  Righto.  I'll tell 'im.  Good-bye now."  He looked meaningfully at Hogan.  "Your missus, colonel.  She wants you 'ome right away."

He wracked his brains for any reason that Suzanne would call here for him.   As he slid off the stool, picked up his hat and cane, it flooded into his brain.  "Oh, God.  From one to the other, just like a Goddamned ping-pong ball."


"Colonel?"

With a weary, pained expression, he responded.  "I play chess with Dick Reynolds after I see Rathbone.  This way he can pick my examination apart without seeming to do so.  He thinks he's being a clever dick by doing this."

Newkirk groaned.  "Oy, right," he mumbled as he watched Hogan walk out of the pub. 

*****

"Ah, there ye are, Rob.  Been wonderin' where ye've been," Dr. Dick Reynolds boomed from the kitchen where Suzanne worked on dinner.

"You interrupted a very pleasant whiskey at The Major's Folly."  Hogan slid an arm around his wife's waist and kissed her upturned cheek.

"Sorry aboot that, lad.  If I'd known, I'd've joined ye, instead of bein' ordered aboot and set to work as if I were some sort o' scullery maid."  He gave Suzanne a slight scowl and shook a finger at her. 

"If you're going to be in here, you must work," Suzanne replied emphatically.  "There are no ornaments in my kitchen."  She tried to step back from the counter, but her husband still held her fast.  "Robert, the same goes for you."

"You mean I can't nuzzle your neck?"  He tried, only to be swatted away.  Releasing her, he stole a kiss as she turned around. "Um.  You taste good.  What are you making?" She tasted like oranges.

Suzanne put her hands on her husband's chest and pushed him out of her way.  "That is for me to know and you to find out." Making shooing motions at both Hogan and Reynolds, she added, "Now, will you both go away?  You're just underfoot."

"All right," Hogan moaned, looking and sounding like a dejected little boy.

"Parbleu!  Quel homme insupportable!"

Dick laughed and pushed Hogan toward the door.  "It's all right, Suzi, I'll keep tha birthday boy out of yer hair."

"Vite! Vite!" 

Once in the study, Hogan poured them each a whiskey, sprayed soda into Dick's Scotch.  "You know, it's amazing that Suzanne likes to cook, given she's a chemist."  He handed the Scot his drink.  "And you like to live dangerously."

"Aye, Rob?"

"Calling her Suzi is pretty reckless."  They sat down at the chessboard.  Hogan picked up a pawn of each color, tossed them back and forth a moment, and then held out two closed fists.  "Choose."  Dick tapped the left hand.  "You're black.  Opening move to me."

"I'll probably have the board wiped up with ye in 10 moves."

"Says who?"

"Dr. Rathbone."  Hogan made an unpleasant noise.  "Yer game is always off after ye've seen him, Rob. So how was today's visit?  What did tha vulture have ye doin'?  Range o' motion exam?"

Hogan looked up from the chessboard.  He'd opened with the queen's knight.  "Your move."  THe doctor took a general, give-nothing-away opening: the king's pawn two spaces forward.  Hogan moved the king's knight. An unconventional start.  He commented, while Dick moved the king's bishop out, "You know perfectly well what goes on when I see Rathbone.  You're just fishing to find out how I feel about it."

"I'm not fishing, Rob.  I know damned well ye doan like tha mon.  Few do.  And he's not much better as a colleague."  Reynolds moved the queen's pawn forward and watched Hogan follow suit.  His play is positively erratic today. "It's yer agitation that concerns me.  Tha mon just bloody upsets ye."

"I hate being treated like a hunk of meat.  I'm not even a human being to him.  Just another successful surgery.  I swear, I could drop dead in his office, and he wouldn't care."  He downed a finger of whiskey. 

Dick pondered the board.  He moved another pawn.  "What else bothers ye, lad?"

"Rathbone makes damned sure I know how old I am.  Thank you, but I don't need to be reminded of that."

Taking a hefty swallow of his whiskey soda, the Scot shot back, "There, Rob, ye're wrong.  Ye do need to be reminded.  Ye've always pushed yerself hard, never mindin' tha consequences.  Well, lad, ye're to an age now where that can be disastrous.  And as good as Rathbone and I are, we canna fix everything."

"Dick, I may be ready to retire, but I'm not ready for the grave."

Blue eyes met brown.  "Did Rathbone suggest that?"  Now, we're gettin' into territory where I do have sommat to say.  "Yer general health, Rob, is excellent, especially now that ye've rid yerself of tha pain of that arthritic hip.  But the best thing ye did for yerself was marryin' Suzi.  Happy people are longer-lived people." 

"I don't think I needed Rathbone on my birthday." He got up from the chessboard.

Heavy, contemplative silence filled the space between the two men. 

"As an adult, I've always hated my birthday.  Do you realize that I've outlived my own father by 13 years?"

"No, I didn't."  Reynolds swivelled in his seat, watched his friend walk over to the coal fireplace. 

"Dad was only 48 when he dropped dead. Heart attack."  He stared down at his whiskey.  "I'd turned 23 two days prior, and I got the thrill of finding him, dead, on the front porch.  I've never forgotten it." He threw back his Scotch. "I suppose I've dredged this up because of Maggie's funeral earlier this month and Patrick's 21st  birthday in about two weeks."

"How old was your sister?"  Dick recalled all the questions about breast cancer and its treatment. It had not been an easy road.

"48. Just like Dad."  Hogan heard his doctor groan.  "And her children are 20 and 15 respectively.  Kevin, at 15, has had more familial trauma than the law allows.  Parents divorced when he was 10 and now his mother dies. I don't know what's going to happen to him." A snort. "But whatever does, his own sister is going to be no damned help.  A self-absorbed hippie.  Renate, Patrick and their cousins Liam and Mickey washed their hands of Emily at Thanksgiving–when we all gathered in Bridgeport for one last celebration with Maggie."

"What's a hippie?"

"Are you putting me on?" No answer, so he continued. "They're the same people who listen to psychedelic music and drop acid.  They're also usually into universal peace, brotherhood, and free love." 

"Ah, charming."  Dick answered noncommitally, finished his whiskey in one gulp.  He'd gotten more out of his friend and patient than he'd expected.  Ye're not a total waste, Rathbone.  Rob needed to get all this off his chest.  Now, let's finish this.  "How does Patrick fit into this?"

Hogan gave a slight, lopsided grin.  "I may have outlived Dad by 13 years, but Patrick is still 2 years younger than I was when Dad died." He stared at the empty tumbler. "I just wish...."

"Aye?"

Deep, regretful sigh. "That I'd been younger when Patrick was born." He rolled the tumbler between his hands.  "I guess that Rathbone just brought up the grim circularity of it all."

"The holidays, in addition to your birthday, when most of us grouse about our age, what we've done and not done, haven't helped, either."  The doctor looked at his watch.  Margaret'll be here soon.

"True enough."  He set his whiskey glass down and noticed the doctor's was empty.  "Another?"  Dick shook his head; Hogan said, "I certainly don't want or need one."  He looked up at the ceiling.  "I can't believe how maudlin I've been."

"We all need to talk, lad.  Mind, body, and soul are all interconnected."  Seeing the blatant skepticism, he held up a hand:  "There's nothing new in that concept, Rob.  St. Augustine knew it well enough."

"What's this about St. Augustine?" 

Margaret Reynolds stuck her grey-blonde head into the study, immediately lightening the atmosphere in the room.  Her azure eyes fixed them both.  "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll keep until after dinner.  It's time ye both got changed."

"We're dressing for dinner?" 

Dick headed over to his wife.  "Aye, lad.  We're doin' yer birthday up right."  He put an arm around her plump shoulders; she indicated that she'd brought his formal kilt.

"Oh, thanks.  Now, I have struggle into my tux."

"Ach, Rob, ye're always sae elegant." She reached out and patted his small paunch.  "Even if ye've put on a bit of weight. It's nice to know Suzi's doin' right by ye, puttin' some meat on yer bones.  Ye always were too thin."

"Whatever you say.  Dick, the guest room is yours.  Pink and frilly as it is." 

Dick made a face and clutched his abdomen before his wife hauled him from the study. 

*****

Christmas afternoon was, in complete contrast to the rambunctious morning, still and quiet.  Renate Hogan Hammond appreciated the peace, especially since her two young boys had willingly surrendered to Suzanne's promise to read Babar to them.  Nigel loved Babar, and Miles refused to be left out.  She had been amused to watch Suzanne curl up against her pillows with the boys, one on each side of her.  In the time it had taken for Renate to get a cuppa, both children had fallen fast asleep against their Grandmama.  Knowing them to be supremely happy, Renate left Suzanne to her own uneasy nap of constant movement and touching.  She chuckled to herself.  Those two make Papa at his restless worst look like a log.

With half-drained mug in hand, Renate walked into the study.  It was her favorite room in her father's house.  It seemed a very masculine room, yet very inviting, and while her father was no Victorian, the room suited him, even reflected him.  It fit him like the soft wool cardigans he always wore around the house.  And her father, wearing the Prussian blue sweater she'd given him for his birthday, sat in his red wingback reading chair; The Times crossword was open in front of him.  Thinking him absorbed and oblivious to her, she sat down on the floor next to him; with her legs tucked under her, she leaned against his, chin resting on his knee.

*****

His left hand came down gently on the top of her black, wavy hair, stroked it gently.  He watched her eyes close, her whole body relax in contentment.  His mind replayed a less happy scene: her arrival in England back in early 1958; she'd been a very frightened, terribly shy, awkward teenager.  Not a surprise, given her mother's death, rejection by her German family, reunion with a father she'd never known.  Cognizant of her insecurity with him, Hogan remembered her always sneaking up on him, trying, almost, to steal affection from him unnoticed.   He knew she'd been testing him, seeing how far she could go with him.  By letting her come to him in her own time, not rejecting any tentative move, he'd earned her trust.  Not quickly, but permanently.  He gave a soft snort of mirth.  All those courtships had to count for something.  While some mannerisms had died away, her leaning against his knee when she wanted to talk had remained.  It was uniquely Renate.  And he'd missed it.

After several minutes, he broke the silence.  "So, what have you done with the holy terrors?  I haven't

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heard a scream or a shout in half an hour."  He raised an eyebrow.  "Don't tell me you've stuffed them in their stockings?"

Renate snickered.  "As tempting as that is, no, I haven't.  They're asleep upstairs–with Susanna."

He didn't miss the German pronunciation; it marked her coming to terms with his marriage and her growing friendship with his wife.  "Oh, wonderful.  My wife is going to look like she's been pulled six ways for Sunday."

Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she replied, "That's unfair, Papa.  The boys don't do Susanna any harm, and she's very good with them."

"Better than you expected?"

"Yes." She glanced up at him, her emerald eyes intense.  "I'm sorry I gave you such trouble.  I'd had visions of the wicked stepmother."  She blinked back tears.  "I'm glad you're so happy with her."

What an admission!  Hogan was stunned, unable to reply for a few moments.  It was rare for Renate, unless directly confronted, to make any kind of deeply personal statement.  "Honey, I would never let anyone come between us.  I told you that at the time.  You should've had more faith in me."  His voice was soft, reassuring.

"I know, Papa.  I had nothing to be afraid of."  She sniffed.

"You are my daughter, and I will always love you.  And I don't love you any less or any differently than I do Patrick.  You're both my children."

She squeezed his knee.  "I know that, too, Papa.  I think I realized that when Nigel and Miles were born.  And of course watching you with them is such a treat.  They adore you."  She paused. "Watching you read to them, play with them, hold them, and even discipline them, I know what I missed.  Why did Mama do that to me? To you? I think she was very wrong not to tell you."  A couple of tears coursed down her cheeks.

Hogan exhaled sharply.  He'd asked himself that question repeatedly and had finally probed Schultz, who'd refused to say anything.  The old toymaker had kept Helga's confidence to the end. 

"You're asking the wrong person, honey. I don't know why.  I can hazard a couple of guesses, most of which had to do with the war.  I don't think she saw how we could get married, and maybe she didn't even want to get married.  Maybe she figured I'd escape or I'd be liberated and I wouldn't be able or want to come looking for her.  Had she told me, instead of disappearing, I'd've stood by her, though we probably would've had to wait until after the war to get married." He kept control of his voice and his expression, showing only paternal affection.  "Whatever her reasons, Renate, I am sure she thought she was doing the best thing for you, but I can honestly tell you that the biggest regret I have is missing your childhood."

"What about Patrick's mother?"

That sent a shaft through his heart.  Yes, indeed, what about Miri?  "I don't know," he answered lamely. I can't imagine my life without Miri, without Patrick.  And I don't even want to try.

They retreated into an awkward silence until Renate yawned and stretched before cozying back against his legs. He ruffled her hair.  "Sweetheart, I do wish you'd get up off the drafty floor.  It isn't good for you.  The baby doesn't need for you to catch cold."

She blushed ferociously and glanced sharply at him.  "How did you know?"

"You mean, aside from the fact you're showing?"  He clucked at her, motioning her to the sofa. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?  Come on, tell me.  When can I expect to hold this next one?"

"May," she huffed as she got awkwardly to her feet and moved to the sofa.  "Happy now?"

"I'd be happier if you'd put your feet up and tuck the afghan around you."

"I'm pregnant, not sick.  You don't have to hover over me.  And it's not like I haven't done this before." 

"No need to go looking for trouble."  He got up, handed her another pillow, fussed with the afghan, which had seen better days and was covered in cream colored cat fur.

"Papa, please!  I'm not made of glass. Why do you always carry on like this?  The first time I could understand, but now?  Even Paul doesn't act like this."

"Renate, I'm your father; I worry about you.  Miles' birth was no picnic for you, and frankly, it scared the hell out of me."  He returned her direct gaze.  "It reminded me too damned much of Patrick's birth.  Miri was so physically injured that she could hardly move for 2 weeks.  And," he paused awkwardly, "she couldn't have another child."

"Mein Gott! You wanted a big family, didn't you?"

"At least bigger than one."  He sighed heavily.  "I didn't realize it at the time.  It didn't become clear to me until I knew it wasn't going to happen.  That's why I look at you as an unexpected gift." Where the hell did that come from?  It's true, but still.  He leaned over and kissed her forehead.  "Now, will you kindly humor your old man?  Okay?"

"Okay, Papa," she replied softly.

*****

"I can't believe what a roller coaster this week has been," Hogan muttered, yawning and climbing into bed. "You do know that Renate's expecting again?"

"Yes.  She told me several weeks ago, and I know that she wants a girl."  Seated at the vanity, Suzanne began brushing her hair with quick, even strokes.  Her kimono sleeves bobbed up and down.

"And I have to find out by observation?" he cried.

"Because you fuss too much over her."  She didn't look back at her husband.  "Robert, you may not have noticed this, but your daughter is temperamentally much more like you than your son.  Oh, Patrick can be an infuriating tease at times, and he has a couple of your traits, but Renate behaves like you–-up to and including no coddling or fussing.  And you both take the same aggrieved tone, too."

He thought about it a moment.  "I guess you don't always see what's right under your nose, do you?"

"The understatement of the week." 

Suzanne put her hairbrush down, stood up and stretched.  Turning to the bed, she removed her black and silver kimono and draped it over the back of a chair.  Her lavender silk nightgown shimmered as she moved. 

Pulling aside the covers, she slid into bed, turned on her left side to face her husband.  "Did you know that Patrick is in love with Penny?"

His eyes widened in surprise; he didn't like her suggestion one bit.  "No way, Suzanne.  You must be mistaken.  They've grown up together.  They're more like brother and sister."  He watched her cross her arms over her chest and stare at him impatiently.  "All right, what makes you think this?"

"They behave toward each other like lovers, not siblings. I've caught their glancing looks at each other, the hand holding  when they thought no one was watching. I came out of the kitchen and caught them under the mistletoe.  It was no quick peck on the cheek like he gives Renate or me. Patrick kissed Penny with the same intensity, the same panache with which you kiss me."  She shivered.  "I was so embarrassed."

With fingers over his mouth, curled under his chin, Hogan turned her words over his mind.  "If you noticed, then there's no question Judith noticed.  That woman never misses anything."  His tone was dull as he leaned back against his pillows.

"You say that unhappily.  What's so wrong with Patrick and Penny?"

"Several things.  One is that Robbie and Judith are Patrick's godparents as Miri and I were to Penny.  That makes them spiritually brother and sister."  She looked at him in non-comprehension.  "Okay, okay, there are times when I really show I grew up Catholic.  But a bigger hitch is that Judith has social aspirations for Penny.  Patrick is hardly the catch of the season for Lady Roberts."  He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a different tone, rejected the whole scenario. "You make it sound like they're getting married next week, when all it really is is puppy love."

"Robert, I'm not an idiot..."

"I never said you were."

"...but Patrick looks at Penny the way you look at me.  In fact, I caught one sidelong glance that so reminded me of you, it hurt.  Everybody comments, you included, on how much Patrick is like his mother.  Vraiment.  But, in this respect, Robert, he is completely your son.  His feelings are right out there for all to see.  And Penny reciprocates."

"More's the pity then."  Ignoring her comment about his wearing his heart on his sleeve, he concentrated on her furrowed eyebrows.  "If it comes to it, Judith and Robbie'll forbid them to marry. Robbie is my closest friend and Patrick's godfather, and while I doubt that he'd have any real objections to Patrick marrying his daughter, besides the obvious that they're too young, he won't go against his wife.  I wouldn't ask him to, either."  Seeing her shock, he pulled her close, caught the faint traces of her perfume. 

"Did you think Renate too young also?"

He kissed her temple.  "Yes.  I told her so and insisted on a long engagement."  Suzanne's mouth twisted downwards in disapproval.  "I wanted to make sure Paul was serious, that he'd take care of her.  He was, and he does, so I'm not worried on that score.  With Patrick, it's a different story.  He's cruising for a real heartbreak."  I've been there, kid; it's no barrel of laughs.

She pulled away from him.  "What would you do if confronted with such a situation?"

Without hesitation: "I'd elope."

"What makes you think Patrick wouldn't do likewise?"

"Suzanne...I don't want to think about any of this."  After plumping his pillows, he slid down in the bed and turned on his side.  "Good night," he said brusquely, suddenly affronted.

"Bonne nuit, Robert."  She tucked herself up and turned out the light. 

Hogan lay awake, knew Suzanne was hurt and didn't know what she'd done.  Moving close beside her, he rose up on an elbow and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.  "Suzanne, I'm not angry with you. It's sort of a kill the messenger reaction."  He heard her chuckle faintly. 

"I wondered if you thought I were interfering."

"In what?  You're my wife; you're part of this family.  If I don't like having pertinent questions asked about my assumptions, that's my problem.  One I'd better damned well get over."

"What will you do if Patrick wants to marry Penny?"

"If he's really in love and really wants to marry her, I'm not going to stand in his way.  I will try to insist on a long engagement, but if he elopes without telling me, there's nothing I can do but accept his decision."  He shuddered.  I'm not sure I can see them as husband and wife.  I've always thought of them as brother and sister.

"I can't believe Patrick would hurt you so." 

She reached up to him, sliding her hand gently from his cheek to the back of his neck, and pulled him to her.  They kissed with a gentle passion and settled under the covers.  He wrapped an arm around his wife who buried her face in his chest; her right arm encompassed his waist.  The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and they relaxed against each other, drifted to sleep.

*****

A ½ carat ruby ring and matching gold band rested in his palm.  Miri's rings.  They'd been taken from her at the hospital, given to him after she'd died.  Both Dick and Judith had insisted that he keep them and pass them to Patrick for his bride.  The irony is, Judith, your daughter will wear them.  Hogan closed his hand around the rings.

Patrick ambled into the study and asked, "Dad, what are you doing up?  Aren't you on the morning flight to Washington?" 

"I am." He stood up, moved from behind his desk, straightened the heavy, charcoal grey cardigan that Angharad had made him years ago.  "But I wanted to talk to you before I left, and I have no illusions that you'll be up for breakfast."  A faint trace of disapproval.

The 21year-old ran a hand through his straight, salt and pepper hair.  "You're right about that," he admitted. "What did you want to talk about?"

"How serious are you about Penny?"  He'd made a point to observe his son and goddaughter.  What he'd seen had made him realize Suzanne had a keen eye.

"What...what...do you mean?" 

Hogan's heart sank.  Your face tells me everything, Sport.  "You're in love.  Have you asked her? Are you engaged?"  His son nodded.  "Think about what you want to do, Patrick, but understand that I will not try to change your mind or dissuade you in any way."  He took a deep breath.  "I would suggest, very strongly, that you take it slowly...."

"Did my godmother call to tell you this?!" 

"Uh, no, she didn't." Hogan was nonplused by the violent  reaction. "Suzanne did.  So Judith made clear her opposition?"

Patrick took a deep breath and wrapped his hands in the bottom of his dark blue fisherman's sweater.  "She told us in no uncertain terms we were not to get any ridiculous, romantic notions about each other.  Penny has much better prospects--which I am not to ruin." 

Well, Judith, just call my son a loser from the wrong side of the tracks.  So, which do you object to more: his being Welsh or his being Irish American?  Hogan came up to his son, laid a hand on the quivering shoulder, his fingers biting deeply, but reassuringly, through the thick wool.  "Listen, Romeo, I'm not playing Lord Montague to Judith's Lady Capulet...."

"Lady Macbeth is more like."

Overlooking the bitterness, Hogan pressed the rings into his son's hand.  "Whatever you do, don't leave me out of the loop.  Okay?"

The young man stared at the wedding set. "These are Mummy's rings," he said flatly. "Dad...."  His eyes filled with tears.

"I kept them so you could give them to your bride. I didn't think I'd have to pass them on so soon."  Hogan reined back the emotion in his voice. "I think you're too young to even contemplate marriage...."

Patrick cut his father off by enveloping him in a fierce bear hug.  "Thank you." 

His son was stronger than he looked, and after a few moments, Hogan remarked with some difficulty, "Patrick, do you think you could try not to suffocate me?  Or crack my ribs?"  Extricating himself with care from the vice-like grip, he rubbed his sides.  "I'd like to live to see your wedding."

"You'll be there, Dad, I promise." 

"It'll be all right, Sport," he reassured his son.  He straightened and charged, with paternal authority, "One thing:  don't make me a grandfather.  Not right off the bat."

"You're already a grandfather."

"Thanks to your sister.  Don't you make me one, too."  He raised his eyebrows, dropped his chin, gave his son a serious, pointed look. 

Tomato red, Patrick mumbled, "Yes, Dad."

*****

Bbrrinngg!  Bbrrinngg!  The shrill blast of the telephone penetrated Hogan's brain, but failed to rouse him.  Pulling the duvet over his shoulders, he settled more comfortably against Suzanne.  Bbrrinngg!  Bbrrinngg!  The insistent, loud buzz refused to go away.  He rolled over and with one eye venomously glared at the phone.  Bbrrinngg!  Bbrrinngg!  Reaching out, he felt and fumbled around until the receiver fell into his hand.  Completely out of patience, he barked, "Hogan."  5:14am. This is too damned early.  And I've got the first flight to DC.  Thank you so much, whoever you are.  At least, you didn't wake my wife.  Suzanne had simply followed him, burrowed into his back.  God forbid, ma belle, you should give up a heat source.  If you wore more substantial nightclothes in the dead of winter....

The sobbing on the other end of the line cut off his grousing.  It took his groggy brain a few moments to identify his sister-in-law.  "Enya?  Enya, what's wrong?"  Cold prickled his scalp.  He listened to more bawling, his stomach twisting into knots.

"They came to the house a little while ago.  To tell me...Chris...is missing, presumed killed...."  She trailed off in convulsive sobbing.

*****

Hogan sat bolt upright in bed, tumbled Suzanne backwards.  She sat up, hair fell in her face, spaghetti straps slipped off her shoulders. Even as muzzy as she was, she knew something horrible had happened.  Pressing against his side, she curled her hand around his upper arm, laid her forehead on his shoulder.

She heard him say, "Enya, I'm leaving for Washington in a couple of hours.  As soon as business is concluded there, I'll fly out to Hawaii."

"We'll fly out to Hawaii," Suzanne mouthed.  His expression bleak, he squeezed her hand.

He rang off, and his shoulders started shaking.  Suzanne gathered him against her. 

"Not another brother to another war.  Not all of them, not my baby brother. I don't want to be the only one left," he howled.

She felt his arms encircle her waist; she cradled his head between her breasts and rocked back and forth.  His tears soaked her lace bodice.

"Indochine," she hissed. Hatred coursed through her veins.