Epilogue
London, England: December 1969
Wineglass in hand, Hogan followed his wife into the study. "Ah, Patrick and Penny out for the evening."
Suzanne turned around abruptly, forcing her husband to a quick, nose-to-nose stop. "And they took Miriam. Where did they go?" She turned her face upward.
He couldn't resist kissing her. Their lips lingered a long moment before he broke off and answered, "They're having dinner with Robbie in his new home. I think he's finally getting over the shock of being a grandfather. And the presence of the kids and the baby go a long way to alleviating his loneliness." Hogan shook his head. "I can imagine how lonely he is, how lost he is. A divorce is too much like a death. Only not quite. It's sort of limbo. But after 27 years....What the hell was Judith thinking?"
"It takes two to make a marriage, Robert. I suspect they actually drifted apart years ago." As Honoré and I had before he died. Seeking closeness, she stepped up and laid her cheek on his shoulder.
He put his wineglass on the mantle and wrapped her in his arms. "You're right, ma belle. And this has been so hard on Penny. She doesn't understand why her marriage and her baby made her parents split up. I suspect she's blaming herself."
"Reminders of better times? Something more painful perhaps? Is Penny their only child?" She snuggled closer, opened a few buttons of his shirt beneath the scarlet cardigan. Sliding her hand in, she rubbed his chest.
"No," he breathed. "They had a son, Alec. He died at 6 from polio."
Her hand stopped, and Suzanne lifted her head, stared at him with horrified eyes. "Mon Dieu, Robert! How awful!" She was glad his arms tightened around her.
"Robbie was devastated. Judith just seemed to deal calmly with it." He kissed her temple.
"She didn't grieve; she ignored it."
"Yeah," he replied softly.
He tipped her face up, kissed her with passion, tasted the rich burgundy wine on her lips, felt her softness. He broke the kiss before leading her to the red velvet sofa. Holding her in his lap, he kissed the tip of her nose then her lips. Robbie and Judith's tragedies receded in the face of their own marital desires.
*****
At the front door, Brigadier General Christopher Hogan, USAF, Ret., held his sleepy, almost 5 year old daughter, Sinéad. He glanced over to his wife Enya. Her pale face was strained. Sinéad's identical twin sister, Siobhan, snuffled at her mother's neck. They'd just arrived from Dublin, from visiting Enya's family.
"The girls are ready for bed, Chris."
"So are you, precious." He felt rewarded by her smile. After nearly 22 years, they were still a highly affectionate, highly passionate couple. Even more so since his return from Vietnam and a POW camp. "At least, Patrick gave us the key. We won't have to wait for Rob to open the door."
"I can't believe how suggestive Patrick was."
"I can. He's Rob's son, after all."
Enya glanced at her husband. He grinned at her before quietly opening the door. She went ahead, and he followed her straight up the stairs, whispering, "What I can't believe is that Rob's totally unaware of our coming for Christmas. I want to know how Patrick slipped this past his old man."
Stopping dead, Enya looked back at Chris. "Suzanne." She started up again, headed right into the spare bedroom, which was already made up for them.
"You're right." He laid his daughter on a cot. "I'll go get the luggage." He headed back down the stairs.
*****
On the red velvet sofa, lying in her husband's arms, Suzanne gazed into his deep brown eyes. Her right hand lightly caressed his cheek before pulling his head down. Their lips met; hers parted willingly under the pressure of his. Her left hand finished opening his shirt. They reluctantly broke the kiss, and he slid beside her, pulled her close against his bare chest. She caught the faint, spicy tang of his aftershave. They kissed hungrily.
Shifting her slightly beneath him, he rested his weight on hip and elbow. A hand stroked her hair. He bent forward to nuzzle her ear and neck. Hearing her soft moans, her deepening breathing, he planted tiny kisses along her neck until he reached the hollow of her throat. At that point, she pulled him back to an intense kiss. With his lips lingering on hers, he swiftly unbuttoned her silk blouse and deftly unhooked her demi-bra. His left hand cupped, kneaded her right breast; the nipple tautened between his fingers.
Like fire, desire ran through her, and she slid beneath him. She ran her fingers through his hair, caressed his ears while he kissed and nibbled each breast alternatively. Her hips began to undulate gently. Her husband came back to her lips for another passionate kiss. Her left hand popped the button on his waistband, unzipped his fly, and reached to fondle him. His slight panting and beginning thrusts drove her excitement onward.
*****
Chris set the luggage in the hallway, rested a moment. I doubt Dr. Ferguson would approve of this so soon after releasing me. And certainly not on a new prosthesis. His leg throbbed, and he decided he needed help. Let me go find Rob. Between the two of us, we can get this done. He silently limped into the study, looking for his brother. It took him a moment to register the action on the sofa; it left him stunned and a little
class=Section2>embarrassed for a moment before amusement took over. It brought back so many memories.
A particularly passionate shriek escaped–-Chris couldn't tell from whom–-and, tired as he was, he broke into peals of laughter. "Jesus Christ, Rob! Like a pair of teenagers! Do you ever change?" He shook his head. "And it's always the sofa! I'd've thought by now that you'd've graduated to the bed!"
Suzanne's head snapped up to stare at her brother-in-law. She hissed, "Robert!"
Hogan hung his head beneath her chin. "I heard," he replied through clenched teeth.
"Hey, Suzanne, where's he got his hand? Up your skirt or in your blouse?" Her eyes narrowed; her mouth open and shut. Chris went on: "In 40 years, he hasn't changed his technique."
"You haven't changed yours, either, Christopher Aidan Hogan," Robert bellowed; he rose up on the sofa. He kept his back to Chris to afford his wife some privacy. He pulled himself together, stuffed his shirt tail in his waistband. "Since he was 4 years old, he's been busting in on me. At least this time, he doesn't have his damned cat. You'd've only gone pie-eyed over Waldo–like every other girl."
Chris chortled and clapped his hands together. "Yeah, really."
He studied his brother and sister-in-law as they stood up to greet him. Her blouse was misbuttoned, her hair frouzy. But he lost it in giggles as he glanced at his brother.
"Boy, Rob, you ought to be damned glad it's only me. If Dad had ever caught you with your pants undone, he'd've beaten you senseless."
Chris hugged his sides; Hogan looked down, turned beet-red, and zipped up his trousers.
"How the hell did you get in? When did you get in? How come I didn't know about this?"
"We got in from Dublin. Spent some time with Enya's family, and then we decided to come spend Christmas with you." He smiled impishly. "As to how we got in and the secrecy surrounding it, well, you'll have to take that up with Patrick." Chris figured his nephew could take the heat.
Running a hand through his hair, Hogan muttered, "When I get my hands on you, James Patrick Hogan, your widow...."
For a second, the younger man wondered if his brother weren't going to strangle him. Instead, he found himself in a bear hug; a hand ran up his back to cup the back of his head. He muttered, pulled out of the embrace, "That's the most forgiving you've ever been about this."
"It's not every day I get my kid brother back from the dead." Hogan held him by the shoulders. "God, it's great to see you. You're looking a helluva lot better than the last time I saw you."
*****
Chris stretched out on the red velvet sofa, spent from an afternoon in the park with his daughters, his grandnephews, his brother, and his brother's eight-month old Irish setter puppy. He watched Whiskey lie down in front of the coal fireplace, lay her head on her front paws. Reaching down, he removed the prosthesis, rubbed the aching stump through his pants leg.
He felt his brother's eyes burn into him, and he apologized. "Sorry, Rob, I didn't mean to upset you. I know it's disconcerting to watch me take off my leg." He looked up at his oldest sibling–-his only one now–-and added, "It was just as wrenching the first time I saw you limping painfully on your cane."
"You realized I was getting old. But arthritis is a natural part of aging...."
"Stuff it, Rob," he snapped suddenly. "Your arthritis and hip replacement are as much a war injury as my amputation." Chris took the proffered neat whiskey, glared at his brother.
Hogan threw back some of his own drink, rolled the tumbler between his hands, and studied the younger man. "You've pushed yourself too far." He leaned against his desk.
Carefully, Chris set the crystal tumbler on the cluttered coffee table. "If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black. I heard about your collapse at Veronika Metzger's wedding. Put you right at Herr Doktor's mercy." Chilled, he hunched under his heavy Arran fisherman's sweater, an early Christmas present from his mother-in-law. "By the way, how is he?"
"Who's the blabbermouth? Which one of my overprotective children–Patrick or Renate? I get the sniffles, and they'll immediately call Dick. Argh!"
Watching his brother practically bounce with exasperation, Chris folded his arms over his chest and said simply, "Rob, your children love you, and they get really uptight with your foolishness. Remember, you're their only surviving parent. They're going to fight to keep you." He gave a lospsided grin. "And they're going to complain to me that you're more than they can handle–-which is why they call Dick, who can sit on you," he finished with a laugh.
Hogan kept silent for a few moments before he answered, "Kurt is fine, if insufferable. He's preening proudly now that he's a grandfather, and from the way he's carrying on, you'd think nobody else in this world had grandchildren." Hogan shook his head. "Ilse was born in September. Veronika and Gunther wasted no time–-like somebody else I could mention."
Chris grinned. "Yeah, well, you aren't exactly silent about yours, either, Grandpa, so I'd lay off if I were you." He took the photo handed to him.
"Very funn. You'll get there soon enough. That was taken at Ilse's christening. Veronika, Gunther, and Ilse are in the middle with Kurt and Anna flanking them. Philipp is standing by his mom, and the 14 year old imp is Mathilde. Mattie was something of surprise to her parents."
"I can believe that. Here I thought Enya and I were going to get the boys out of the house, have a number of years to ourselves before we hit the grandparent trail. But no, God has a sense of humor. 2 more bundles of joy. I'll be 60 when they're 18."
"Don't grumble to me," snapped Hogan. "I was 60 when Patrick turned 20, so I don't need reminders that I'm an elderly father."
Way to go, Brains. Tread right on that sore spot. "Sorry, Rob." He watched Rob pick up the afghan and drape it over his legs. "Knock it off, dammit! I'm not an invalid!"
"No, you're cold. This damp, chill climate is a helluva a lot different from Hawaii. And certainly different from Vietnam." He held up his hand. "And before you lecture me on how much I hate being fussed over–-and you're right, I do–-you should know that even I know when not to fight. I didn't fight Kurt when he confined me to bed after his daughter's wedding. I didn't even mind Suzanne's babying. I think that worried Kurt more than anything."
"What really happened?"
"Like you, I pushed it too far. A month after hip surgery I had to go to Washington for a week of meetings. They absolutely wore me out. I took off for London, praying for a few days rest. I'd completely forgotten about Veronika's wedding. So, on the afternoon I got into London, I left again with Suzanne for Germany." Hogan chuckled. "Kurt and Anna were enormously surprised when confronted with Suzanne. I'd forgotten in all the hoopla between May and September to tell them I'd remarried. Kurt was hot I'd not told him–-'How could you forget to tell one of your close friends, Robert?'" He mimicked a German accent. "He was even hotter the morning after the wedding when I couldn't get out of bed from pain and fever. I was completely exhausted. My body was still trying to get over the trauma of the surgery, and it went on strike. I spent 5 days in bed with my hip propped with pillows. Kurt allowed me to go home, but had casually called Dick who enforced another week of bed rest. I knew better than to try and fight that." He looked down at his feet. "Thing was I really needed it."
"Is that a threat?"
"Chris, whose chops are you trying to bust? Mine or yours?" Silence. "Look, I'm neither blind nor stupid. You're giving me the full benefit of an emotional roller coaster, but it's yourself you're kicking for going to Vietnam, for putting your family through hell. So what do you want me to do? Yell at you for being a fool? You've beat up on yourself quite enough for both of us. You felt the need to lead by example. Last time I looked, that was the definition of leadership. There's always a price to be paid for it."
"And for goddamned what? To prove I was still a jet jock at 46? I could've taken my star and gone to the Pentagon. Instead I flew 5 missions, got shot down, spent months in a Vietnamese POW camp being beaten and tortured. What did I do? Provide leadership? Hell no. I damned near left my wife a widow and my children fatherless because I had to be a goddamned hero!"
He tried choking back sobs, but failed. "What the hell was I thinking? That I'd win the goddamned war by myself? There's no way to win this damned war!"
"It isn't World War II, that's for damned certain. At least there, we had a righteous cause. Vietnam is a nationalist mess we should've stayed out of. Or at least understood better. But no, we had to prove our anti-communist bona fides." He snorted. "You were being an exemplary officer in a no-win situation. You did your best, and that's all you could do."
"Cold comfort," Chris snarled.
"I know." He reached down and squeezed the thin shoulder. "Now, do me a favor and take a nap. Dinner will be ready when you wake up."
"What a deal." At Hogan's dark, closed look, Chris backed off. He recognized that dangerous edge and decided now was not the time to push Rob, to open his feelings about Vietnam. "Okay." He slid down on sofa and was asleep before he knew it.
*****
11 voices filled the dining room with a resounding, if slightly off-key, chorus of "Happy Birthday." Hogan felt his flush all the way to his toes, but managed to blow out the candles on the cake Enya'd baked. On one breath all were extinguished. He surveyed the crowd of adults–-the children had been fed and put to bed earlier–-and gave a big, slightly embarrassed grin. "Thank you all." They beamed back at him.
"So, what'd ye wish fer, lad?"
Margaret nudged her husband. "Dick, really."
"Ach, always a nosy one, he was," Angharad admonished.
Having arrived unannounced from Caernarfon, the little Welshwoman, slightly taller than her late sister, tilted her white, braid-crowned head and winked at the physician, who merely rolled his eyes.
"I'd better cut this cake, Margaret, before she makes off with your husband," Hogan teased.
"Well, he's going to have to fight me for her," said Robbie, a mock glare fixed at Dick. Angharad gave him a shrewd, almost foxish look from under still black eyebrows.
The Scot threw up his hands. "What is this? Why are ye pickin' on me?"
"Because you here, Uncle Dick. And it's fun." Patrick ignored the dirty look Penny gave him and added, "But most of all, we can't pick on Dad. It's his birthday, after all. So you're his stand in."
"Thanks awfully, boy."
"You're welcome."
Cake plates began moving down the dinner table, and Chris took the opportunity to holler down to Suzanne, "Hey, how are you going to deal with the birthday boy's retirement?"
Enya cut off the half-formed reply. "She'll enjoy it for about 3 days and then realize he's hopelessly underfoot." She smirked at Chris' outraged expression. The others just laughed.
"Well," Hogan drawled, pausing in cake-cutting duties, "it'll be nice to be a kept man. You know, supported in the style to which I've become accustomed?"
"Trop drôle, Robert." Suzanne's eyebrows shot up before she cocked her head and added, "Actually, for our anniversary in May, I think we'll be going to Tahiti. After all, we never did have a honeymoon, and I do so love the beach." Her velvety voice gave clear hints of her expectations.
Hogan's smile became fixed and artificial. "Tahiti, huh?" She nodded. "Ah," he started, pulling at his ear, "I think you should know I like eating lobster, but I don't want to be one."
The room started to giggle. The phone rang suddenly, an escape opportunity he seized with gladness. "Chris, finish cutting the cake for me, will you?" He practically bounded out of the room.
*****
Bernie Mays' voice came through the line. "Happy birthday, sir! Just calling to let hyou know that Mary's had the baby. Ah,...."
"Congratulations, Bernie! How's Mary? and the baby? You've got details?" Hogan tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the amusement out of his voice. The wedding had only been 5 months before. Now the baby. It's going to be interesting, Bernie, to see how you two cope.
"Mary's fine, and the baby's perfectly healthy. 7 lbs 4 oz of baby girl. 19 inches long."
Bernie sounded enormously relieved, but Hogan could detect a certain hesitation. What are you hiding, Bernie? You didn't? I hope to hell you didn't. His eyes narrowed as he asked suspiciously, "What her name?"
Snicker. "Roberta Edwina Mays, chief. We're planning on christening her in mid-January. You will be godfather?"
Giving a short sigh, Hogan replied, "Yes, Bernie, I said I would be. Now, you go home and get some rest. I'll be by tomorrow to see Mary and my namesake." What was that Patrick said about not picking on me because it was my birthday? Hah!
"Thanks, chief. Good-night." Click.
Hogan put back the receiver and sat down, fondly shaking his head and muttering aloud, "Forget retirement. I'm now a full-time grandfather to six small children." He chuckled. "All right, Mary, you win. I won't go against your desire for family."
Remembering how Romie and Josef Metzger had adopted him, he allowed Mary the same privilege. She rarely showed her orphaned status, but he'd known it had been, at least in part, behind her liaison with Bernie. And he didn't believe for a second that the baby was an 'accident'. If she were, she was the most wanted one he'd ever seen. "But, did you have to name the girl Roberta? She'll be Bobbi for sure. Yick."
*****
Patrick yawned enormously as he settled in his father's wingback reading chair. He cuddled his 7 week-old daughter close against his chest. He swelled with pride and joy. He was the king of the universe. Sprawled in an ungainly fashion, one leg draped over the chair arm, he waited patiently for Miriam to fall back to deep sleep. He murmured, "If you don't hurry, my girl, your da's going to nod off first. And that'll make the third time this week that Granddad'll've found us."
He glanced at his little angel, who gripped his flannel nightshirt in her little fist, and added, "Ah, but you like it when Granddad feeds you. You want your little mits in his cardigan." He giggled very softly. Sliding down a little in the chair, Patrick checked his hold on his daughter and closed his eyes.
The door to the study opened, and Patrick reawakened with a start. He watched his Uncle Chris limp into the study. That new prosthesis caused a lot of pain. Before Chris could get the words out, Patrick answered, "I'm waiting for Miriam to go back to sleep before I take her upstairs."
His father'd warned him that his uncle prowled in the night; it was a holdover from his POW experience–checking on his men in the middle of the night had tended to cut down on the number who'd gone missing.
Chris chuckled. "Caught in the act. Just checking on everybody. Seeing everything is secure."
"Right. Do you want me to look at your leg?"
"No," Chris snapped. "Look, Patrick, I appreciate your concern, but I just have to get used to it. The worst part isn't the friction of the prosthesis–-it's the feeling that the leg is still there." He sighed. "But I'm lucky. A pungee stick smeared with feces in the foot, gangrene, and amputation below the knee. It could've been worse. Much worse."
Patrick did know it could've been much worse—in a wheelchair or dead. He returned to the patrol: "Have you looked in on Dad yet?"
A raised eyebrow. "No. Will I get a surprise?"
Patrick bit his lip and nodded. "Oh, yes." Miriam had gone to sleep, so he got up carefully, didn't disturb her. "Come on."
The door to his father's bedroom open slowly. Patrick and his uncle were hard pressed not laugh aloud. Hogan and Suzanne lay curled together with Whiskey at their feet; she stretched across the foot of the bed. Clouseau slept above their heads on the pillows, one front paw touched Hogan's forehead.
Chris quietly pulled the door shut. "How long's that been going on? And where's the parrot? He needs to be there too!"
"GDP is safely in the kitchen, in his cage. And to this menagerie, it's been going on for about 3 months. Mom doesn't like dogs, and Dad's allergic to cats, but he got the dog for company on his morning walk. Mom snapped a twig when Whiskey decided she was going to sleep with Dad. And Clouseau didn't like being usurped by a puppy. It was a nightly farce for a month until both Mom and Dad threw up their hands in defeat. The dog and cat then settled their sleeping arrangements between them: foot for Whiskey, pillows for Clouseau." Patrick giggled. "Of course, Clouseau and Whiskey are allied against GDP."
"Makes it a fairer fight."
"Not really. GDP always gets the better of them, singly or as a pair." He yawned. "I'm going to turn in now. I assume my wife is where I left her?" He didn't give Chris time to answer before entering his own bedroom. The door caught behind him.
*****
With Nigel clinging to his right leg and Miles perched on his left hip, Hogan very slowly ambled into the family room. Unlike the dark, Victorian study, this room was much brighter by virtue of its white and gold wall paper, its sky blue, overstuffed furniture and matching plush carpet. The Christmas tree dominated one corner of the room, dwarfed the spinet at which Patrick sat. The room rang with his rich baritone as he sang Christmas carols. Hogan smiled broadly and came to stand behind the sofa, still clutched by his grandsons.
Patrick finished singing, looked up and said, "Morning, Dad. Finally decide to wake up and join us?"
"Funny, kid," he croaked. He took the cuppa offered him by Enya. He eyed the boys. "With these two, I wasn't going to get to sleep much longer. As it was, I narrowly avoided getting pounced on."
"Papa, you should know better than to try for a lie-in on Christmas morning," Renate said without looking up from her fussing twins.
"Give me a break. Chris and I went to Midnight Mass last night. We didn't get in until about 2am. And yeah, I know the last Mass I went to that wasn't a requiem was Patrick's First Communion in 1955. I simply kept my brother company."
Having answered the shock from some members of the family, Hogan felt Nigel detach himself from his leg, watched him practically jump into Suzanne's lap. He smirked at his wife, mouthing, "Morning, Grandmama." He chuckled at her expression as Nigel made himself comfortable. "But now that I am here, we can get on with this show." He edged Angharad over and sat down on the sofa.
Chris appointed himself master of ceremonies and began handing out gifts. Soon, the room was filled with the sounds of ripping paper, squeals of pleasure, and happy laughter. Clouseau leapt off the coffee table into the growing pile of paper; Whiskey almost knocked Sinéad and Siobhan over in her enthusiasm for riband. The girls shrieked in delighted terror.
Gazing at a heavy package, Chris stopped a moment before handing it to his nephew. "Some explanation before you open this." The room quieted. "Patrick, your aunt and I know how devastated you and Penny were when your apartment burned. That's a helluva way to start a marriage and a family. Enya and I wanted to replace what we could."
Patrick pulled the paper off and opened the box. He picked up the top picture–-his parents' wedding picture. His wife gripped his arm as he looked up at his uncle. "Uncle Chris...Aunt Enya...."
"We knew that you missed the pictures of your mum the most. So we went through what we had, and we decided that it was more important for you to have them."
Chris drew another package from under the tree and handed it to Renate.
"You know, neither of you had your mothers as long as you should've, but you got a rougher deal, Rennie. You haven't even had your father all that long. Enya and I decided to rectify that a little."
Renate quickly opened her package, another collection of photos, some of which were very old. The first one she lifted out was of a plump, fuzzy-headed baby in a white linen and lace dress held in the arms of its mother. The woman wore her thick hair in a Gibson girl, and the high collar of her striped dress was closed with a filagree pin. Renate looked at Chris. "This is Papa?"
Her uncle giggled. "Yeah. All the pictures have dates on the back, and that one was taken June 1908. He was all of six months old and already giving Mom fits." He studied the upside down photo before adding, "He was such a cute baby. I wonder what happened?"
"I hope he included one of himself in there. Just so you can see what a pest he was. And is," Hogan responded. He asked Chris, "Where did you get the pictures? I didn't even know these things existed."
"Crickey!" exclaimed Patrick, dragging everyone's attention to him. He held up the photo of his mother in an Arabian belly dancer's costume. "Where did this come from?"
Hogan glared at Chris who returned a picture of 'who me?' innocence. You had to have snapped that at the Potsdam Conference–-before she gave the old Soviet general a heart attack and after you pulled your slip and grope on her! You definitely caught her in her exhibitionist mood. The tiny, voluptuous figure in the skimpy, filmy attire continued to draw his attention. He came up with an acceptable explanation. "A costume party. We actually went to parties before you were born."
Patrick gave a weak laugh. "You certainly didn't have the time or energy afterwards."
He turned upward at to his aunt's hand on his shoulder. She gave him a small box, and after opening it, he drew out an intricate, gold locket.
"For Miriam when she's older."
Hogan's attention bounced between Patrick and Angharad. He watched his son pop it open, heard the sharp intake of breath.
"The first picture is of me holding my sister; I was 14 and she was 3. The other one was taken right before her first marriage. She was just 18," Angharad explained after Hogan and she shared a conspiratorial moment of sympathy. "So your Miriam has a bit of connection to her grandmother."
Chris cut in. "As to how I got them, Rob, Maggie gave them to me. She had all the family photos, and she turned them over to me right before she died last year. She told me to parcel them out as I saw best, but under no circumstances was I to let her kids have access to them. I don't know what she was afraid of, but that's how I came to have them."
Hogan sighed deeply. "Maggie was afraid of Harry."
"Harry?" Suzanne refilled his teacup and then retreated to the safety of her chair.
"Our ex-brother in law, and someone I'd like nothing better than to drop out of an airplane without a parachute."
"Yeah, from angels 30[1]. Boozing bastard."
"Yeah, and that's why Emily is the way she is." Hogan's voice deflated as he spoke.
Their niece had gotten into heroin. Smack's going to kill that girl before she's even had a life. Hogan picked up his tea, sipped at it, and gazed across to Suzanne.
"To avoid a repeat of Emily, I have a date in a New York court on 5 January. I'm going to try and wrest custody of Kevin from Harry on grounds that he's an unfit parent. It may be too late to rescue the boy, but I'm going to give it a real try."
"Good luck, Rob."
"I'm going to need it." Hogan surveyed the room, saw the natives getting restless. "Now, let's get back to our Christmas. We can ignore the world at least for today."
He sneaked up behind Nigel and tickled him lightly just below the ribs. The little boy whooped, triggering his cousins' own giggles. Whiskey, who'd been resting between the 5 year olds, dashed after Clouseau, who'd surfaced from under the mound of wrapping paper in the middle of the floor. The cat roared up the white Queen Anne chair. Suzanne, with the Himalayan behind her head and the barking puppy half-perched in her lap, glared first at Whiskey and then at Hogan. Occasionally raising his wings and squawking, GDP watched the commotion from his perch in the Christmas tree.
*****
After hanging up the phone in the study, Hogan ripped off his half-eyes, threw them on the desk. They hit audibly and skittered across the papers. Abruptly standing, he took an exaggerated deep breath before stalking over to the window. The light slipped away to nothing; the few cars driving by switched on their headlights.
The door creaked open; Hogan didn't register it. Angharad eyed him, took in the arms tightly crossed over the chest. She exhaled softly before calling, "Robin? Do you want your tea?"
Not waiting for his answer, she walked over to the coffee table, put down the tea things, and began pouring. "Well, Patrick and Renate have been comparing photos all afternoon. They may trade a few, though nothing will prize your formal graduation portrait from her. And the picture your brother took of you and Miri...."
"Angharad."
"...wiping cake off each other's faces was priceless. I understand that had started as an argument? Summer 1945, right? I'm sure it was Miri who started it. Afflicted with a quicksilver temper she was...."
"Angharad," Hogan snapped.
"...though you don't do so bad yourself. Patrick, fortunately, is not so cursed, but Renate matches you for outright mulishness." The tiny Welshwoman sat down on the sofa, her hands clasped around her knees. "Not temper so much in her case...."
"Dammit, Angharad, will you just shut up and go away! Can't you see that I want to be alone? I just got off the phone with a friend. The good news is he just got married again. The bad news is that his only son, his only child came home in a body bag." His shouting filled the room, but stopped as suddenly as it had begun. "Gotcha."
She leaned back against the sofa. "Robin, the longer you stayed away, the worse I knew it was. We all know that something dreadful's happened. But when you most need to talk, you most want to flee. I know how little patience you have for idle chatter; it was a simple expedient to get you explode. And explode you did."
He threw himself on the sofa, took the proffered tea cup, set it on his knee. "Henry was only 19. MIA in Vietnam. The SEALS rescued him when they overran a camp, but he was too ill." He drifted back into silence. "I can't imagine what Kinch is going through."
"You don't want to, and for that, you feel enormously guilty." She took the sudden, penetrating glare. "Spare me the hawkish looks. It's true. Your son is alive and well, has just given you a granddaughter, and is likely to have more children."
Hogan chuckled. "Safe bet that Penny'll be expecting by this time next year." He sat up, drank some tea. "You're right, Annie, I do feel guilty, but at the same time I feel enormously grateful and lucky. Patrick is whole and safe. I got my brother back. Okay, with a leg missing, but still, I got him back." He drifted back into silence.
"You grieve for your friend, but you've naught to feel guilty about. We all suffer in our own unique ways," she remarked bitterly, thinking of Rhys' death, Owain's near-fatal heart attack, Dai and Gwenyth's messy divorce. "If you don't think you've suffered enough, let me tell you what I saw when my sister died. By Dewi Sant, I've never seen a man more disconsolate than you. But suffering's not the point."
The mantel clock ticked loudly, overrode even the sound of breathing. Finally, he spoke. "I've 2 healthy, happy children, 5 marvelous grandchildren, and a wonderful wife who unexpectedly fell into my life." He lunged for Angharad, tickling her ribs. So what if she were almost 68? "And a bossy elder sister I wouldn't trade for the world. So, are you sparkin' Robbie?"
"Robin!" She shrieked.
[1]This is a real Air Force expression. Angels 30 means 30,000 feet of altitude. 1 angel = 1000 feet of altitude.