Page 12 of Salt Kiss
I got the service cross for that, for the two others I’d saved, even though McKenzie had bled out into a puddle, her green eyes vacant behind her eyewear and her mouth open, like she’d been trying to call our names.
But it’s Sims whom my fingertips stop on, Sims whom I look at the longest.
Aaron Sims, who was alive four months ago and isn’t anymore.
I close the picture back in the book where I found it, put the book in a plastic tote, and then carry it out to my dad’s car. I lock up the farmhouse and give a cursory look around. I’ve said goodbye to this place so many times that saying goodbye now feels like playing to an empty theater.
I don’t look back as I start the traffic-choked drive to the city, two podcast hosts chattering about the proposed space exploration bill as I go.
“Who wouldn’t want to see this country enter its second golden age of space-faring?” one host demands.
“Forty-seven senators apparently,” the other dryly replies.
“Haveyou told your father about your new job?” asks Mark as his driver, Jago, takes us to a late lunch in Foggy Bottom. It’s only Mark and me in the back, Mark sitting with one leg out, his elbow braced against the side of the car. He’s the picture of dilatory ease.
I wonder how many glasses of clear liquor he’s had so far today.
“I sent him an email,” I answer after a minute. It was a short email, only a couple sentences long, because there was no way I could tell my father I took a job being his new brother-in-law’s bodyguard without it leading to aconversation, and there was no point in giving him more ammunition to work with before the conversation was inevitably sprung on me. It’s an Alpha Charlie waiting to happen; I have no illusions about that. I’m just grateful he’ll have to wait until he’s home from his honeymoon.
“I can’t wait to hear from my dear sister’s husband about it,” Mark says, moving his elbow down.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say.
Apologizing for my father is a reflex by now. He’s a good man. He’s just very much General Thomas first, everything else second, and it’s been a pain in my ass since kindergarten, when he made my favorite teacher cry during parent-teacher conferences.
Mark waves a hand. “You don’t have to apologize. Or call me sir. We’re family now.”
“What else should I call you? Uncle?”
A small, private smile. “Maybe later. Otherwise, call me what you like.”
“Yes, sir.”
He huffs out a laugh as we roll to a stop in front of the restaurant. Familiar with the routine after yesterday, I step out first, do a quick scan of the area, and open Mark’s door. Mark emerges from the car, any traces of the smile on his face gone. His eyes glitter as he straightens and buttons his jacket. He gives me a curt nod, and then I trail him to the restaurant entrance, where we’re shown right away to a table, despite him not speaking a word to the host.
I’m a little unsettled by this sudden mood of his, but I tell myself it’s nothing to do with me or anything I’ve done. It’s probably something to do with this lunch and who he’s meeting.
A banker, Mark said in the car. Bounces between London and New York. Geoffrey Laurence.
The name meant nothing to me, and Mark’s mouth had quirked.
Don’t worry. It’s a good thing not to know him.
I’m given a small table behind Mark’s, where I can see the entrance to the restaurant and most of the people walking in or out. I can also see Geoffrey Laurence himself, a short, pale man with silvering hair and a cleft chin. His suit is the kind of expensive that hides itself in texture and immaculate tailoring rather than announcing itself with fashion and flash. Money so established it’s ceased to be aware of itself.
Mark’s demeanor stays the same for most of the lunch. I can’t hear what he and Geoffrey are saying, but when he speaks, the words seem to be brief and direct. He doesn’t gesture when he talks; he doesn’t look away from Geoffrey when he listens. His posture is so effortlessly controlled that even the way he yields his fork has something of a sniper’s precision about it. Only once do I catch a scrap of conversation:
You’re sure about the safety report?
The information will be leaked next week.
Then I’ll see it all sold before then.
I wonder what kind of safety report Mark could be talking about that would have him so rigid and cold, so utterly different from how he was last night at the club, when he was as languorous as a lion after a meal.
And then I wonder which Mark is closer to the real one: this contained vessel that gives nothing away or the sprawling lord of the underworld from last night?
And after the lunch has concluded—which is the minute the entree is finished, there’s no lingering over clear liquor or dessert today—Mark stands to leave with an expression on his face that’s something worse than unreadable. It spells danger, maybe, although in a way I can’t explain. His eyes aren’t narrowed; his mouth isn’t set in a snarl or even a hard line. It’s just that there’s a watchfulness to his expression, a patience.
