"So what are you doing? Tommy's getting married tomorrow. Does marriage make you think about--"

"No. It makes me think about your mother. About missing her. That's all. I'm happy for your brother."

"You don't think this is weird?"

"It's morbid, yeah. But weird? Nah. It's smart. We'll save a lot of money, and I'll go out in style, in a box I made. You can't beat that."

"Whatever you say." Mitchell shifted up to his father and gave him an awkward hug. "They're making a pot roast."

"I know. I say we eat, get drunk, and you can tell us all about your missions. You got any juicy stuff? You meet any beautiful frauleins who are double agents?"

Mitchell chuckled. "Dad, it's all pretty boring."

"Uh-huh. And speaking of frauleins, you know Tommy's fiancee just hired an accountant--and she got invited to the wedding."

"And I should care because . . ."

"It's Kristin."

Mitchell slumped. "Oh, man."

"You haven't seen her in a long time."

"And I don't think she'd mind a few more centuries."

"Whatever happened between you two is water under the bridge. She's still single, and she teaches one of those kick-step whatever classes at the gym, too."

"How do you know? You've been talking to her?"

"She did my taxes this year. Gave me a good deal."

"But Dad, you know how it is. It never works out."

"One day it will. And I guess I'm just selfish, Scott. What can I tell you? Maybe you can fall in love with her, quit the army, and come back home so your old man can enjoy a few more years with his firstborn son."

"That's your plan?"

Dad wiggled his brows, then he frowned as his gaze lowered to Mitchell's bottle. "You come all the way out here with just one beer?"

"Take a break, Dad. Come on. You can build your coffin another day."

"Okay, but at the wedding, just don't ignore Kristin. Dance with her. Talk to her."

Mitchell gave a reluctant nod. "I'll try. Hopefully she won't draw blood."

FIFTEEN

FIFTEEN

MITCHELL RESIDENCE
FIFTH AVENUE
YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO
OCTOBER 2011

The dinner conversation focused mainly on Tommy, who had been wise enough to have his bachelor party the weekend before his wedding. It had taken him three days to recover, Mitchell had learned. At least he hadn't come home with any new tattoos, just a world-class hangover.

Afterward, they'd had coffee and a triple-layer chocolate cake that, according to Jenn, weighed over five pounds. Mitchell had fended off their questions about his work, saying only that it was not as glamorous as they imagined.