“Also fine. Busy. I love it, though. No such thing as a slow news day around here.”

Finn’s ex-wife was an award-winning journalist. In fact, her biggest award had been the Richard Arthur Finnemore prize for war correspondence. The prize, named to commemorate Finn’s father, honored each year’s outstanding achievement in reporting on global conflicts. That year, they had still been married, and Finn used to tell people, “Emily won the trophy, but I walked away with the real prize.” She turned out to be not such a prize after all.

He looked at her now, and felt nothing but a mild twinge of familiarity. It was strange, the way a love that had once filled a person up could simply vanish like a cloud in a breeze. Where did those feelings go? Maybe they dissolved into the ether or morphed into something useful: Wisdom. Life experience. Determination to avoid getting his heart tangled up again.

He knew that cutting himself off emotionally was probably not the best way to deal with the damage she’d done. Knowing this and actually doing something about it were two different things.

“Hold still,” Emily said. “You’re not quite perfect.” With practiced movements, she reached up and brushed the back of his collar. “You have a fresh haircut.”

“Guilty as charged. An hour ago, I had a ponytail.”

She offered a wistful smile. “Our lives are so different now. How is France?”

He could go on about the sun and the food, the history, the people, the scenery. The wine. He didn’t, though. “It’s great,” was all he said. “And congrats to you for landing this gig. I know you worked hard to get here.” He was able to say this without a tinge of irony. When he first found out about the affair, Finn had been ready to rip the guy’s head off. Now he was philosophical about it. Emily’s affair had shown Finn exactly what her priorities were. And they’d shown him exactly what he needed to avoid if he was ever stupid enough to fall in love again.

He surveyed the East Room of the White House, where today’s event would take place. Everyone in the family was here, along with friends and colleagues who had known his father, including the four survivors whose lives Richard Finnemore had saved by surrendering to the enemy. Next to the podium stood an easel with a large, framed portrait of his father, also in full dress uniform—a stranger Finn had never known.

“I can’t get over how much you look like him,” Emily said.

Finn studied the portrait, trying to find himself in the face of the man who had disappeared. Sometimes he saw the resemblance—something about the jawline, maybe, and definitely the eyes. I wish I’d known you, he thought, offering a brief salute. He’d searched for his father in old photo albums and a few reels of ancient Super 8 home movies. Richard always seemed to be wearing a smile. People said he was a man who loved his life, his family, and his country. All his life, Finn had tried to emulate those values. But when his marriage fell apart, he’d come to realize he wasn’t going to accomplish that on his own.