Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
If only . . .
Kate knew she was drowning herself in “if onlys,” and it had to stop. Her nursing days had taught her that grieving people could second-guess themselves straight into Milledgeville. What happened to Marshall happened. Her husband had made his choices and accepted the consequences. And she loved him with her whole heart, always, no matter what. He knew that. Love shared and remembered would have to be enough.
Now it was Kate who had choices to make—for herself and her son. As she did every morning and every night, she said a silent prayer for Peyton’s protection, asking God to guide him down the road he traveled. And then she prayed rest for Marshall’s soul, asking that his tender spirit feel only peace and love, now and always.
thirty-six
The sky was getting dark as Peyton pedaled down A1A. He stopped to watch a squadron of Mustangs fly overhead—practicing night maneuvers, he guessed. What that must feel like, to pilot such a machine. He’d gotten to sit in the cockpit once at an air show during the war. So many dials and switches, all needing a pilot’s attention as enemy planes buzzed in every direction and artillery fired from below.
“Hey, buddy, where ya headed?”
Peyton turned to see a couple of Army guys in a Jeep stopped in the road. “Key West,” he said.
“Say, are you that Bike Boy from Georgia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ain’t gotta ‘sir’ me—I ain’t no officer. Want a ride somewhere? It’s gonna be night soon—the mosquitoes’ll eat you alive and sell your bike for scrap.”
“Well, yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“Pitch your bike in the back and climb in.”
Peyton hurried aboard, and soon they were speeding down the highway toward Homestead, enjoying the cool early evening air.
“I’m Ezell and our chauffeur here is LeBlanc.”
“Peyton Cabot. Pleased to meet y’all. And thanks for picking me up.”
“You lookin’ for anyplace in particular, Cabot?” Ezell asked.
“I’ve been stayin’ in firehouses mostly. Jails are too noisy.”
“Wanna stay at the base?”
“You serious? They’d let me do that?”
“Most of us are already sick o’ you,” LeBlanc said with a grin. “Sarge keeps all o’ your newspaper articles tacked up in the trainin’ room. And every time he drills us, he hollers, ‘If a boy from Georgia can ride a bike to Key West, you lazy sons o’—’scuse me, Peyton—you lazy so-and-so’s oughta be able to run another mile!’ We kinda hate you, Cabot.”
“Reckon I better sleep with one eye open,” Peyton said.
On base, the sarge did indeed make a fuss over Peyton and wanted to see if the officers would allow him to stay in their quarters. But Peyton insisted on a bunk in the barracks. He didn’t want the guys to think he was full of himself. After chow in the mess hall, he crashed on his bunk and never heard another sound.