Later, as his mom had advanced through the ranks of the Diplomatic Corps, ultimately attaining an ambassadorship when Finn was twelve, there had been ceremonies to commemorate, decorate, and designate, all crammed with pomp and circumstance. As he went through high school, there were more—his appointment to the Model UN, Boys State, honor society. Eagle freaking Scout.
There had been induction ceremonies when he and his two sisters had enrolled in the Naval Academy. And then the appointment ceremonies when they had finished. His change-of-command ceremony as a naval officer.
And then there had been his marriage ceremony. It was supposed to be the start of his happily-ever-after. He had nailed the happy part for a good long time. Unfortunately for him, when it came to ever after, he and Emily had different ideas.
“I’m pregnant,” she had said on the day of their ten-year anniversary. She was sobbing as she told him.
And then, before his heart had a chance to soar with wonder and joy, she’d dropped a hasty bomb: “It’s not yours.”
“Perfect,” said a woman’s voice behind him, drawing Finn back from that painful memory.
He turned to see a gorgeous redhead in a tight navy dress, with a White House press pool badge clipped to her collar. Ever so briefly, she touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip.
“How’s that?” he asked, though he knew exactly how it was. “What part of this is perfect? The part where I get to meet the president because my father went missing?”
“Don’t be nasty,” she said. “I meant you in your dress uniform. You look absolutely perfect. I imagine you haven’t worn it in a while. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” He studied her for a moment. “How about you, Emily?”
“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.
A ripple went through the assembly, and everyone was directed to take a seat. Finn and his sisters were ushered to the front with his mother. She reached over and patted his knee briefly. He knew she would get emotional today. They all would.
A buzz of energy heralded the arrival of the president. Everyone rose, and then a hush settled over the audience as they took their seats. The president greeted everyone, adding a personal welcome to the families of the three men being honored today. Finn almost didn’t recognize his own name when she addressed him as Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Arthur Finnemore. It had been so long since he’d answered to that name. Another life, for sure.
The president gave an eloquent summary of the heroic actions of the four honorees, all of them being honored posthumously. Her voice wavered as she spoke of the stark reality of the ceremony—that the valor they were gathered to celebrate, the courage and selflessness, stemmed from the most dreadful moments of war, claiming the ultimate sacrifice.
“On his very worst day, each one of these men managed to summon his very best. Each one embodied the essence of courage. It is not the state of being unafraid, but the rare ability to confront fear. These heroes showed guts, they showed their training, and they put it all on the line for their fellow soldiers. We are free because of these men.”
Finn’s mother received the Medal of Honor in a glass-front box. The expected tears came, particularly in the aftermath, when the surviving teammates from Cambodia gathered around. Some of them remembered Richard Finnemore with photographic clarity. In a moment of decision no man should have to make, Richard had snapped a final photo, dropped his gear, and surrendered, somehow distracting his captors long enough for his team to escape. One man’s freedom, his life, in exchange for four others.
With a giant lump in his throat, Finn walked over to the freestanding photo display on one side of the podium. It had been created for the ceremony, a collage of smiling brave soldiers in the prime of life. Some of the pictures chronicled his father’s career, from Naval Academy graduate to combat strategist and communications specialist, reporting on the conflict in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia.
Finn wondered what might have shown up on the film roll he’d entrusted to Camille Adams. Stark images of war-torn villages? Recon photos? Pictures of his teammates on the mission? Damn, he wished he could have seen them.
Yet he couldn’t get mad at her, given the circumstances of the mishap. That was the reason he gave himself. But the real reason he couldn’t get mad at her was that he’d never met anyone like her before. After a rocky start, he’d found himself relaxing with her, listening and talking in a way that felt completely right. So often with women, there was that unspoken tension—will we or won’t we? Yet with Camille, the tension felt different, spun of warmth and attraction, not uncertainty.
There was a part of him that wanted to get to know her better, and that was strange, because after the ego-crushing experience with Emily, he’d turned into a player, pursuing women who weren’t complicated, who didn’t make emotional demands, who could be satisfied with a physical relationship. This had been working for him for a long time. But instinct told him it wouldn’t work with Camille Adams.
No matter. He was heading back to work in France, and her life was here in the States, raising a teenager, running her business, doing whatever it was she did in the utterly pleasant, remote beach town where she lived.
Despite knowing their paths were not likely to cross again, he briefly toyed with the idea of contacting her once more, despite her insistence that she wasn’t open to seeing him again. He was arrogant enough to think he could persuade her. Let’s get a drink. Go out together. But no. What would be the point? It would likely make the inevitable parting more frustrating.