Wes drove into Close Call just before midnight. Stopping was not his intention, but he saw the festival banner stretched across Main and confetti littering the streets, and he knew he had missed something special. Nat had mentioned something about the unveiling, but Wes had been half-asleep when they last spoke. He supposed he timed it, subconsciously, so that he could see the statue alone for the first time.
He wanted to hate the statue. Lit as it was in the amber-yellow glow of a fancy spotlight, he let it flow through him without blocking it with emotions that had nothing to do with the hunk of bronze.
The Marine held a flag up, spanning both hands, tangled on a gust of something—wind, adversity, something. He charged ahead of two skipping girls—African-American by the style of their hair—sheltering them, protecting them, championing them, his face down, concealed, any one of them who served from Close Call—Wes, Daniel, Clem, Russel Drummond—and Gully and all of those who served beyond the streets of this town.
The longer he studied, the more he saw: the angle of the train trestle in the flag’s canopy; the tiny rowboat toy, tipped over in the hand of one girl, a nod to someone they both loved and the past that Wes cherished and would defend until the end; holes carved in the other girl’s pillbox hat.
Wes drew close and focused on the Marine’s coat, the lapel of the slanted front pockets, his family name that had driven a monumental wedge between him and the woman he loved. But it wasn’t his family name at all. It simply read Nemo Residio.
None left behind.
Olive had kept her word.
Had she not, he would have continued loving her, all the same.
He wanted to hate the statue, but he couldn’t. Not in a million years.
Wes sat on the bench. The silence of his small town enveloped him. He had found his peace, but had he ever truly lost it at all? Not until he pushed her away.
“Welcome home.”
The familiar, feminine voice seeped through his skin and flooded his heart, liquid warmth behind an attack on his pulse.
He shot to his feet.
Olive stood beside a street lamp, hands clasped.
“What are you doing here?” Dumbest question he could have asked. She was here for the unveiling.
Apparently, she found the question amusing. A lazy smile stretched her lips.
“I meant Main Street. At midnight.”
“I couldn’t sleep. The Walker, Texas Ranger room isn’t really conducive to rest with all the photos of Chuck Norris kicking people’s asses. And it’s entirely unbalanced. There’s hardly evidence of the love interest at all.”
Wes laughed. He had missed her dry Yankee wit, the way she poked fun at his world but had, so seamlessly, became part of it. Hell, he’d missed her.
“You should have stayed at the house.”
“It wouldn’t feel right.”
“What would?” He closed the gap between them a few measured steps. “Make it feel right?”
“For us to go back to being honest.”
“All right.” He rearranged a few confetti squares with the toe of his boot, caught himself. “Remember when I told you about being seventeen, beneath the trestle bridge? That I saw the image of someone I didn’t recognize? That I had forgotten about her until that night on the water?”
“Yeah.”
“It was you. Long dark hair, pale skin, those eyes that haunted me every single time I tried to outrun them with physical labor and monumental stretches of loneliness and the occasional drink. It’s always been you, and I was too stubborn to admit it. I thought I was staying in control, keeping balanced, but that’s the funny thing about running. You take everything with you.”
She moved toward him, fresh steps, still out of reach.
“Wes, I’m sorry about your name on the sculpture. I never intended to keep it that way. It was just my crazy creative way to be in the moment. If the bronze hadn’t been one particular service member, it couldn’t have been all service members.”
His gaze drifted to the statue. Tremendous. How he’d describe it for Daniel
on those nights he continued their conversations. “I can’t believe I sang Hank Williams, Jr., with a genius.”