He grinned, cupped her face between his hands, and kissed her on the forehead. “I missed you, too.” Then he released her and tilted his head in the direction of the den. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Is he getting used to the idea yet?”
She matched his confidential tone. “Not even close. He’s been—”
“I can hear the two of you whispering, you know. I’m not deaf.” The gruff shout came from the den.
Eva mouthed, “Be afraid.”
Dawson winked at her, then walked down the hallway in the direction of the den, where Gary Headly was waiting for him. When Dawson stepped into the familiar room, he felt an achy tug of nostalgia. Countless memories had been made here. He’d raced his Matchbox cars on the parquet floor, his mother warning him not to leave them for someone to trip over. His dad and Headly had patiently taught him how to play chess with the set on the table in the corner. Sitting with him on the sofa, Eva had coached him on how to win the attention of his sixth-grade crush. For the first time since leaving Afghanistan, he felt like he’d arrived home.
The Headlys were his godparents and had forged a bond with him on the day he was christened. They’d taken to heart their pledge to assume guardianship of their best friends’ son should the need ever arise. When his mom and dad were killed together in an auto accident while he was in college, even though he was legally an adult, his relationship with the Headlys had taken on even greater significance.
Headly was wearing a parental scowl of disapproval as he took in Dawson’s appearance. He was considerably shorter than Dawson’s six feet four inches, but he exuded confidence and authority. He still had all his hair, which was barely threaded with strands of gray. A daily three-mile run and Eva’s careful supervision of his diet had kept him trim. Most sixty-five-year-old men would covet the figure he cut.
He said, “By the looks of you, it was a tough war.”
“You could say,” Dawson replied. “I just had a skirmish with Harriet and barely survived it.”
As Dawson took the offered seat, Headly said, “I was referring to Afghanistan.”
“It was tough, yeah, but Harriet makes the Taliban look like pranksters.”
“How about a drink?”
Dawson covered his slight hesitation by consulting his wristwatch. “It’s a little early.”
“Five o’clock somewhere. And anyway, this is a special occasion. The prodigal has returned.”
Dawson caught the slight rebuke. “Sorry I haven’t gotten over here sooner. I’ve had a lot to catch up on. Still do. But your text had a ring of urgency.”
“Did it?” At the built-in bar, Headly poured shots of bourbon into two glasses. He handed one of them to Dawson, then sat down facing him. He raised his glass in a toast before sipping from it. “I’m drinking more these days.”
“It’s good for you.”
“Stress reliever?”
“So they say.”
“Maybe,” Headly mumbled. “At least it gives me something to look forward to each day.”
“You’ve got plenty to look forward to.”
“Yeah. Old age and dying.”
“Better not let Eva hear you talking like that.”
Headly grumbled something unintelligible into his tumbler as he took another sip.
Dawson said, “Don’t be so negative. Give yourself time to adjust. It’s been less than a month.”
“Twenty-five days.”
“And counting, obviously.” Dawson sipped the liquor. He wanted to chug it.
“Hard to come to a dead stop after being in the Bureau all of my adult life.”
Nodding sympathetically, Dawson felt the warmth of the bourbon curling through his gut, settling his nerves, which the pill hadn’t yet had time to do. “Your retirement doesn’t become official until…when?”
“Four more weeks.”