“What was it like to be with a man who suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder?”
After posing the question, he kept his gaze averted. And, in that instant, she knew. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“That’s what?”
“You didn’t fight in the war, but you brought it home with you.”
He gave her a hard stare, then left the rocker and moved to the porch railing. Setting his wineglass on top of it, he gripped the wood so tightly it appeared he was trying to uproot it from the porch floor. He was in a struggle to contain his anger. God only knew what other emotions were tenuously bridled.
Her first instinct was to go inside and bar the door. Maybe she would have if he hadn’t suddenly bowed his head low between his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. He let go of the railing with one hand to comb his fingers through his hair. He held it back for several seconds before releasing it and returning his hand to the railing.
She questioned the advisability of taking the conversation farther. But he’d had no compunction against intruding into her life. Why should she be hesitant to poke into his?
Beyond that, because of her personal experience with Jeremy, who suffered similarly, she was interested in the disorder. That had been the subject of the e-mail she’d composed to George Metcalf. She believed the museum should have an exhibit on this invisible casualty of war and give it the same importance as other consequences of armed conflict.
Quietly she said, “I sensed something about you, but I didn’t know what it was until just now. You could have asked about Jeremy’s affair with Darlene Strong, his quasi friendship with Willard, the murder scene, the probability that he was chewed to pieces by dogs. But instead of all that more titillating stuff, his PTSD was the one aspect of the whole mess that you wanted to know about.”
She gave him time to respond. When he didn’t, she continued. “Today on the beach, when we talked about the war, you didn’t elaborate. I was complimenting you on the stories you’d written. Most men would have used that as an excuse to brag and try to impress me with their exploits.”
“You’ve got that many men trying to impress you?”
His tone bordered on insulting, but she bit her tongue and let it pass. “Yesterday, I noticed the empty liquor bottles on your kitchen bar. Alongside pill bottles.”
“Millions of people imbibe alcohol and take medication.”
“True. That wasn’t the giveaway. It’s your eyes.”
Slowly he came around to face her.
“They don’t match a man who’s physically fit and athletic,” she said softly. “They belong to a man who is chemically dependent, or seriously ill and in pain, or who suffers insomnia. They look haunted by memories that won’t go away.”
He remained motionless and said nothing.
“Who are you seeing for help?”
Nothing.
“You are seeing a counselor or therapist?”
Finally, his voice gruff, he asked, “Did your husband?”
“No, which is why he became my ex-husband.”
Moments of silence passed. Finally, he leaned back against the railing, folding his arms and crossing his ankles. “That subject is a whole lot more interesting than my empty whiskey bottles. How did you and Jeremy meet?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Anything we talk about tonight, I won’t include in the piece. If I even write the piece, which is yet to be decided. In any case, nothing you tell me now will appear in print unless you authorize it.”
“How can I trust you?”
“I promise.”
Those shadowed eyes were more convincing than the vow. She cleared her throat, swallowed. “We met at a wedding. The bride and I had been sorority sisters. The groom was a Marine officer that Jeremy knew from Parris Island. He looked very handsome and dashing in his dress uniform. We danced, drank champagne together, had a good time. The following week he asked me out to dinner, and I accepted. We dated for six months, became engaged, and married ten months to the day from when we met.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Was it the stud factor that attracted you?”
“Stud factor?”