He put an arm around his slender wife, drew her as close as she would allow in public. “We are grateful that you have come to help us say bon voyage to our son, Finley.” Dad smiled. “No more bailing him out of the Coronado police station at two A.M. after some ridiculous drag race.”
There was a smattering of laughter. Everyone at this party knew the circuitous track Finley had taken to adulthood. From earliest memory, he had been a golden boy, a wild child who could make the hardest heart soften. People laughed at his jokes; girls followed him everywhere. Everyone loved Finley, but most agreed that he was a handful. He had been held back in fourth grade, more for constant mischievousness than anything else. He was sometimes disrespectful in church, and he liked the kind of girl who wore short skirts and carried cigarettes in her purse.
When the laughter ended, Dad went on: “A toast to Finley and his grand adventure. We are proud of you, son!”
Servers appeared with bottles of Dom Pérignon and poured more champagne; the tinkling sound of glass on glass filled the air. Guests surrounded Finley; men clapped him on the back in congratulations. Young women pressed forward, vying for his attention.
Dad motioned to the band, and music started up again.
Feeling left out, Frankie headed into the house, past the large kitchen, where the caterers were busily putting canapés on trays.
She ducked into her father’s office. It had been her favorite place as a child. Big tufted leather chairs, footstools, two walls of books, a massive desk. She flicked on the light. The room smelled of old leather and cigars, with a hint of expensive aftershave. Neatly organized stacks of building permits and architectural plans lay atop the desk.
One entire wall of the office was devoted to their family history. Framed photographs Mom had inherited from her parents and even a few Dad had brought with him from Ireland. There was a photo of Great-Grandfather McGrath, in his soldier’s uniform, saluting the camera. Alongside that photograph was a framed war medal that her Grandpa Francis had been awarded in the First World War. The photograph of her parents’ wedding was positioned between her grandfather Alexander’s framed Purple Heart and a newspaper clipping with a photo of the ship he’d served on coming into harbor at the end of the war. There were no photographs of her father in uniform. To his great shame, he had been labeled 4-F and disqualified for military service. It was something he lamented in private, only to family, and only when he’d been drinking. After the war, he’d convinced Grandpa Alexander to begin building affordable housing in San Diego for returning veterans. Dad called it his contribution to the war effort, and it had been spectacularly successful. In conversation, he was always so “military-proud” that, in time, everyone on Coronado seemed to forget he hadn’t served. There were no photographs of his children, not yet. Her father believed that one had to earn their way onto this wall.
Frankie heard the door open quietly behind her, and someone said, “Oh. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude.”
She turned and saw Rye Walsh standing in the doorway. He held a cocktail in one hand and a pack of Old Gold cigarettes in the other. No doubt he’d been looking for a quiet place to smoke.
“I’m hiding from the party,” she said. “I don’t feel much like celebrating, it seems.”
He left the door open behind him. “I was doing the same thing, I guess. You probably don’t remember me—”
“Joseph Ryerson Walsh; goes by Rye. Like the whiskey,” Frankie said, trying to smile. It was how he’d introduced himself to her last summer. “Why are you hiding out? You and Fin are thick as thieves. You both love a good party.”
As he neared, her heart did a queer little stutter. He’d had that effect on her from their first meeting, but they’d never really spoken. She didn’t know what to say to him now, when she felt a little bereft. Lonely.
“I’m going to miss him,” he said quietly.
She felt the sting of tears and turned quickly away, faced the wall of memorabilia; he moved in beside her. They stared up at the family photos and mementos. Men in uniforms, women in wedding dresses, medals for valor and injury, a triangle-folded and framed American flag that had been given to her paternal grandmother.
“How come there are no pictures of women up here, except for the wedding pictures?” Rye asked.
“It’s a heroes’ wall. To honor the sacrifices our family has made in service of the country.”
He lit a cigarette. “Women can be heroes.”