LITMIR.BIZ

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World Wars? Surely not.

      Once over the “What do you do” hurdle, Cresta began to relax. Keogh was handling himself pretty well, telling her mother about his family but remembering (so far) not to interject recollections of Abraham Lincoln and Stonewall Jackson. Lora Leigh chattered on about her relatives, how she was dating a lovely young man named Rico and about their upcoming trip to Miami. She stressed Rico was only a casual date, not anyone serious.

      Chattering was one of Lora’s weapons because now she insidiously slipped in another question. “Myles, tell me, do you have a wife and children? Or,” she smiled, “perhaps just children you know about?”

      Keogh tried to act suave and remarked he had neither. Missus Leigh beamed and then took a small sip of her third mai-tai.

      “You’re fortunate in a way. Good-looking young men can play the field, have all the fun they like, and not get nailed for child support. My Cresta was married once, but she let him get away. Well, you did, dear. And then when she lost the child…”

      Cresta stood up and smacked her wineglass down on the table.

      “Mother! That’s enough. I believe we should eat now.”

      Her mother didn’t look contrite in the least. “I’m sorry, dear, but I thought you would have told him. Shall we go in?”

      Dinner wasn’t comfortable. As soon as Cresta brought in the meal and they sat down at the table, Lora Leigh spotted Max lapping water from a dish sitting between the dining room and Cresta’s office.

      “Cresta, dear, don’t you think we could have that filthy little beast removed to the bedroom during dinner?”

      It didn’t get any easier after that. Missus Leigh did criticize the ham (too sticky with all that glaze), the potatoes (why white potatoes when ham really called for sweet potatoes?), the green bean casserole (how common), and dessert, which was apple crisp (also labeled common and uninteresting). The only things that escaped criticism were the wine, the French bread, the butter, and oddly, the carrots.

      Keogh didn’t want to speak up to Cresta’s mother because it was not his place, but he did not like the way she talked to her daughter. Almost as though she was taunting her and trying to embarrass her. He kept trying to catch Cresta’s eye in a show of unity and support, but she was studiously avoiding any eye contact with him at all. Once Mother had been escorted out the door, she put a shaking hand to her forehead.

      “Myles? I apologize. I know that wasn’t easy for either of us. Why don’t you go into the library and I’ll start clearing…”

      Myles crossed the dining room floor and took her into his arms. This was the first time he’d deliberately done something like this, and although Cresta knew she should pull away from him, she didn’t, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. Myles walked her into her library and made her sit on the sofa. He kept both arms around her, and she put her head on his shoulder as she cried. She was vaguely aware of him stroking her hair and murmuring to her it was all right, which she found strangely comforting, given the odd reversal in their roles. Hadn’t she just this afternoon told him to come to her when he felt overwhelmed? Finally, she pulled away from him and tried to explain.

      “I didn’t expect Mother to bring up the baby. No, I didn’t tell you about it because it doesn’t matter. Okay, that came out the wrong way. The baby would have mattered a lot, but it never lived. I miscarried at barely ten weeks. My husband divorced me, and that was that. A month later, he ploughed his Mercedes into a tree and was killed instantly. To make things worse, we’d only been divorced for three weeks, and he had no relatives anyone could find. I was stuck burying that…that man, and I didn’t even care for him anymore. You know, sometimes you don’t really know someone or about someone until you marry them and they die.”

      Keogh assumed a Mercedes was an automobile. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but he had to say something. “How did you lose the child? Can you tell me?”

      Cresta could have said it was an ordinary natural termination, but she didn’t want to lie to Keogh. “My…husband hit me. I fell down a flight of basement stairs. That was when it…I…”

      She felt herself being wrapped back into Keogh’s arms and felt tears coming again. He just kept on softly saying, “It is all right, Cresta. It will be all right. That is in the past. You must not think any more on it. Shh.”

      When she finally managed to get up to clear the dinner dishes and put the leftover food away, she was glad that Myles Keogh, the man from the past, helped her.

      Chapter 22

      Fairfax, VA

      After the initial couple of days, Cresta was sure Keogh was comfortable enough around her home to start encouraging him to hit the books in her library. He was astonished at the history that had taken place in the space of just 127 years. Technology had grown by leaps and bounds, a proliferation of highways and automobiles, two wars involving the entire world. Cresta didn’t really want to start him off with what was basically his death sentence, so working him gradually forward from 1860 into the present, less the Indian Wars, would make more sense. She knew he’d been involved with much of the Civil War, so she recommended he begin there.

      Cresta didn’t have a lot of books on the Civil War and the ones she did have were pretty much outlines of the basic battles and time points. She knew Keogh would want information about what history had made of him, so she ordered specific titles to do with Generals Buford, Stoneman, Shields, and McClellan, for Keogh had served with all of them as a staff officer and aide-de-camp. There were also a few biographies of him, which she withheld for they mentioned his death, and she didn’t want him knowing anything about that for now.

      There was enough information on Myles Keogh to be referenced in the Civil War to keep him busy—he found it to be unbelievable on one hand and terribly flattering on the other. History thought enough of Myles Keogh the Soldier to have recorded some of his deeds and that was more than he could have hoped for. Cresta could see his chest swelling with pride when he read the praise-filled reviews from his superior officers, saying he was the most promising young officer in the war, he had dash and bravery, and that he was very gallant and efficient. His fast rise to Lieutenant Colonel was practically unequalled except for the rising star of Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer. In fact, Keogh immersed himself in the Civil War volumes to the exclusion of all else for several days. Cresta finally took to bringing him meals in the library/office and hoped he’d have the good sense to go to the bathroom when nature called. She also decided Keogh needed some distraction, so she introduced him to leggings.

      Tuesday morning, Cresta came downstairs dressed, not in a suit or in trousers (which he considered “bad enough”); she had on navy blue leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt proclaiming Battle of Cold Harbor, May 31–June 12, 1864, Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant. Keogh stared.

      “What…but…why…you are dressed most immodestly. If I may be so bold. What is the attire you have on, and is this standard for this time? Cold Harbor? People make these shirts to remember battles? I do not understand.”

      “Got your attention. You need a break from all your reading. I thought perhaps showing what the current female casual looks like would do the trick. You find it indecent? Because the leggings are too revealing, right?”

      Keogh didn’t know what to say. It was like a lady being naked with blue skin. And this was the fashion? He studied Missus Leigh critically and, since he was not in a position to order her to change, decided perhaps he should just enjoy the view. If she were his wife, things would be different, and she would accept his instructions to put on something less revealing.

      Having caught his attention, Cresta insisted it was time for him to take a break. Take a shower, get some sleep, go out for a meal. There were so many “first experiences” for him. Pizza—he liked pepperoni and sausage but not anchovy. Mexican food—the tacos were his favorite, although he was also fond of enchiladas and chimichangas. Strangely, given what he’d sometimes eaten during the Civil War, he didn’t care for sushi. He felt that as he was now

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