"No Mickey's tonight?"

"I'm bushed."

"Same here. Sleep well."

Stef hesitated on the threshold. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Realizing how snappish that sounded, she softened her tone. "I'm fine."

"Are you mad at me for encouraging Dawson to hang out with us?"

"I can't be mad. The boys had a wonderful time. Being in male company was good for them."

"That was my thinking. But this particular male bugs you, doesn't he?"

She turned toward the younger woman, ready to take umbrage. Instead she ducked her head, admitting quietly, "A bit."

"His crooked tooth is awfully cute."

Amelia had noticed his slightly overlapping incisor. It actually made his smile more interesting.

"And I'd like to take a bite out of his biceps."

"You're incorrigible, Stef."

"Well, wouldn't you?"

If pressed, Amelia would have to admit that Dawson Scott was physically attractive. More times than she was comfortable with, her eyes had strayed from the novel that she was reading in the shade of the umbrella to the surf where he played with the boys. They had vied for his attention all day. He had seemed to be enjoying himself, too. But...

"There's something wrong with him." Amelia didn't even realize she'd spoken the thought out loud until Stef moaned.

"Oh, shit. He's married?"

Amelia laughed. "No. I mean, I don't know if he's married or not. I haven't-"

"Shh! Here he comes."

Amelia turned to see him approaching the porch. When he reached the bottom step, he said, "I saw you out here. Thought I'd bring a peace offering for monopolizing your sons all day." He had the neck of an uncorked wine bottle and two glasses clasped in one hand. Noticing the wineglass she held, he frowned. "But I see I'm too late."

"I'm going to bed. 'Night, you two." Stef went inside and closed the front door. Half a second later, the porch light went out.

Amelia and Dawson looked at each other through the sudden darkness, and when she saw a grin tugging at his lips, she had to laugh also. "She's got romantic notions."

"Would you rather I go?"

She considered it, then asked, "What color wine?"

"Red."

She extended her glass toward him. "As long as you bothered, you can top this off."

"I found the bottle in a cabinet. I can't vouch for the vintage."

"I can vouch for this one. Blending it with another will be an improvement."

He climbed the steps, refilled her glass, then poured one for himself. As he sat down in the rocker beside hers, he groaned. "I'm going to be sore tomorrow. Hunter and Grant gave me quite a workout."

She ran her finger around the lip of her wineglass. "All things considered, it's hard for me to say this, but thank you for spending time with them."

"You're welcome."

"They especially loved the roughhousing. I try, but..." She trailed off and shrugged.

He stretched his legs out in front of him. "Moms don't make good wrestlers. They're too afraid someone will get hurt."

She smiled. "You're right of course." She paused to sip her wine. "Do you have children of your own?"

"No."

"Married?"

"No."

"Stef wondered."

"Hmm." He sipped from his glass. "Am I allowed to make some observations?"

"About Stef?"

"About your children."

She made a motion for him to continue.

"I don't know much about kids, but, in my amateur opinion, you've done a good job with yours."

"Thank you."

"They don't pee in swimming pools."

She laughed.

"They say please and thank you. And even though I did suggest naming the battleship after you, they jumped on the idea."

"I wouldn't trade them for any others."

"Hunter is the more cautious of the two. He has his exuberant moments, but basically he's serious-minded. It's like he already realizes that being the oldest child comes with implied responsibilities that he accepts, even if it isn't fair.

"Grant," he said, pausing to grin, "wears his emotions on his sleeve. He's impulsive, capricious, approaches everything at full tilt. I'm betting that he'll get into more mischief than his older brother."

"You've given them a lot of thought."

"I'm naturally curious about people and what makes them tick. My job requires it. I observe closely and analyze my observations." When she merely nodded without comment, he added, "People reveal as much by their silences as they do by what they say."

"Do they? I'll have to remember that."

"Damn. By sharing a trade secret, did I just shoot myself in the foot? Will you be constantly on guard from here on?"

"We don't have a 'from here on.'"

He waited several beats. "Okay. But Tuesday morning, I'll be in the courtroom for your cross-examination."

"Be there or not. It's up to you. I've made it plain that I don't grant interviews."

"Right, you did. So I had better ask you now, while I have the chance."

She sharpened her focus on him. "Ask me what?"

"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?"

"Here you are, a rich girl-"

"How offensive."

"But a fact. You grew up privileged, had your picture taken with presidents, received the best education money can buy. Here's Jeremy, who's been to war in Iraq, spiffy officer's uniform, stationed at Parris Island in charge of rifle training."

"Glenda?"

"Actually I looked that up myself. My point is, what attracted you to him? From the standpoint of someone on the outside looking in, you two wouldn't appear to be a match."

A lot of outsiders looking in had thought the same. "I suppose we were opposites who attracted."

"What kind of suitor was he?"

"Ardent."

"Really?"

"Yes. He could be terribly sweet and romantic."

"He carved your initials in a tree?"