“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere.”
That was mysterious. “Nowhere?”
They walked around to the back of the hospital toward the big shed that housed the emergency generator. He opened the door, held it for her.
“The generator shed?” She’d never been here.
She stepped inside to find an old wooden table with chairs sitting in the center of the available floor space, an elegant Afghan rug beneath them. The shed was heated, probably to keep the generator, which dominated the room, from freezing over.
He slipped out of his parka, revealing a firearm in a shoulder holster. “You said you wanted to find a place where we could talk and where you could be yourself. I told Farzad we wanted to spend a little time as a family where you could let your hair down, so to speak, and he asked an uncle to bring a rug and some furniture.”
“Oh! That was so sweet of him—and you.” Jenna stared up at Derek. “Does this mean I can take off my headscarf and tunic?”
“That’s exactly what it means.” He reached over and locked the door.
Jenna pulled off the headscarf and shook her hair free, then unzipped her parka and unbuttoned her gray tunic, draping both over a chair. If she’d known this was going to happen, she’d have worn something nice—a blouse and a bra at least. Now, she stood, braless, in a black T-shirt and gray leggings.
It had been a long time since a man had seen her like this. “Wow. I feel naked.”
His gaze moved slowly over her, stopping at her breasts. “You don’t look naked.”
Her nipples drew tight. “This is a great surprise. Thank you.”
He looked at her like she was nuts. “This isn’t the surprise.”
He pulled out a chair for her, so she sat, her anticipation growing.
He removed his parka and sat across from her, a small box in his hand. “This rightfully belongs to you. I kept it because I didn’t want your father to have it.”
He handed her the box, watching while she opened it.
Jenna stared, stunned. “Oh!”
Tears blurred her vision, and her throat went tight.
James’ dog tags sat on top of an old photograph of her, one that her brother must have carried with him when he’d been deployed.
“Jimmy couldn’t stand your old man. When he was killed, I felt he would want me to take care of these and not let your father have them. For the rest of that deployment, I wore his tags together with my own. Now I can give them to you.”
Jenna took the dog tags from the box, ran her fingers over her brother’s name, pain lancing through her chest.
HAMILTON, JAMES R.
Then she picked up the photo, found herself smiling, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was twelve in this photo. James took me to the zoo when he was home on leave. I had just seen the giraffes.”
“He called you Punk.”
Jenna swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was almost eighteen when he died. My father didn’t tell me. I got the news when a reporter called our home and asked for a comment. I was devastated. When I confronted my father, he said he didn’t want the news to spoil my SAT scores.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s how he works. He never told me that my mother died by suicide. I learned that from James when I was fifteen. I thought she’d died in a car crash.”
“What an asshole.”
“He blamed you for James’ death.”