Free The Older Woman by Cheryl Reavis Page B

flipped through the pages, looking at the many pictures of no-man’s-land and the trenches and reading the captions.

    Hell of a way to fight a war, he thought.

    He put the book back and pulled out a thin red one with gold lettering. World War II—the history of the 963rd Field Artillery. There were a number of photographs in it, as well—men in little groups mostly.

    He moved to one of the dining room chairs left in the church ladies’ “war room”
    and sat down. He read for a time, then closed the book and sat thinking of the movie, Saving Private Ryan and the fact that maybe he wasn’t as brave as those men had been. He wondered if Meehan had been to see it, and if so, what she thought of it. He could always ask—

    “Calvin?” Mrs. Bee said in the doorway. “Can I help you find something?”

    “Ah…no, Mrs. Bee. Well, maybe. Have you got any books by John…something that starts with a G. Some kind of ‘saga.”’
    “Galsworthy?
    The Forsyte Saga? ”
    “That’s
    it.”

    “It’s up there on the top shelf. Those three big books side by side, next to the end.”
    Three
    books?

    “Okay, Mrs. Bee. Thanks.”

    He had to work to get them, but he brought all three down. He was pretty sure Mrs. Bee wouldn’t have any idea that his interest had been sparked by her remark about his reminding her of Michael Mont, and he couldn’t not look at them after she had been kind enough not to ask what in the world he wanted with them—not when it was obvious to him that he had stumbled on to some seriously highbrow books here. They still had the book jackets on them, for one thing. Interesting, readable books never did, in his experience. Mrs. Bee had to know that this wasn’t his usual reading material, but she acted as if it was, and he appreciated it.

    He skimmed over the blurbs and then began thumbing through the pages, trying to spot the name Michael Mont, until he ultimately decided that the middle volume might be the one.

    He used to read a lot, especially when he was overseas. Nothing like this, of course. Cold War and spy things mostly, if he could get his hands on them. He hadn’t read much since the helicopter crash. He hadn’t been able to, and it had alarmed him enough to obliquely mention it to one of his doctors. He’d been relieved to learn that it wasn’t some kind of brain damage, as he’d feared, but “a decreased ability to concentrate due to post traumatic stress.” Fortunately he’d been able to concentrate long enough to read that in the doctor’s notes—upside down.

    Post traumatic stress.

    Maybe that was getting better—if he didn’t count the recent nightmare. He still couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about. He didn’t want to remember it.

    He picked up all three volumes of the saga, juggling them along as he dragged the dining room chair closer to the bay window where the lace curtains were billowing outward. Then he sat down in the cross breeze and began reading.

    British guy, he thought after a moment. World War I vet.
    Okay.

    He’d been peacekeeping with British soldiers. He could hang with this.

    He kept reading, wading through the drawing room conversations. It was kind of like going to a party where everybody else knew each other. Not that something like that had ever fazed him. Even when he was a kid, Pop Doyle had always said he had never met a stranger. And he hadn’t, so he kept reading, kept absorbing information until he could form some kind of opinion as to why Mrs. Bee thought he was like this Michael Mont. So far, he didn’t have a clue.

    He heard Mrs. Bee go out. After a few moments he heard her backing out the drive. He smiled to himself. That was some car. She must be going somewhere special if she was letting Thelma and Louise out on the road again so soon.

    He continued to read, certain now of at least one fact. Michael Mont was pretty far gone on somebody named Fleur. The reason became obvious after a time. Fleur was another