He turned out the lights, and when they reached a spot near the fireplace, he stopped and tugged her into his arms again. "Hi." He brushed his cheek against hers, holding her with a gentle firmness.

"Hi." Panic tried to interrupt the moment. Were they going to talk or was it just assumed that they would start up again where they'd left off?

"Here we are." He searched her eyes . . . Was he going to kiss her? Did she want him to? She swallowed. Her knees were weak and her heart was racing hard. Of course she wanted him to kiss her. But was it right, when they hadn't talked yet?

Before she could answer her own questions, he began humming a James Taylor song, one that had been their favorite the year she got pregnant. Slowly, and with his eyes still locked on hers, he swayed her in a dance that made her head spin. She felt herself being sucked in, pulled to a place where she wouldn't ever want anything but the feeling of his arms around her.

What little resistance she'd brought with her to Chicago melted like the snowflakes hitting the window outside. Maybe they didn't have to talk, not yet. This was what she'd wanted all those years, wasn't it? A chance to be in Shane Galanter's arms again, alone in a dark room with just the sound of a fire crackling in the background.

Their swaying slowed and he brought his hands to her face. In an unhurried, barely controlled way, he worked his fingers into her hair again and brushed his lips against her cheek. "I never stopped loving you."

"Me neither." She breathed in the scent of him - his warm breath, his fresh shampoo and cologne. He smelled wonderful. The day had already been so emotional, and now this. Their eyes held, and she knew. It was going to happen.

His lips found hers first, and he left the lightest kiss there. "Lauren . . . don't ever let go."

"I won't." Her heart was talking now. This time she found his lips and kissed him the way she was dying to. Full and slow and with a lifetime of bottled-up passion. His arms tightened around her, and they swayed every now and then, and after a few minutes they made their way up against the wall closest to the window.

The air between them changed, and she felt the same trembling in his body that was moving over her. Shane pulled back first, pursing his lips and exhaling hard. His eyes blazed with desire, mirroring the feelings that had to show in her face as well.

"Okay." He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. He let her go and crossed the living room where he sat at one end of the sofa. "Looks like some things haven't changed."

She let her arms hang at her sides and she shook them. No one made her feel the way Shane did. She grinned at him through the dim light of the fire. "No, some things definitely haven't changed." He was waiting for her, so she crossed the room and sat afoot away from him. A little space would be good right now.

Something he'd said made her wonder. Maybe she wasn't the only one afraid of sorting through the years and taking a harder look at who they'd become. She ran her finger down his forearm. "Did you mean - " her voice was kind - "that some things have changed?"

His expression gave him away. He looked down but only for an instant. When his eyes found hers again, he gave her a sad smile. "I know who you are, Lauren Gibbs."

"Lauren Gibbs?" She lowered her chin. How much did he know? She kept her tone light, not wanting to lose what they'd found in the past hour. "Does my fighter pilot read Time magazine?"

The sorrow in his face deepened. "He does."

An awful feeling crept into the moment. A year ago she'd written an article stating that Iraqi residents had no respect for American fighter pilots. She'd quoted one man saying, "They are the epitome of the ugly American. Cowards afraid to face their enemies. Flying overhead and destroying our towns and villages, our homes and neighborhoods with the push of a button."

The article included a brief paragraph detailing a response from the air force and another from the navy, rhetoric about how air strikes were actually more humane because the targets could be pinpointed within a few feet. Had he seen that story? She had the awful feeling that he had. She sighed. "You saw my piece on fighter pilots?"

He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, the love in his eyes still strong. "It was posted at the base for six months." He chuckled. "Just about every fighter pilot wrote a rebuttal. Last time I checked, your story was pretty well surrounded."

She groaned and let her head fall back against the sofa. "Shane . . . " She sat straight again searching his eyes. "How did you wind up on the wrong side of this war?"

He took her hand and in the smoothest sensation he brought it to his lips and kissed it. "The question is - " his voice held no accusation; only the same love from earlier that night - "how did you?"

His words placed a thin line between them. "Shane, just for a minute forget all your naval air training." She was careful not to sound hard or sarcastic. "You're a Christian."

"I am." His kindness didn't waver.

"So Jesus taught about peace, right? He came to bring us peace."

"Actually, He came to bring us life." Shane's words were slow, easy. His eyes still held hers and his tone was relaxed. "Life to the fullest measure."

"Okay, good." She bit her lip. "If He came to bring us life, then how can you be part of a war that kills people?"

"Lauren." He ran his fingers along her forearm. "Conflict has been around since Cain and Abel. For most of time people have fought wars, lots of them with God's approval."

She could feel her blood pressure rising. "Okay." She breathed out, "How can you support a God who would want war? Innocent people killed?" She sat straighter, putting another few inches between her and Shane. "Isn't the goal supposed to be peace?"

"Yes." His voice was a little more intense. "Do you think I don't want peace in Iraq? Peace in Afghanistan?" He pulled one knee up on the sofa and turned to face her. "Because I fly fighter jets?"

The question threw her. She'd had these talks with conservatives before. Even military conservatives. They always trotted out the causes for war: weapons of mass destruction, vicious dictators, torture among civilians. But no matter how long and fast they talked, she felt the same. How did two wrongs make a right? How could the U.S. take a stand against dangerous weapons in Iraq, and then drop dangerous weapons to make its point?

But never, in all her days of reporting in the Middle East, had she heard a military captain say that he wanted peace. She searched his eyes. "Peace, Shane?" Her voice held question marks, nothing more. "You spend your days training fighter pilots how to find and destroy enemy targets, and you want peace?"

He was quiet for a minute. The slight rise in his intensity faded. "Where were you on September 11, 2001?"

She didn't want to talk about the terrorist attacks. It was the same story with half the war supporters she'd interviewed. It made the U.S. military sound like a bunch of whiny kids. They hit us first . . . Still, this was Shane. Regardless of their differences this side of yesterday, she owed him a thoughtful answer. She crossed her arms and pressed her good shoulder into the back of the sofa. "I was in Los Angeles at the office." The memory came sidling up like a smelly drunk at a bar. "I watched it, horrified like everyone else."

"Did you know anyone in those buildings?"

"I didn't." She drew her feet up in front of her and hugged her knees. "But I was one of the reporters on it. I interviewed people in Los Angeles who'd lost friends or family." The sick feeling she'd known all that week came back. "It was awful." She studied his face. Maybe he had other reasons for asking about it. She reached out and touched his hand. "What about you?"

He stared at the fire, his eyes full of something she couldn't make out. "I was in Reno, at the Top Gun facility. Got a call the night before from a buddy of mine, went through navy fighter pilot training with him. Only Benny didn't want to be a career fighter pilot. He wanted to be a firefighter. FDNY." Shane squinted at what must've been the garish glare of the past. "We talked about his wife and kids, the great weather they were having." Shane smiled at Lauren. "I told him he should come out to Top Gun and take a ride in an F 16 with me."

Lauren knew what was coming. She looped her fingers around his. "He was on duty the next morning?"

"He was." Shane looked at the fire again. "His wife told me he made it to the sixty-first floor before the South Tower fell." He met her eyes again. "They never found his body."

She waited a minute, giving the story time to fill her heart. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." He gave her fingers alight squeeze. "I've thought a lot about peace. I studied it in school, believe it or not."

"Really?" Her tone told him she was teasing in a gentle sort of way. She tried to picture him hanging out with the people she knew in college, the journalism students. "You wore tie-dye and sandals in college, did you?"

"Close." He chuckled. "The sandals, anyway." He rested his arm along the sofa back and ran his fingers over her shoulder. "I didn't want what my parents had. Materialism and business investments and a life of plastic facades. I knew that much." He gave her a serious frown. "College was interesting for me. I asked a lot of questions, studied the history of civilizations and what exactly constituted peace."

She was impressed. A large number of her liberal friends hadn't done that. Yes, she agreed with them, but that didn't mean their opinions were based on fact. Hers were. She interviewed people all day long. If anyone should have the facts on why war wasn't worth fighting, she should.

He must have seen she was interested, because he continued. "Time and again I saw the same thing, Lauren." His eyes implored her to hear him. Really hear him. "I saw that we could have peace only through strength."

Another military motto, one she'd heard bantered about far too often. Still, she stopped herself from reacting. "What does that mean, Shane? Peace through strength?"

He gave her question some thought. "I guess it's like this. We've lost an awful lot of men in this war, and that's a tragedy. One life lost is a tragedy. But when we look at the plans the terrorists had for this country, I see the benefit of strength. The peaceful benefit." He ran his thumb over the top of her hand. "They had very detailed plans, Lauren. I saw them. They thought they'd make September 11 look like a minor incident."

Even after a lifetime of standing on the other side of this fence, she wanted to understand him. If things had been different, they wouldn't be having this talk. No doubt she would've been on his side, searching for a way to justify the things she inherently believed. "So . . . "

He held his hands out to the sides, face up. "They haven't struck again, Lauren. Their plans fell to rubble. Their rubble."

"They messed with the wrong people, right?" Again she was careful to sound open, interested. Not condemning. "That's what you're saying?"

"Sort of. I mean you're over there, Lauren. You walk down the streets and shop in the villages and see the people." He paused. "When's the last time you saw an air raid, an air attack by a U.S. fighter pilot?" A partial smile played on his lips. "The only reason we're still there is to help the new government get set up. And that's peaceful, right? We pull out and, well, you know what'll break loose over there."

She thought about the attack on the orphanage. "It's already loose. I didn't make the article up, Shane." She sighed. "The people I talk to live in fear and stay indoors most of the time."

"Yes." A hint of frustration crept into his tone. "Because those are the people your magazine wants you to talk to."

"Okay." She eased her feet back to the floor, her eyes never leaving his. "You think we have peace through strength because we flexed our muscle, right? We showed them. If they thought they could mess with us, they had another thing coming. Something like that?" Her opinions were coming through a little too loudly. She drew a slow breath to bring down her tone. "But maybe that only makes us bullies."

"Lauren." He took hold of both her hands. "Do you really want to talk about this tonight?"

"Do you really want to avoid it?" Her answer was quick, and regret filled her. She ached to go to him, lose herself in his arms, and kiss him all night long. "I'm sorry."

He reached for her and she slid closer to him. "You see things your way, and I see them mine. Can't we be okay with that for now?"

"Yes." She looked at him. Their faces were close again. "For now."

"Meaning what?" He angled his body toward her, tracing her jaw with his finger.

"Meaning we don't have to talk about it this week, Shane. We can figure it out later, when it's time to go home."

He kissed her then, and in the time it took her to respond, all the passion from earlier was back. He eased himself from her and took a breath. That's when she noticed his eyes - they were eyes that belonged to a seventeen-year-old boy she'd promised to love forever.

"You're forgetting one thing."

"What?" She didn't want to talk. She wanted to be lost in his arms, searching desperately for a way back to what they'd shared before.

"You forgot that this is home. Here." He kissed her again and another time. "Right here, with me."

She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she wanted to. But she couldn't. He was wrong. Home was her apartment in Afghanistan, where she wrote stories that shed light on the reasons war could never bring about peace. Home was hitting the dusty roads with Scanlon beside her, his big canvas camera bag sitting on the seat between them. But she couldn't say so.

Not when she planned to spend the next week pretending he was right.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Emily woke to the clipped sound of a single siren.

She sat straight up and looked at her dresser alarm clock. Six a. m. Lights were flashing outside the window and suddenly she was awake enough to understand what was going on. Her heart felt like it was turning somersaults inside her chest. Something must've happened with Papa.

Her mom was sleeping in the office; her dad on the living room sofa. Now she and her mother met in the hallway and hurried down the stairs. They were halfway down when they saw her grandpa on a stretcher, being taken out through the front door. Her grandma was saying, "I'll be right out. I want to ride with him." She shot them a quick glance. "He had a seizure. They want to admit him, just in case there's something they can do."

Near the side entrance to the living room, Emily's dad walked up and gave his head a quick shake. "Mrs. Anderson, can I do anything?"

"Bring the others." Her grandma ran into the entryway with Papa's two blankets. Then she took quick hold of Shane's wrist and looked at the rest of them. "He's stable. He'll be okay for now. Come later this morning, okay?"

Emily padded down the stairs the rest of the way and darted over to her grandmother, giving her a fast hug. She had never been more afraid in all her life. "Tell him we're praying for him."

"I will." She paused, and Emily thought she looked about to collapse. "The doctor told me seizures would mean he was close to the end." She took another step toward the door. "I thought you should know." She bid them good-bye and then she left.

The three of them stood in the entryway, listening to the ambulance pull away. Every few seconds the sirens gave a short blast - probably so they wouldn't disturb the neighborhood any more than necessary.

Emily's throat was tight. "I can't go back to sleep."

"No." Her mother took slow steps the rest of the way down. She wore a white T-shirt and what looked like black running pants. "Let's go sit on the couch."

Emily couldn't help but notice the way her mom went to her dad and slid one arm under his and up along his back. Emily had wondered what their time alone would bring about, and now she had her answer. They were happy and in love and probably making plans to get married. Just like she'd always dreamed. But there was one problem. In her dream, Papa wasn't on the verge of dying just when everything was coming together.

They sat on the sofa, her dad in the middle, and for the next two hours they took turns talking and dozing off, leaning their heads on each others' shoulders. At eight o'clock her dad stood and stretched. "I'm going to take a shower." He looked at the clock near the front door. "Let's try to leave in an hour."

When he was gone, Emily slid closer to her mother. She was terrified about her grandpa, but she couldn't let that stop her from enjoying this time with her mom. For a few moments she leaned into her, resting her head on her mother's good shoulder. Then she sat up and gave her mom a hopeful look. "So, is he just like you remembered?"

"Shane?"

Her mother's reaction wasn't quite right. She smiled, but she didn't light up like she should've.

"He's very handsome, if that's what you mean."

"He is." Emily giggled. "But I meant the other stuff." She scrunched her shoulders up a few inches. "Do you think you'll be back together after this?"

Her mom looked at her, and then let out a sad, frustrated sigh. "Honey, seeing him again . . . this time together is wonderful." Her tone softened. "But don't get your hopes up." She sighed and took hold of Emily's hand. "We've grown up a lot in eighteen years."

Emily tried not to gulp. She'd wondered but been afraid to ask. With their opposing occupations, her mom and dad had to be in opposite corners, for sure. "It's about the war, right?"

"That's one area." Her answer was quick and it shook Emily's confidence. "We've become very different people."

"It doesn't seem that way. Not when I look at you."

She smiled. "I like being with him. That part's easy."

"Well . . . then maybe it'll work out after all."

"Emily." Her mom lowered her chin, and in a nice way her look said the conversation was over. "Let's just enjoy this week." Her smile faded. "We have Papa to think about. That's most important right now, okay?"

Her answer didn't come easily. "Okay."

She wanted to scream or run or keep them together in this same house until the end of time. But none of that would bring her parents together the way they'd been before, in a way where their politics and differences wouldn't matter.

Only God could do that.

Emily's questions had Lauren off balance all day. But she couldn't spend much time thinking about Shane or how they'd changed or whether they could find something again when this week was over. Her father was far too sick to think of anything but him and her mother and how quickly the end was coming.

She and Shane and Emily arrived at the hospital just after nine. Her mother met them in the hall outside his room. Lauren took the lead, meeting her mom halfway and taking her hands. "How is he?"

"It's moving so fast. It could be anytime." She looked down and their foreheads came together.