Emily watched from the kitchen table, one palm resting against her belly. The baby shifted as if responding to her racing heart.
“Dad.”
He dried his hands, folded the towel carefully, and stood by the sink.
“Fort Sheridan was where I was stationed before you were born,” he said at last. “Your mother and I lived near the base for a short time. It was early in my career. I was young. Too proud. Too sure that following orders meant understanding them.”
Emily waited.
“Linda was there,” he continued. “Not as family. Not as anyone important to me. She worked in an administrative office connected to base housing. Her name then was Linda Whitaker.”
Whitaker.
Emily’s breath caught. “Claire Whitman.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Claire’s last name,” Emily said. “Whitman. Could that be connected?”
“I don’t know.”
But his face said he had wondered the same thing.
