From Ashes to Honor by Loree Lough Page A

needed to cry on his shoulder. Besides, if he hoped to administer his usual dose of sympathy and patience, he needed a clear head.Better for him and her if he stopped on the way home from work, instead, with a couple of bags of the boys' favorite fast food.
    He knew exactly how she'd react when she saw the familiar golden arches on the bags, first listing a dozen university studies that stated the negative after-effects of cheeseburgers, French fries, and chocolate shakes, then blasting him with "that stuff is simply horrible for growing children!" After a few minutes of the boys' unrelenting pleas, she'd invite Austin into the parlor, where she'd slide the pocket doors shut so the boys wouldn't hear her list the reasons she resented Eddy. And missed Eddy.And wished Eddy had chosen a safer line of work. As usual, he'd pray all the way to her house that he'd wouldn't lose his cool and blurt "For the love of God, Cora, get some counseling, why don't you, so those terrific boys of yours can look up to you, instead of looking out for you!"
    He gave God the credit for reminding him what Mercy had said during one of their first sessions, and thanked Mercy for the words that kept his lips zipped: "Not everyone heals at the same pace or in the same way." It had taken him years to break free of his alcohol-induced prison of self-pity, and he hadn't been saddled with the care and well being of two impressionable kids. Who was he to judge how she handled her grief?
    A shard of sunlight pierced the galley porthole, illuminating the round-faced captain's clock. Austin padded into the companionway and opened its glass-and-brass door. He'd always loved the gritty whirr-purr of the key, turning the gears that would keep the timepiece ticking for another day. A small thing, really, yet it gave him a sense of calm reassurance, because he knew he could depend on it to chime every hour on the hour. "Too bad people can't be as reliable," he said, closing the door.
    On the way out, he grabbed a banana to quiet his rumbling stomach, and, while walking to his parking space, heard the steady putt-putt-putt of a boat motor. At this hour, it couldn't be anyone other than Jed Card, heading out to set his crab pots. The retired Marine never expected a big haul, but if he got one, he celebrated like a kid on Christmas morning.Mostly, though, Jed got his kicks from gliding up and down the Chesapeake's shores, checking his lines and offering two or three free Maryland blues to anyone who called the bay "home."
    Jed untied his aluminum johnboat from the piling and tossed the thick rope onto the deck. "What're you doin' up so early, Tugger?"
    He'd stuck Austin with the handle two days after the tugboat had been delivered to the dock, and except for Bud and Flora, that's what his neighbors had been calling him ever since.
    "Same thing you are."
    And Jed only nodded. The war-hardened former soldier was but one of the few who understood Austin's peculiar sleep habits—and his deep need for privacy. He could count on one hand—and have fingers left over—how many people had heard his 9/11 story, and if it hadn't been for that night several years ago, before he joined AA and returned to his Christian roots, Jed wouldn't know the details either.
    A pang of gratitude clutched Austin's heart. Like Bud and Flora, Jed was, as his grandpa would say, "good people." In a pinch, he could call on any one of them, and they'd come running.Austin may not have a slew of blood kin, but he had the quiet reassurance of solid family ties, thanks to these three."So tell me, Card, when are you gonna admit you're the only one in this marina who operates on military time?"
    "'Bout the time you quit startin' every sentence with the word 'so.'" His boisterous guffaw startled the roosting water birds into a wing-flapping frenzy. Squinting as their downy gull and tern feathers floated into the boat, Jed added, "Either that, or when I get my viking funeral. Whichever comes first."He