The Summer Hideaway by Susan Wiggs Page B

a life that meant something, rather than waiting around for life to find him.
    They landed in Newark. Civilians whipped out mobile phones and soldiers jumped up, grabbing their gear for the final push to the jetway. Families were gathered just past the TSA security point. There were women with kids clinging to them, spouses holding hand-lettered signs, parents and siblings, faces beaming through bouquets of flowers and balloons. A couple of contraband pets had been smuggled in.
    Returning soldiers were enveloped by their loving families, many of them literally surrounded and swallowed up. Tears flowed and laughter erupted. Camera flashes strobed the area. Spontaneous applause erupted from onlookers.
    Ross skirted the excited crowd, his duffel bag balanced on one shoulder and held in place with an upraised arm. Just seeing the rush of love that greeted everyone filled him with satisfaction. These soldiers had earned it. They’d fought and bled and wept and despaired, and they had earned the right to be home with their loved ones at last.
    He was not naive enough to believe every single one of them was headed for some life of unrelenting familial bliss. Indeed, they would face hardships and disappointment and setbacks, just like anyone else. But not now. Not today.
    He left the homecoming lovefest behind and scanned the throng for his mother. He tried not to seem too eager or desperate. But hell, he’d been gone a long time, long enough to start thinking of her fondly and remembering the good times.
    There was a group at the back of the crowd, gathered under a sign labeled Any Soldier. It appeared to be somegrassroots organization meant to provide a warm welcome home to any service person, particularly those who, for whatever reason, didn’t have anyone to meet them on the ground.
    Did they really think some soldier would avail himself of their greeting? They might as well be holding up signs labeled Losers Register Here.
    To his surprise, a big-shouldered guy with sergeant stripes approached the group. At first he was tentative, his bashfulness at odds with his massive size. Someone in the group noticed him, and he was immediately enclosed by the friendly mass. After that, a few more soldiers approached, some looking almost furtive, but then pleased to have a hand to shake, a friendly word to exchange.
    Ross walked on past the strangers. Any port in a storm, he supposed. Family meant different things to different people.
    To others, he thought, spying his own name on a hand-lettered sign, it meant not a whole hell of a lot.
    The sign read R. Bellamy, and it was held by a white-gloved, uniformed stranger in a banded hat. He wore a badge that said Royal Limo Service.
    Great, thought Ross. His mother had sent a car service to pick him up from the airport. His stomach sank, and he mentally kicked himself for expecting anything else.
    “That’s me,” he said to the limo driver, offering a brief handshake. “Ross Bellamy.”
    “Welcome to New York, sir,” the driver said with a vague accent. “My name is Pinto. Can I take your bag?”
    “Thanks.” Ross handed over the duffel.
    “Baggage claim is this way,” said Pinto. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”
    “It was fine.”
    “Where you coming from, then?”
    “Afghanistan, the eastern part of the country, by way of Mobile, Alabama.”
    Pinto gave a low whistle. “You mean you was on deployment.” He set down the duffel and shook Ross’s hand. “Glad you’re back, man.”
    “Yeah.” The handshake felt ridiculously good.
    The limo was actually a Town Car, which was a relief to Ross. A big stretch limo ran the risk of seeming ostentatious. The plush leather of the car’s upholstery sighed under his weight as he slid in and fastened his seat belt. His mother had clearly ordered the VIP package. There was an array of amenities—ice and drinks, cocktail snacks, mints, a phone for customers’ use.
    He picked it up and dialed his mother’s number. “Mrs.