But he paused for only a short head rub before he rushed to Jane.
Her mood only rose higher. The plastic toy was more than a little slimy, and Griffin snickered at her lame excuse for a toss, but who wouldn't be charmed by the canine's exuberant greeting? "Good dog," she said as Private raced back.
She might have even skipped a little. Good day.
"Hey, can you get that manila envelope?" Griffin asked. "I'll bring in the bags."
She held the bulky thing in two hands as she followed him into the cottage. The memory of her first visit rose in her mind as she scuffed her feet on the welcome mat that advised the visitor to abandon hope. Take that, she thought, scraping her soles against the words All Ye Who Enter Here a second time for good measure.
He carried their bags toward the bedrooms. Jane headed for the office. The lousy Frisbee toss should have been forewarning, but she didn't think of it as she paused in the doorway to lob the envelope at the desk. It slid straight across the unencumbered surface to fall to the floor, some of the contents spilling.
Grumbling to herself, she crossed the sisal area rug. Everything had landed upside down. She crouched to gather a sheaf of papers. Underneath them was a dozen photographs. Their subject matter caught her off guard, her hand going lax so the pictures scattered across the floor in an array of images.
A shadow loomed in the doorway. Griffin stood there, with Private at his side. She glanced toward him as his gaze trained on the glossy paper. All expression on his handsome face was wiped clean and his fingers curled in the dog's dark fur.
"Erica and I had been embedded about six months when they sent a photographer," he said. His expression remained closed off, but his voice was matter-of-fact. "Believe it or not, we'd had a chance to clean up when those were snapped. Still look a little worse for wear."
Jane gazed back at the photos. Some were posed, some were candid. In each, Griffin and his colleague were front and center. You couldn't miss the effects of their half a year at war. They were both thinner than the "On Our Way" image. Their clothes were ragged.
One shot pictured Griffin from behind. He stood on the edge of a ravine, his arm around Erica's shoulders. Her face was turned in profile, her expression clearly one of...
Love.
There was no doubt in Jane's mind that the woman reporter had been in love with Griffin. Glancing at him now, taking in his tense pose and rigid expression, she realized he must have reciprocated her feelings. Jane didn't know why she hadn't come to this conclusion before...it made perfect sense. Two intelligent, good-looking people with common interests and a common goal. Add to that the intense atmosphere of war, and falling in love seemed inevitable. Ernest Hemingway was famous for a novel with similar elements.
From the beginning, Jane had known Griffin's memoir would include stories of people he'd lived and breathed beside. Some who had been wounded. Some who had died. From the beginning, Jane had known the project would be difficult for him.
A chill washed over her skin as all her happy mood dissipated. She didn't want to think it had anything to do with this new revelation regarding Griffin's heart. They didn't have feelings for each other, after all. They'd been clear about the boundaries. It must be that the fog was returning to the beach early.
But as the room went darker, for the first time Jane was forced to recognize that - even without any particular attachment to Griffin - his project might also be tough on her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AFTER THAT INTERLUDE in the pop-up tent, David had hoped that he and Tess had reached a turning point. The point where she turned around and moved back home. But she'd remained at Crescent Cove, and he remained stymied.
It seemed apropos that he was once again slowed by sand filling his shoes as he trudged behind Duncan and Oliver on their way to the beach bungalow. Soccer practice had finished early, but the boys were still red-faced, and their hair was sweaty around the edges. Racing toward the surf, they shed shirts, shoes, long socks and shin guards. "No going into the water unless your mom is watching," he cautioned them, bending down to swipe up the discards.
Ahead was the patch of sand where he'd pitched the tent. She'd busted him