the job. It was her time to get down to work, and that's just what she'd do. As a book doctor, beyond brainstorming, editing and fact-checking, another of her responsibilities was to keep the client in a creative mood and upbeat about the current project. So she turned to the office's doorway and smiled as he crossed the threshold.
"Good morning," she said. "Ready to get started?"
He stood, steaming mug in hand. Today he wore a pair of battered jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that was missing a button or two. His hair seemed to have grown inches overnight, and its gleaming darkness only made the blue of his eyes appear more intense. Without saying a word, his gaze roamed about the room.
Jane cleared her throat. "I used surface-safe double-sided tape."
He looked at her, one eyebrow raised.
"For the photos," she clarified. In the packet Frank had delivered had been a second set of photographs - shots of the platoon soldiers at work and at rest. She'd posted them about the room in hopes they'd help Griffin excavate his memories. "I wouldn't take a chance on them peeling off any paint."
"Of course you wouldn't," he murmured.
She walked to the desk and lifted a thick stack of papers. "And there was this, Griffin. You have a little over two hundred manuscript pages of the memoir already written."
He looked at the bundle of white pages as if he'd never seen them before. "I do?"
She ruffled them with one hand. "From the date on the header, you were working on them the last couple of months you were in Afghanistan."
He blinked. "I'd forgotten. Completely put it from my mind." His short laugh didn't sound all that amused. "I dumped the laptop and the memory sticks I used over there after...before I came back."
Once Erica had been killed? It made sense that he'd take such action after losing the person he loved. She remembered him saying, It's up to me to keep everybody safe, and realized just how shattering the loss must have been to a man who believed that. Jane swallowed. "But not before you emailed what you had to your publisher. There's a lot to be done in the next couple of weeks, but if you can get this polished and put into shape, you'll make your deadline."
"The next couple of weeks?"
Oh, boy. He really had been sticking his head in the sand. "That's what you have, Griffin, remember? Two more weeks before the first half of your memoir is due. Two more weeks with me at the beach house."
He ran a hand over his hair. "I've lost track of time."
With the whole dispassionate thing going on now, he strolled farther into the room, surveying the fifty or so photos she'd arranged. Most of them were five-by-sevens or eight-by-tens. They showed soldiers tussling, sleeping, eating. Walking on patrol, shooting weapons, standing guard. From across the room, he glanced over at Jane. "You didn't include any of Erica."
Yeah. Well. She'd been trying to spare his feelings, of course. "It's because - "
"She's dead?" he suggested, cool as you please.
The chill ran down Jane's spine as she shrugged.
Griffin turned back to the photos. After another moment's study, he reached out and yanked one from the wall. The kid in it was sitting on his bunk, playing a guitar. "So's he. Dead." In two steps he was before another. This young man was flexing his bicep, showing off a vicious tattoo. "Him too."
Oh, God.
Another step. "Also gone." He snatched away an image of a soldier mugging for the camera.
More cold trickled down Jane's back as she stared at his hand clutching the pictures. His shoulders were stiff, and she could feel the tension emanating from him. She hadn't seen this side of him before, and it made her want to both exit the room and enfold him in a comforting embrace. But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she couldn't imagine he'd allow her to touch him now. It wouldn't be what he wanted.
She didn't have, she thought, anything he needed.
Feeling helpless, she saw him on the move again. "Griffin - "
"Lost an arm." Another photo ripped away. "Shot in the stomach. This officer - " he indicated a photo of a dusty figure, distinguishing features hidden by helmet, flak jacket and sunglasses " - I heard was shot and killed a month ago. A full-bird colonel. I'd told him all about the cove before I left Afghanistan. He loved the sound of the place