those courageous men died, but I am still grateful and awed and devastated by their sacrifice.
Body counts are part of war. But numbers are cold and hard to comprehend. What does it mean, 9,387—the number of Americans buried so many years ago, in that cemetery in France?
9,387 Americans who never came home. 9,387 lives that did not continue.
9,387 Rosies.
Frankly, I don’t know what makes me more sad—thinking that each and every one of the brave men and woman who have died serving this country had their own Rosie, who grieves for them, or thinking that they hadn’t lived long enough to find their Rosie yet.
So I sat down and wrote “When Frank Met Rosie” because, since we went to war in Afghanistan and Iraq, there have been many thousands more Franks and Rosies. As of July 2012, as I update this piece, the number of servicemen and -women who have died in Afghanistan and Iraq is 6,527. That number may have grown by the time you read these words. 6,527 should not just be a number that makes us shake our head in remorse as we go about our daily lives. Those 6,527 are people who loved and were loved. They are—each and every one of them—stories cut tragically short.
Frank really wanted me to write his story—the good part. The part that happened
before
he lay dying in helopilot Teri Howe’s arms on that hotel lobby floor. Before he knew that that fortune-teller was right—that he
was
going to break Rosie’s heart.
The most important part of Frank’s story was that he didn’t wait.
He ran—at full speed—into a relationship with a terrific woman who saw him clearly and loved him for who he was. Thank goodness for that because, even though he didn’t know it, the blind palm reader hit the nail on the head—he was almost out of time.
Life is way too short, and Frank and Rosie embraced it—and each other—completely.
Since I’ve written his story, Frank O’Leary doesn’t haunt me as much anymore. Oh, he’ll pop in from time to time—he wants me to write a major lottery win for Rosie. And he’s starting to nudge me to introduce her as a character in the main series of books. He’s getting tired of her being so lonely. He also hopes that you enjoyed reading about the start of the very best part of his too-short life.
W HEN A LYSSA AND S AM M ET THE D ENTIST
Autumn 2003
This story takes place after Gone Too Far and before Flashpoint .
Sam was hovering.
He’d already made up a multitude of excuses to come into the bathroom while Alyssa was in the shower, and now, while she brushed her teeth, he lurked just outside the door.
She’d scared him tonight.
They took turns when out on assignment. Tonight, Sam had been on lookout, hiding on the hillside, watching for headlights that would announce an approaching car, as Alyssa jimmied the cheap lock on the door to Steve Hathaway’s ramshackle cabin.
The place had been deserted. In fact, this entire part of the county was deserted—they were at least forty miles west of the booming metropolis of New Hope, in northern New Hampshire, population 473 at the height of ski season.
Getting inside that cabin undetected had been laughably easy.
Alyssa now dried her face on the plush resort towel as Sam checked up on her for the twenty-seventh time since they’d returned to their suite here in the ski lodge.
“I’m really okay,” she told him.
“I know,” he said.
Sam bent over backward to make sure he never saidanything that might make her think he doubted her ability to take care of herself.
Earlier tonight, when she’d pushed open that cabin door, switched on her penlight and gone inside, Sam had spoken into his radio from his perch on the hill.
“Lys, I can’t see you.” He’d worked hard to keep his voice sounding calm, relaxed. Filled with Texas. Because he knew that
she
knew he dropped his honeyed drawl when he was stressed. “Talk to me.”
She’d flashed her little light across the walls and floors, giving him a running
Body counts are part of war. But numbers are cold and hard to comprehend. What does it mean, 9,387—the number of Americans buried so many years ago, in that cemetery in France?
9,387 Americans who never came home. 9,387 lives that did not continue.
9,387 Rosies.
Frankly, I don’t know what makes me more sad—thinking that each and every one of the brave men and woman who have died serving this country had their own Rosie, who grieves for them, or thinking that they hadn’t lived long enough to find their Rosie yet.
So I sat down and wrote “When Frank Met Rosie” because, since we went to war in Afghanistan and Iraq, there have been many thousands more Franks and Rosies. As of July 2012, as I update this piece, the number of servicemen and -women who have died in Afghanistan and Iraq is 6,527. That number may have grown by the time you read these words. 6,527 should not just be a number that makes us shake our head in remorse as we go about our daily lives. Those 6,527 are people who loved and were loved. They are—each and every one of them—stories cut tragically short.
Frank really wanted me to write his story—the good part. The part that happened
before
he lay dying in helopilot Teri Howe’s arms on that hotel lobby floor. Before he knew that that fortune-teller was right—that he
was
going to break Rosie’s heart.
The most important part of Frank’s story was that he didn’t wait.
He ran—at full speed—into a relationship with a terrific woman who saw him clearly and loved him for who he was. Thank goodness for that because, even though he didn’t know it, the blind palm reader hit the nail on the head—he was almost out of time.
Life is way too short, and Frank and Rosie embraced it—and each other—completely.
Since I’ve written his story, Frank O’Leary doesn’t haunt me as much anymore. Oh, he’ll pop in from time to time—he wants me to write a major lottery win for Rosie. And he’s starting to nudge me to introduce her as a character in the main series of books. He’s getting tired of her being so lonely. He also hopes that you enjoyed reading about the start of the very best part of his too-short life.
W HEN A LYSSA AND S AM M ET THE D ENTIST
Autumn 2003
This story takes place after Gone Too Far and before Flashpoint .
Sam was hovering.
He’d already made up a multitude of excuses to come into the bathroom while Alyssa was in the shower, and now, while she brushed her teeth, he lurked just outside the door.
She’d scared him tonight.
They took turns when out on assignment. Tonight, Sam had been on lookout, hiding on the hillside, watching for headlights that would announce an approaching car, as Alyssa jimmied the cheap lock on the door to Steve Hathaway’s ramshackle cabin.
The place had been deserted. In fact, this entire part of the county was deserted—they were at least forty miles west of the booming metropolis of New Hope, in northern New Hampshire, population 473 at the height of ski season.
Getting inside that cabin undetected had been laughably easy.
Alyssa now dried her face on the plush resort towel as Sam checked up on her for the twenty-seventh time since they’d returned to their suite here in the ski lodge.
“I’m really okay,” she told him.
“I know,” he said.
Sam bent over backward to make sure he never saidanything that might make her think he doubted her ability to take care of herself.
Earlier tonight, when she’d pushed open that cabin door, switched on her penlight and gone inside, Sam had spoken into his radio from his perch on the hill.
“Lys, I can’t see you.” He’d worked hard to keep his voice sounding calm, relaxed. Filled with Texas. Because he knew that
she
knew he dropped his honeyed drawl when he was stressed. “Talk to me.”
She’d flashed her little light across the walls and floors, giving him a running
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