Chapter 2

Colonel Robert Burnett walked into his late son’s bedroom and turned on the light. He stood by the large picture window that overlooked the backyard. Even though it was dark outside, he could make out the marquee erected for Lance’s wake in two days.

“You shouldn’t have yelled at them,” said a voice from the doorway. The Colonel turned to face his wife.

“What? Shouldn’t have yelled at who, Ellen?”

“Those nice young men who put up the marquee.”

The Colonel huffed. “If they’d have done what I told them in the first place then I wouldn’t have had to yell at them.” He sighed. “That’s the problem with the youth of today, they always think they know better.”

“But they did know better, didn’t they? They’re experts. That’s why we’re paying them so much.”

The Colonel turned to face the window again. “They wouldn’t last two seconds in the army with an attitude like that.”

“But they’re not in the army, Bobby. And neither are you anymore.” She walked across the room to stand by her husband and put her hand on his shoulder. He turned his head and looked into her eyes. “Bobby, I know retirement’s been difficult for you. You’re so used to people doing what you tell them, when you tell them and how you tell them. But the real world isn’t like that. Sometimes other people are right. Even Beth.” The Colonel scowled but held his tongue. “Of course, that would also mean that sometimes you’re wrong. It’s a shocking thought, I know.”

He looked out of the window again. “I still think that the marquee would look better over there under the oak.”

Ellen shook her head. “Oh, Bobby. You’re a stubborn old mule, but I love you. I’m going to bed. Don’t be too long.” She kissed his cheek.

The Colonel nodded. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Ellen strolled away. She stopped at the doorway, smiled at him and then left him with his thoughts. He wished she hadn’t—his thoughts hadn’t been very pleasant for the past couple of weeks. There was a nagging sense of something that he was sure couldn’t be guilt.

Could it?

The Colonel had been so very proud of his son. He’d watched him grow from a cheeky small boy into a young man of great honour. He’d encouraged and supported him. And disciplined him when he needed it. From High School quarterback and Valedictorian to graduating from West Point summa cum laude, The Colonel’s pride in his son had grown with each achievement.

Lance hadn’t just followed in his father’s footsteps; he’d exceeded every single one of them. The Colonel left the window and stood before the shelf he’d erected many years ago to hold Lance’s trophies. Each one gleamed—Ellen had taken to polishing them every day ever since Lance was first posted to Iraq.

The Colonel had been so pleased when Lance was commissioned in the army. He knew that his son would make an excellent officer.

He picked one of the trophies—for little league baseball— and ran his finger over the engraving of his son’s name. Lance had excelled at everything he did. The least that The Colonel could do was to give his son a funeral to match—despite anything his daughter said.