"Stubborn."
Claire laughed once, surprised by it, then covered her mouth as though she had committed an offense. Marisol did not look away, and the permission in that silence allowed Claire to continue. A private detail that Hollister had never asked about came out as a confession.
"He wanted our front door blue; I wanted yellow. We never settled it. After he died, I painted it blue. I never told anyone why."
Marisol looked at the faint blue paint beneath Claire's fingernails. She imagined a widow standing alone with a brush, choosing the color of the man she missed because every other choice had been made for her. The thought lodged painfully beneath her ribs.
"Blue's a good color. Brave."
Claire stared down at her program. Daniel's photograph smiled up from the paper beneath a short account of his service, followed by the quotation attributed to Hollister about a brave soldier dying in his arms. For years, Claire had rehearsed that sentence until it felt like something Daniel had given her.
"Brock says Daniel's last words were, 'Tell Claire I love her.' It's all I have. Is that what he said?"
"That's what Brock told me."
It was the narrowest truthful answer Marisol could manage. Brock had said those words to her, too, when his account reached her through the official investigation, but she had known them to be false. She could not tell Claire the truth beside a public garden while cameras waited inside, not without giving her a little space to decide whether she wanted to hear it.
"After the program, would you give me ten minutes alone?"
Claire turned fully toward her. Something about Marisol's careful voice frightened her, and yet she did not rise. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the paper.
"Do I know you?"
"No. But I knew him. I was with him at the end."
Claire's face lost its color. Marisol saw a dozen questions forming, but heavy footsteps sounded on the gravel before any could be asked. Hollister emerged from the building with Rick behind him, and his smile appeared the moment he saw the two women together.
"Claire, Priya needs you for the unveiling. Be careful with strangers—we've had fraud at these events."
"Fraud?"
Marisol saw Claire's confusion harden into embarrassment at the implication that she had been careless with her own husband's memory. Hollister offered Claire an arm, and after one final look at Marisol she allowed him to lead her away. Marisol remained beside the fountain until they disappeared behind the hedge.
Gene came around the corner a minute later, moving slowly but watching the entrance. He had seen Rick speak urgently into his phone and had recognized the practiced way men gathered for trouble. The old medic's voice was light, but his eyes were not.
"Marisol. Sweetheart, that big one's whispering to his boys. They're coming for you."
"I know."
Gene looked at her handbag, which she held almost protectively against her hip. He did not ask to see what was inside, nor did he tell her to make peace with the people in the hall. Instead, he offered what he had offered frightened crews decades earlier: the simple assurance that she would not be left alone.
"Whatever you're carrying, don't carry it alone."