“He was just trying to keep me from making a run for it,” John said with a sigh. Even after all these years, his palms still went sweaty remembering that first touch. “Which was smart, because I was pretty much terrified out of my gourd.”
“I would’ve pegged you for the troublemaker,” Marjorie commented.
His bark of laughter felt good. Real. Not a black-and-white memory. “Not around Francis Douglas Hanson. He was enough of a troublemaker for both of us. It was probably better that way. His parents were the softer touch.”
“Than…?”
“My aunt and uncle. That’s who I lived with.”
“You’ve never talked about family.”
He shrugged. “That’s because I’ve tried forgetting I ever had one. My mother died when I was born, and my dad got shot down during the war. Aunt Joyce was my dad’s older sister.
