Читать книгу The Top Gun's Return - Kathleen Creighton - Страница 11

The guest residence had been privately built by a nonprofit foundation to accommodate the families of military personnel undergoing treatment at the medical facility. It was an imposing structure of stone and slate made hospitable by the boxes filled with tulips, daffodils and hyacinths that adorned every window. As Tristan drank in the sight, the lump that seemed never far away these days came back into his throat. It had been a long time since he had seen daffodils.

The sedan in which he was riding, a modest Mercedes, rolled to a stop beside the building’s main entrance. Its driver, a young airman whose name Tristan could not remember, got out and came around to open his door for him.

The man sitting beside him in the back seat touched his arm. Al Sharpe, the air force major assigned as his escort, or “shadow,” asked quietly, “Would you like me to see you inside?”

“Thanks, I’ll take it from here.” Tristan’s attention was engaged with employing the cane he’d been given to lever himself out of the car. He wasn’t happy about the cane, but the knee he’d injured punching out of his exploding Hornet eight years ago never had healed properly, and the unaccustomed activity of the past few days seemed to have aggravated it. The doctors had told him that, with good physical therapy and possibly some surgery, he’d likely get most of the use of it back. Eventually.

Most of it. Eventually. He wondered what that meant, and whether it applied to other things he’d lost. Eight years with his wife…watching his little girl grow up. The person he’d been. Nobody was ready to assure him so easily and carelessly about his chances of getting those things back.

Upright, he flashed Major Sharpe his out-of-practice smile. “This is one mission I’d like to fly solo, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand. We’ll be back here for you at twenty-one hundred hours, then.” He paused to hold Tristan’s eyes for a long moment. “Remember what I told you—don’t expect too much of yourself. One step at a time. And meanwhile, if you need anything, you just give me a call.”

“I will. Thanks. I’ll be okay.” He nodded at the airman, who saluted briskly, then shut the door and got back in the car.

As he watched the Mercedes drive away it occurred to Tristan that for the first time in nearly eight years he was on his own. Completely alone. Unsupervised. It was a strange feeling. He turned and made his way slowly along the walkway to the door, thinking about the fact that those limping steps were his first without an escort since he’d regained consciousness in an Iraqi desert to find himself surrounded by gun-toting soldiers with hatred in their eyes.

A cold, sick feeling washed over him. He knew the feeling well; he’d lived with it in many forms, the past eight years. Fear. Strange, he thought, I’m about to see and touch the one person I dreamed of seeing and touching for all those years…the one whose face and voice in my dreams I think at times were the only thing keeping me alive. And I’m scared to death.

At the door he paused, turning to let his gaze sweep once more over the parking lot and the new-leafed trees and red-tiled roofs beyond. The sky was overcast, the sun breaking through the clouds in rays, like fingers. Beside the walkway, planters bright with more tulips, daffodils and hyacinths gave off a heady scent. The air was cool and seemed thin and light in his lungs. So different from prison air, which was thick and heavy. Prison air weighed a man down.

I don’t know who I am, after breathing that air for so long, he thought. I know I’m not the same man I was when I left her. Nowhere near.

And he let them come, then, the questions he’d tried so hard to hold at bay: Will she love me still? Will she want this man—this shell—that I’ve become?

He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the scent of flowers, and from long habit, her image came to fill the blank screen of his mind. Jessie’s face, so vivid he felt as if he could reach out and touch it, every detail etched in his memory as if in stone. Her lips, curved up at the corners, and her nose, crinkled across the bridge with her smile…

But she’ll have changed, too, he reminded himself. They’d warned him to expect that. In eight years, how could she not have changed? And yet—he caught a quick sip of the winey air, as if to give himself courage—she hadn’t remarried, they’d told him. Why, when she’d been told he was dead? Did that mean— What did it mean? It could mean everything. It could mean nothing.

He realized his heart was pounding so hard it was making his chest hurt. He rubbed the spot ruefully as he reached for the door handle. Whatever it was waiting for him beyond that door, postponing it wasn’t going to make it easier to face.

For the life of her, Jessie couldn’t make a simple decision. She’d spent what seemed like hours deciding what to wear, not that that was an unheard-of thing for a woman, but it hadn’t ever been a particular problem for her before. She wore wash-and-wear pants and smocks for work, jeans and sweatshirts or shorts and T-shirts or tank tops at home, depending on the season of the year, and when something more sedate was required, dressy slacks and a blazer, with a sweater or shell, again dictated by the season and the weather. She owned a couple of dresses, basic and eternal in style, which were pretty much reserved for weddings and funerals. What was to decide?

Today, though, she’d stood before the mirror in her room for what seemed like hours, helpless and on the verge of panic. Nothing looked right to her. The blazer she’d worn on the plane seemed too formal, too stiff. The sweater she’d finally chosen was lavender, which used to be Tris’s favorite color. Was it still? Would he remember? Was she trying too hard? Had she put on a few pounds? God, she thought, I look old.

And her hair. She hadn’t had time to shampoo and blow it dry. Should she wear it loose on her shoulders anyway, the way she knew Tris preferred, even though it was definitely looking limp and travel weary? And the gray mixed in with the blond at her temples—oh God, he’d have to be blind not to see that, no matter how she wore it.

She couldn’t decide where to wait for him. Her room—their room—with its hotel-type arrangement of bed, sitting area and desk-table workspace with a separate bathroom, was at least assured of privacy. And the guest house staff had gone out of their way to make it homey, with fresh flowers and a huge basket of fruit on the table. The sweetest thing—there was even a Teddy bear wearing a yellow ribbon around its neck propped on the bed pillows. But, oh, that bed—Lord, it seemed to Jessie it took up most of the space in the room—it dominated…it distracted. She didn’t want Tris to think—she didn’t want to think—her stomach knotted and quivered and she pressed her fist against it to quiet the butterflies. I won’t think about it now.

In the end, she’d decided on the guest house’s common room, just off the lobby reception area and next door to the dining room. It was a gracious, hospitable place, with a gas log fireplace and comfortable furniture arranged for intimate conversation or reading the paper, or settling down with a good book. It was fairly private, being empty at the moment—the house had only a few other occupants besides her, since most of the casualties from the Persian Gulf were being shipped stateside as quickly as possible—but there was no guarantee it would stay that way. So far the news media hadn’t caught up with her, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they did. She also knew the guest house staff, as well as Lieutenant Commander Rees, would do everything they could to shield her until she felt ready to face the onslaught. As she would have to, sooner or later. She’d just as well prepare herself.

Prepare myself? Who am I kidding?

Right on cue, she heard the click of the front door opening, the polite trill of a buzzer announcing someone’s presence in the lobby. I’m not ready, she thought in panic. I’m not ready.

She could hear the receptionist asking if she could be of assistance. The murmur of a masculine response. And—oh God, it was Tristan’s voice. For the first time in more than eight years, she was hearing her husband’s voice.

Her heart leaped like a fractious Thoroughbred in the starting gates, yet inside her head she felt…quiet. Her mind kept touching on unimportant subjects—what she was wearing, what she looked like, her hair again, the photo album, Sammi June, arrangements for dinner, the fire on the hearth, even the furniture in the room—like a nervous housewife waiting for guests to arrive. But when she tried to think of Tristan there was only blankness, like an empty page.

Gradually she realized she was trembling, and that her chest was so tight it seemed impossible she could take a breath. She knew her hands were icy and her stomach a roiling mass of butterflies. But why, she wondered, when my mind feels so calm? Whose body is this? How can it be mine when I have so little control over it?

She couldn’t hear his voice now. She strained to catch the sounds of his footsteps but heard only the surflike thunder of her own blood in her ears.

Then he was there, framed in the doorway. Undeniably Tristan, unbearably thin and a little stooped, though she could see he was trying not to be. He was wearing a borrowed jumpsuit. Beyond that she was certain of nothing; her vision blurred and wavered until she saw him through a shimmering fog.

Oh—she wanted to go to him, but that body of hers again refused to obey the orders her brain gave it. No matter how hard she willed them to, her legs wouldn’t move. Her feet remained firmly rooted to the floor. She wanted to say something—his name, at least—but when she drew a quivering breath in preparation for speech, nothing came out of her mouth.

“Jess…” It was no more than a breath. A whisper. A sigh.

He was coming toward her, limping. She saw that he had a cane, though he didn’t appear to be using it, and when he was within arm’s reach of her he let go of it, seeming unaware or uncaring that it toppled to the floor.

Her shoulders rose in a helpless shrug—an apology for not meeting him halfway. And the breath she’d taken—oh, hours ago, it seemed—remained trapped in her chest, prisoner of the certain knowledge that when she released it a sob would go, too.

His hands were on her shoulders, his fingers rubbing in the softness of her sweater as if he’d never felt its like before. Blurred as her vision was, his face seemed angular and unfamiliar to her, his normally bright, intelligent eyes sunken deep in shadowed sockets. She fought against panic, searching that haggard face for some sign of the Tristan she knew—that arrogant tilt to his mouth, those sun creases at the corners of his eyes? If she could see him clearly—but she dared not blink.

“My God,” he whispered, “you look just the same.”

His fingers walked across her shoulder blades, drawing her hesitantly closer, as though he feared at any second she might vanish in a puff of smoke. He said nothing more as he folded her into his arms but drew a great breath through his nose, as if filling himself up with the scent, the essence of her. As if he’d never be able to get enough of it.

He held her carefully, almost reverently, at first, then closer…harder, and buried his face in her hair. The breath she’d been holding burst from her in a sob. She no longer had to worry about her trembling; it wasn’t possible to tell where hers left off and his began.

She had no way of knowing how long they stood there like that, locked in a silent, almost desperate embrace. It occurred to her that it was like a refuge, that silence…the closeness, a safe place neither of them wanted to leave.

But they must leave it, of course, and confront what had happened to them and what lay ahead. And it came to Jessie in those moments that for the first time in their lives together, she would have to be the one to take the lead.

From the first, maybe because she’d been so young when they’d met, Tristan had been the boss in their relationship, the leader, the strong one. Even when he was away on deployments, he’d made all the important decisions, and more than a few of the small ones, too. But that had changed eight years ago, and there was no going back to the way things had been. This is who I am now, Tris. I’m not the same Jessie you left behind.

Fear shivered through her, and she stirred in his arms. They loosened instantly, though he kept her within their circle, his hands still transmitting minute tremors through the fabric of her sweater and deep into her body. That almost imperceptible shaking nearly undid her. She placed her palms on the front of his jumpsuit and tried to laugh. Then gave that up and sniffed loudly, brushing at her eyes. “Told myself I wouldn’t do this.”

Tristan had told himself the same thing. He’d been raised on the notion that real men don’t cry, although eight years in an Iraqi prison had cured him of that notion. He’d heard tougher, stronger men than himself cry like babies, and he wasn’t ashamed of the times he’d done so himself. But he wasn’t about to let himself cry in front of her. He’d learned a lot about self-control in that prison, too, and if it took every ounce he had, he wasn’t going to let Jess see him shed a tear.

He had his reasons for feeling that way, most of which he would have a hard time explaining in words. Some of it was plain old masculine pride, probably, normal guy stuff about wanting to stand tall in front of his woman, particularly when he was feeling anything but. Some of it was protective; he didn’t want Jess to ever have to try to sleep with the images that filled his nightmares. And maybe the biggest part was a combination of those two things. Partly pride, wanting to be for his woman the man he’d once been, the man she expected him to be—a strong man who believed absolutely in himself, and would never give in to weakness. Partly wanting to protect her from knowing about the man he was now—a man who, in the dark and secret places of his mind cringed and cowered in terror, a man who’d cried and screamed and suffered every imaginable kind of humiliation and degradation, and who wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore.

His thumb stroked a tear across her cheek, and his eyes followed it hungrily, as if the salty moisture were some rare and wonderful elixir that could cure everything that was wrong with him. “It’s incredible,” he said, his voice still hushed and disbelieving. “I was prepared—I told myself you wouldn’t, but you do—you look exactly the same.”

She laughed a shaky denial, while her hand fluttered self-consciously toward her face. It changed direction on the way there and touched his instead. He couldn’t control a wince—it had been too many years since he’d felt a gentle touch—and to cover it he caught her hand in his and held it there.

“You look—” she began, and he rushed to interrupt the lie.

“—like bloody hell. I know. I’m sorry, I wish—”

“You don’t.” She’d expected worse. And yet…she hadn’t really been prepared—how could she be?—for this gaunt and bony stranger. He’d always been strong and fit, all muscle and not an ounce of excess fat. Now his body felt hard and alien to her. “But you’re so thin,” she finished, with another shaky laugh.

His face formed a smile, a wry one, beneath her hand. “I guess maybe I have been missing that Georgia cooking. Get me some good ol’ Southern fried chicken, some of your momma’s biscuits and redeye gravy, and I’ll be filled out in no time.” Under her palm, the smile quivered and vanished. “You might have to be a little bit patient with me for a while, though, darlin’. They tell me I’ve picked up an intestinal bug or two, but they’re working on that. Once that’s cleared up, there’ll be no stopping me. Hey, you know, I used to dream about Colonel Sanders? And sweet corn drippin’ butter, and bacon and tomato sandwiches with those great big tomatoes—your momma still grow those in her garden?”

Grief and anger at what had been done to him overwhelmed her. Fighting it with all her might, she drew her hand from his grasp, touched his jaw and then the front of his jumpsuit. Frowning with the effort it took to force calm into her voice, she cleared her throat and carefully began, “Did they—”

“How’ve you been? How’s Sammi June?”

It was a hurried interruption, meant to keep her from asking the questions he didn’t want to answer. Wasn’t ready to answer, she realized, kicking herself, and vowed there and then not to ask again. He’d tell her when he wanted to, when he could, she told herself. If he could.

She answered him in the same false, bright tone, which nobody ever did better than a Southern woman. “Oh, we’ve been doin’ fine…just great. Momma’s fine…”

“Sammi June?”

“She wanted to come…she’s got midterms—”

He looked dazed. “Midterms…my God. She’s in college? I guess…she would be, wouldn’t she? I don’t know, I just keep thinking she’s still a little girl, you know? I guess…she’s pretty much all grown-up, isn’t she?”

The quaver of wistfulness and bewilderment in his voice, in his face, once again was almost more than Jessie could bear. “Oh, she sure is that,” she said, and her voice, still bright, was thinner now, squeezed past the ache in her throat. “She’s taller than I am, if you can believe that. Oh, here, I brought some pictures—” she snatched up the little album she’d left lying on the couch and thrust it at him “—so it won’t be such a shock when you see her.”

He took the album from her, then simply held it, staring down at it as if he had no idea what it was, as if he’d never seen such a thing before. A shiver rippled through her. There was something in his look, a kind of darkness, that frightened her. As if he’d gone away someplace and left her behind. Someplace terrible.

She realized she was babbling—about Sammi June’s classes, the women’s soccer team she was on—just to fill up that silence.

Tristan slowly lifted his head, then looked around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Is there someplace we could go?” Jessie’s heart gave a queer little lurch and she was about to tell him about the room upstairs, the one with the enormous bed in the middle of it, when he abruptly bent down and picked up his cane, then used it to point toward the windows. “For a walk, I mean. Outside. It’s a pretty nice day, looks like.” He looked at her and gave her a smile of apology—that crooked smile she was learning to expect, so different from the old one that showed his beautiful, even teeth and made comma-shaped creases in his cheeks and fans at the corners of his eyes. “I’ve been indoors way too much lately.”

A laugh burst from her that was still frighteningly close to a sob. It was partly relief, she knew; relief that he’d come back from that dark place in his mind. And partly a girlish eagerness to please him that made her think of those first giddy days…weeks, when she was eighteen and newly, wildly in love.

“Sure,” she said, “I don’t see why not. Except—” She’d almost asked him if he felt up to such a stroll, if he was strong enough. Even weak as he obviously was, she knew he’d hate that, and was glad she’d stopped herself in time. Instead she aimed her doubtful look at the windows. “Did you see any media people out there? There weren’t when I got here, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

He gave a snort, and the wry smile flickered on again. “Yeah, your mom said they were camped out on her lawn.”

“You talked to her?”

“First call I made.” His gaze brushed her and he spoke in a diffident, offhand way that seemed almost shy—so unlike Tristan. “It was the only number I was pretty certain would still be the same. I didn’t know if you were—if you’d—hey, I mean I’d understand if you did. As far as you knew, I was dead, right? I mean, legally, even if I was just MIA, after eight years—”

His floundering voice stabbed at her. “Tris, I’m not. Married, I mean, I haven’t—”

“I know that. Your mom told me—well, actually, they did. The Navy, I mean. First thing they did was fill me in on the vital statistics, what information they had.” He paused, and again touched her face with that shy, uncertain glance as he said almost belligerently, “Not being remarried isn’t the same thing as not having someone, though, is it?”

“I don’t,” Jess said gently, and caught the heartbreaking flash of hope that brightened his eyes before he jerked his eyes away. His light, ironic laugh came to her as they moved side by side toward the door that opened onto a patio where guests could sit at outdoor tables when the weather was fine. Beyond that was a wooded area, and a paved bicycle and pedestrian path.

“So, I guess we’re still married, then?”

He didn’t know what made him ask it, like probing a sore tooth with his tongue. We’re still married, then? He didn’t feel like her husband. He felt like a barbarian invader, bringing pain, ugliness and horror into her soft and lovely, civilized life. Everything about her—her hair, her sweater, her skin—was so beautiful, so soft. She smelled so clean. He didn’t feel clean, and sometimes wondered if he ever would again. Until he did, he knew he’d never be able to touch her without thinking that he was soiling her, somehow.

We’re still married, then? What he really wanted to know was, Do you still love me? But that was something he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Bleakly, he drew a breath and forced a smile. “Your momma seems just the same,” he said as he crossed the brick-paved patio, using the cane in what he hoped was a dashing sort of way rather than leaning on it like an invalid. He considered the pain in his knee only an annoyance—he’d grown accustomed to much worse—but the doctors had told him to keep his weight off of the knee as much as possible. And since his dreams of ever flying again lay pretty much in their hands, he was willing to do what they told him.

Jess gave a light laugh as she came beside him, fitting her stride to his uneven gait. “Did she cry?”

“I…think she might have, yeah, but you know how she is. She’d about die before she’d let you see her shed a tear.”

She did a quick scan for reporters, then moved across the strip of grass that separated the guest house from the path. “Yeah, Momma doesn’t change much,” she said, lifting her face to the sweet spring breeze.

The breeze lifted the hair from her shoulders gently, like the fanning of a butterfly’s wings, and the slanting sunlight shone golden through the fine strands. It seemed to Tristan the loveliest sight he’d ever seen.

“Things around her keep changing, but she stays the same. She’s like, I don’t know…our family’s anchor, or something. Our compass. You know—true north?”

He did know. He wanted to tell her how she and Sammi June had been that for him, all that and more—his anchor, his compass, the beacon light on the shore, his sword, his shield, his armor. But that seemed too big a burden of expectation to lay on one person.

“I guess there’ve been a lot of changes, though,” he said.

She threw him a smile. “Yeah, there have. Mostly good ones. Lots of babies. There’s a whole new crop of nieces and nephews for you to meet. Jimmy Joe and Mirabella—you remember Mirabella’s little girl, Amy Jo? Jimmy Joe delivered her in the cab of his rig on a snowbound interstate in Texas on Christmas Day? Anyway, they have a little boy, now, too, and by the way, J.J.’s a senior in high school, if you can believe that. Then my brother Troy and his wife Charly, they have two little girls. And…let’s see. Oh—oh my God, you’ll never guess. You know my little brother, C.J.?”

“You mean, Calvin? The one that dropped out of high school, and everybody’d pretty much given up on?” How good it felt to talk like this, of ordinary, everyday things. Home…family.

“Excepting Momma, of course—Momma never gives up on any of her kids.” Laughter bubbled up, and he drank the happiness in that sound like water from a healing fountain. “Yup, that’s the one. Well, would you believe he’s a lawyer now?”

“A lawyer? Good Lord.”

“I know, isn’t it wild? He just passed the bar this last March. And guess what else? He’s married. No babies yet, but he and his wife—her name’s Caitlyn, she’s from Iowa, and he met her when she hijacked his rig, and then she got shot and was blind for a while—oh, God, it’s a long story—but anyway, they’ve adopted a little girl. Her name is Emma—she’s a doll. And…let’s see, who else?”

“What about your other brother—what was his name—Roy?” Tris prompted. “Did he ever get married?”

Jessie sighed. “Not yet. That makes him the last holdout in the marriage department. He’s down in Florida, someplace. On the gulf. Captains a charter fishing boat.”

“Sounds like a tough life,” Tristan said dryly.

“Doesn’t it, though. Okay, so who does that leave? Oh, yeah, my oldest sister, Tracy, of course—she’s still married to Al, the cop, and they still live in Augusta and still have four kids. And then there’s Joy Lynn—”

She broke off while he took her arm and guided her out of the path of a pair of joggers who were overtaking them on the pedestrian side of the pathway. And he thought how easily such a thing came back to him. Sometimes, in fact, it was hard for him to get his mind around how some things, small, everyday things that had been absent from his life for so long, slipped back into it almost as naturally as—well, smiles and laughter, which were two more things he’d been without for a long, long time. If only, he thought, everything could be that easy.

“Joy—how is she? She and her second husband—what was his name?—ever have any kids?”

Jess threw him a look, too quickly. He became conscious once again of the soft fabric of her sweater, warming beneath his fingers, and the tensed muscle of her arm under that. He let go of it and felt her body relax.

“Fred.” She bit off the word. “She divorced him—with good reason, by the way. And she swears she’s never getting married again. Given her lousy taste in men, it’s probably just as well. Anyway, she lives in New York, now. She’s working on a novel, but she has a job at a magazine publisher’s to pay the bills.” She gave Tristan another side-long look. “I was up there visiting her when I got the call. That’s why I wasn’t home—”

“I know,” he said softly. “Your mom told me.” After a long moment he added, “She said you’re a nurse now.”

“Yeah,” she said, watching her feet, “I got my degree four years ago. I work in the NICU—the Neonatal Intensive Care—”

“I remember. You always wanted to do that, after Sammi June. That’s great.”

They walked on in silence, moving slowly, overcome all at once by the enormity of what had happened to their lives, the catastrophic changes of the past few days. The sun went down, and the air turned cooler. Tristan, who had sometimes doubted he’d ever be completely warm again, couldn’t repress a shiver.

Jessie glanced at him but didn’t ask if he wanted to turn back. Probably trying not to smother him, he thought, hating how weak he felt. He wondered if he’d ever have any stamina again.

After a while she said, “Granny Calhoun passed away.”

He nodded his acceptance of that inevitability; the old lady, his mother-in-law’s mother, had been at least ninety and frail as a twig last time he’d seen her, though still sharp as a tack mentally.

They paced another dozen quiet steps, and he was thinking he was going to have to turn around pretty soon, unless he wanted to humiliate himself by having to call somebody to come and get him and carry him back. Then he looked over and saw that she was crying. Soundlessly, with tears making glistening trails down her cheeks. Only when she felt his gaze did she lift her hand and try to stanch their flow with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Jess,” he said, his voice raspy with emotions long and deeply buried.

When she didn’t reply he uncertainly touched her elbow. That was all it took to bring her to him, sobbing.

He stood and held her as close as he dared, staring over her head with eyes dry and face aching, hard little muscles clenching and unclenching in his jaws. Joggers and bicyclists hurried past, uncurious, their whirring wheels and labored pants making breathing rhythms in the dusk. A plump woman in a bright-blue coat, hurrying in the wake of an overweight poodle straining at its leash, gave them a glance, then politely averted her eyes.