Kathleen Creighton - The Top Gun's Return

They walked outdoors again, dodging bicyclists and joggers and dog walkers in the cool April evening while she told him about the shopping she'd done for him, and what Sammi June had said when she'd heard about that. When he started to tell her how bad he felt for not having called his daughter yet, Jess brushed his apology aside.

"Sammi June understands," she said, lifting her head with a little shake so her hair ruffled, then sort of resettled just behind her shoulders. "She's not a child. In fact, she's pretty well grown-up for eighteen-kind of like her momma was," she added with a sideways look and a tentative smile.

Tristan gave a dry snort of laughter. "I think that's what worries me-that I'm not gonna know what to say to her. I don't think I know how to be the father of a grown-up woman."

She threw him another look and said quietly, "It's not any easier for her, you know. As a grown-up woman, she doesn't know how to have a daddy, either." She walked on beside him for several more steps, head down. "But," she said, then paused and took a deep breath before finishing in a brave rush, "you are, and she does, and…well, dammit, the two of you are just gonna have to work it out between you…somehow."

I shouldn't have said that, Jessie thought, when he didn't answer but just walked on, with his head slightly tilted as if he were listening to something only he could hear. Definitely not as patient and understanding as I ought to have been.

She was about to apologize when Tris's hand tightened around hers and he pulled her off the path. With newly sprouting grass underfoot and big old trees looming like protective uncles beside them, he turned and drew her around to face him. "You're right," he said, his voice husky. "I'm behaving like a damn coward. I'll call her tonight. As soon as we get back to the room. I promise." He brought her hand to his lips-something he'd been doing a lot, she noticed. But…never more than that. He still hadn't kissed her. "Okay?"

Her throat tightened as she nodded. She tried, but couldn't stop herself from saying, "She's changed, Tris. From what you remember. Of course she has. We all have. I have. Even though you say I haven't, that's just not true." Her voice broke just a little. "There's nothing we can do about that. It just…is."

"I know that." He studied her intently, and with her heart pounding so it was a moment or two before she realized his thumb was rubbing back and forth over her fingers-specifically, the third finger. He'd been holding her left hand, and the place he kept rubbing was the place where she'd once worn a wedding ring.

She turned her hand so she could see it, remembering clearly the day she'd taken off her wedding ring and put it away in her jewelry box. Remembering how she'd ached inside, and how for a long time she stared dry-eyed at the little blue velvet box and willed the tears to come, hoping they'd give her some kind of relief. "It's at home," she said, aching the same way now. "I put it away. I was in New York when I found out you were alive. I flew straight here-I didn't have a chance-"

She halted then, because he was making a soft shushing sound. He'd enfolded her hand in both of his and was still holding it close to his lips. Above their hands, his eyes were closed, and she could see little knots of tension in his forehead and across his cheekbones. His face seemed tight and dark and closed, and she thought how different it was from the face she remembered…all warmth and charm, with an easygoing grin and laughing eyes.

Jolted, she shifted her gaze away from his face and found herself staring at his hands instead. But there was nothing familiar about them, either. They were a stranger's hands-bony and big-knuckled, striped with ropy tendons and irregular scars. Unbidden, the memories from the night before came rushing into her mind and collided with the image before her eyes, and suddenly she was imagining-no, feeling -those hard, alien hands touching her in the most intimate ways. Forgotten yearnings flooded her body with heat and she shuddered in spite of it, the way coming to a roaring fire when she was chilled clear through could sometimes make her shiver.

"That's okay. I think I'd like to be the one to put it back on you, anyway." He cleared his throat. "Maybe I ought to buy you a new one. Something better."

"The old one's just fine," Jessie said, giving her hand an indignant tug. Tristan laughed as he reclaimed it and they started back toward the guest house, their clasped hands swinging gently between them.

"Oh-we have a car," Jessie said as they were weaving their way through the clutter of tables on the patio, Tris maneuvering awkwardly with his cane. She told him about the Ford, and what Lieutenant Commander Rees had said about her being the one who'd be doing the driving.

"Oh Lord," he said, and Jessie burst out laughing.

"That's what I said." He was holding the door for her, and she arched her eyebrows teasingly as she passed him. "You gonna be able to handle that?"

Her driving style always had just about driven Tris crazy, which was why he'd always done the driving whenever they'd gone anywhere together. Driving herself had been one of the things she'd had to get used to doing every time her husband was sent away-and cheerfully given up again when he came home. It was just one of the realities of being a military wife, of course, learning to be completely self-sufficient during her husband's deployments, then cheerfully handing the reins back over to him when he came home. Something they all learned to deal with.

Only, she thought, I doubt very many wives ever had to adjust to a husband's return after a deployment of eight years.

"I guess that remains to be seen," Tristan said. "Has your driving improved any since I've been gone?"

"There's not a thing the matter with my driving, and never was," Jessie said indignantly, punching him smartly on the arm.

"Ow!" He feigned outrage, then grinned at her, a ghost of his old self. And she grinned back, irrationally, idiotically delighted with that small, bantering exchange.

They had dinner in the privacy of Jessie's room again, pork chops and applesauce and corn bread stuffing this time, with cherry pie for dessert. More of Tristan's favorites, and he tried his best to do them justice, he really did, even though his appetite was still a long way from what it should have been.

"You trying to fatten me up?" he said in the teasing tone that had made her smile, rolling a cherry around on his tongue and marveling at the tart-sweet miracle of it.

"You bet I am," she replied smugly, then paused to give the forkful of pie that had been on its way to her mouth a long, sad look. "Only, I think the wrong one of us is gonna end up puttin' on weight." She put the fork down on the plate with a sigh.

"You look great to me," Tristan said, and saw her cheeks warm with a quick flush of pink. He went on looking at her, unable to take his eyes from her, remembering the times he'd watched that same flush creep across her chest, her breasts…her belly…and her whole body lush and blooming in the aftermath of lovemaking like a sun-drenched rose. Remembering what it had felt like to hold her, his body entwined with hers and her warmth soaking into his very bones.

He saw her looking back at him, cheeks glowing like Georgia peaches-remembering how she'd hated it when he'd said that to her…about the peaches. Long ago. And he thought, This is now-not long ago. She's here and she's real, not a memory, not imagination. My wife. I could be lying with her now, making love to her in that big bed, enjoying her warmth and her softness…

Then came the thought, No, Tristan, you couldn't. Because she may be real, but you're sure as hell not.