Kathleen Creighton - The Top Gun's Return

"Yeah, Pearson, you don't look too bad yourself," Tristan said, returning the grin. There was a long pause, fraught with so many things unspoken, and then he said abruptly, "Uh…this is my wife, Jessie…" and the clasped hands broke apart.

As Cory Pearson turned to her, Jessie's first thought was, He has nice eyes. He had a nice face, actually-not as handsome as Tris's, but attractive in its own way…long and lean, with a slightly crooked nose and sensitive mouth. Though, his eyes really were his best feature, she thought, with both compassion and intelligence lurking in their indigo depths behind a sparkle that hinted at both a sense of humor and an insatiable interest in everything and everyone around him. He had a nice handshake, too, she noted-firm and warm and enveloping.

Jessie murmured polite acknowledgments of the introduction, and she was thinking about what it must have been like for these two men from such different worlds, different generations, almost, discovering each other in an Iraqi prison. What had they talked about in those dangerous whispered conversations, she wondered, precious moments of communion stolen from under the watchful eyes of their guards. Had they shared memories and fears, given each other courage, helped keep hope and spirits alive? What kind of bonds must be forged from such experiences?

Nobody can understand. I can talk about it until the cows come home and it's not gonna make anybody know what it was like.

But this man would know, Jessie thought. Cory Pearson would understand. Because he'd been through it, too.

The thought blew into her mind like a brisk puff of wind, making her breath catch and her heart quicken. To cover that little spasm of hope, she turned to her daughter, who was standing off to one side, arms crossed and expression aloof, and managed to come up with something inane and falsely bright to say about how nice it was Sammi June and Mr. Pearson had already managed to meet each other. But all she was thinking about was getting Tristan and the reporter together, somehow. Tris desperately needed to talk to someone. And here was the one person in the world who would understand what he'd been through.

Once again, her Southern upbringing supplied her with all the tools she needed to accomplish her purpose. Polite phrases, tried and true, uttered by generations of Southern women before her, dropped from her lips like magnolia petals. "Well, now, I know you two gentlemen must have so much to talk about…Sammi June, let's you and me leave these menfolk alone so they can visit. Mr. Pearson, it's just so nice to finally meet you. You be sure and come visit us when you get a chance, now, y'hear? Sammi June, I want you to come and meet the senator from Georgia. His wife was askin' about you. She is just the nicest person…" With a gay little wave and a shameless wink for the two "menfolk," Jessie hooked her arm through her daughter's.

As she was turning them both away, she heard Cory Pearson say in his quiet voice, "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Bauer. You, too, Samantha."

Samantha? Though her daughter mumbled an indifferent reply, something…an awareness-mother's intuition-found its way through the chaos of Jessie's concern for Tris. Carefully picking her way across the lawn in the high-heeled sandals with ankle straps Sammi June had insisted she buy, she said casually, testing the waters, "Well, he seems nice." Sammi June grunted. "Good-lookin', too. Didn't you think so?"

Carefully not looking at her, Sammi June shrugged. "I guess…" After a moment she sniffed and added, "Kind of old, though."

Jessie threw her a look. "What makes you say that? He didn't look old to me."

Sammi June threw her a look that said volumes, then shrugged again. "He'd pretty much have to be. He's a friend of Dad's, isn't he? I mean…he was in that prison…" And even though her face was averted as she intently watched her own high heels punch holes in the grass, Jessie could see a sweet warm blush creep into her daughter's cheeks.

Oh Lord, she thought. Lord help us. First she tells me she wants to fly, and now this. It's too much. Lord, don't make me have to deal with this now.

She didn't tell her daughter that Cory Pearson was just about the same age her daddy had been that spring day when he'd met her eighteen-year-old momma on a Florida beach.

Jessie waited up for Tristan that night. And she didn't make the mistake of getting into bed to watch television this time, knowing if she did she'd probably fall asleep again. Instead, she took a long shower and shampooed her hair and did all the self-pampering, girlie things she used to do when she was a teenager getting ready for a date. She put on the diaphanous black nighty she'd bought in one of the hotel's boutiques, making herself blush and whisper, "Oh, my Lord…" Then, to cover it up and distract herself from the thoughts it provoked, she wrapped herself in the thick terry cloth bathrobe supplied by the hotel and gave herself a manicure. Then a pedicure. After that she paced, wishing she smoked so she'd have something to do while her heart thumped a monotonous tomtom beat and nervous shivers whispered beneath her skin.

This is good, she told herself. It's good he's with Cory Pearson. He needed this. This is good.

She'd been so glad when Tris had invited the reporter to join him and Jessie, Sammi June and Max for dinner after the White House reception. She'd been hoping he would. And she'd suggested they eat in one of the hotel's restaurants just so she'd be able to excuse herself afterward and give the two men a chance to talk together privately. She'd counted on Sammi June and Max having their own plans for the evening, but to her surprise both of them had elected to retire to their rooms early, after announcing their intention to visit the Air and Space Museum before catching their flight the next day.

Jessie had noticed that Sammi June seemed unnaturally subdued during dinner, barely saying a word and only picking at her blackened Cajun-style flounder. Her mother hoped to goodness she was just tired or coming down with some virus or other, but she had a sinking feeling that what was wrong with Sammi June wasn't anything that could be so easily cured.

Undercurrents…

It was nearing midnight when Jessie heard the card-key click in the suite's outer door. Her knees immediately went weak. Too late now to jump into bed and pretend to be asleep. Nothing to do but put on her best face and go to meet her husband. My husband…this man I barely know!

She didn't know what to do with her hands. Or her galloping heartbeat. Once, she would have known what to expect when her husband walked through the door. If he was tired or had had a difficult day, he could be counted on to put his arms around her and hold her and exhale gustily into her hair…then fill his lungs with her scent as if she were a drug he'd been without for too long. If he was feeling good about himself and things in general, he might hug Sammi June instead or tease her and play with her while a wink and his secret smile for Jessie hinted at intimacies to come. And if he'd been gone a longer time, like on deployments, he'd be frankly and openly hungry for her, his appetites lusty and impatient as a teenage boy's.

But this Tristan…coming into the bedroom in a tentative, almost guilty way, barely meeting her eyes…the set of his shoulders and jaw defensive, as if not quite certain of his welcome… this man she didn't have the first idea what to do with.

"You're still up," he said, as he had the night before.

But this night she wasn't sleepy enough to walk unthinking into his arms. Instead she stood rooted in the middle of the room, wrapped in her bathrobe, twisting her fingers together. "Hi," she said breathlessly.