Anne Duquette - Fleet Hospital

“Who says we’ve been waiting for the honeymoon?”

Michael held up his hands in mock horror. “Please, loose lips sink ships.”

“I can trust you,” Selena replied. “Now get in the car before you start smelling like the rest of us sailors. I wish I was going.”

He checked his watch. “It’s not too late to make the funeral. Sunshine would rather have us both. Paul will be there, too, I understand.”

Selena beamed at the name of her soon-to-be husband, then the smile faded. “Yeah, I know, but we couldn’t round up enough safe ‘volunteers’ from the brig or stabilized mental patients for ‘wounded.’ Even those detached waiting to be shipped out have been—” she lifted her palms “—well, shipped out. So I’m a volunteer.”

“They can use other staff.”

“It’s not up to me. Besides, I got out of the watch last week when Sunshine wanted me to go to her latest gallery opening, so today is payback. I have to be on my litter near the ambulance in fifteen minutes.”

“Then, cuz, you’d better hit the Porta Potties now. Going by the looks of that leg wound, you’ll be bed-panning it for the next forty-eight hours.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“Who’d you tick off in Moulage to get the bum leg?”

“No one. I moulaged myself when I relieved the regular artist for lunch. I made up my own injury from the empty slot on his roster.”

“Well, I’m sorry you can’t come. Sunshine will be disappointed.”

“That’s the last time I ask my CO to mess with the watch bill,” she said. “It’s my own fault, but getting last weekend off was worth it. Make my apologies to everyone, would you? Tell Paul I’ll call him later if I can.”

“Will do. I’ll swing back here after the funeral and look in on you. Maybe I can find a last-minute replacement.”

Selena’s grateful smile made him feel like a million dollars. “No, don’t do that. No reason we should both suffer. I have a fiancé to torture now, instead of you. Time to pass the torch-ure,” she quipped, winking at her weak pun. The wink looked ludicrous through the made-up bloody face.

“You should be court-martialed for that one,” he replied, grinning nonetheless. “I’d better warn Paul about your plans—not to mention your fondness for bad puns.”

Her laugh rang out over the compound. “He knows what he’s getting into. Here.” She shoved the clipboard his way. “Sign this and go.”

He scanned it.

“It’s just a couple of supply reqs. Oh, and don’t forget, the wedding rehearsal is two weeks from next Saturday. You’re best man, so make sure you don’t schedule any more classes!”

“Already taken care of.” He initialed two spots, then signed. “Later, Slick,” he said, using his special nickname for her. With no one around, he leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t! You’ll ruin your uniform.” She gave him a little push in the direction of his car. “Go, already. You’ll be late.”

He returned her wave and hurried toward the waiting car, anticipating its cool comfort.

THE CHURCH IN Solana Beach was a good thirty miles down I-5 south. First Presbyterian catered to the affluent crowd in town and in nearby Del Mar, the horsey set who lived where “the surf meets the turf.” The church was made of real granite and marble rather than the usual spray stucco and pressed cheap tile. The cars in the lot were sleek and expensive, as were the people who owned them.

Sunshine, Michael’s stepmother, wasn’t a member of the horsey set. But the high-quality Raku pottery she’d been throwing ever since her go-go-boot days made more money annually than a Del Mar favorite during the Futurity Classic. Her Raku was refined and expensive, just like Solana Beach residents. It was also of outstanding artistry and in hot demand by locals, galleries, L.A. movie moguls and top dealers in Tokyo. Sunshine Mellow McLowery happily lived up to her name. She threw her pots every morning and surfed every afternoon with her board purchased years ago in Hawaii. The rest of the day she tended her flowers, fussed over her retired arthritic husband and doled out both love and food to her stepson, Michael, and her younger cousin, Selena.

Those occasions no longer came as often as Sunshine wished. Before he got involved with FHOTC, Michael’s last duty station had been in New Orleans, and even though he was now stationed close to home, he preferred to live at the furnished Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Selena lived at the McLowerys’, but she spent her free weekends with her fiancé. They usually met at a hotel halfway between her place and his. Since Selena had become engaged, Michael made an effort to stay over a few nights a month because he knew Sunshine missed Selena more than she’d admit. Sunshine wasn’t looking forward to the end of Michael’s tour at Camp Pendleton. He’d already served more than two-thirds of the usual three-year duty, while Selena would soon resign from the Navy and move north to Silicon Valley, where Paul worked. To all appearances, however, Sunshine gracefully accepted the loss of her “children,” and waited for the day she could indulge her grandchildren.

No brothers or sisters came along after the marriage of Lt. Commander Patrick Andrew McLowery to the much younger, sadly infertile, Sunshine Mellow. He’d retired as a Commander, never making Captain due to hard drinking after the deaths of his wife and daughter. He didn’t seem to care. Patrick’s days of fast cars and hard liquor ended soon after his marriage to Sunshine. He finished his time in the Navy teaching others to fly jets, retired as early as possible and now spent his days running Sunshine’s business and nursing his arthritis. He seemed to accept his change of status with, if not wild passion, contentment in his good fortune.

“Trust a damned Irishman to count his wife’s pennies,” Sunshine often said without rancor.

“Trust a damned hippie not to pay her taxes,” was her husband’s standard comeback.

Michael smiled to himself as he kicked up the A/C in his Acura to high, slid in a rhythm-and-blues CD and gently maneuvered the car through the daily quagmire of traffic that was Southern California’s signature. Sunshine Mellow and the retired jet jockey. What a combination. And whenever he saw them, the scene was always the same.

The two would gently squabble, while Patrick— “Paddy” to Sunshine—made himself busy with paperwork and phone calls and arranging deliveries while she molded her clay. Sunshine never seemed to mind his frequent presence. She was generous with her workshop, her time and, to Patrick, her still-slim body. For that, Michael admired her greatly. Maybe that was why he was so fond of Selena. Both cousins shared their own happiness.

Michael, like all the other men who knew Sunshine, was almost in love with her himself. She’d been half mother, half dream date in his younger years. The adult Michael knew that Sunshine was the only reason Patrick hadn’t drunk himself to death, and the only reason Patrick’s son was still sane. Sunshine and Patrick were a good combination. Sunshine had hoped Michael and Selena—not actual blood relations—would someday pair off, but had accepted that disappointment with her usual grace.

Michael switched lanes smoothly. He’d hit the funeral service, try to cheer up Sunshine and then get back to Selena and see if he couldn’t find relief for her. Maybe he could take her and Paul out for a nice dinner. Surf and turf, maybe, in La Jolla, hopefully with no interruptions. Michael was as protective of his cousin as he was the rest of his family. Paul, a computer tech from Silicon Valley, seemed like a nice guy, nice enough that he didn’t mind sharing his soon-to-be wife with the rest of the family. Michael didn’t mind returning the favor. Family ranked right up there with duty. Hell, family was duty. As soon as the funeral was over, he’d make reservations for four, which would include Sunshine. His father rarely dined out, thanks to his arthritis and the addition of two brand-new sports channels.