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
