"Sammi June," Jessie said, hating herself for bringing it up and knowing she had to and wouldn't be able to help herself. There was an aching tightness in her throat. "I heard what you told the SECNAV. About wanting to be a pilot."
"Yeah? So?" Sammi June pivoted, studying the effect of her outfit from the rear.
"So…when did you come up with that idea?"
"It's something I've been thinking about for a while, that's all." Sammi June still wasn't looking at her. "Look, it's no big deal."
"If it's 'no big deal,'" Jessie said carefully, "then why didn't you say anything to me about it?"
Sammi June threw her a look, then closed her eyes and gave a put-upon sigh. "Because I knew you'd react this way. Look, Mom, it's not like I'm planning on flying Tomcats and going to war and getting shot down or something. I just want to be a pilot-commercial aviation. What's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong-"
"Just because Dad-"
"This has nothing to do with your dad!"
"Oh, no? Then what? I've got news for you, Mom-women can fly airplanes. They do it all the time. It's no more dangerous than…than…I don't know, just about anything else you can name. Driving a car to work every day is more dangerous than flying an airplane, did you know that?"
"Statistically, maybe," Jessie muttered. Then she waved a hand distractedly and reverted to the Southern woman's tried and true defense. "Oh…let's don't talk about it right now, we're just gonna get each other upset." I'll think about it tomorrow; tomorrow is another day. "Are you gonna get that outfit? Because I think I do like this purple thing, and besides, we're runnin' out of time, and we still have to look at shoes…" I can't deal with this. Tris is drinking and won't talk to me…and now Sammi June wants to be a pilot. I can't. Not now. It's just too much.
Trembly and flushed, Jessie fled to the dressing room.
* * *
Sammi June was hiding in the White House rose garden. Not literally, of course; the garden was crawling with people, roughly half of whom she estimated were security personnel of one kind or another, the other half, except for Sammi June and her family, being more or less famous. Sammi June had shaken hands with the president and the first lady, and had had about all she could take, for the moment, of being awed, impressed and overwhelmed. Like a small boat in choppy waters, she had chosen to drop anchor in a familiar harbor for a while to ride it out.
This was something she'd learned how to do growing up a military brat, moving around a lot, at least for the first ten years of her life. The technique had served her just as well after she'd settled down in one place only to become "the kid whose daddy got shot down and killed." In either case, she'd always been the one who was different and struggling to fit in, which she'd discovered was easier to do if she could find something that felt familiar to her and focus on it. In this case, roses. A rose was a rose was a rose, she figured, whether it happened to be growing in the White House garden or climbing over Gramma Betty's front porch.
It was a warm, sunny spring day-already May, Sammi June realized. Finals time was fast approaching! And the roses were in full bud, some even opening. She watched a small black butterfly wallow drunkenly past, then, after glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, ducked her head to sniff a half-opened blossom. She was disappointed to discover it had no particular scent. Her lips were forming a pout when a voice spoke softly from somewhere close by, making her heart jump and adrenaline squirt through her veins.
"Try this one. It's got a nice smell to it."
Because her pulse was skittering in wild and jerky rhythms, Sammi June made sure to pivot lazily, as if she'd known someone was there all along. With her hands clasped behind her back, she tilted her head in order to study the man who had spoken.
He was tall and thin, probably taller than she was even in her high-heeled boots, which meant he had to be over six feet. He had dark hair, lighter than her dad's, maybe the color of mink. A long, angular face with interesting hollows and creases, a sensitive, smiling mouth and dark-blue deep-set eyes behind rimless glasses. It was a compassionate face…an interesting face, Sammi June thought, which in her opinion was way better than handsome. But since she was annoyed with him for startling her, and with herself for being startled, there was no way she was ever going to let him know she thought so.
He began to stroll toward her casually, as if he just happened to be going in that direction. "Cory Pearson," he said, pausing when he was within handshaking range, though he didn't offer to do so, and instead reached out with his eyes and held on to hers with an intensity that seemed much more presumptuous. And personal. "I was-"
"I know who you are," said Sammi June, giving her head a slight toss and setting her chin a notch higher. "I've seen you on television. You're the reporter who was in Iraq with my dad."
He nodded, and his eyes seemed to darken and retreat deeper into the shadows behind his glasses. "Yes. And you're Sam-"
"Samantha," she inserted in a breathless rush, wondering why.
"Samantha." He acknowledged it with a wry smile. "Tristan talked about you a lot, but I have to tell you, you're not…exactly the way he described you."
"I'm sure," said Sammi June dryly. But she felt an odd little vibration behind her breastbone, and although it was a very warm day, her skin had shivered in a way she found rather pleasant. Even…exciting. "The last time he saw me I was, like, ten. I had ponytails. Soccer was my life."
"Wow." He made a soft, ambiguous sound. "I guess you have changed a lot." And his eyes flicked in a particular way that made something inside Sammi June warm and swell and blossom…something uniquely feminine in nature. Though he'd stopped himself from doing it, he'd wanted to look down, at her. At her body…specifically, at the bare stretch of skin between her skirt and her knee-high boots. She was sure of it. And with that assurance came an unfamiliar sense of power…uniquely feminine.
"Not so much," she said in a husky purr, finally conceding him her smile. "I still play soccer. It's just not my life."
He returned her smile, while his eyes continued to study her with that unnerving intensity-unnerving and yet it made her feel as though she were the most fascinating person on the face of the earth. "And…what besides soccer fills up your life these days, Samantha?"
It must have been his eyes, she thought later. Or maybe it was just something-a gift, a knack reporters had for worming secrets out of people. Because Sammi June definitely wasn't the sort to go blabbing her life story to strangers. But somehow, right there in the White House rose garden, she was telling him about her life-all of it-her college classes and her pain-in-the-neck roommate, even the sort of new idea she had about becoming a pilot.
"Ah," he said, nodding. "Because of your dad?"
"Not really…" She lifted a shoulder defensively; that assumption always irritated her. And then, for some reason, she heard herself saying, "Well…I don't know. Maybe. Do you think something like that can be inherited? Like, it's in my genes? I mean, my grampa Max-Dad's father-worked his whole life for Boeing. So Dad grew up around airplanes. I grew up around airplanes…" She shrugged. "Maybe it's just natural?"
"What does your dad think about you flying?"
"Actually…I haven't told him yet." Her brow knit, and she looked away, studying the rosebud she was fondling. "We haven't really talked that much since he's been back. Not that there's been time. Everything's been so…" Her throat tightened.
"This must be hard for you," Cory Pearson said softly. Sammi June threw him a quick, hard look. He was gazing at her with those shadowed, compassionate eyes…and it seemed to her they could see into her very soul. "Having your father come back into your life so suddenly. You grew up without him…spent all those 'little girl and her daddy' years without him. And now that you're all grown-up…" He left it hanging. Sammi June turned her face away from him and stared fixedly at the rosebuds, which were bobbing gracefully in the afternoon breeze, as if in sympathy. She didn't even try to speak.
"Sort of. I mean, I didn't exactly tell her. We were having lunch yesterday with the secretary of the navy and a bunch of other people, and the SECNAV asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, so I…told him. And…I guess my mom overheard." She made a face and added ruefully, "She was not happy. Like, she thinks I'm going to wind up like my dad, or something, I don't know."
"She's got a lot to deal with right now," the reporter said, and added mildly, "You probably could have picked a better time to spring it on her."
Sammi June sighed. "I know. Like I said, I didn't mean to. I wish I hadn't, but…" She paused to watch the toe of her new boots poke at the grass before she added softly, "I know she has a lot on her mind. I think she's worried…about Dad."
He didn't answer, and after a moment she turned to look at him. For once his eyes weren't studying her. He was staring into the distance at something she couldn't see, and his eyes seemed a hundred years old. Her heartbeat quickened.
"Was it…really bad…in that prison?" she asked, the question halting and breathless, forced bravely past the fear that had kept it locked up tight inside her. Until now. Odd, that it should be a stranger who'd give her the courage to voice it. And then, realizing how dumb a question it was, she hurried quickly past it, hoping he wouldn't notice. "Sometimes I try to imagine, you know? What it must have been like for my dad…"
"You can't." The words were hard and blunt, but when she looked at him, startled, she found that his eyes were kind and his mouth gently smiling. "But that's all right. Nobody should ever have to. Especially-" But he didn't finish it, and instead turned abruptly so that he was facing the same way she was, toward the roses. He reached out his hand and lightly touched the curled petals of a half-open bud, much the same way she was.
"They only had me for four months," he said softly. "They accused me of being with the CIA…tried to get me to admit it. Every day I expected to die-especially considering what happened to that other correspondent in Pakistan. Four months-" he took a deep breath "-it seemed like four years. And they had your father for eight years. Eight years. That's something I can't even begin to imagine. What kind of person must it take to survive something like that?" He shook his head, and his face held a look of awe. "Your dad is one very special man, Samantha-that's all I've got to say."
"Mom says he doesn't want to talk about it," Sammi June said slowly, watching his finger stroke the velvety rose petal. "About what happened to him over there. He hasn't said anything, not to her, anyway. He wouldn't at the press conference, either." A warm breeze drifted through the rose bed and languidly touched the bare places on her thighs…the deep vee at her throat…just like that caressing finger, she thought…and was instantly ashamed and dismayed at the behavior of her treacherous mind. To atone, she threw him a look, flipping back her hair, and said in an accusing tone, "You talk about it. All the time. You must've been on…I don't know how many TV shows."
He withdrew the hand that had played such havoc with her imagination and tucked it, along with its mate, out of sight between his arms and sides. "I'm not all that comfortable talking about it, either, actually," he said, gazing across the rose bed. "If they ask me, I try to answer, but what I'd rather do is write about it. That's what's helped me more than anything, I think." He paused and after a moment, shook his head. "You dad just has to find his own way of dealing with it. Everybody's different. He has to find what works for him."
"I guess." She, too, turned away from the roses and folded her arms across her chest. In spite of the warm sunshine and friendly breeze, she felt chilled. "But…some people don't, do they? I mean, some people never do make it work. It's like…last night my grampa-grandfather-Dad's father, Max, and I went to visit the Vietnam Memorial, and there were all these people there. Some of them seemed kind of raggedy and…I don't know…lost. Like, you just knew they'd been there. And you had this feeling they never did find their way back." She gave a short, self-conscious laugh, once again wondering what was making her tell these personal things to this man-a stranger. And why, even though she wondered, she couldn't seem to stop herself. "When I was in high school," she heard herself say, "and we were studying the Vietnam War, I used to imagine-oh, it's stupid-"
"I seriously doubt that," Cory said, smiling in a way that made her believe he meant it. "What did you imagine?"
Sammi June considered, then threw it at him defiantly. You think I can't be stupid? Think again, mister! How's this? "Okay. I used to tell myself my father was alive and being held prisoner, like the ones in Vietnam. And that someday he'd come home-" Her voice deserted her, this time her laughter sounded high and desperate.
"You see? It wasn't so stupid after all, was it?" His voice was so gentle. Sammi June looked at him through a protective curtain of hair, precarious, teetering on the edge of disaster.
"That's not the worst of it," she said, her voice growing quiet and husky. "Sometimes I'd even wish for it on the Evening Star-you know…'Starlight, star bright, first star I've seen tonight…' like a little kid. And I must have been…fourteen?"
"That old?" said Cory, shaking his head. "Shocking." Sammi June gave him a playful shove. He caught at her arm, laughing and off balance, and then, looking beyond her, dropped his voice to a conspiratory whisper. "Oops-I think we're about to be formally introduced."
Following his gaze, Sammi June saw her mom and dad coming toward them across the expanse of manicured lawn. She tried, but couldn't think of anything flippant to say. She was feeling so weird. All shaky and shivery inside…heart beating too fast and cheeks too warm…annoyed with herself for sounding like an idiot-or worse, a child-in front of this man, this stranger. And even weirder was the fact that she, who was seldom afraid of anyone, was more than a little afraid of the man…a kind and compassionate man with a knack for drawing secrets out of people. A man with eyes that could see inside her soul.
Chapter 11
"I see you've met my daughter."
To Jessie's ears Tristan's tone seemed mild enough, but something about it…edgy undercurrents…sparked undefined warnings in her mind.
No time, though, for even a quick glance at his face; the young man with Sammi June was clasping Tristan's hand with the kind of silent fervor that among women would invoke warm hugs and squeals of joy.
"Good to see you again, Lieutenant." His smile was restrained, but the emotion in his voice was unmistakable, and his eyes glittered behind a screen of rimless glasses. He nodded at Tristan's dress uniform, and the smile grew into a grin. "You clean up pretty good."
"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 cow
s 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?"
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