by Susan Wiggs
“You also know the value of surrender,” Eddie reminded him.
“That doesn’t make me a fan. I wake up every day and tell myself I have everything I wanted. A job of my own making. I’m married to the gorgeous mother of my child. We live in a nice house…”
“I feel you leading up to one giant ‘however,’” Eddie remarked.
Despite all Logan’s efforts to ignore what his heart was telling him, the painful truth asserted itself. Something was missing. Some essential, elusive elements had gone missing, or maybe they had never existed in the first place. The dream of being a family with Charlie and Daisy had been powerful enough to fuel him. But reality kept nudging its way in.
“Do you ever get the feeling your marriage was a mistake?” he asked Eddie.
“To Maureen? Hell, no. I made all my mistakes before I married her. We’re talking major screwups here.”
“At first, I thought I’d finally done what I always wanted to do—give Charlie a real family. It’s a sense of accomplishment, which is different from feeling, I don’t know, marital love, I guess.”
“That’s when the real work of being in a marriage starts,” Eddie observed. “It’s supposed to be a labor of love.”
“Daisy and I… It’s different. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. We had Charlie together. We were raising him together. We love each other, but never really had that honeymoon stage. We’re a family.”
“And how’s that working for you?”
“Charlie was thrilled when we first got together. It’s all he’s ever wanted, for us to be a family. Now that we are, the dream is better than the reality. He’s having trouble in school and getting in fights.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Kids act out for any reason, or no reason at all.”
“Is he the main reason you’re together?” Eddie asked.
“There’s no answer to that. It’s a chicken and egg question.”
“Let me put it another way. Do you love Daisy because she’s the mother of your child, or do you love her because you can’t help yourself?”
“Shit. I don’t have an answer. We’ve been moving apart. Our only point of intersection most days is Charlie.” There. He’d said it. The notion had been in the back of his mind for a long time.
“Is that what she thinks, too?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Not in those exact words. What the hell am I going to say? ‘Hey, hon, are you with me because you love me or because of Charlie?’ She’d freak.”
“Or not,” Eddie said.
They were coming to the end of their run. Eddie slowed to a cool-down pace. “Could be the two of you are thinking the same thing but neither wants to bring it up. And believe me when I tell you, holding things in and pretending everything’s fine is not good for any relationship, particularly when one’s an addict. Don’t look at me like that. You know what I’m saying.”
Logan did know. He had some soul-searching to do, not exactly a comfortable process for a guy like him, a guy who had done so much damage back in his drinking and drugging days. The best thing he’d ever accomplished, by far, was Charlie.
He cringed, thinking about telling Charlie that things were not going so hot with Daisy. That maybe he and Daisy were going to take a break, a trial separation, one that might become permanent. It was tempting to keep pretending.
Charlie was no dummy, though. The kid could sniff out trouble like a bloodhound.
“Jogging sucks,” he reminded Eddie.
Twenty-Six
Julian sat alone in the briefing room, deep within the confines of the Pentagon. He had only been to the Pentagon one other time. From this perspective, it felt like any other government building, chilly and utilitarian.
His head throbbed. His stomach was in knots. His mind shifted crazily from one disjointed thought to the next. He knew he was still not quite grasping the idea that he was a free man.
There was a writing desk against one wall, with a lamp on it, a pad of paper and a pen. In the center of the room stood a long conference table furnished with a few sweating pitchers of water. He had already swilled several glasses. In captivity, fresh water had been hard to come by.
In captivity.
The clock on the wall read 1647. Seventy-two hours before, he had been a prisoner in Colombia.
He now wore the plainest of civilian clothes—dark slacks that were a tad too short for his long legs. A crisp white shirt. Shoes that pinched a little. He was clean, though. Showered, shaved and fed in a way he hadn’t been in twenty-four months. It felt so damn good. Probably half the world’s problems would disappear if people were allowed to eat and shower to their hearts’ content.
He got up and paced the room, pausing to read the captions under all the portraits on the walls. This was one of his least favorite aspects of military life—hurry up and wait. No matter what the situation, if the military was involved, you could be sure they’d keep you waiting. During his imprisonment, he’d learned a lot about waiting. One of the reasons he was alive today was attributed to the patience and forbearance he had forced himself to cultivate during those dark, lost months.
An ivory-colored phone without a dial hung on the wall. He was wondering what his chances were of getting an outside line when at last there was a knock at the door, and it opened.
A short, stout officer entered. Her black hair was slicked into a neat bun.
“Holy mother of God,” she said. “Jughead.”
“Sayers?” He laughed with joy and opened his arms.
She fell into them, sturdy as he remembered her. Just as quickly, she stepped back, wearing her bossy face as she checked him out. “Damn. Where the hell have you been, boy?”
“That’s a good guess,” he conceded. “I’ve been in hell.”
Her eyes shone with tears, and the bossy face softened. “I can’t believe this. We were all in hell, the whole detachment, when we got the news you’d been killed. They said you escaped by faking paralysis.”
“I wasn’t faking at first. The docs at Palanquero said it was probably a spinal cord concussion. Temporary paresis or spinal shock, something like that. Then when I felt myself recovering, I didn’t say anything. Figured I needed the element of surprise.”
“How the hell did you keep up the charade for so long?”
“My dad was in a wheelchair. I knew all the drills, and trust me, the guards didn’t want to know too much about, er, personal habits. They pretty much left me alone.”
She squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be all right,” she said. It was not a question.
“Of course,” he assured her. Yet he was painfully happy to feel her hand in his. In addition to everything else, he’d been entirely deprived of human contact and hadn’t until this moment realized how much he’d missed a simple touch.
“I’m sorry about your team,” Sayers added.
Julian nodded, the words frozen in his throat. Until he had walked onto the base at Palanquero, hands in the air, prison garb flapping in tatters around his gaunt form, he had not known the helicopter had gone down at sea and was never recovered. That explained why both he and Ramos had been reported killed, along with the rest of them, and why no rescue unit was ever deployed. He had briefed his commanders about how Ramos had sacrificed himself and had been forced into Gamboa’s operation. The mission to defeat the drug lord was still ongoing. The destruction Julian had caused during his escape had turned out to be a huge break for the joint special forces, but he couldn’t really take much satisfaction in that, because he was still trying to get his mind around the enormous loss of his comrades.
Rusty and Doc, Truesdale, Simon and José, guys he’d trained with from the Colombian militia. He hadn’t known any of them for long, but their bond was like no other. They’d put their lives in each other’s hands, the ultimate act of trust. And now they were all…gone. Never mind that it had happened two years ago. He�
��d just found out, and the wound was as fresh as yesterday.
“Jughead?” prompted Sayers. “What’s going on in that fool head of yours?”
“I feel like a ghost,” he said.
“Go easy on yourself. You’re not that skinny. Speaking of which, you’re going to get the full treatment,” she assured him. “I want you to promise me you’ll take full advantage of everything they offer you, not only the physical, but the mental health counseling.”
“No problem,” he said.
She snapped to attention as three men entered the room—an undersecretary of the air force, an official from the State Department and a public affairs officer. Salutes were exchanged.
“At ease,” said Colonel Garland, the undersecretary. “Lieutenant Gastineaux, welcome home.”
“Thank you, sir.” He shook hands with each of them in turn.
They sat at the table for a debriefing, his third in as many days. Paulson, the official from the State Department, ran the meeting.
“Lieutenant Gastineaux, we owe you too much respect to pussyfoot around. You’ve been part of a deep covert operation, one that is ongoing. Your oath of confidentiality is still in effect.”
“I understand, sir.” What did they think, that he was going to sell his story to the tabloids? What story? His story sucked.
“Excellent, because it’s a critical matter.”
“Yes, sir.” Julian tried to figure out what he was getting at.
“We’re going to require you to be circumspect, bearing in mind the many lives dependent on your discretion.”
Jeez, how many ways were they going to say this? “Of course.”
“We’ve prepared a statement for release,” said Rankin, the public affairs officer. “You’ll want to familiarize yourself with it.”
Julian went over the few printed paragraphs. The bare facts were all there, although the mission was characterized as a routine training exercise. No mention of the team’s mission, Gamboa or the fact that, in making his escape, Julian had taken out the largest cocaine production facility in western Colombia.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“And here are your papers outlining a long-term medical leave of absence.”
“I’m being put on leave.” He had not expected that.
“It’s necessary. You continue to qualify for all benefits, and—”
“Why am I being put on leave?”
“It’s all there in the paperwork. When you’ve been on a remote and gone MIA, it’s standard.”
“Not so sure I’m okay with that, sir.” A leave? For what? In the space of a moment he was forced to realign his life. His future.
“It’s necessary,” the undersecretary repeated.
Julian caught Sayers’s eye, and despite the passage of time, he could read her like a book. She was telling him to keep his mouth shut, save his arguments for someone who could actually do something about his situation.
“All right. Sure. Whatever,” he said.
“You’ll need to sign another confidentiality agreement, extending the current one. There can be no discussion of the incident at the level of press.”
Julian was quiet. He met Sayers’s gaze again. “I really am a ghost, then.”
They let Sayers stay with him after the officials left. They probably would’ve had to pry her off with a crow-bar if they’d refused.
“I need to call my fiancée,” he said, still reeling from the explanation of what had gone on after his disappearance. “God. I can’t believe she was told I died.”
“Everyone on the transport died,” Sayers pointed out. “All the families got the call.”
He winced, imagining the pain Daisy had suffered. I’m sorry, baby, he thought. I’m coming home to you now.
“I can’t even imagine how she’s going to feel,” said Sayers. “But…Jughead? Maybe you should call your next of kin first.”
“My mother?” He shook his head. “She’ll get hysterical. Maybe even blab to the press. Why would I call her first?”
“This fiancée—”
“Daisy.” He couldn’t believe he was only hours from seeing her again.
“Have you thought about—shoot, Jugs. This is hard. I’m just saying, maybe she’s moved on, you know?”
The suggestion was patently ridiculous. Incomprehensible. He was about to tell her so when a cold spike of apprehension lodged in his gut. She’d been told he was dead. He was a fool if he thought she’d still be sitting around, grieving for him. Yes, she loved him, but he could not expect her to spend her days pining after a dead guy. She had a kid to raise. A life to live.
Sayers read the expression on his face. “I’m probably completely off base. What I’d love is for you to fit right back into your life as if you’d never left.”
“And we both know that’s not going to happen. I’m still trying to get my mind around the idea that the world considered me dead.” He steepled his fingers together. “One of my favorite scenes in Huckleberry Finn was always the one where Tom and Huck attend their own funeral,” he said. “Wonder what mine was like.”
“Total sobfest. We were on our knees, I swear.”
“You went?”
“Hell, yeah, I went. Chipped in fifty bucks for the funeral spray, too. I ought to ask for my money back.”
“I owe you,” he said. “Listen, I’m going to call my brother, Connor. He is the least likely to go into meltdown when he hears from me.”
“Good plan,” she said, handing him a phone.
He dialed the number from memory and listened to the rings. Shit, what if it went to voice mail? What the hell was he going to say to voice mail? Oh, hey, Con. It’s me, Jules. Listen, good news….
“Davis Construction. Connor speaking.”
Julian took a deep breath. “It’s me, Julian. It really is. Your brother.”
“What the hell—”
“Just listen, Con, okay? Damn, it’s good to hear your voice. There was a huge mistake about my death, man. It was misreported, and…don’t freak out.”
He held the phone away from his ear as a loud yell came across the line.
“He’s freaking out,” Sayers observed, beaming.
“He’s freaking out,” Julian agreed.
After Connor calmed down enough to listen, and Julian convinced him that this was not a hoax, he said, “I’m not sure how to go about getting the word out. You’re the first person I called.”
“So, uh, you haven’t spoken to Daisy.”
It was the “uh” that tipped Julian off. That tiny verbal hesitation spoke volumes. He and his brother had always been straight with one another.
Julian asked, “Is she okay? What’s going on?”
“She took it hard when we got the news about you,” Connor explained. “Real hard. Went around like a zombie for months.”
Julian’s heart constricted as he imagined Daisy’s hurt. And he could imagine it because it was the same hurt he knew he would feel if he ever lost her.
He felt a glimmer of that pain even before Connor finished his explanation. Somehow, Julian already sensed what was coming. He steeled himself.
“About a year ago, she and Logan O’Donnell got married,” Connor told him, the words rushing out fast, as if he wanted to get this over with.
Julian felt everything drain out of him.
“Jules?” Connor said into the silence. “Man, I’m sorry. And I have to be honest, I know this sucks for you, but I’m so damn glad you’re alive that I’m still smiling.”
“I need a favor,” Julian said, his mind racing.
“Anything.”
“Go see her in person and tell her. Just, you know, so she’s prepared.”
Sayers was watching him with mounting concern.
“I can do that,” Connor said. “Olivia and I will find her right away.”
“Good. Okay.” Julian wanted to call Daisy himself, but he was in an impossible position now. She was married. Married. Boundaries were up. Reg
ardless of how he wanted things to be, he had to respect those boundaries.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future,” Connor said, “but you’re here. You’re alive. And I can’t wait to see you.”
“Same here.”
“When?”
Julian’s gaze flicked to Sayers. She made a gesture as if to say, We’re done here.
“Tonight,” Julian said.
“Seriously?”
“Looks that way.” Julian held the phone away from his ear.
“He still freaking out?” asked Sayers.
“Still freaking out,” Julian confirmed.
Twenty-Seven
“Well,” Daisy said with a happy smile. “This is a treat. I don’t usually get a follow-up visit with my clients.” It was hard to believe she had shot their wedding more than two years ago.
Andrea Hubble and her husband Brian exchanged a look that glowed with fondness. “You did such a beautiful job on our wedding photos that I couldn’t think of anyone better to take pictures of our new baby.”
Daisy looked around the sun-drenched porch of their new home, a modest frame house on the lake. The railed porch was hung with a late-blooming vine, its delicate white flowers exuding a beautiful fragrance.
“You don’t need an expert to make this little sweetheart look good,” she pointed out.
“I was thinking more about the mom and dad,” Andrea said. “All these night feedings are cutting into my beauty rest, big-time.”
“The three of you are going to look amazing,” Daisy promised. “We’ll get started as soon as Zach arrives with the rest of the gear.”
She picked out her favorite lens and scouted around for some good settings—a nice old porch swing, a patch of six-foot hollyhocks, an overgrown meadow sloping down to the lake, a rowboat in the water, tied to the weathered dock.
“How have you been?” she asked the Hubbles. “I mean, apart from the obvious.”
Andrea and Brian exchanged a glance. “It’s been…everything. We’ve gone from newly wedded bliss to the honeymoon-is-over rage, and all the stages in between. We’re great, though, right?” She nudged her husband. “Am I right?”
