“Friday.”
“More landing tests?”
“Yes.” And then he added when he saw darkness in Becky’s eyes, “Same old thing as before. It’s not dangerous, it’s simple.”
Mouth quirking, Becky stared sadly at the television. “Nothing about testing or flying is safe, Curt.”
Running his fingers through his hair, he got up. “Don’t start,” he warned her tightly.
“Where are you going?” She needed time with him, to heal herself.
“To the office. I’ve got to study.”
“But—”
Curt turned. “Listen, I’ve got to put in a couple hours every night or I’ll fall behind, Becky! You know that.” When he saw her face become sad, he added, “Will you be okay now? Can I fix some pork and beans for you before I go study?”
“No…you go ahead, go.” She closed her eyes and rested her brow against Patty’s hair. She heard the door shut quietly down at the end of the hall. Pain jagged through her, and Becky drew in a deep, uneven breath. When would all this anguish she carried daily in her heart go away? When? Did the other Air Force wives go through this kind of a hell?
Becky had been afraid to talk about her fears to anyone because it might get around. And she knew gossip could ruin Curt’s career. Desperately needing to talk to someone, her sluggish mind ranged over whom she could confide in. Curt didn’t want to hear about her fears. He’d heard about them for seven years. Who to call? Who would understand? She stared at the phone, chewing on her lower lip. Of all the officers’ wives, Becky had always admired beautiful, poised Melody Stang. Curt had warned her never to get chummy with her, but hadn’t said why.
Transferring Patty to her other arm, she picked up the phone, punching in the numbers that would connect her with Melody, who lived three doors down on Sharon Drive.
“Captain Stang’s residence,” Melody answered.
“Hi…Melody, this is Becky. Becky Merrill.”
Melody raised her eyebrows and sat down. “Yes, Becky.” This was the first time she’d ever called. Something was up because Melody sensed the hesitancy in the woman’s voice. Sweetly, she said, “How wonderful to hear from you.”
“Th-thank you, Melody. I—uh, called to ask you something.”
Melody watched as her husband sauntered into the living room, test manuals in hand. Jack gave her an interested look, as if asking her who was on the phone. “Of course, Becky. How may I be of help?”
“I know this sounds silly, but I had to ask someone this question. A wife, I mean. Your husband flies. Do you ever get afraid before he goes up? I mean, bad dreams or a terrible fear that stalks you, and it won’t go away ‘til you know he’s safe?”
“Is that how you feel?” Melody asked gently, delighted with this newfound information. Becky had always kept to herself, and rarely could be drawn out to make even polite, social conversation at the fetes and club meetings.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I do. I—I just needed a friendly ear, Melody. Every time Curt goes up, it gets worse for me.
“It’s like that for all of us,” Melody said sympathetically. Of course, it wasn’t, but she wanted Becky to trust her enough to tell her everything. She had ultimate confidence in Jack’s flight skills and never worried about him flying or testing jets.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” she sighed, a quiver in her voice.
Leaning back on the couch, Melody smiled triumphantly at Jack and gave him a thumbs-up sign. “Listen, I have all the time in the world, Becky. Why don’t you tell me everything, dear. After all, we’re Air Force wives. If we don’t stick together and help each other, who will?”
Curt stopped studying at midnight, too torn up about Becky’s drinking. He left the office, shutting the door quietly. Patty was already in bed, asleep. He walked to the master bedroom. Becky was in bed, but she wasn’t asleep. Girding himself, he went and sat down, his arm across her.
“How are you feeling, Sparrow?”
“Better,” she murmured, absorbing his touch as he caressed her hair. “Did you get your studying done?”
With a grimace, Curt shrugged. “What I could of it, I did.” He leaned over, pressing a kiss to her waxen cheek. “We have to talk, honey. What you did tonight scared the hell out of me.”
Becky avoided his gaze. She held his hand against her stomach, needing his continued touch. “I didn’t mean to, Curt.”
“How long has this been going on?” he asked hoarsely.
“N-not long.”
“What’s that mean?”
She squirmed. “It means I take a drink or two when I know you’re going to test fly. That’s all.”
A heavy sigh came from Curt. He cupped her face. Becky’s eyes were so huge and dark with fear. “You can’t do that. You can’t use alcohol to escape into, Becky.”
“Well,” she whispered, choking on a sob, “it’s easy for you to say! You’re not the one left behind. You don’t have to worry if you’re coming back. I do!” She sat up, moved away from him and pulled the blankets about herself. “Don’t you know how scared I get? Every time a jet flies overhead, I get this tightness in my belly. And Lordy, when that Klaxon goes off that means there’s been a crash. I die inside until you can call me.”
Curt hung his head. “Sparrow, I’m sorry, I truly am. But you’ve got to get ahold of yourself. You can’t drink this way. It’s bad for you. For us.” He reached out, gripping her hand and gently pulling her into his arms. “Dammit,” he said against her thin blond hair, “I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Patty. You’re my life, Sparrow. My life.”
Miserably, she shook her head, her fingers digging into his shirt front. Tears soaked her tightly shut lashes. “No,” she sobbed, “flying’s your first love, Curt Merrill. I’ve always known that. You love your flying more than you do Patty and I.”
“That’s not true!” he rasped, gripping her by the shoulders.
“It is!” she cried out.
Breathing hard, Curt stared at her contorted face, her cheeks wet with spilled tears. “No,” he said, his voice quavering, “nothing could be further from the truth, Becky. My God, the last eight years of my life have been the happiest I’ve ever had. Haven’t they been for you?” He was afraid of her answer, wondering if she loved him less than he had always loved her.
Wiping her face with a trembling hand, Becky said, “I—I’ve always been happy with you. It’s the Air Force, the pressure they put on me and Patty that’s bad, Curt.”
Dragging her into his arms, holding her tightly, Curt rocked her. “You’ve just got to get ahold of this problem, Becky. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about it. If word gets out, my career could be sandbagged. We’ll work this out together, okay?”
It hurt to breathe, to feel. Becky mutely nodded her head against his chest. Curt’s arms were strong and secure around her. “I’ll try….”
“Other pilot’s wives don’t have this problem,” he went on. “They’re not afraid like you are.”
“Who can I talk to about this, then?” Becky asked in a small voice.
Curt thought for a long moment. “Sam Holt’s a good ear. You’ve known him for the last seven years, Becky.”
Sniffing, she mustered a slight smile. “He’s like my big brother, Alvin. Those two have so much in common. Sam cares for everyone.”
“Yes, yes, he does. Talk to him, Sparrow. Maybe he can give you some pointers. I’m subjective about tins, and he’ll be objective. Plus, he’s someone safe to discuss this with. Sam won’t spread it around base and hurt my career.”
“Noooooo…” Sam Holt’s scream caromed off the walls of the bedroom. The covers slipped away, revealing his naked chest. Trying to reorient himself back to the present, Holt savagely rubbed his face. Russ Davis’s image hung in his memory.
“Dammit,” he whispered hoarsely. Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs across the bed. The hardwood floor was cool in comparison to his hot, sweaty body. It felt good, it brought him back into the present
. Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, Holt realized he’d been crying.
Shoving himself to his feet, he stood there, the moonlight pooling around him. His upper body gleamed with a heavy film of sweat. The drawstring pajamas clung damply to his lower body. When were these nightmares going to stop? When? Holt could smell himself and winced. It was fear sweat, not the normal kind of perspiration odor.
“Need a shower….” He walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. Holt didn’t turn on the electricity, the moon providing enough light to see the handles to the shower. He wanted the water cold, to snap him out of the past and bring him back to the present. His mind revolved out of control, the sequence of events leading up to the crash still hovering over him.
Angry at himself, Sam jerked off the pajamas and moved into the cold, steady spray. With a gasp, he faced the cascade of water. In moments, the worst of the nightmare was pummeled away beneath the pulsating streams. Ducking his head under the shower, he scrubbed his hair and face with renewed savagery, wanting to erase the last of the memory.
When Holt stepped out twenty minutes later, he was shivering. Wrapping a yellow towel around his waist, he walked back into the bedroom, his feet making puddle prints across the walnut hardwood floor. With trembling hands, he groped for and found his blue terry-cloth robe in the tangle of blankets at the bottom of the bed. Pulling it on, he let the towel drop to his feet.
He needed some coffee. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 3:00 a.m. The nightmare always came at that time. Padding through the large, silent house, Holt made his way to the kitchen. He fumbled for the percolator and coffee. Trying to forget the remnants of the nightmare, Sam focused on Megan Roberts. His hands steadied.
“Megan Roberts,” he whispered, his brow wrinkling. Two weeks ago after speaking with her at the school, he’d sent her a dozen yellow roses and one red rose. And he hadn’t heard a thing back from her. Well, what did he expect? She had been honest with him: she didn’t like men in uniform. “Correction,” he muttered, plugging in the coffeemaker and then moving to the back door, “she doesn’t like pilots.” He liked her, civilian or not. Could he help it if her beautiful green eyes filled him with a peace he’d never known? Or that burnished red hair reminded him of a vivid, breath-stealing desert sunset? Looking out the window, Sam saw that his neighbor’s house was dark and silent.
At least some people were able to sleep at night, Holt groused to himself. Rubbing his face, feeling the bristly growth of beard beneath his fingers, he wondered if the replay of the crash would ever end. With renewed feeling, Sam refocused on Megan. Damn, but he liked her. She was a woman who knew herself, who utilized her fiery spirit to achieve her goals. There was so much he saw going on in those eyes of hers. If only she’d give him a chance. If only…
Moving to the table, Sam sat down, staring tiredly at the coffeemaker as it gurgled away. Normally, if he sent a woman flowers, she’d respond with a phone call, thanking him. He’d heard nothing from Megan, and she knew where he worked. Megan couldn’t send a card, because she didn’t have his address. It was easy to concentrate on her, and Holt pictured her face in the front of his mind, erasing Russ’s features.
The delicious odor of fresh coffee began to filter through the kitchen, and Holt felt the tension start to gradually ease from his shoulders. Rubbing the back of his neck, Sam knew it was because of Megan. She had an interesting face, the kind he could look at forever and always find something new and pretty about it. No, she wasn’t a raving beauty, but she was indeed arresting. Besides, he didn’t like perfect-looking women. Melody Stang fell into that category.
Holt wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t had plastic surgery done to her nose, eyes and chin to create the Grecian symmetry in that face of hers. She was a vain person in comparison to attractive Megan Roberts. No face was perfect. His test-pilot observations had confirmed that a long time ago. Every face was made up of two halves, neither quite resembling the other. One eye would be slightly smaller or larger than the other. One side of the mouth was thinner or thicker, or perhaps, one corner curved up or down more than the other. Little things, important things about the face, entranced Holt. And Megan’s slightly asymmetrical face was positively fascinating. He wanted the chance to simply stare at her, absorb her features, and tell her how unique and attractive she was to him.
“Contrasts,” he muttered, slowly getting up. Life was nothing but contrasts of gray, not black or white. It was the grays that made life interesting in his opinion. Retrieving a cup, he poured himself some coffee and sat back down at the table.
For once there was relief from the nightmare because he had Megan Roberts to concentrate on. She was like sunlight in his life right now. “Hard to catch, too.’’ Sam grinned slightly, sipping the coffee. “How do you catch a red-haired sunbeam who hates pilots? Good question, Holt. You’re so good at solving crossword puzzles, complex flight tests and flying finicky jets, why don’t you solve her?”
The challenge hung provocatively in front of him as he slowly turned the mug of coffee around in his hands. Okay, Friday he’d drop over unannounced at her school and ask her out as a friend, not as a date. Maybe have a coffee, or something nonalcoholic. That was harmless enough, and aboveboard. Give Megan a chance to know him. Of course, he wouldn’t make the mistake of showing up at the school in his flight suit. No, he’d bring along some civilian clothes and change before going over to see her. God, how he hated dressing up in a suit with a chokingly tight tie at his throat. He much preferred the open collar of his one-piece, comfortable flight suit. But, to get Megan, to begin earning her trust in him, he’d even go that far for her. It was the ultimate sacrifice for a pilot to struggle into a suit and tie.
A slight smile shadowed Holt’s mouth as he savored the plan. He’d never met a woman yet who wouldn’t say yes to his idea after sending her flowers. He relied on guilt to make them agree to go with him. The plan was a good one. After finishing off the coffee, Holt went back to bed. Tomorrow was Thursday, and Stang was scheduled to fly the test. All he had to do was observe the test, record what he saw in a report and hand it to Lauren and the designers. An easy day with no complications—no contrasts.
Jack waited in the Design room at his desk, eyes on the door. Merrill and the three flight engineers were already at work. Where the hell was Holt? Looking at his watch, Holt was ten minutes late. A thrill arced through Jack. Melody’s astute observations were correct: Holt must not be getting a good night’s sleep. How else could he explain his lateness?
The door opened. Jack leaned forward, intent. Holt entered. His flight uniform was wrinkled and impressed, and to his delight, there were dark circles visible under Holt’s eyes. In his right hand were a suit, shirt and tie on hangers. He watched as Holt hung up the civilian clothes on a hook behind his desk.
“A little late this morning, aren’t you?” Jack drawled.
“Had some things to do,” Sam answered.
“I’ve been noticing,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair, “that you’ve been looking peaked lately.”
Sam grinned. “Stang, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.” He looked at his watch. “Usually you aren’t up to firing speed until seven-thirty. What happened? You’re early.”
Returning the grin, Jack shrugged. “Nothing.” He motioned toward Holt. “You’ve got dark shadows under your eyes. You been sleeping well lately?”
Sam’s mouth quirked, and he turned, going to his desk. His mind was spongy this morning because of sleep loss, and Stang was sharper than usual with his observations. He needed a cup of coffee—fast. “I know your mother’s a scientist, but I didn’t know she was into sleep therapy,” he responded, going to the coffeemaker. He raised his hand to the three flight engineers who were huddled, heads together, over some last-minute decisions before Stang’s flight.
Jack studied his manicured fingernails. “My mother’s a genetic scientist, Holt, and I’ve got her powers of observation. You look whipped, as if you’v
e been having bad dreams or something the last couple of nights.”
Holt scowled, but with his back to Stang, he couldn’t see his reaction. Needled because the pilot was on target; he said, “I think you’re jealous, Jack.” Sam grinned at him and ambled back to his desk, coffee in hand.
“Of what?” Jack scoffed.
“I’m single, good-looking as hell and have my pick of any lady over at the O Club I want.” He pointed to his eyes. “You’re right, buddy—long nights with some luscious-looking ladies. Eat your heart out.”
With a sharp laugh, Jack put his boots up on the desk and watched Holt. “Word’s out you don’t take any of those ladies home with you. No, I think something else is bothering you….”
Irritated, Sam sat down, pretending to be busy. “You’ve got an overactive imagination. Instead of testing, maybe you ought to change your vocation and go into writing fiction books.”
Grinning, Jack watched him closely. A flush had crawled up on Holt’s face. Good, he was on to something! His excitement soared, because this was the first time he’d shaken Holt up. There was a scowl on his face, too, his lips pursed. Bingo! His sixth sense told him the crash was still bothering him. And if that was so, Holt was in for it. That way, sooner or later, his flight confidence would have to start to erode, and then, he’d maintain a clear-cut lead for the number-one slot.
The end of the week was always tense around Ops. The week’s worth of testing had to be cleaned up, analyzed, absorbed and then the next week’s tests laid out. Not only that, but Holt was also scheduled to fly next Monday. Rubbing his hands together, Jack leaned back. Monday…
7
“Hey,” Sam called, “where are you going in such a hurry?” He saw Megan hurrying toward her car, her arms filled with books and homework.
Surprised, Megan whirled around toward the voice. Her pulse quickened. Sam Holt was dressed in a gray suit, light blue shirt and dark blue tie. Nonplussed, she watched him approach. The change in him was startling. Without the flight suit, the image of the pilot disappeared. His smile went straight to her heart, and she drowned in the warmth mirrored in his cobalt eyes.
Night Flight Page 9
