The Ocean Between Us (30 page)

She smiled across the table at Ross. “I’ve never eaten flowers before.”

They fought good-naturedly over the check, and in the end, Grace prevailed, because he was her client, after all. She paid with
her Grace Under Pressure credit card and left a generous tip. As promised, she took him for a stroll through Pike Place Market, stopping at her favorite stalls and showing him the startling sight of a raw geoduck. “I see what you mean,” he admitted, studying the thick, fleshy tube protruding from a hand-size clam shell. “It looks a little too…familiar to order for lunch.”

She showed him a stall with twelve flavors of honey for sale. “Hard to believe there’s a difference between clover and fireweed,” he said, accepting a sample on a tiny plastic spoon. Before she figured out what he was doing, he touched it to her lips. “What do you think?”

She tasted that honey right down to her toes. “It’s delicious,” she said. “Irresistible. You try it.” She felt bold and reckless as he sampled it.

“Mmm,” he said. “I need to take this home with me.”

They emerged at a tiny park at the end of the market. Ross was laden with purchases. As they strolled along, he reached into his pocket to find a dollar for a jaded-looking panhandler.

They sat down on a bench looking out over the water. He rested his arms along the back of the bench. Technically, he didn’t have an arm around her, Grace rationalized, just behind her on the bench. A strange energy clamored inside her.

“My new hometown,” he said easily, looking out at the sapphire water with the big sky above. “I’m going to like it here. Thanks for making it possible, Grace.”

She looked up at him. “Thanks for taking a chance on me.”

“It’s kind of cool, being your first client.”

“I certainly thought so. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, I would have framed the first check you sent me.”

“I should have sent you something to commemorate our beginning.”

“You did. Those flowers you sent are just gorgeous.”

“No, I meant something you’d keep. Something that would last.”

She caught herself studying his mouth. “Now you’re making me all sentimental about a business relationship.”

His arm moved from the back of the bench to the back of Grace. “It’s more than that.”

She had known it from the moment she saw him. In a heartbeat’s time, her perception of him—and of herself—had shifted. As seagulls cried and hawkers called out, she could feel him drawing closer.

“I have a great idea,” he said. “Why don’t I take you to see my new condo.”

“I looked at the virtual tour on the Internet. It’s a great condo.”

“It’s even better in person. It’s just up the street, in Belltown.”

She knew exactly where it was. She was the one who had sent him the listing. This was business, she told herself. She had relocated this man. There was no harm in taking the final step, in seeing where he’d ended up.

“All right,” she said, light-headed with defiance. The world seemed shrouded in a diffuse haze.

They stood, and in her nervousness, she dropped her purse. It emptied with a thud on the pavement in front of the bench. Her first thought was to hope nothing humiliating had spilled out.

“I’ve got it.” Ross stooped down and handed her the little sack of makeup she’d bought at Gene Juarez. A tin of Altoids. Her phone and wallet. A date book—she hadn’t graduated to a PDA yet. A book of ferry tickets.

“Thanks,” she said, stuffing the things into her purse.

He bent down to check under the bench. “We almost missed something,” he said. He stood up and dropped the heavy cluster of keys into her hand. “You won’t get far without that.”

Instead of shoving it in her handbag, Grace stared at the key chain. She’d had it for years and years. It was attached to a small silver anchor. Steve had given it to her on their first Christmas together.

For nearly twenty years, she had kept it to remind her that no matter where he went, she anchored him home.

She closed her fist around the key chain, grateful to feel the cold metal press into her hand. The world came back into sharp focus as she smiled up at Ross Cameron. A light wind played with
his long, wavy hair, and the sunlight danced in his eyes. It was true that she wanted the admiration she saw in those eyes. She wanted the flutter of desire she was feeling. But now it was crystal clear—she wanted those things with Steve.

“I won’t be able to come with you after all,” she said, her heart nearly coming out of her chest. “You understand, I can’t.”

He didn’t look shocked or hurt. Disappointed, perhaps. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“No need. I’d rather walk by myself.”

“All right. See you, Grace. Thanks for lunch. Thanks for everything.”

“No, thank
you.
” He would never know how grateful she was to him. She hurried across the street, turned and waved before heading to the parking garage. But he didn’t see her wave. He was already striding away, garnering the admiration of every woman he passed.

Steve wasn’t fooled by reporter Francine Atwater’s doe-eyed admiration as she looked around his office. She was trolling for a story, and she was a pro. “You’ve had an incredible career,” she said, going over his bio. She pressed a button on a handheld microrecorder. “But I’m more interested in finding out about the real Steve Bennett, not what the Navy publishes about you.”

“Ma’am, that’s about all there is to it.”

“It says here you were born and raised in Texas. Are your folks still there?”

“They’re deceased.” He was sure about his mother. With his father, it was a wishful assumption.

“I’m sorry. That must make your own family all that much more important to you.”

“That’s true.” Steve considered her a slippery little thing. He knew damned well that Miss Congeniality, with her concerned questions about his family life, would turn into a barracuda once she sat down to write her piece. You could make one little innocent remark that, when quoted out of context, made you sound like Attila the Hun.

“About how much are you away from them?” she asked, studying the framed photo of Grace and the kids on Mustang Island.

“Too damned long,” he said incautiously. It just came out, uncensored. Normally he was more circumspect with the press. “About half the time,” he clarified.

“So the other half of you belongs to the Navy.”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“What role does your wife play in your rise through the ranks?”

The question caught him off guard. “She doesn’t just play a role. That makes her sound less important than she is. An officer is like the visible top of an iceberg. An officer’s spouse is the seventy-five percent of it that’s unseen and underwater, propping up the whole structure. Someone else might tell you otherwise, but that’s the way I see it, anyway.”

“How do you justify the time away from your family?”

He knew the stock answer to that. He had made a commitment to serve his country. A career Naval officer concerned himself with issues that were larger and more important than the individual. Yet when he spoke, he heard himself say, “There’s really no justification for it, ma’am. Time away from those you love is time you can never get back. It can have a devastating impact on a family.”

To her credit, she kept her cool, though her eyes widened slightly. “Sir, may I quote you on that?”

He knew he could ask her to take his remarks off the record. The Navy frowned on its personnel questioning their own priorities.

“It’s your job to publish the truth. And the truth is, an officer is only human. I won’t speak for anyone but myself, but I can tell you this. In all likelihood, I’ll become the next CAG. It’s what I’ve worked for all these years. As CAG of Carrier Air Group 16, I’ll become the leader I always knew I could be. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking long and hard about what this command will do to my personal life.”

She clutched her small recording device to her chest as though it was the Holy Grail. Steve felt no regrets for being so frank—yet. He was putting his lifelong dream at risk, but it didn’t feel that way. Saying aloud the things that had been on his mind for
so long felt curiously liberating. It wasn’t that hard to admit that there was no comparison between the job and the sight of his babies for the first time, or the look on his wife’s face when she welcomed him home.

The young journalist proved to be a demanding customer in more ways than one. Taking civilians to the flight deck was never a great idea, but Higher Authority had granted her special clearance to see night ops. Up close.

Steve helped her gear up for the tour—boots, a cranial, goggles, a white float coat stenciled VIP. Then he took her to the tower, introduced her around and showed her a vantage point for getting a good view of the deck. She was practically giddy with excitement, and despite his mood, Steve found himself remembering what it was like to experience the overwhelming sights, smells and sounds of a flight deck.

In the recovery phase of the exercise, jets returned one after another to the carrier. As each steel bird came screaming home to roost, the crew raced out to prepare for the next landing. When Steve took Ms. Atwater to the dim lower level of the tower, they encountered her photographer, videographer, an assistant and a Public Affairs Officer. As they were making introductions, Aviation Ordnanceman Airman Michael Rivera stepped inside, reporting a slight problem with some decoy flares.

Steve and the PAO let Rivera visit with Atwater. They’d get a different story out of Rivera, a young man bursting with enthusiasm, completely devoted to his role on the carrier. Steve stepped away and stared through a narrow viewing pane.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—a distraction, a place to focus that was outside himself—but he saw…something. A peculiar energy had seized the crew charged with recovering the next aircraft, very subtle, but enough to compel Steve to return to the bridge. The CAG LSO, Bud Forster, spoke quickly into his headset. “Prowler six-two-three,” he said, and the look on his face made Steve’s gut twist.

Lamont was driving the Prowler, and if Forster was handling
the situation rather than the squadron LSO, that meant trouble. Steve thought about Lamont, a pilot with potential but not nearly enough experience. Since their discussion, Lamont’s landing grades had steadily improved. But if there was trouble, would he know what to do?

Lamont was a stranger, but he was also his son, and Steve felt the mysterious pull of their common blood. Everything inside him clamored to take some sort of action. But Josh didn’t need Steve now, any more than he’d needed him for the past twenty-six years. Josh needed the Air Boss and the LSO and his own skill and sense. It was late in the cruise and the planes had been ridden hard. No matter how diligent the maintenance crews were, a loose bolt or wire was common, particularly on the frequently used Prowlers.

Steve spotted Francine Atwater and the others outside, heading toward the bomb farm. With a possible situation outside, the tour was over, even though they didn’t know it yet. He’d have to go round them up and send them below. It was not simply a matter of yelling at them from the tower. He swore under his breath as he ran outside. If anything happened to the civilian reporter, he’d be to blame. She was his responsibility.

The flight deck roared with noise. Artificial light blazed across the runways. There was a flare dispenser on deck behind Rivera and the civilians. Steve thought he saw sparks shooting from the container. A cold spike of terror shot through him. At this distance, they’d never hear his warning. But he yelled out, anyway.

At first, Rivera didn’t seem to see the problem. Then he turned and picked up the burning cylinder and ran. A sound like a strike of thunder penetrated the noise of the deck. A fount of sparks and billows of smoke swallowed Rivera until a gust of wind swept the deck. Then Rivera rolled free of the smoke. His sleeve was on fire, a huge torch casting eerie light over the horrified civilians. Steve was the first to reach him. He already had his float coat off as he leaped forward, smothering the flames with the thick fabric. The flames were out, but Rivera lay shuddering violently on the deck.

From the corner of his eye, Steve saw the flare dispenser. It was still smoking.

Sailors were almost there with the fire extinguishers, but the internal units were already burning.

If it smokes, get rid of it.

The handle of the dispenser was so hot that it set Steve’s glove on fire. He yelped with pain but didn’t let go. The cylinder was too heavy to lift, but somehow he got it to the edge of the deck. Hoping momentum would carry the burning cylinder far, he swung hard. Smoke and flames drew an arc through the night sky.

He came up off his feet and felt a violent blast. Alarms shrieked from the bridge.

Sparks shot from the top of the canister, stinging his face and illuminating the surreal sight of the carrier’s hull speeding past on his long fall into the dark water.

Grace drove a little too fast to the ferry terminal, and on the boat, she sat and stared out the window at the sudden squall of rain. Her heart was full, and she felt exhausted and exhilarated as she exited the ferry and headed home.

As she sped up the main road, the wind and rain gradually abated. By the time she pulled to the shoulder of the wet road to get the mail, tentative slices of sunshine shone through the clouds. She turned into the driveway and sat in the car for a moment, gazing at her house. She’d lived in a lot of places, but this was the only one she’d ever loved. The only one she owned.

So much had changed since Steve had gone away. But perhaps, Grace realized, the biggest change was within her.

She picked up her purse and the stack of mail from the seat beside her and slid out of the car. Ducking her head to avoid drops from the ancient cedar trees that arched over the drive, she skirted puddles to keep from ruining her new shoes and let herself in through the front gate.

Juggling the mail, her purse and keys, she let herself in. Daisy lumbered into the foyer to greet her, snuffling and wagging her
tail. The flowers from Ross still stood on the hall table, their scent heavy and rich.

She went to the kitchen, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. The image startled her yet again. What a day it had been. Her encounter with Ross Cameron was everything she hoped it would—and would not—be.

She let Daisy out and put her keys on the counter, pausing for a minute to study the little sterling silver anchor key chain again. Then she checked the time. The kids would be home soon. She wondered if they would notice the new outfit, the hair. She wondered if Steve would, when he came back.

For a moment she had trouble breathing. Even now, she thought, stunned by the powerful grip he still held on her heart. Even now. And despite the decision she’d made today, doubts kept seeping through the cracks and crevices that had appeared in the foundations of her life.

Nothing would be resolved fully until Steve came back.

She headed into the study to check her messages. But first she paused to send one simple e-mail to Steve:
We need to talk. Love, Grace.

The answering machine signaled thirteen messages. She touched Play and picked up a pen.

The first few messages on the machine were strictly business, related to delivery times, tonnage estimates, shipping contracts. Then came Katie: “Mom, I’m going to Melanie’s tonight, okay?”

Next, a message from Patricia and then Steve’s voice. “Hey, guys.” Grace’s grip tightened on the pen. “It’s your old man calling from the wrong side of the international dateline. Guess what? I’m giving a tour to a reporter from
Newsweek….
”

Grace massaged the sides of her jaw, trying to force herself to relax as the next messages played: trouble with an overseas shipment. Lauren Stanton, sounding upset about canceling the evening fitness class; she was taking Josh’s absence so hard. The final message was from Grace’s lawyer, announcing that her incorporation papers were ready to sign. Soon, she would be Grace Under Pressure, Inc.

She glanced at the computer screen to see that the server was rejecting messages. Odd, she thought, but then she was distracted by the muffled sound of a car door slamming. Then another. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She stood and went to see who it was.

A black Navy sedan was parked in front. Between the tall hedges of climbing roses, two men emerged.

When Grace saw them, her insides and all of her bones turned to liquid, yet somehow she managed to hold herself upright. It was happening, then. This was the nightmare every Navy wife dreaded.

A chaplain and the Casualty Assistance Calls Officer, coming up the walk.

She thought, If I don’t open the door and let them in, they’ll go away. They won’t be real. This won’t be happening. But she knew she had to.

Her life was now cleanly divided down the middle, cut with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. And this exact moment was the dividing line. Everything on her side of the door belonged Before. Everything on the other side of the door would be After.

She wished she had loved the “before” portion more. She wished she hadn’t waited for “after” to discover the precious lessons life offered. Before and after. Life and death. Love and loss.

Somehow she managed to open the door and step outside, waiting on the porch with her back pressed to the glass.

The CACO and the chaplain both wore full dress uniform. Their faces were as white as their gloves. The moment they reached the top of the porch steps, they removed their caps and tucked them properly under their arms.

“Mrs. Bennett?”

She nodded. Who else would she be? She was Mrs. Bennett. Mrs. Stephen Kyle Bennett. It was all she had ever wanted to be, all she could conceive of being. My God, she thought, what have I done?

She had dreamed of being a lot of other things, but she was just lying to herself. At her core, at her very heart and soul, she was Steve’s wife, and something was terribly wrong.

“Ma’am,” said the captain. “May we come inside?”

No. No. No.

She wanted to cover her ears, run and hide, turn back the clock. But instead, she opened the door and let them in.