The Top Gun's Return

by Kathleen Creighton

  A cold, sick feeling washed over him. He knew the feeling well; he'd lived with it in many forms, the past eight years. Fear. Strange, he thought, I'm about to see and touch the one person I dreamed of seeing and touching for all those years…the one whose face and voice in my dreams I think at times were the only thing keeping me alive. And I'm scared to death.

  At the door he paused, turning to let his gaze sweep once more over the parking lot and the new-leafed trees and red-tiled roofs beyond. The sky was overcast, the sun breaking through the clouds in rays, like fingers. Beside the walkway, planters bright with more tulips, daffodils and hyacinths gave off a heady scent. The air was cool and seemed thin and light in his lungs. So different from prison air, which was thick and heavy. Prison air weighed a man down.

  I don't know who I am, after breathing that air for so long, he thought. I know I'm not the same man I was when I left her. Nowhere near.

  And he let them come, then, the questions he'd tried so hard to hold at bay: Will she love me still? Will she want this man-this shell-that I've become?

  He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the scent of flowers, and from long habit, her image came to fill the blank screen of his mind. Jessie's face, so vivid he felt as if he could reach out and touch it, every detail etched in his memory as if in stone. Her lips, curved up at the corners, and her nose, crinkled across the bridge with her smile…

  But she'll have changed, too, he reminded himself. They'd warned him to expect that. In eight years, how could she not have changed? And yet-he caught a quick sip of the winey air, as if to give himself courage-she hadn't remarried, they'd told him. Why, when she'd been told he was dead? Did that mean-What did it mean? It could mean everything. It could mean nothing.

  He realized his heart was pounding so hard it was making his chest hurt. He rubbed the spot ruefully as he reached for the door handle. Whatever it was waiting for him beyond that door, postponing it wasn't going to make it easier to face.

  * * *

  For the life of her, Jessie couldn't make a simple decision. She'd spent what seemed like hours deciding what to wear, not that that was an unheard-of thing for a woman, but it hadn't ever been a particular problem for her before. She wore wash-and-wear pants and smocks for work, jeans and sweatshirts or shorts and T-shirts or tank tops at home, depending on the season of the year, and when something more sedate was required, dressy slacks and a blazer, with a sweater or shell, again dictated by the season and the weather. She owned a couple of dresses, basic and eternal in style, which were pretty much reserved for weddings and funerals. What was to decide?

  Today, though, she'd stood before the mirror in her room for what seemed like hours, helpless and on the verge of panic. Nothing looked right to her. The blazer she'd worn on the plane seemed too formal, too stiff. The sweater she'd finally chosen was lavender, which used to be Tris's favorite color. Was it still? Would he remember? Was she trying too hard? Had she put on a few pounds? God, she thought, I look old.

  And her hair. She hadn't had time to shampoo and blow it dry. Should she wear it loose on her shoulders anyway, the way she knew Tris preferred, even though it was definitely looking limp and travel weary? And the gray mixed in with the blond at her temples-oh God, he'd have to be blind not to see that, no matter how she wore it.

  She couldn't decide where to wait for him. Her room-their room-with its hotel-type arrangement of bed, sitting area and desk-table workspace with a separate bathroom, was at least assured of privacy. And the guest house staff had gone out of their way to make it homey, with fresh flowers and a huge basket of fruit on the table. The sweetest thing-there was even a Teddy bear wearing a yellow ribbon around its neck propped on the bed pillows. But, oh, that bed-Lord, it seemed to Jessie it took up most of the space in the room-it dominated…it distracted. She didn't want Tris to think-she didn't want to think-her stomach knotted and quivered and she pressed her fist against it to quiet the butterflies. I won't think about it now.

  In the end, she'd decided on the guest house's common room, just off the lobby reception area and next door to the dining room. It was a gracious, hospitable place, with a gas log fireplace and comfortable furniture arranged for intimate conversation or reading the paper, or settling down with a good book. It was fairly private, being empty at the moment-the house had only a few other occupants besides her, since most of the casualties from the Persian Gulf were being shipped stateside as quickly as possible-but there was no guarantee it would stay that way. So far the news media hadn't caught up with her, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they did. She also knew the guest house staff, as well as Lieutenant Commander Rees, would do everything they could to shield her until she felt ready to face the onslaught. As she would have to, sooner or later. She'd just as well prepare herself.

  Prepare myself? Who am I kidding?

  Right on cue, she heard the click of the front door opening, the polite trill of a buzzer announcing someone's presence in the lobby. I'm not ready, she thought in panic. I'm not ready.

  She could hear the receptionist asking if she could be of assistance. The murmur of a masculine response. And-oh God, it was Tristan's voice. For the first time in more than eight years, she was hearing her husband's voice.

  Her heart leaped like a fractious Thoroughbred in the starting gates, yet inside her head she felt…quiet. Her mind kept touching on unimportant subjects-what she was wearing, what she looked like, her hair again, the photo album, Sammi June, arrangements for dinner, the fire on the hearth, even the furniture in the room-like a nervous housewife waiting for guests to arrive. But when she tried to think of Tristan there was only blankness, like an empty page.

  Gradually she realized she was trembling, and that her chest was so tight it seemed impossible she could take a breath. She knew her hands were icy and her stomach a roiling mass of butterflies. But why, she wondered, when my mind feels so calm? Whose body is this? How can it be mine when I have so little control over it?

  She couldn't hear his voice now. She strained to catch the sounds of his footsteps but heard only the surflike thunder of her own blood in her ears.

  Then he was there, framed in the doorway. Undeniably Tristan, unbearably thin and a little stooped, though she could see he was trying not to be. He was wearing a borrowed jumpsuit. Beyond that she was certain of nothing; her vision blurred and wavered until she saw him through a shimmering fog.

  Oh-she wanted to go to him, but that body of hers again refused to obey the orders her brain gave it. No matter how hard she willed them to, her legs wouldn't move. Her feet remained firmly rooted to the floor. She wanted to say something-his name, at least-but when she drew a quivering breath in preparation for speech, nothing came out of her mouth.

  "Jess…" It was no more than a breath. A whisper. A sigh.

  He was coming toward her, limping. She saw that he had a cane, though he didn't appear to be using it, and when he was within arm's reach of her he let go of it, seeming unaware or uncaring that it toppled to the floor.

  Her shoulders rose in a helpless shrug-an apology for not meeting him halfway. And the breath she'd taken-oh, hours ago, it seemed-remained trapped in her chest, prisoner of the certain knowledge that when she released it a sob would go, too.

  His hands were on her shoulders, his fingers rubbing in the softness of her sweater as if he'd never felt its like before. Blurred as her vision was, his face seemed angular and unfamiliar to her, his normally bright, intelligent eyes sunken deep in shadowed sockets. She fought against panic, searching that haggard face for some sign of the Tristan she knew-that arrogant tilt to his mouth, those sun creases at the corners of his eyes? If she could see him clearly-but she dared not blink.

  "My God," he whispered, "you look just the same."

  His fingers walked across her shoulder blades, drawing her hesitantly closer, as though he feared at any second she might vanish in a puff of smoke. He said nothing more as he folded her into his arms but drew a great breath th
rough his nose, as if filling himself up with the scent, the essence of her. As if he'd never be able to get enough of it.

  He held her carefully, almost reverently, at first, then closer…harder, and buried his face in her hair. The breath she'd been holding burst from her in a sob. She no longer had to worry about her trembling; it wasn't possible to tell where hers left off and his began.

  She had no way of knowing how long they stood there like that, locked in a silent, almost desperate embrace. It occurred to her that it was like a refuge, that silence…the closeness, a safe place neither of them wanted to leave.

  But they must leave it, of course, and confront what had happened to them and what lay ahead. And it came to Jessie in those moments that for the first time in their lives together, she would have to be the one to take the lead.

  From the first, maybe because she'd been so young when they'd met, Tristan had been the boss in their relationship, the leader, the strong one. Even when he was away on deployments, he'd made all the important decisions, and more than a few of the small ones, too. But that had changed eight years ago, and there was no going back to the way things had been. This is who I am now, Tris. I'm not the same Jessie you left behind.

  Fear shivered through her, and she stirred in his arms. They loosened instantly, though he kept her within their circle, his hands still transmitting minute tremors through the fabric of her sweater and deep into her body. That almost imperceptible shaking nearly undid her. She placed her palms on the front of his jumpsuit and tried to laugh. Then gave that up and sniffed loudly, brushing at her eyes. "Told myself I wouldn't do this."

  Tristan had told himself the same thing. He'd been raised on the notion that real men don't cry, although eight years in an Iraqi prison had cured him of that notion. He'd heard tougher, stronger men than himself cry like babies, and he wasn't ashamed of the times he'd done so himself. But he wasn't about to let himself cry in front of her. He'd learned a lot about self-control in that prison, too, and if it took every ounce he had, he wasn't going to let Jess see him shed a tear.

  He had his reasons for feeling that way, most of which he would have a hard time explaining in words. Some of it was plain old masculine pride, probably, normal guy stuff about wanting to stand tall in front of his woman, particularly when he was feeling anything but. Some of it was protective; he didn't want Jess to ever have to try to sleep with the images that filled his nightmares. And maybe the biggest part was a combination of those two things. Partly pride, wanting to be for his woman the man he'd once been, the man she expected him to be-a strong man who believed absolutely in himself, and would never give in to weakness. Partly wanting to protect her from knowing about the man he was now-a man who, in the dark and secret places of his mind cringed and cowered in terror, a man who'd cried and screamed and suffered every imaginable kind of humiliation and degradation, and who wasn't sure what he believed in anymore.

  His thumb stroked a tear across her cheek, and his eyes followed it hungrily, as if the salty moisture were some rare and wonderful elixir that could cure everything that was wrong with him. "It's incredible," he said, his voice still hushed and disbelieving. "I was prepared-I told myself you wouldn't, but you do-you look exactly the same."

  She laughed a shaky denial, while her hand fluttered self-consciously toward her face. It changed direction on the way there and touched his instead. He couldn't control a wince-it had been too many years since he'd felt a gentle touch-and to cover it he caught her hand in his and held it there.

  "You look-" she began, and he rushed to interrupt the lie.

  "-like bloody hell. I know. I'm sorry, I wish-"

  "You don't." She'd expected worse. And yet…she hadn't really been prepared-how could she be?-for this gaunt and bony stranger. He'd always been strong and fit, all muscle and not an ounce of excess fat. Now his body felt hard and alien to her. "But you're so thin," she finished, with another shaky laugh.

  His face formed a smile, a wry one, beneath her hand. "I guess maybe I have been missing that Georgia cooking. Get me some good ol' Southern fried chicken, some of your momma's biscuits and redeye gravy, and I'll be filled out in no time." Under her palm, the smile quivered and vanished. "You might have to be a little bit patient with me for a while, though, darlin'. They tell me I've picked up an intestinal bug or two, but they're working on that. Once that's cleared up, there'll be no stopping me. Hey, you know, I used to dream about Colonel Sanders? And sweet corn drippin' butter, and bacon and tomato sandwiches with those great big 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.