*******************

Paper wings, all torn and bent
But you made me feel like they were heaven sent
Paper wings, not real at all
But they took me high enough to really fall
--Gillian Welch, 'Paper Wings'

*******************

PART I

September 12, 2010

I hold the phone to my ear, trying to catch what they're saying to me, but not
quite able to listen to every word. It doesn't matter much. It is the same thing
they've said or asked the last five damn times they have called me. I can't help
them much because I just don't have the answers they need.

"If you can remember anything at all, Mr. Brumby, it will be of great help to
us. We are doing everything . . ." the man starts to say, but I cut him off.

"You're doing everything you can to find Sarah. I know. I've heard it all
before, mate. I don't want to hear from you again until you have something
conclusive to tell me," I say, turning the phone off and sending it flying
across the bed. It smacks up against the headboard and comes to rest between the
pillows. I sit down on the end of our bed and bury my face in my hands, wanting
for this to all end. I just want her to walk through that door and be home and
not the object of some massive search and rescue.

Sarah went off yesterday morning and never came home. I know where she is. I
just don't want my suspicions confirmed. It is easier to sit here and pretend
someone took her than it is to know she went willingly . . .

"Daddy, the phone is ringing."

I look up at May standing in the doorway, looking as scared as a six year old
should during all this. I look over my shoulder and see the damn thing sitting
there but I can't hear it. I'm surprised I heard my daughter talking. May runs
over and answers it with a feeble 'hello' before handing it over to me.

"Mr. Brumby, we found your wife's car."

"You did," I say, not quite asking where. May stands before me, looking up with
curiosity. She's got her mother's eyes. So beautiful . . .

"Yes, sir. It was at a little airfield in Virginia. According to the operator of
the field, she left with . . ."

"I know."

I don't want to hear him say it.

"We will be contacting the FAA shortly about beginning a search . . . unless
there is something you know?"

I know what he is asking. And I don't really know the answer to his question
right now. She would have said something if she wasn't going to be home,
wouldn't she? My stomach churns away, not knowing what to do or say. Christ, I
feel like such the fool.

"Yes, contact the FAA. I can't imagine that Sarah would be gone this long," I
tell the man on the other end of the line and listen to him go through the whole
speech about contacting me again if they find out anymore. I hang up the phone
once more but don't fling it across the bed this time.

May is still looking at me, waiting on me to have all the answers. I wish I did.


"May, luv? Is the sitter still here?" I ask and she nods yes. "Can you give
Daddy a couple of minutes alone, please, sweetheart? I'll be right out."

She leaves quietly and shuts the door behind her.

I open Sarah's closet door, something I never do. I never go into her personal
space, never invade her privacy. Up in the corner is a box that I've noticed
before, when she had the door open, but never asked about. I've always trusted
her completely. I pull it off the shelf and shake it a little. Sounds like
paper. Nothing more.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I pull the lid off slowly and peer inside.

Paper airplanes. Lots of neatly folded little airplanes of all different sizes
and colors.

An anger wells up inside of me so quickly that I throw the box up against the
wall, crushing half of those planes with their delicate paper wings with one
blow. I stare at them for at least ten minutes before I can finally stand up off
this bed -- our bed -- and pick one of the notes up.

I unfold it carefully, not wanting to wreck a single precious crease.

Inside, in a masculine handwriting are the words:

Come fly with me.

It is followed by a date and time. I look over at all the planes lying damaged
on the floor, knowing that they all contain the same message. I look at the date
on this one again before I crumple it in my hand.

************

June 18, 2001

"These just arrived for you, ma'am," Harriet says as she carries a huge bouquet
of flowers into my office. "Happy Anniversary, Colonel."

"Thank you, Harriet. Oh, aren't they beautiful," I say, taking the vase from her
and setting it on the corner of my desk. I look through the flowers for the
card, already knowing who they are from. Mic and I have been married for one
year as of yesterday. We spent the weekend at the beach, celebrating our
anniversary splashing around in the ocean and making love in our hotel room.

"You look so happy, ma'am. I'm so glad the two of you just look so . . . happy,"
Harriet says and we both laugh. "You are happy, aren't you, ma'am?"

"Mic and I are very happy, Harriet. The only thing that would make us happier is
if we had the pitter patter of little feet running around like you and Bud have,
but all in good time," I say, finding the card and sitting back down in my
chair. Harriet remains there, still smiling. She looks good. So content with her
family. I wish it would happen for us, too.

I open the envelope, expecting to find one of those generic cards the florists
send, but it is a piece of notepaper that Mic must have taken there himself. I
unfold it and my breath catches in my throat when I read the words scrawled
across the blue sheet of paper.

'Come fly with me'

There's no signature. There doesn't need to be one. I fold it back up and set it
down as quickly as I can, as if the paper was burning my fingers. In a way, it
was.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" Harriet asks. Is it that obvious from my expression
that this isn't what I was expecting?

"No, Harriet. Not at all," I say, trying to put a smile on my face. She smiles
back, but there's something in her eyes that lets me know I'm not very
convincing. "I, um, need to make a few phone calls. Do you know what case
Commander Rabb is working on?"

"The Commander is in Norfolk with Bud, ma'am, working on the Mullens case. Bud
told me not to expect him back today," Harriet says, pouting a little at the
thought of her husband not returning for the night.

"Thank you, Harriet," I say, picking up the phone. She leaves my office and
pulls the door shut behind her without me having to ask. As soon as she is gone
from sight, I set the phone down back on its cradle.

I pick up the note again and unfold it, reading the words once more.

It says the same thing. 'Come fly with me' followed by a date and time. I look
at my calendar and actually, it is a time that I am free. He must have have
checked my calendar before doing this.

I'm torn between crumpling up the note and throwing it as hard as I can at the
wall or running right out there on that date and time just like he expects me
to. Damn him. Why now? We've barely spoken outside of the office for a year now.
I was so certain all those feeling were gone. I'm married. I'm *happily*
married.

And maybe I'm reading too much into this. He takes Bud flying all the time and
I'm sure they aren't having some tempestuous affair. He just wants to reconnect.
To be friends again. Nothing more.

We should be friends again. It is about time. We've wasted this past year being
so angry at each other for something that could never be and it is time to move
on. To mend fences.

I carefully fold up the little note and set it aside. It would probably be best
if I didn't let Mic know where I was going at first. I don't think he cares if
Harm and I are ever friends again. Actually, he'd be quite happy if Harm would
just disappear off the face of the earth. But I think being friends will be
good.

I'm going to go.

************

June 21, 2001

I look up from the work I'm doing on the plane to discover Mac walking across
the field in this direction. I wasn't sure that she was going to come. Now, with
my heart banging away up against my ribcage just because she showed up, I'm not
so sure this was a good idea.

What in the hell was I thinking? What am I going to say? I suppose an apology
would be a good start. I can't tell from her expression if she is mad or not.
She has her hands shoved down deep into the pockets of her jeans and she only
looks up at me twice on her whole trek across the field.

"Hey," I say when she stops in front of me. We are separated by the expanse of
the wing and she pulls a piece of notepaper out of her pocket and sets it down.

"I don't hear from you for a year outside the walls of the office or unless it
has to do specifically with work, and now this? Flowers. Notes. Airplane rides.
What's up, Harm?" she asks, our eyes both focused on the paper instead of each
other.

"Time to mend fences?" I offer, taking the blue sheet of paper out from under
her fingertips. I begin carefully folding it into the perfect paper airplane,
getting the aerodynamics down as well as one can with a creased sheet of paper.

"The time to mend fences has come and gone . . ."

"I'm sorry, Mac," I say, still folding the paper. It gives me something to do so
I don't have to meet her stare. I'm afraid of what I'll see there. At work for
the past year, I've seen nothing in her eyes. She has done extremely well at
showing no emotion at all. Better than I have in some occasions. "What I did was
wrong. What I said was wrong. Now I realize how happy you and Mic are and I just
want to apologize for thinking that your marriage would be anything but . . .
happy. Please accept my apology?"

I now look up at her, our eyes locking on to the other's. Hers fluctuate between
hostility and something else I can't quite figure out. Something I haven't seen
in a long time. I hold up the little airplane I just made and place it in her
hands. It elicits a little smile.

"Apology . . . almost accepted," she says, the flicker of her smile vanishing
from her face.

"I know. I'm sorry. If you don't want to come with today, I understand, but I
appreciate you giving me the chance to explain some things," I say, leaning on
the wing toward her. She leans in toward me, too. The little paper airplane is
between us, the wind moving it around just slightly.

"That isn't it, Harm. I want you to apologize to Mic, too. Then it will be
accepted," she says, her eyes letting me know how serious she is. I grimace. I
can't help it. I've dodged Mic at all costs for all this time. When we would
bump into each at mandatory social events, he'd give me that cocky smile that I
always wanted to knock off his face, so it was just better if I avoided him.

"You're kidding, right?" I ask, not believing she would ask me this.

"If you want me to ever go up in your little plane again, you better promise to
apologize to Mic. He's my husband now, Harm. I know you think you can be friends
with just one of us but not with the other, but that will get a little difficult
as time goes on," she says, her eyes begging me to agree. I want to agree. I
want to be friends with her again.

"Okay, I'll do it. Hell, I'll even take him up in the plane someday as a
demonstration of . . . good faith," I say, searching for the right words for
what I feel. Faith certainly has nothing to do with it.

No, what I feel is regret. But I'm not going to live under that forever. Time to
let it go. Time to be friends again.

"You only want to take him up there so you can dump him out somewhere over
Virginia and hope we never hear from him again," Mac says with a knowing smile.
She does know me well. After all these years, she should.

"Mac, I know you love the guy and I would never intentionally do anything to
hurt someone you care for," I say and she finally looks down and away from me.
Her hand glides across 'Sarah's' smooth, yellow surface as if she's trying to
brush away something that's just not there.

"How about unintentionally? Would you hurt someone you cared for
unintentionally? If you couldn't help yourself?" she asks, looking back up at
me. Her brown eyes are filled with hurt again. Maybe it really is too late for
us. I'm not even sure what she's asking me. Just as always, we seem to be
talking about things neither of us has answers for.

Just then her hand goes from the surface of the wing to cover one of mine. I
close my eyes at the warmth and wish I had done so many things differently. So
many things . . .

"I don't think now would be a good time to start hurting people unintentionally,
either, Sarah," I say, my voice so low I can barely hear myself. When I open my
eyes, she pulls her hand back and her molten chocolate eyes are no longer
showing any hurt.

"You ready to take me to heaven?" she asks as she looks up to the sky, her voice
sounding nervous. As if her heart is beating a million miles an hour there in
her chest.

"Always," I answer.

********************

June 21, 2001

I'm still laughing. I can't believe how much fun this is when nothing goes
horribly wrong. I'm used to things going wrong with Harm, and even though I'm
aware he's a good pilot, he and I just have bad karma together or something. The
plane stops right where it was when I met him this morning and I can hear that
he's laughing, too.

Harm is out of the plane quickly, offering me his hand to help me down. I guess
he forgot I'm the tough Marine who doesn't need the help of a Squid lawyer.

"I can do it," I say, climbing easily out of his little biplane. Just at the
last second, I lose my footing and slip faster than I can catch myself. Luckily
Harm is still standing there, spotting me. I fall into his arms and he doesn't
let me go.

Then after a few moments, he still doesn't let me go. His arms are wrapped
around my waist, my head pressed against his chest and his heart is pounding as
fast as mine. I feel one of his hands slide up my back until it is under my
hair, lightly touching my neck. What in the hell is happening here?

We are both already so warm from flying through the summer sky burning under the
afternoon sun, but now that heat is traveling through me so fast I can't stand
it. His one hand moves from my neck to my face and now that flowing heat moves
to places it doesn't belong and I want to back away. I don't want to have to
make this choice right now. God damn it, if he wanted this, he should have
spoken up a year ago. Not now.

His hands feel so good. His fingers on my lips feel even better. I want his lips
there and not just a brush by the pad of his thumb. I want. I want. I want.

But I can't have it.

I jerk away from him, pulling my body from his arms. Harm holds his hands up in
some sort of apologetic fashion and my mind is still reeling, trying to put
together what happened.

Nothing happened. This was nothing -- just Harm. Just Harm being Harm and
catching me as I fell. But fell from what? Shit. it would be so damn easy to
fall further. Damn him.

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?" he asks and I look at him, knowing that the warmth
cascading through my body has turned from a needful, wanting warmth to one of
anger. I'm angry at myself for wanting something I can never have. I know he can
see it in my eyes.

"Yeah. I'm okay," I say, my voice not all that convincing.

He turns around and starts to do something to his plane. I already know neither
of us will say another word about this for a long time.

I also know this empty feeling that was just recreated isn't going to just go
away.

************