PART II

September 12, 2010

I have all her -- all 'their' little notes unfolded and sorted. Even the ones I
crushed I've smoothed out so they can join the others. I keep resorting them,
once by color. Once again by size. But the most important way I have sorted them
is by the date written on them. Leave it to Harmon Rabb to write the date with
the year right there on each slip, as if Sarah might show up the next year if he
didn't. I guess he didn't want to take any chances with my wife.

Bastard. And my wife . . .

Hell, I don't even know what to think. My wife. My wife and Harmon Rabb.

Blue. Yellow. White. Yellow. Blue. Big. Little. Medium sized. Big. I sort them
again. It's easier when they are sorted that way rather than by date. I don't
think I want to sort them again that way, like some time line of betrayal.

But I have to. I count them again and I hope all of them made it into the box.
I'd hate to think that there are more out there. Or that he has half of them.

I lean back against the wall and swipe my hand through the pile of paper,
sending the notes into the air again. Back into the air where they belong. Damn
it, Sarah. Why didn't you just tell me? I reach for the beer I opened hours ago,
taking a sip and letting the bitter, warm fluid flow down my throat. I can't
really taste much anyway. Everything is numb.

I'm not sure who I'm more pissed at right now. Mac? Rabb? Myself? Yes, probably
myself most of all. The longer this all settles in, the more I'm sure I knew
this whole time. Of course I knew. I'm not the complete fool they've made me out
to be. Christ, what would I'd give to be able to go back when I still had a
chance to say something to her about this.

Dammit, Mic. Sarah isn't dead. She'll be home again. And then the two of us will
have to deal with all this. A part of me I don't want to acknowledge almost
believes it would be better if they were both dead. Then the painful excuses
wouldn't have to be said.

The babysitter knocks on the half open door to tell me she's leaving. She's been
here for hours, taking care of May while I wallow in self pity.

"Thanks for everything, Mrs. Keller," I say to her as I sit in the middle of a
pile of small pieces of paper.

"Sarah will be okay," the woman adds for my benefit. She begins to button up her
sweater as she prepares to walk home in the evening air.

"I know," I say. "I know she'll be okay."

But will I?

The woman nods her head and leaves, pulling the door shut.

I pick up a piece of paper, discovering I have them all memorized by now. I can
put them in order without even looking at the date written across them.

This is the next time. My fingers run over his handwriting. I wonder what he was
thinking. What was she thinking? Were they even thinking? Christ, this is the
worst thing I've ever endured.

This one ends up crumbled into a ball in my fist as I try to obliterate it from
the face of the earth.

But I can't.

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

April 24, 2003

"We'll reconvene this hearing at 0900 tomorrow morning. Maybe by then the two of
you can get your stories straight," Admiral McDonnough instructs from the bench.
He gives Mac and me a stern look and I just wish like hell this whole
controversy would go away.

"Aye, aye, Sir," we both say in time with each other. Well, hell, it's good we
agree on something. Every other issue concerning this case and everything else
going on around us has been one constant battleground. She's constantly angry
about something.

We leave the courtroom with Mac ten paces ahead of me and clipping steadily
toward the elevator.

"Mac, come on. What in the hell is bothering you so much?" I ask, catching up to
her and reaching out for her coat sleeve. She turns toward me, her eyes hot and
fiery as coals.

"I can't believe we have to work on this together. This is a case that would
normally require just one of us as lead counsel and someone else as co-counsel,
but not the two of us together. I don't have any idea why the Admiral assigned
both of us to this . . . mess," she says. So far, we have not agreed on a single
issue that's come up pertaining to the Littleton case. It has been one big
argument after another.

"Bud and Singer are prosecution and we were assigned to the defense. . . I don't
know why the Admiral did it, Mac, and I'm sorry we've disagreed about
everything, but we've got to provide that man with a decent defense. He's on
trial for murder and we it owe it to him to act like we have a clue about what
we are doing. We've got to look a little more professional than we did in there
right now," I say, my words not extinguishing those flames in her eyes in any
way.

"Sure. I'll get right to work on my professionalism."

We haven't worked together on a case in over a year. She's been opposing counsel
several times and we've done Jagman investigations together, but it's been a
long time since we've had to work this close on the same team like this. The
only thing worse is if we had to go through this trial with each other on a
submarine.

Or maybe that would be a good thing. Yes, if the two of us were stuck somewhere
like a submarine and could just hash this whole thing out, maybe things would
get better. They can't get much worse than they are right now.

Mac presses the button for the elevator and we both stand there in silence,
waiting for the doors to slide open. They don't, but something makes a loud
grinding noise behind the doors and I'm certainly glad we're on this side. Being
stuck somewhere like a submarine is one thing, but I'm not sure the two of us
could survive an elevator.

"Could anything else go wrong today?" Mac asks loudly, giving the elevator doors
a kick with the toe of her pumps. She immediately winces in pain while shaking
her foot out and I can see that tears have involuntarily come to her eyes.

"Yes," I answer, my tone more smug than I intended it to be. "More could go
wrong today."

"Well, are you going to help me get up the stairs or are you going to just stand
there?" Mac asks, her face still pinched up in pain.

"Come on, Marine. Don't tell me a broken toe is going to keep you from making it
up the stairs by yourself," I say and she starts to hobble toward the stairwell
without me. I offer her my arm and unbelievably, she takes it. "I'm sorry. I'll
help you."

"You should help, since this is your fault," she says, gripping my arm tighter
than she needs to. Her fingers dig in through my coat and now I'm wincing in
pain.

"How is this my fault?" I ask. She's truly unbelievable.

"It just is," she says. And then for the first time in a long time, she laughs.

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

April 25, 2003

"Here's some files from Commander Rabb, ma'am. He said he'd be out all afternoon
but if you had any questions, you could reach him later," Tiner says, placing on
my desk a stack of folders so high I can hardly see over them. This is certainly
going to ruin all my weekend plans. I'm supposed to pick Mic up at the airport
on Sunday and I really wanted to get some things done tomorrow before he
returned.

"Thanks, Tiner," I say with a disgruntled sigh. He turns and leaves my office as
I continue to stare at the daunting task before me.

Damn him. Rabb said he was going to handle this part of the case and now he's
pawning it off on me. Probably is planning on leaving town with some blonde or
another. I find it unnecessary to keep track of them anymore.

This case has been hell and neither Rabb nor I seem to be able to agree about
any of it. I swear the Admiral is punishing me for something by making me work
with him like this. The investigation on the USS Harry S. Truman was more than
miserable. I threw up constantly and I was really hoping that would be the month
Mic and I would have some good news and I would be pregnant. Instead, I got home
from that horrible investigation and found out I wasn't. Another disappointment.


I grab the top folder and a note flutters out of it upon opening. I watch as it
travels to the floor, spinning gently on its way there like a crisp autumn leaf
off of a tree. I watch it and catch my breath as it lands softly but yet, I
swear it makes a sound so loud I have to look around to see if any one else
heard.

Outside my office windows, everybody goes about their business as if nothing
happened. I lean over and pick up the paper, already knowing who it's from. I
open the single fold and read it.

'Come fly with me.'

Damn him again. The last time we tried this we ended up not speaking to each
other for weeks. Nothing happened. Not a damn thing, but I couldn't get over the
feeling that something could. So easily, something could happen and I didn't
like that feeling. I'm married to Mic. I don't want anyone else. I don't. I
can't. I won't.

I don't think I do.

The date is for tomorrow. I shouldn't. Mic has been gone for three weeks and I
wanted to do something nice for his return. I shouldn't be out flying around
with Harmon Rabb.

But I know I will be.

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

April 26, 2003

"I'm glad you came," I say as I watch Mac walk around the wing and approach me.
Her demeanor is so different than the last time we did this. Her face isn't as
angry. It's even less angry than it was this past week during this whole
Littleton case.

But instead of looking angry, she looks sad. I can't imagine why. From where I'm
standing, she has it all. A husband. A great career. And a four bedroom house
they just bought a few months ago. I've been waiting to hear about a baby coming
soon, but so far, she hasn't delivered that bit of news. I thought that might
have been the reason she was so sick when we were out on the Truman, but if it
is, she hasn't said so.

That would make her happy. I want nothing more than for her to be happy.

Or so I keep telling myself.

"It's a nice day. I figured, what the hell. I have nothing better to do than go
flying with Rabb," Mac says and she chuckles softly at something. I'm not sure
what.

"I'm sure you had a lot of better things to do with Mic coming home tomorrow," I
say, looking at her as her eyes meet mine and lock on. She never told me that
bit of information. "I checked your calendar. To see if you were free today."

"Yes, and besides that, I now have a pile of paperwork stacked up to the ceiling
thanks to you," Mac says.

"I'll take some of it back. I just wanted to make sure you'd look at what I sent
you and find the note . . ."

It is in her hand, held lightly between two fingers. She holds it out to me and
I take it from her, our fingers brushing for just a few seconds, but long enough
to make her look down and away from me.

"How's your foot?" I ask, wanting to remind her that I helped her up the stairs
the other day. I held onto her arm then and our fingers brushing like that
shouldn't mean anymore than that did.

Yet, somehow it does. When we are beyond the confines off the job and the
uniform, everything changes.

"It's better, thanks," she says, looking down as she shakes her foot out. While
she's doing that, I quickly fold the paper into another paper airplane for her,
only this time I make it a little different. Not as aerodynamically perfect as
the last, but it will work. "You do realize it is your fault, don't you?"

"I'll accept the blame for your foot if you come flying with," I say, watching
her pluck from my fingertips the little plane that I offer. She looks at the
design and raises an eyebrow at its quirkiness. "It will fly."

"I'm sure it will," she says, with a soft smile as she tucks it into the pocket
of her jeans, careful just to flatten it and not crush the paper. "When I said
it was your fault, I wasn't talking about just my foot."

I continue to stare at her, waiting for her to explain herself. I don't know
what I would be at fault for. Her life should be bliss. She has everything she
ever wanted. They still even have that old mutt. Yet, there's always a look of
sadness that underlies all the contentment. There is something missing and for
some reason, it's my fault.

"How so?" I ask, wanting her to talk to me. We've done so little of that in our
history together. We should be able to now. She responds only by shaking her
head slowly, as if she's changed her mind about this conversation.

"It's nothing," she says, giving me a half smile. "You ready to go flying?"

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

I hear Harm laugh as he gives me the controls of his plane. Just the sound of it
is enough to make me smile. Things have been tense between us. And things have
been tense between Mic and me, too. Perhaps that's why he went to Australia to
see his family when he knew I couldn't get leave. He didn't want another month
of this stress we are both under.

"I'm going to land her here, Mac. We can go get some lunch in town since it
isn't that far of a walk from this airstrip," Harm calls out to me as he takes
over the controls again. He says something I don't understand into the headset
to someone on the ground and they direct him in where to go.

I try to look and see where we are going. Harm must know all the little
airfields in the area since they seem to know him. This one is small. Just a
runway and one hangar. But I can see a small town along a river not that far
down the road. I wonder how many other people he's brought here?

That doesn't matter. What he does is his business, not mine.

We touch down and come to a stop before the hangar. There aren't too many planes
here and none like Harm's. Just a few Piper Cubs. Someone comes out of the
office area and Harm climbs out of the plane to greet them.

This time, I get out all by myself without tripping up.

"Hey, Hank. This is Mac," Harm says to the older man and he just smiles while
looking me over. His eyes stop at my hand with the wedding band on it and he
looks back to Harm. "She's another JAG lawyer."

Like that explains any of this.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Hank says, reaching out to shake my hand.

"Hank flew Intruders in Vietnam and is nice enough to let me land here without
charging me too much," Harm says and the man smiles, his eyes twinkling at the
mention of the fact he was a military pilot. I'm sure he and Harm have had many
discussions about this, but right now, I'm more interested in my rumbling
stomach.

"You two go get something for lunch. I'll keep an eye on your plane," Hank says,
focusing his attention on 'Sarah.' He smiles as he brushes his hand up against
her yellow fuselage. Men and their toys.

"I'm sure you will. Are you ready, Mac?" Harm asks as he reaches out his hand to
me for some reason. What does he think we are? A couple of kids walking down a
country road together?

"Lead the way," I say, and he puts his hand back down again. I don't even think
he was aware that he did it.

We walk for a long time in silence. Occasionally, he goes on ahead of me and
ends up turning around and waiting for me to catch up. Or he walks back to me,
meeting me in the middle.

"What's wrong?" he asks as he walks backwards in front of me so he can face me.

"Nothing you can help me with, Harm, so please stop asking," I say, looking off
to the field we are walking next to. Spring wildflowers are everywhere alongside
the road, their faces turned toward the warm afternoon sun. So far, not a single
car has passed us. It is quiet here. A place people would want to raise
families.

"Just because I can't help doesn't mean you can't talk about it," he says. He
stops walking, forcing me to stop, too. We stand only inches from each other and
something in me wants to tell him everything, but something else keeps telling
me it's none of his business. "It might be good to get it off your chest."

"Harm, please," I say, my voice just a little angry. I don't need to be
questioned by him. He shrugs his shoulders and turns around, staying several
paces ahead of me the rest of the way to town.

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

We pick up some take-out food from one of the local delis and walk to the park
by the river. She still hasn't said much. She gave her order to the deli clerk
and that was it. Mac just nodded when I asked if she wanted iced tea to go with
her sandwich.

"Is this okay?" I ask, picking out one of the picnic benches under a little
gazebo. It is well past lunch time by now and most of the other picnickers have
gone off to play with their kids or are out swimming in the river. Mac watches
the families and then looks back to me.

"Sure. This is great," she says, sitting in the middle of the bench on her side
of the table. I watch as she unwraps her sandwich but only picks at her food.
She said she was hungry. This is Mac. She's always hungry.

"You feeling okay? I know you were pretty sick out on the Truman. Are you
feeling better now?" I ask. We've been on a lot of carriers together, and I've
never seen her get this sick. Only when we've gone flying in a Tomcat have I
seen her get that sick to her stomach.

I'm assuming that soon, she's going to break the news to me. Maybe that's what
she's been hiding. Harriet was always so forthcoming acknowledging her
pregnancies to the rest of the office. I don't know why Mac wouldn't want to
share it, too.

"I'm sorry about that. I must have had the flu," is all she answers. She takes
another bite of her sandwich and looks out over the river.

"Pink and blue flu?" I ask, just getting to the point.

She slowly turns my direction, her eyes narrowing in anger. What did I do now?

"No. Not that it's any of your business."

Mac turns back to look at the river. A family is getting into the water, their
toddler screaming in glee. The water still has to be freezing, but that's not
stopping them.

I don't think she's angry at me. I'm pretty sure it is something else entirely.

"How long have you been trying?" I ask, not really sure I want to venture into
this topic. No, I know I don't, but she needs to talk to someone. Something is
obviously wrong.

"Since we got married. Since before we got married. It isn't happening and right
now, it is tearing us apart," she says softly, her eyes flitting everywhere but
not meeting mine.

"I'm sorry."

I don't know what else to say. There is nothing else to say.

"It's not your . . . fault. No need to apologize," she says, finally looking up
at me.

"What do the doctors say?" I ask. The wind picks up and blows through the
gazebo, sending her bangs across her eyes. I reach over the table and brush them
away, allowing my hand to linger there longer than I should.

"They don't know what the problem is. It could be so many things. Mic and I . .
. we just want a family so badly. I love him and he loves me, but something is
missing," she says, and with that declaration, I pull my hand away. What in the
hell am I doing anyway?

"You can talk to me at any time. You know that, don't you?" I ask, wishing I had
the nerve to talk openly to her years ago. I was scared of eternity. Mic wasn't.


She gives me a weak smile and keeps looking at me. "I'm not really hungry
anymore. Should we just skip lunch and go for a walk along the river?" she asks,
already folding her sandwich back up in its paper wrapper.

"Sure," I say, taking a quick bite of my sandwich before tossing it away in the
trash can for the squirrels to eat.

I follow her along the shore until we are away from all the families making
noise. An occasional high pitched child noise permeates the air, but besides
that, there's no sound except the gurgling of the river.

Mac finally sits down under a tree, and she plucks several long blades of grass
around her, tying them into various knots before tossing them to the side.

"Why did Mic go back to Australia?" I ask, sitting down next to her.

"Because . . . the last time the answer of the month was no, I got upset. I
turned my anger at him and he said he just wanted to get away for a while. We
needed time to think about this whole thing is what he said. And now we've
thought about it and we are ready to live with whatever may come our way," she
says. I stop her hand as she goes to pull more grass out of the ground, trying
to contain her nervous energy.

Somehow, we go so easily from her hand under mine to her wrapped in my arms as
she cries.

"I'm sorry," is all I can keep saying as I wipe her tears away.

"Marines shouldn't cry over this," she mumbles under all the tears.

"Mac, I would expect any Marine to cry over this. It's okay. Please don't
apologize," I tell her, brushing one more tear off her cheek.

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

He flies us back home before it gets too late. I still need to do some things
before Mic gets home, like figure out how to explain where I spent today. Not
that we did anything for which excuses need to be made. Harm just listened to me
cry as he held on to me. And then we said nothing for a long time. We just
watched the water flow by before we walked back up the street to the airfield.

This time he offers his hand to help me down from the plane and once again, I
end up in his warm embrace. For a second I forget about Mic and our problems and
he rocks me slowly in his arms.

"I don't want you to think you can't talk to me," he says. Oh, how I wish he
realized that years ago. If one of us only said something. Anything. I tried. He
tried. But the words meant nothing. His words sent me to Mic. My actions sent
him to . . . I don't even remember her name. She's been gone for years, only to
be replaced by some other blonde flavor of the week.

Now it is safe for Harm to talk to me. There is no threat of eternity. I look up
at him and his eyes are staring at me with an intensity I've never seen before.
Not directed at me, anyway.

We go so easily from looking at each other to acting upon everything behind that
gaze. His mouth is on mine and I stifle a moan that stems from deep in my soul.
He's kissing me this time. I don't know why. All I know is we shouldn't. But I
can't stop. I need this. I need him. I always have.

My lips part and he sweeps his tongue in my mouth, penetrating me. The heat
building up in my core is unbearable and I press him against the plane, needing
more. My hands move up his abdomen, wanting to memorize every surface of his
body in case I never get another stolen moment like this again. I need to keep
it all in my mind . . . his taste, the sound he makes as I brush my hands across
his chest, the hardness I'm rocking my hips against. That from just kissing me.

His mouth moves from mine and continues down my face, with him bending to get
better access. I bare my shoulder, tugging my shirt to the side, and I feel his
tender kisses slide across my collar bone. For just a second, all thoughts of
babies and husbands and careers mean nothing. Just this man and what he's doing
to me under the purple twilight sky.

My hands slide lower and across his fly, wanting so badly to open it right now.
I want to fall on my knees and take him in my mouth. To taste him on my tongue
instead of in my imagination. To discover one more thing about him I didn't
know. I want it so badly. My fingers start to unbutton his jeans and the first
and then the second buttons both go *pop,* breaking the silence around us.

That seems to bring him to his senses and he puts his hands over top of mine,
pulling them away. Forcing me to step back.

"Sarah, I can't. You can't. We both know it," he says, his words coming out in
between his panting breaths.

I blink at him a few times and I try to figure out when it got so dark. We
weren't kissing for that long. Or were we?

I just turn and walk away from him, leaving Harmon Rabb all hot and bothered up
against his airplane.

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