The Top Gun's Return

'Was it…really bad…in that prison?' she asked, the question halting and breathless, forced bravely past the fear that had kept it locked up tight inside her. Until now. Odd, that it should be a stranger who'd give her the courage to voice it. And then, realizing how dumb a question it was, she hurried quickly past it, hoping he wouldn't notice. 'Sometimes I try to imagine, you know? What it must have been like for my dad…'

'You can't.' The words were hard and blunt, but when she looked at him, startled, she found that his eyes were kind and his mouth gently smiling. 'But that's all right. Nobody should ever have to. Especially-' But he didn't finish it, and instead turned abruptly so that he was facing the same way she was, toward the roses. He reached out his hand and lightly touched the curled petals of a half-open bud, much the same way she was.

'They only had me for four months,' he said softly. 'They accused me of being with the CIA…tried to get me to admit it. Every day I expected to die-especially considering what happened to that other correspondent in Pakistan. Four months-' he took a deep breath '-it seemed like four years. And they had your father for eight years. Eight years. That's something I can't even begin to imagine. What kind of person must it take to survive something like that?' He shook his head, and his face held a look of awe. 'Your dad is one very special man, Samantha-that's all I've got to say.'

'Mom says he doesn't want to talk about it,' Sammi June said slowly, watching his finger stroke the velvety rose petal. 'About what happened to him over there. He hasn't said anything, not to her, anyway. He wouldn't at the press conference, either.' A warm breeze drifted through the rose bed and languidly touched the bare places on her thighs…the deep vee at her throat…just like that caressing finger, she thought…and was instantly ashamed and dismayed at the behavior of her treacherous mind. To atone, she threw him a look, flipping back her hair, and said in an accusing tone, 'You talk about it. All the time. You must've been on…I don't know how many TV shows.'

He withdrew the hand that had played such havoc with her imagination and tucked it, along with its mate, out of sight between his arms and sides. 'I'm not all that comfortable talking about it, either, actually,' he said, gazing across the rose bed. 'If they ask me, I try to answer, but what I'd rather do is write about it. That's what's helped me more than anything, I think.' He paused and after a moment, shook his head. 'You dad just has to find his own way of dealing with it. Everybody's different. He has to find what works for him.'

'I guess.' She, too, turned away from the roses and folded her arms across her chest. In spite of the warm sunshine and friendly breeze, she felt chilled. 'But…some people don't, do they? I mean, some people never do make it work. It's like…last night my grampa-grandfather-Dad's father, Max, and I went to visit the Vietnam Memorial, and there were all these people there. Some of them seemed kind of raggedy and…I don't know… lost. Like, you just knew they'd been there. And you had this feeling they never did find their way back.' She gave a short, self-conscious laugh, once again wondering what was making her tell these personal things to this man-a stranger. And why, even though she wondered, she couldn't seem to stop herself. 'When I was in high school,' she heard herself say, 'and we were studying the Vietnam War, I used to imagine-oh, it's stupid-'

'I seriously doubt that,' Cory said, smiling in a way that made her believe he meant it. 'What did you imagine?'

Sammi June considered, then threw it at him defiantly. You think I can't be stupid? Think again, mister! How's this? 'Okay. I used to tell myself my father was alive and being held prisoner, like the ones in Vietnam. And that someday he'd come home-' Her voice deserted her, this time her laughter sounded high and desperate.

'You see? It wasn't so stupid after all, was it?' His voice was so gentle. Sammi June looked at him through a protective curtain of hair, precarious, teetering on the edge of disaster.

'That's not the worst of it,' she said, her voice growing quiet and husky. 'Sometimes I'd even wish for it on the Evening Star-you know…'Starlight, star bright, first star I've seen tonight…' like a little kid. And I must have been… fourteen?'

'That old?' said Cory, shaking his head. 'Shocking.' Sammi June gave him a playful shove. He caught at her arm, laughing and off balance, and then, looking beyond her, dropped his voice to a conspiratory whisper. 'Oops-I think we're about to be formally introduced.'

Following his gaze, Sammi June saw her mom and dad coming toward them across the expanse of manicured lawn. She tried, but couldn't think of anything flippant to say. She was feeling so weird. All shaky and shivery inside…heart beating too fast and cheeks too warm…annoyed with herself for sounding like an idiot-or worse, a child-in front of this man, this stranger. And even weirder was the fact that she, who was seldom afraid of anyone, was more than a little afraid of the man…a kind and compassionate man with a knack for drawing secrets out of people. A man with eyes that could see inside her soul.

Chapter 11

'I see you've met my daughter.'

To Jessie's ears Tristan's tone seemed mild enough, but something about it…edgy undercurrents…sparked undefined warnings in her mind.

No time, though, for even a quick glance at his face; the young man with Sammi June was clasping Tristan's hand with the kind of silent fervor that among women would invoke warm hugs and squeals of joy.

'Good to see you again, Lieutenant.' His smile was restrained, but the emotion in his voice was unmistakable, and his eyes glittered behind a screen of rimless glasses. He nodded at Tristan's dress uniform, and the smile grew into a grin. 'You clean up pretty good.'

'Yeah, Pearson, you don't look too bad yourself,' Tristan said, returning the grin. There was a long pause, fraught with so many things unspoken, and then he said abruptly, 'Uh…this is my wife, Jessie…' and the clasped hands broke apart.

As Cory Pearson turned to her, Jessie's first thought was, He has nice eyes. He had a nice face, actually-not as handsome as Tris's, but attractive in its own way…long and lean, with a slightly crooked nose and sensitive mouth. Though, his eyes really were his best feature, she thought, with both compassion and intelligence lurking in their indigo depths behind a sparkle that hinted at both a sense of humor and an insatiable interest in everything and everyone around him. He had a nice handshake, too, she noted-firm and warm and enveloping.

Jessie murmured polite acknowledgments of the introduction, and she was thinking about what it must have been like for these two men from such different worlds, different generations, almost, discovering each other in an Iraqi prison. What had they talked about in those dangerous whispered conversations, she wondered, precious moments of communion stolen from under the watchful eyes of their guards. Had they shared memories and fears, given each other courage, helped keep hope and spirits alive? What kind of bonds must be forged from such experiences?

Nobody can understand. I can talk about it until the cows come home and it's not gonna make anybody know what it was like.

But this man would know, Jessie thought. Cory Pearson would understand. Because he'd been through it, too.

The thought blew into her mind like a brisk puff of wind, making her breath catch and her heart quicken. To cover that little spasm of hope, she turned to her daughter, who was standing off to one side, arms crossed and expression aloof, and managed to come up with something inane and falsely bright to say about how nice it was Sammi June and Mr. Pearson had already managed to meet each other. But all she was thinking about was getting Tristan and the reporter together, somehow. Tris desperately needed to talk to someone. And here was the one person in the world who would understand what he'd been through.

Once again, her Southern upbringing supplied her with all the tools she needed to accomplish her purpose. Polite phrases, tried and true, uttered by generations of Southern women before her, dropped from her lips like magnolia petals. 'Well, now, I know you two gentlemen must have so much to talk about…Sammi June, let's you and me leave these menfolk alone so they can visit. Mr. Pearson, it's just so nice to finally meet you. You be sure and come visit us when you get a chance, now, y'hear? Sammi June, I want you to come and meet the senator from Georgia. His wife