The Week

By: H. Lee, hlear8@yahoo.com

Summary: a week in the lies of our favorite
superheroes

Spoilers: probably anything up to season 5 or 6

Disclaimers: the usual

Rated: PG 



MONDAY: 



I hate Mondays. With no more virulence than the next
guy, I suppose, but my hatred burns pure and bright
just the same. It’s not that all Mondays are bad, that
nothing good has ever happened to me on that specific
day, but generally speaking, when I rank days of the
week, Monday comes in a pathetic and distant seventh
of seven. 



Today, unfortunately, is Monday, so I was accordingly
prejudiced against it before it began. And when the
phone had the audacity to wake me up a full half hour
before the alarm was set to go off, I knew it was
going to be all downhill from there. 



After a few fumbling grabs for the receiver, I sort of
toss it at my head and mumble a very intelligent,
“Mmm, uhh?” 



“Harm, it’s me, are you awake?” 



I don’t know if she’s asking because she’s really
curious, or just to piss me off. On the outside chance
that this will be a short conversation and I can still
catch a few winks, I leave the lights off but rub the
sleep from my face with the heel of my hand. 



“Uhnn,” I respond. Apparently, my vocal cords haven’t
awoken yet. 



“Harm, I need to get Jingo to the vet’s, and both my
front tires got slashed. Could you come pick us up?” 



Even dazed as I am at the moment, it sets me on edge
that there’s just enough uncertainty in her voice to
tell me she really thinks I might say no. Jesus
Christ, she’s my best friend – who the hell else would
be her emergency chauffer if not me? Now I’m groggy,
disoriented,  annoyed; she’s getting a hard time
about this one for sure. 



I glance over at the glowing alarm clock that never
seems to get off my back. 6:56 . . . damn. “You have
an appointment at seven o’clock in the morning?” 



She sighs, and I can almost hear the anxious tapping
of her foot. “Seven-thirty. This vet opens early for
his gainfully employed clients.” 



Okay, that makes sense. Still, couldn’t she have
called a cab to run her over there? I keep that
thought to myself, knowing she’d just order one to
spite me if I asked. 



Apparently, though, my partner is developing psychic
capabilities, if her next words are any indication. “I
would’ve called a taxi, but I still have to get to
work, and there’s no way I can swing the fee for a
ride to Falls Church. Besides, this way I get to buy
you breakfast on the way in.” 



She doesn’t sound so impatient anymore, so I sit up
against the headboard and cross my right arm over my
chest, settling in for a nice talk with a beautiful
Marine. Maybe this morning isn’t shaping up so badly
after all. 



“Well, what makes you think I come so cheap?” I ask,
vaguely surprised to feel a teasing smile spread over
my face before the sun’s even come up. 



Another sigh, and the impatience is back, but this
time tinged with a bit of humor. “Okay, what’s your
price?” I imagine the slow smile I can hear on her
lips. 



Pausing a moment as though deep in thought, I grin
smugly to myself; I’ve got her right where I want her.
“Friday night,” I say, clenching my abs to inject some
spontaneity into my tone. It won’t do to have her
thinking I’d set this whole thing up, after all. 



“Excuse me?” 



“I want your Friday night,” I repeat with patience
that’s a touch exaggerated. 



There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the
line. Her wheels are turning now. “What do you mean?
You want me to work for you?” 



And this woman was in the top one percent of her
graduating class. “No, I don’t want you to work for
me.” My eyes roll toward the ceiling, catch there for
a minute in mock aggravation. “I want you to play with
me.” 



An even longer pause this time. Then, in a voice so
faint I barely make out her words, she breathes,
“Excuse me?” 



Okay, so that didn’t exactly come out right. But she
can’t think I mean what I think she thinks I mean . .
. can she? Perversely, I wonder what would happen if
she did – if she thought I was using the verb ‘play’
in a more . . . personal context than its literal
definition implies. What then, Rabb? What would you
expect her to say? Could you go through with it? 



And just so neatly, I have become ensnared in my own
little trap. Hoist by mine own petard. Just my goddamn
luck on a Monday morning. Deciding a careful façade of
density is the best way to handle this situation, I
blithely continue as though unaware of the potential
implications of my last statement. 



“Just come over. We’ll get something to eat, maybe go
to a movie. It’ll be fun. Whatdaya say?” 



“Well,” she muses after the barest hesitation. “I
suppose that sounds like a pretty fair price.” 



Thank God, things are back to normal. I don’t have a
clue what I would have done had she pressed me on it.
Lucky for me, Mac rarely chooses to call my bluff or
to muddle through an awkward moment rather than skirt
around it. In fact, in the past year or so, I think my
propensity to avoid emotional confrontations at all
costs may have rubbed off on her a bit too much. Right
now, though, I’m not going to question my good
fortune. 



“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say, and just for
a second, I envision myself as Mighty Mouse on wheels.




“Get here in fifteen minutes, and I’ll give you a
Scooby Snack,” she promises enticingly. 



My brows lift in anticipation, and I shoot another
glare at the offending clock. “Make it twenty, and
I’ll share.” 



Mac laughs and something warm and sweet runs down my
throat into my chest. “T minus nineteen fifty-nine and
counting, flyboy.” 



Switching off the phone, I chuck it somewhere in the
direction of the cradle and shoot up to stand on my
mattress. With a little more time on my side, I can
actually take a shower before scurrying on my way. I
give myself ten-to-one odds that I can make it from
the bed into the bathroom in a single bound. 



After a largely painless ricochet off the doorframe, I
shuck my boxers and hop into the shower, calculating I
have time for two verses of “Born to be Wild” before I
have to throw on some clothes and head out. As an
added precaution against tardiness, I keep the water a
shade on the cool side and leave the curtain partway
open. 



Twelve minutes later, I’m hobbling out the front door,
pulling a shoe on with one hand and trying to lock up
with the other, my briefcase and cover crammed under
my arm. Eight minutes to Georgetown is cutting it
close, even for me, but hey, a guy’s got to brush his
teeth, right? And if I possibly, by some slim chance,
stretched my shower to include a third verse and the
chorus of “Wild,” I can always make it up on the road;
I’ve certainly got the route down well enough by now. 



The engine of my Lexus spurs to life almost before I
turn the key, reminding me again why I love this car.
Together, we burst into traffic with a satisfying
screech of tires and set a course to the borough by
way of the back roads, where police cars are few and
far between and the yellow lights I breeze through in
the nick of time seem strangely to get redder and
redder. 



I haven’t shaved yet, but I keep an electric razor in
the glove compartment for just such an occasion. I
finish with my upper lip and sideburns just as I pull
up in front of her building. Only about a minute late.
Maybe she won’t notice. 



I always fetch Mac at her door. I haven’t honked for a
girl since I was seventeen, and it’s not safe for her
to wait outside for me, a fact I drilled into her head
at least five dozen times in the first year of our
partnership. She waits for me in her apartment now,
which makes me happy even though I know she only does
it to keep me from getting on her case. Today,
however, the front door to the complex swings open
before I can turn off the ignition. 



A woman hobbles out onto the walk. My view of her face
is obstructed by a wall of fur, but I know it’s Mac
because of her great legs and the eighty-pound red
mutt in her arms. She’s got her purse slung over one
shoulder, her briefcase clutched precariously between
two fingers and a thumb, and Jingo held against her as
if he were a small child rather than a large animal.
Slowly, my eyes slide down her body to confirm my
suspicion. 



Yup, she’s wearing heels. High ones. God almighty, my
work is never done. 



“Mac, why are you carrying your dog?” I ask as I
hustle out to open the rear driver’s door for her. I
hope I’ve layered the scolding tone on thick enough –
I sure wouldn’t want her to miss it. 



She actually looks both ways before crossing the
street to my car. “His arthritis is acting up, and his
cataracts are back,” she informs me primly, ducking
down and gently placing Jingo across the backseat.
Adjusting her remaining baggage, she straightens and
brushes her hands together while I close the door.
“That’s why he’s going to the vet.” 



I raise one eyebrow at her. She looks so good today. I
wonder what her lipstick tastes like. “Why didn’t you
wait for me to help?” 



“ were fifty-two seconds late,” she replies as
she saunters to the passenger side. Damn, she noticed.




I climb back into the car and fasten my seatbelt.
“Cool your jets, we’ll make it in time.” I am well
aware that Mac finds my aero-metaphors both irritating
and irresistible. “Where’m I going?” 



I recognize the street she mentions and am amenable to
her suggestion for a short cut, so we are off. She
twists to glance back at Jingo, then looks up at me. 



“Thanks for coming to get us, Harm. I’m sorry I woke
you up.” 



She can wake me up whenever she wants to if she smiles
at me like that afterwards. Of course, I can’t very
well tell her that, so I ask instead, “Where’s my
treat?” 



Her gaze turns considering and just the slightest bit
indulgent. “You were late,” she points out again,
slipping a hand nonchalantly into her purse. 



“So? I still get half.” She’s not backing out of our
deal that easily. 



A rustling sound comes from her pocketbook, and she
pulls out a sandwich bag filled with chocolate chip
cookies. My mouth starts to water. Sarah MacKenzie is
one hell of a fine baker – I tease her that she has to
be to satisfy a giant sweet tooth like hers. She makes
these brownie things that may honestly be worth dying
for. She’s also obscenely good at pies, and her
cookies are nothing to sneeze at. 



I can all but taste them now. Chewy, sugary drops of
heaven. Mac puts in extra chocolate chips,
butterscotch chips, ground Hershey bars, and even nuts
if I ask her to. As a rule, I get half of whatever she
bakes, if for no other reason than by default as her
best friend and most vocal fan. Sometimes, when she’s
angry with me or simply feeling particularly sadistic,
she bakes something she knows I love, then gives my
half to Bud and Harriet at the office where I’m bound
to see. These are not good days. But it is a very
effective method of getting me to apologize for
anything and everything I’ve done wrong. I’m not proud
of my weakness – I admit this even as I reach out a
hand for the baggie she’s holding now. 



At the last minute, she jerks them back. I want to
whimper but settle for a more manly growl. She shakes
the bag tauntingly, and my eyes roll back into my head
when the aroma wafts to my nose. It’s Monday morning,
I’m up too early, I haven’t had breakfast yet, and she
wants to tease. Perfect. 



“Jingo likes country music,” she tells me solemnly,
holding the cookies just out of reach. 



My answering glare must be something fierce because
she giggles in my face. For a moment, I contemplate
stonewalling her for the sake of my eardrums and
sanity. Then I get another glimpse of the cookies and
resignedly flip the radio to a station in the high
hundreds. Sadly, I am helpless against their power. 



Mac flashes me a blinding, gratified grin and tosses
the bag in my lap. I only have time to pop one cookie
in my mouth when she leans over me to point out a
small brick building, painted white and looking very
clinical. 



“There it is.” 



Due to the early hour and relative obscurity of the
street, I’m able to find a decent parking space less
than a block away. Mac leaves her briefcase but grabs
her purse and hustles out of the car. By the time I
unfasten my seatbelt and step out, she’s already
opening the back door. 



“Why don’t you let me do the heavy lifting this time,
Mac?” I ask, putting up a token effort to keep the
superior male tone from my voice. 



She looks at me a bit dubiously. “Are you sure?” 



Am I sure? Please. I refuse to dignify that with a
response, simply shifting her out of the way with my
hands on her shoulders and reaching in for the quiet
old dog. 



“Pat your left shoulder and say ‘Jingo, up,’” she
instructs worriedly, hovering so close behind me I can
feel her warmth through the chill of the late October
morning. “Then lift him under his butt – quick,
because it hurts his hips to stand too long.” 



I shoot her a withering glance over my shoulder. I
think I can work out the mechanics of this operation;
I’m not a complete idiot after all. The whole thing
goes off without a hitch, and Mac locks the car while
I carry Jingo across the street to the office. She
ushers me inside, where we encounter a small waiting
room featuring animal artwork on the walls, animal
magazines on the tables, and various Chia Pets as
foliage. The middle-aged woman behind the counter
looks at me quizzically before spotting Mac and
gracing us with a polite smile. 



“Good morning, Ms. MacKenzie,” she says in that low
monotone every doctor’s secretary seems to possess. 



“Hi, Patrice,” Mac answers, stepping in front of me to
set her purse on the ledge. “Sorry we’re a little
late.” 



Abruptly, the door to the back of the office swings
open and a man in his forties wearing a white lab coat
stumbles out, grinning much too widely for someone
who’s working before eight a.m. 



“Sarah!” he exclaims happily, rushing forward and
leaning as close to Mac as possible given that there’s
a counter blocking his path. He gazes up at her,
overly intent on her face. “Hi! How’ve you been?” 



God damn it. He’s hitting on her. I, a strange man who
stands five inches taller than he and outweighs him by
at least thirty pounds, am less than two feet away,
juggling the large mutt that is his patient, and all
he’s thinking about is how to get the dog’s owner out
on a date. Christ, now he’s mooning at her through his
coke-bottle glasses – this is pathetic. Asshole. And
the worst of it is, despite the specs he’s not that
bad looking a guy . . . probably makes a good living .
. . obviously likes animals. God damn it. 



I move a little closer to Mac, subtly marking my
territory. She helps me out for once by shifting
closer to me and away from the overzealous
veterinarian. Good. At least I know she’s on to this
weasel. Still, she’s smiling at him. Not a real smile
– not  Mac smile – but judging by the way he’s
blushing now, it looks like this guy could take
encouragement from anything. 



“I’m fine, thanks, Stephen,” she answers, ignoring the
glare aimed at her by the straight-laced secretary.
“How are you?” 



“Oh good, good.” He hasn’t even glanced my way yet.
I’m one short step from thrusting my hand in his face,
introducing myself as her partner, and leaving him to
draw his own conclusions from that when Mac pulls out
her checkbook and slides into idle conversation. 



“How’s your little boy doing? He was getting ready for
a school play last I heard, wasn’t he?” 



Stephen looks surprised by this, and maybe a tad . . .
disconcerted? I lift an eyebrow and adjust Jingo on my
hip. The plot thickens. 



“Ah, yeah,” he answered hesitantly. “He was the frog
in ‘Wind in the Willows’ . . . uh, did I mention that
last time?” 



Blithely ignoring the man’s discomfiture, Mac begins
making out the check. “Oh no, I was talking to your
wife in the waiting room while I was here. She’s a
great lady,” she continued absently, filling out the
check for $550, making a show of meticulously crossing
her t’s. A new light of respect shines in the
secretary’s eyes, and I must admit, I am similarly
impressed at Mac’s smooth redirection. “So good with
people. I’m not very good at that kind of thing
myself.” 



That’s actually true. You wouldn’t guess it to watch
her in court or bossing a bunch of junior officers
around, but Mac is basically shy around strangers,
especially those not in the military. She’s great at
directing conversation away from herself, then making
the most of the fact that she’s an excellent listener,
but mingling was a hard-won skill for her, and one she
tells me she’s still working on. We make a good team
at parties; I help her make conversation, she reminds
me to let others do the talking once in awhile. 



“What time should I come pick him up, Stephen?” she
asks with a friendly smile as she hands her check to
the iron-haired lady. 



“Ah, he should be ready around four or so,” the doctor
answers, snapping himself back to reality. “But you’ll
have to keep an eye on him the rest of the night.” 



She’s nodding gamely when I make my presence known.
“Sweetheart – ” damned if I’m leaving any doubt in the
creepy vet’s mind as to his chances with my Mac – “I’m
in court today until five. Can we wait until then?” 



At first, she doesn’t even seem to notice what I’ve
called her. “That’s all right, Harm. I’ll just – ”
That’s when the ‘sweetheart’ hits her. She opens her
mouth, closes it, and frowns at me suspiciously. “I’ll
just, ah, take a JAG car home tonight.” 



I’m about to protest. I’d rather she wait for me than
have to deal with this dude alone, regardless of the
fact that she’s doubtless done it dozens of times
before. 



“The office closes at 4:30, isn’t that right,
Patrice?” she asks before I can open my mouth. 



“Mm-hmm,” Patrice replies, focused primarily on filing
Mac’s check. 



“Okay then.” She takes Jingo from me and sets him
gently on the floor, stooping to plant a kiss on his
greying head. “I’ll see you later, buddy.” 



Stephen opens the divider and Jingo ambles bravely
into the inner sanctum. When he’s out of sight, I take
Mac’s arm and steer her towards the front door. 



“See you at four,” she calls over her shoulder. I
don’t bother with a farewell since I never got a
hello. 



“All the vets in this city, and you have to choose
him,” I mutter in disgust as we walk down the stairs. 



“Give me a break, Harm.” She rolls her eyes and tugs
her arm from my grasp, so I settle my hand on the
small of her back instead. It’s more comfortable there
anyway. “He’s close to my apartment, his prices are
reasonable, and he’s got great hours.” 



I’m about to burst across the street, confident that
traffic will halt in my wake. Mac restrains me with a
hand on my arm as a Volvo tears past, then practically
drags me to the car by my tie. 



“He’s also a philandering scum bucket,” I add. “That
guy was coming on to you. I bet he never even told you
he was married.” 



I know I’m right when she tosses a glare at me over
the hood of the Lexus. “For God’s sake, Harm, he was
hardly even flirting. He’s just . . . friendly, that’s
all.” 



“Give me a break, Mac. I’m a guy too, you know. I know
how it’s done.” 



I get the arched eyebrow at that. “How what’s done,
Harmon?” 



Damn it, it’s 0745. I’m not ready for this yet. Any
sane woman would take warning at the frustrated growl
that rumbles in my throat. Mac just stares at me,
sassy and expectant. “Door’s open,” I tell her,
thoroughly exasperated, as I slide behind the wheel. 



Her eyes are laughing at me. I don’t even have to look
at her to feel it. With a jerk, I pull the car into
gear and shove another cookie into my mouth. I’m still
chewing when I ask, “So where are you taking me for
breakfast?” 



*   *   *   * 



Mac let me pick the breakfast spot, and I decided to
cut her some slack by choosing Denny’s instead of
Farley’s Froot Smoothie Bar. We got to work at Mac’s
usual time – still half an hour before I would have
considered showing my face on a Monday – and the day
has passed without incident, unless you count Bud
choking on his water at the staff meeting an incident.
Singer slapped him on the back so hard I think he’ll
be bruised, but eventually he coughed it out. 



Mac was gone over lunch, so I settled for a tuna fish
sandwich ala cart. I’m presently on my way to the
courtroom but decide to make a quick detour to my
partner’s office now that she’s back. 



She glances up from her paperwork and smiles when I
pound on her doorframe with the side of my fist.
“Hey,” I say, stepping inside without an invite. 



“I thought you had court.” 



“I’m on my way now. Did you fill out the car
requisition forms yet?” I like to take care of her,
even when I have to pretend she really needs it. 



She waves the sheet in front of her. “Got it right
here. Just don’t tell Gunny it’s going to be used for
canine transport.” 



With mocking solemnity, I cross my fingers over my
heart. “How is this going to work out anyway?” 



“Well,” she muses, drumming her fingers thoughtfully
on her desk, “I take the JAG-mobile home tonight and
drive in with it tomorrow. Then I’ll just get Gunny to
give me a ride home tomorrow night or something.” 



I put on my most beguiling I-have-a-better-idea
_expression. “What for? You’re still going with me to
Admiral Burke’s ceremony tomorrow afternoon, right?
I’ll just give you a lift home after that.” 



Her face falls, but I don’t take offense when she
sighs, “Oh, that’s right, that’s tomorrow. Why would
they have something like that on a Tuesday?” 



I shrug and turn back to the door. “He’s getting an
award from the President. Gotta work around the Big
Cheese’s schedule.” 



“Oh yeah. Can’t cut the Cheese, can we?” 



That was literally painful. I let out a loud groan
that I’m sure gains the attention of a few clerks in
the bullpen and wince dramatically. “I’m leaving now.
Wish me luck in court.” 



“Good luck,” she calls as I stride out of her office.
I give her a backwards wave without looking around. 

 

 



TUESDAY: 



I love Tuesdays. I’m not sure exactly why, but they
always put me in a good mood. Just the name itself –
‘Tuesday’ – seems like such a happy, hopeful word. On
a Tuesday, you’ve got a one-day weekend buffer. But
you still have three days left in the week to deal
with anything difficult that might come up. 



For my partner, Tuesdays are too close to Mondays to
be enjoyable. But I don’t really hate Mondays, at
least not enough to color my perception of their
cheerful neighbor day. Harm thinks I’m the antichrist
when I admit that. I also know he understands just a
little why I don’t share in his dislike of the first
day of the workweek. 



When I was young, I was the polar opposite of every
kid in my class, loving Mondays and dreading Fridays,
for the simple fact that life at school was vastly
preferable to my life at home. Of course, the more my
homework load increased, the easier it was for me to
overcome my weekend bias, and now I look forward to
Fridays just as eagerly as the next person. However, I
still can’t bring myself to truly hate the one day of
the week that was once my salvation. But for as long
as I can remember, I’ve been particularly fond of
Tuesdays. 



Today dawns bright and chilly, the first hint of a
cold winter to come whispering through the crisp
October air. Jingo and I spend a couple extra minutes
on our morning walk, which is slower today than usual;
his joints are still a little sore from the injections
Dr. Stephen gave him yesterday. His eyes aren’t a
hundred percent yet either, but he’ll be all right by
himself for the day. He loves being outside in this
weather, and so do I. Maybe the ceremony today won’t
be so bad after all. 



I ramble to work in the clunker of a government sedan
I hauled home last night. God, will I be glad to get
back in my corvette tomorrow. It’s all fixed and
waiting for me in the lot behind my apartment complex,
a fact which makes it even harder for me to drive the
old Ford into the office. 



I’m the first one in, as usual, although Gunny is hot
on my heels, making it into the building in time to
hold the elevator door for me. What a man. I have
absolutely no idea how he’s managed to stay single
this long except through sheer force of will. If I
were female enlisted and hadn’t met a Rabb, Victor
Galindez would very likely have to beat me off with a
stick. 



My morning is pretty quiet – just an appellate hearing
and a petition to write – and most of the officers on
staff have the afternoon off to attend Admiral Burke’s
retirement fete. He’s to be presented a medal of
commendation on the lawn of the White House, with an
outdoor reception to follow. Burke served in Vietnam
and the Gulf War and has been a vital player at the
Pentagon for almost a decade. He’s also a personal
friend of General Colin Powell, the head of the Joint
Chiefs of Staff, and our own Admiral Chegwidden.
Needless to say, all the stops will be pulled out and
pulled hard for this service. There will be a lot of
stuffy officials there, with no pomp or circumstance
spared, but it should really be something to see. 



The hearing goes off without a hitch. Some of the
evidence against my client was wrongfully admitted at
trial, as the judge readily agreed once I clearly
outline my argument. My paperwork is monotonous and
trying, but I finish before lunch despite two
interruptions from Harm and Singer’s constant
pestering about a minor case on which I am her lucky
co-counsel. 



No sooner do I send my petition to the printer than
Harm pops his head in my open door. 



“Hey,” he says brightly, his eyes flitting around in
an aimless fashion before finally landing on me. “Want
to go get some lunch before the big shindig?” 



He looks at me that way, and I can’t help but smile.
He’s so adorable today, all dashing and dapper. The
ceremony this afternoon is, in his mind, a pleasant
little diversion from the daily grind. And I suppose
he’s right – even if the speeches and presentation are
bound to run long and there is forced socialization
with total strangers afterwards, at least we get to be
out in the fresh air rather than cooped up indoors.
And a few hours in an uncomfortable folding chair just
might beat spending the day behind my desk, buried in
documents and carbon paper. 



“Actually,” I answer, sorting various forms into piles
on my desk, “I brought something from home – figured
I’d just grab a bite at the party.” 



“Oh.” His face falls before my eyes, and I have to
bite back a grin when he looks down and shuffles his
feet. Some days, I could just eat him up. 



“There’s plenty for you if you take me someplace
nice.” 



He glances up at my offer and shrugs a little. “You
sure?” 



I hold back a snort of exasperation, certain it will
only hurt his feelings. Right now, he’s wondering if I
really want to share my food and my company or if I’m
just asking to be nice. Numbskull. 



“Yes, I’m sure,” I reply with patience that’s a touch
exaggerated. He knows he’s my best friend, after all;
of course I want to spend time with him. Besides, I
packed extra this morning for just such an occasion. I
know him even better than he thinks. 



As previously agreed, Harm drives us into the city.
After a limited debate on the merits of street versus
garage parking, we abandon the Lexus and take to the
streets. A bench on one of the promenades near the
Capitol gets the lucky privilege of hosting our
impromptu lunch date. It’s a great place to people
watch, which is one of our favorite games. Our fare
includes two sandwiches – peanut butter and jelly, as
those are the only sandwich fixings in my house – an
apple, some grapes, and a handful of cookies. I tear
the crusts off my bread and toss them to the birds.
Harm lectures me on why this is an unhealthy practice
– for bird and man – before digging into his sandwich
with gusto. 



“Is this soy peanut butter?” He looks at me almost
reproachfully; he’s always telling me how beneficial
soy is for the female body. 



“Yes,” I reply without hesitation. 



This is a bald-faced lie, and we both know it. I have
never, will never willingly purchase or consume any
soy-based product, although I suspect Harm sometimes
slips Silk into my coffee when I’m not looking. Harm
accepts the lie to set his mind at ease and because he
secretly likes the real stuff better than that sissy,
natural crap. 



After taking two bites of the apple, Harm turns and
hands it to me. “Let’s play ‘Guess Who’s a Fed,’” he
suggests with boyish enthusiasm. He loves that game. 



I nibble on the apple and glance around in
consideration before giving it back. “Okay. Those two
over there.” I point discretely at two suits who walk
from their shoulders on down, as though a steel pole
has unfortunately drilled each one up the ass. 



He eyes them critically for a moment, then nods,
chewing loudly. “Definitely. Four-zip. The lady with
the huge purse over there.” 



I don’t have to look twice; she’s still wearing her ID
tag on the lapel of her bright red coat. That’s like
shooting fish in a barrel – very unsportsmanlike, in
my opinion. 



“Easy prey, squid. I’ll give her to you, but only
because you need a handicap. Four-two.” 



He grabs his chest in mock agony and tosses what’s
left of the apple at me. “Please. Didn’t I kick your
six the last three times we played this game?” 



I roll my eyes so hard they hurt. “Actually, I won two
out of three, Mr. I-can-smell-‘em-a-mile-away. And
correct me if I’m wrong, but . . . wasn’t your one win
the result of a lucky sighting of a federal lunch
meeting, which you caught first only because of a
gross advantage in height?” 



The glower he shoots at me makes me want to nip at his
chin and tickle his sides until he laughs. To distract
myself, I pop a few grapes in my mouth. 



“Are you going to take your turn or not?” 



I better go before the glare turns into a pout. “Okay
. . . that couple. The man and woman smoking at ten
o’clock.” 



He checks the coordinates, narrows his eyes, and
waits. As we watch, the pair makes their way toward
the Capitol. Harm opens his mouth to deny my claim but
closes it when we catch sight of the shoulder holsters
distorting the fabric of their jackets. 



“All right,” he mutters reluctantly. “Six-two. Ooo!” 



Forgetting his previous burst of petulance, he nudges
me urgently with his elbow. “I’ve got a quartet!” 



“A quartet?” 



“There.” He leans closer and points out four
middle-aged guys striding down Constitution Avenue
with all the arrogance in the world and, judging by
their sober, superior expressions, the weight of
national security on their shoulders. They walk past
FBI Headquarters, and I frown. This is a tough call. 



“I don’t know, Harm,” I say in my most uncertain
drawl. “They could be Secret Service.” 



“No way!” He’s grabbed my arm and is all but bouncing
up and down with his excitement. For just a minute, I
am sidetracked by the idea of what it would be like to
have a family, raise children with this man, and a
soft smile steals over my face before I can stop it.
“They’d be wearing sunglasses. Besides, the SS is
still a federal agency.” 



I make a bigger show than necessary about conceding
this one to him. He needs the encouragement. “Okay,” I
say, heaving a giant sigh of defeat. “You’ve got me
there. Ten-six. I need a minute now, to come up with
something great in return.” I wiggle my eyebrows at
him mischievously. “I think I need to go for the
double-point score.” 



This means finding the agent who looks so
un-agent-like, picking him as a fed out of the crowd
is a true feat of skill. Harm snorts, and I decide
it’s a very unattractive sound coming from him. “Good
luck.” 



My partner has polished off the rest of the grapes and
twenty percent of the cookie supply when I spot him.
There, on the bench directly across from us, finishing
up a castle burger, is the man who will win me back my
dignity. Under my watchful eye, he rises, throws his
trash in the nearby receptacle, and brushes off his
hands with far more fastidiousness than would be
expected of a scruffy-looking, guitar-toting man whose
hair is too long and whose clothes are dusty and
patched. His eyes, I notice, are not glassy and dull,
like those of so many people dusty from spending their
days and sometimes nights on the streets. Instead,
they dance around intently, pausing just long enough
to take in every facet of his surrounding environment.
When he leans over to snag his backpack from the
bench, I see the cell phone and pager clipped to his
expensive leather belt. And his running shoes are new.




“That guy,” I murmur to Harm. 



He looks surprised – must have decided I’d given up
and accepted the loss. Fat chance. 



“The one right across from us getting up from the
bench,” I elaborate without taking my eyes from my
winning play. 



It takes Harm a moment to assure himself he’s looking
at the right person. “ guy?” he asks
incredulously, eyebrows rising past his hairline. “Get
real, Mac. He probably spends his days with a bottle
and a joint in his hands, not a gun and a badge.” 



I am unperturbed. “Just wait.” 



Together, we watch him. My confidence increases with
every step he takes. I know that walk too well. After
countless hours spent playing this game on the Hill,
we both do. Harm slumps further and further down in
his seat. He lets out a groan when the man he passed
over as a washed-out hippie marches up to the J. Edgar
Hoover building and breezes through the employees’
entrance. 



Simultaneously, we turn to look at each other. I don’t
gloat, but it is a near thing. 



“Unbelievable.” That’s all he says. 



“Ten-ten,” I announce with a grin. “Let’s call it a
draw. Truce?” 



He grasps the hand I extended, shakes it
companionably. “Truce. Don’t you want any of these
cookies?” 



I shrug. “I’ll take one.” 



“Where’s the rest of my half, anyway? You didn’t eat
them already, did you?” 



His tone is joking; Harm knows even  couldn’t pound
down four dozen cookies in three days. Nonetheless, he
could use a mild scolding, just to keep him from
getting too smug. 



“No,” I smirk, slapping him lightly on the arm. By
tacit agreement, I hold the paper bag open while he
shovels in the refuse of our meal. “They’re waiting
for you on my counter. You can come up tonight and get
them when you bring me home.” 



“’Kay.” He stands and hauls me up by the hand. I wish
he didn’t have to let go so soon. “Come on, Mac. Don’t
want to be late.” 



I smile, ditch the garbage, and trot along after him. 



*   *   *   *   

We arrive squarely in the middle of the count of
expected guests, which as any conservative party-goer
will tell you is the best place to be. The friendly PA
officer stationed at the entrance to the gardens
informs us we can take any seats we like outside the
first five rows, then points out a table full of
beverages – non-alcoholic, of course – off to the
left. Harm guides me there with a light touch on my
back, taking advantage of his long arms to reach over
the average-sized officers in his way and grab two
bottles of water before resuming his station at my
back. I lead us to a row nearer the back; it’s less
conspicuous and also a great vantage point from which
to watch those who come in. 



When I would’ve lowered myself to the white metal
folding chair, Harm holds me up with a hand at my
elbow. Before I can do more than frown in confusion,
he’s bending over, tugging the handkerchief from his
pocket. He does no more than nod at our seats in
explanation, gives each a quick swipe with the cloth,
and urges me to sit. Thank goodness for quick-thinking
flyboys – wouldn’t want to attend an official function
with a wet six, after all. Whoever decided to hose
these chairs off five minutes before the guests were
due to arrive must not have been the brightest in the
batch. However, they did give me a chance to see Harm
whip out his pristine white handkerchief. There is
something so inexplicably, practically sexy about a
man who carries a handkerchief. 



My mind is wandering blissfully along a path paved
with images of Harm and his myriad of sexy features
when he pokes at me with his index finger. 



“Hey, there’s that nerdy commander who works for the
SecNav.” 



I glance in the direction he’s pointing and see a
short, slim man with shoulders stooped from too many
hours toiling over a computer and glasses that keep
sliding down his dull nose. “Oh, yeah.” 



Harm continues, whispering deliciously close to my ear
to avoid being overheard. “I hear he came to your
office to apologize for trying to pin a murder on you
when the Admiral was in charge of his promotional
review.” 



The sycophantic officer in question turns to fawn over
the Secretary, and my eyes narrow in remembered anger.
“It was the Admiral’s office, and he didn’t
apologize.” 



I feel Harm look over at me, gauging my temper through
my _expression. Wisely, he chooses to sympathize
rather than try to draw me out. “Yikes. What do you
think he’ll do next time he’s up for review?” 



Glancing back at poor, innocent Harm, my bad mood
evaporates. It’s useless to hold a grudge against
someone like the SecNav’s golden boy – unhealthy both
mentally and professionally. Instead, I flash my
partner a wink and a saucy smile. “Probably bend over
and grab his ankles.” 



Completely taken by surprise, Harm busts out laughing,
remembering just in time that this is a sober
occasion, and he must therefore refrain from all
outbursts of emotion. He chokes it in so that it
sounds like something strangled between a cough and a
sneeze. The military matron in front of us half-turns,
frowns in disgruntlement, and re-crosses her legs. 



“Mac!” The whisper is harsh, but his grin belies the
chastising tone. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
This is imparted matter-of-factly, as though he really
cannot conceive of those words having passed my lips.
Please. My mind and mouth are seven or eight times
dirtier than any sailor’s, and well this one knows it.
Nevertheless, I fall back on a feminine display of
primness and pride, delicately uncapping my water
bottle. 



“Well, it’s true.” My shrug and the accompanying
doe-eyed _expression are completely lacking in guile.
I wait for him to pursue the subject further, but
something cheap and red catches my attention. It’s
Singer’s manicure. Wonderful. 



“Look who showed up,” I say softly, nodding in her
direction. She’s currently doing some fawning of her
own, over a captain who’s running to fat and old
enough to be her father. I can’t tell exactly who it
is until he shifts closer to her to share a chuckle
and his face comes into full view. Sick shit. 



“Well, she was technically invited.” The amusement in
his voice says he’s only defending her to get to me.
“I didn’t really think she’d show though. Most of the
other junior officers begged off on this one. Even Bud
bailed on us.” 



“Harriet and AJ are both sick,” I remind him, watching
with a sort of disinterested disgust as Lauren drops
her hand onto the captain’s arm and dazzles him with a
simpering smile. 



“Who’s that guy she’s with?” 



“That,” I inform him, pausing to take a quick drink,
“is her former CO from the base in upstate New York.
Captain Art Shields.” Who happens to be married and
the father of three girls, two of whom are themselves
in the service. But who cares about a technicality
like that when you’ve got a subordinate eager to jump
your bones at any opportunity? 



Harm hesitates a moment, frowns in that way he does
when he forms an unproven conclusion based on highly
convincing circumstantial evidence. “They seem . . .
friendly.” 



“Yeah,” I agree amiably, taking another dainty sip and
casually crossing my legs. “If you look close enough,
you can see the imprint of his dick on her lower lip.”




The water Harm had just then poured into his mouth
makes its reappearance as a geyser shooting between
his pursed lips, complemented by an elephantine, and
painful sounding, snort. While he sputters his airway
clear, the woman in front of him shudders
dramatically, glares at him with enough ice to freeze
boiling water, and huffs off to another seat further
front. I simply roll my eyes at her back. Harm ducked
his head after all; I don’t think he got her. Too bad.




All calm composure, I pat my partner on the back until
his coughing fit runs its course. From his hunched
position, he stares up at me with a mixture of shock,
hilarity, and awe, his mouth hanging open in a
half-grin. 



“I think – ” The handkerchief has an encore
performance, jerked out of his breast pocket to mop
his face and misty slacks, and it takes all my
willpower not to swoon. “I think water came out of my
nose, Mac!” 



That was probably too loud, and I’m sure any neighbors
that weren’t looking at us after his spontaneous
explosion are now, but all I can do is grin. God, is
this fun. “Oh, did it go down the wrong pipe?” I ask
ingenuously, rubbing my palm in circles on his back. 



He merely arches an eyebrow, leans back and crosses
his arms. 



“Well, Harm, how else did you think she got
transferred to JAG Headquarters two years out of law
school, without even doing a tour first? She’s not
 good, after all.” 



I glance up to find his head shaking back and forth.
He still looks a little dazed and impossibly cute.
“You are , Marine.” 



“Why thank you, Sailor.” 



Between the two of us, the ceremony passes in a blur
of odd observations, well-timed wisecracks, and
suppressed giggles. 



*   *   *   * 



The whole affair is – surprisingly – done around
three. We hang around for fifteen minutes, hobnobbing
with governmental officials and the Navy’s upper crust
like good little officers. The Admiral is catching up
with Admiral Burke and some old war buddies, and
Carolyn is introducing Alan Mattoni to some of her old
Academy friends, so Harm and I are on our own. 



We circulate near the buffet table, occasionally
agreeing to divide and conquer when one or the other
of us gets caught up with an acquaintance. Then some
lieutenant commander from NCIS starts hitting on me,
and Harm gets pissed and hauls me out of the garden. I
would have been mad if guy wasn’t such a sleazeball,
and if Harm didn’t look so amazing when he’s jealous.
I settle for mild annoyance and give him a hard time
about dragging me away from the man who could have
been my dream date. 



By the time we get to my apartment, he’s angry enough
at my teasing not to want to come up. Fortunately,
I’ve still got the promise of his cookies to lure him
in when my laughing apologies don’t do the trick. 



“Bring your briefcase,” I call as I climb out of the
Lexus. “We can do our paperwork here while we play
hooky.” 



He grumbles for a second, but follows me up with his
briefcase in hand. 



My apartment is a little cool, just the way I like it.
Blanket and sweats weather – what could be better? We
kick off our shoes, and I flop down on the couch while
Harm hustles into the kitchen to grab his snack. Jingo
bounds out of the bedroom, happy to see me before four
o’clock in the afternoon and, as always, excited to
see Harm, who comes shuffling into the living room,
shoveling cookies into his mouth with one hand,
holding a Coke and a dog biscuit in the other. 



He tries to make Jingo sit before giving him the
treat, but the poor old guy is bouncing around so much
he can’t stay down for more than a few seconds. Harm
hands me the soda and holds the dog’s haunches down
for a count of five. 



“Good boy,” he praises, relinquishing the little
bone-shaped snack and scratching Jingo vigorously
behind the ears. 



I watch the scene with a melting heart – my two boys
get along so well together. Jingo adores Harm, even
though he’s not a big sucker like me, who doesn’t ask
for a performance before giving him a doggie treat.
And I know Harm would’ve given Jingo the biscuit even
if he hadn’t been able to remain sitting. Just goes to
show who the disciplinarian would be in a
Rabb-MacKenzie family, I suppose. 



Jingo finishes his bone, licks Harm on the face, and
stretches out contentedly at our feet. I crack open
the Coke and drink a little before Harm snags it and
finishes it off in three long gulps. 



“I’m going to go change,” I say, pushing myself up
with a sigh. Harm merely shrugs out of his jacket,
unbuttons the sleeves and collar of his shirt, and
loosens his tie. I’m almost to the bedroom when the
phone rings. Great. I’m never home this early; it’s
got to be either work or a telemarketer, neither of
which I’m very anxious to hear from at the moment. 



“Hello?” I begin unbuttoning the jacket and blouse of
my dress uniform, glance up to find Harm watching me
intently. 



“Mac? This – this is Sydney Walden.” 



Her frantic voice pulls my attention from the blush
climbing up my neck, for which I am distractedly
grateful. 



“Dr. Walden?” Harm looks surprised, then adopts my
worry when he sees me frown. “How are you? Is
everything all right?” 



“No,” she says, and even over the phone line I can
hear the shake in her breath. “It’s Danny . . . my
son? I don’t know if you ever met . . .” 



“Danny joined the Navy, didn’t he?” I ask in my
calmest voice, hoping to draw out whatever it is
that’s got her so upset. “Has something happened to
him?” 



“Oh, Mac . . . He’s – he’s in jail . . . the brick . .
. whatever it is you call it.” 



“Okay, Dr. Walden, just take a deep breath and tell me
what you can. Have you called the Admiral yet?” 



“No!” she cries on a half-gasp, half-sob. “No, I
couldn’t. I can’t go to AJ with this, I just can’t. I
was hoping you could help me – ” 



She sounds like she’s getting hysterical enough to
hang up if I don’t comply immediately, so I interrupt
her as soothingly as possible. “Of course I can. Why
don’t you just tell me what happened.” Harm is still
watching me, and I motion for him to hand me the pen
and pad of paper on top of his briefcase. 



“Danny called me just a little while ago,” Sydney
begins with tenuous control. “His ship docked at
Norfolk this weekend . . . I was going to go visit him
. . .” 



I break in again, trying to keep her on track. “Okay,
Sydney, did something happen?” 



‘What’s going on?’ Harm mouths, eyebrows raised to
beneath his hairline as he clamors closer to the
phone. I wave dismissively at him, motion him to wait
‘til I’m done. 



“He was so upset when he called,” Sydney explains,
sounding weary and weepy. “I couldn’t understand much
of what he was saying, and then we got cut off . . .
It was something about – I think he was drunk and
bragging . . . ? And then suddenly he was involved in
a drug deal, and they were arrested. His trial is
tomorrow.” 



“Tomorrow in Norfolk?” 



“Yes. Mac, this is his second offense. Last time, AJ
got him out of any punishment, but I don’t think he’ll
be so lucky this time. I know it’s asking a lot, but .
. . could you go down there and help him? I know AJ
and I – ” 



I don’t want to give her a chance to get into the
details of her break-up with the Admiral or to start
feeling bad about calling me for help. I liked Sydney
– still do actually, despite how much she hurt one of
my closest friends – and I hate to see her so upset.
“I’d be glad to go down to Norfolk, Sydney,” I assure
her calmly. “I’ll find out the facts and do the best I
can.” 



“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, Mac.” She sounds
like she’s back on the verge of tears, so I figure now
is as good a time as any to bring up the bad news. 



“Sydney, I’m going to have to call the Admiral, to get
the day off tomorrow. I’ll try to keep the explanation
as brief as possible, but . . .” Even as I make that
promise, I’m regretting it; I hate lying to the
Admiral. 



There’s a pause on the other end as she considers this
statement and its implications. “I understand.” 



“Maybe you should give him a call,” I urge, not above
a last-ditch effort. “I know he’d be glad to hear from
you – ” 



“No, I couldn’t,” she insists again, sounding as
desperate to convince herself as she is to convince
me. “I can’t face him with this.” 



“Sydney, the Admiral would never say ‘I told you so.’
He would want to help you through this.” 



An even longer pause follows. “I-I’ll think about it,”
she answers at last, and I can tell I’ve pushed far
enough. 



“I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” 



“Thanks again, Mac.” Her voice is faint and watery,
and my heart goes out to her. 



“Anytime, Sydney.” Softly, I hang up the phone and
turn to my partner, who by this point is eager out of
his mind. 



“Mac, what’s going on? That was Dr. Walden? What did
she want?” 



I heave a giant sigh and drop back onto the couch at
his side. “Her son is in the brig.” 



“What’s the charge?” he asks with a suspicious frown,
and I know he’s already got some idea based on his
knowledge of Danny’s history. 



Looking down at my notebook for a minute before
deciding the limited notes I took aren’t going to give
any answers, I run a hand through my hair and toss it
onto the coffee table. “Well, as far as I can tell,
it’s at least possession, and possibly trafficking.
Trial’s tomorrow. I told Sydney I’d go down there to
represent him.” 



Harm nods, considering. “You sure are good at that,”
he remarks after awhile. 



A compliment from Harmon Rabb? There has to be a
catch. “Oh?” I arch an eyebrow at him, mentally
reviewing what I need to do before leaving for
Norfolk. “And what, exactly, is ‘that’?” 



The corner of his mouth kicks up in a tiny smile.
“Calming people down. Specifically, the Admiral’s
girlfriends. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to
do it, you know.” 



And I do. I remember other instances with Sydney, who
usually handled things incredibly well. I remember
Laura, who loved those parts of AJ Chegwidden she knew
but was invariably frustrated by the parts she didn’t.
But more, I remember Renee and Jordan, who never
understood the importance or the time commitment Harm
gave to his work. I remember Annie, who was so high
strung as to be almost unreachable when she fretted on
the dangers of a Naval career. And I wonder for at
least the millionth time what draws Harm to women like
that and what makes me their exact opposite. 



“Earth to Mac,” he calls, waving a hand in front of my
face. “Come back to me, Colonel.” 



I give myself a shake and relax into a smile. This is
no time for angst-filled musings, Sarah. “Sorry,” I
say, pushing myself as unobtrusively as possible
toward the edge of the sofa. “I was just thinking . .
.” 



“Yeah?” 



I shrug to disguise the poised tension of my body. I
am ready to run. “Well, at least the Admiral’s women
are low-maintenance, which is more than I can say for
someone else I know.” 



“Ohhh-hoho.” His laugh is half-chuckle, half-warning.
“You’re going to !” The last word comes out in a
shout as he lunges for me, fingers wriggling at my
sides. 



I let out a very un-Marine-like squeal and dash for
the bedroom, Harm hot on my heels. He gets the door
slammed and locked in his face and beats futilely on
it, yelling at me to open up or suffer the
consequences. Safe in the confines of my room, I laugh
loud enough for him to hear. 



“Harm, why don’t you call the Admiral for me while I
get changed?” 



The pounding stops, and there’s a split second of
silence before he calls invitingly, “Sure you don’t
need any help?” 



Ooo, and what would you do if I took you up on that
one, flyboy? I am so tempted to find out, but on the
off chance that he might react with a coronary, I give
him a break. “Maybe next time.” 



“Just say the word,” he says, though his voice already
sounds further away. That’s my Harm – all bark and no
bite. 



It takes me three minutes and fifty-four seconds to
freshen up, change into my khakis, and dump all my
toiletries into my purse. Grabbing the fully packed
suitcase that stands perpetually ready in my closet, I
head out to the living room to find Harm holding the
phone and looking flustered. 



He waits a minute, listening, then sputters, “Well,
sir, I think – it’s because . . . No, sir . . . yes,
sir.” Jaw clenched, he closes his eyes for a moment in
defeat and hands the phone off to me. 



“He wants to talk to you.” 



I stare at him, puzzled, and mouth, ‘What did you do?’
before raising the phone to my ear. “Admiral?” 



“Mac, what’s going on?” He sounds frustrated, and I
can only imagine the kind of grief Harm’s given him so
far. 



“Sir, I need to go down to Norfolk tonight and stay
‘til tomorrow at least. I need to request a day’s
leave. I don’t have a court appearance tomorrow, just
an appointment that I can get Gunny to reschedule.” 



“That’s fine, Colonel, but why do you need Rabb to go
with you?” 



I look at Harm like he’s a creature from Mars. He
studiously avoids my gaze. So he told the Admiral he’s
coming with me, did he? What was that all about? 



Nevertheless, he is my partner, and it’s practically
my sworn duty to cover for him. “Ah, yes sir, I think
I could use his help. If you can spare him, that is.” 



“Colonel, is everything all right?” 



A tide of guilt sweeps up from my stomach so fast it’s
hard to swallow against it. Here he is, concerned
about my well-being, and I’m plotting the best way to
mislead him. I am such a heel. 



“Actually, sir,” I begin reluctantly, “I just got off
the phone with Dr. Walden.” 



He is quiet for a long breath, and I bite my lip,
wishing I hadn’t told him. Harm’s green eyes focus
steadily on my face, and I draw all the support I can
from that. 



“Sydney called you?” Chegwidden asks at last, suddenly
subdued and cautious. “What’s going on, Colonel?” 



“Sir, it’s her son. Apparently, he’s in the brig at
Norfolk. His ship docked this weekend, and he’s gotten
into some trouble. I’ll know more after I get there
and talk to him. I’ll – we’ll – leave as soon as
possible, sir.” 



I don’t hear anything for several seconds. These long
silences are killing me. Finally, he speaks, almost
angrily. “Why the hell didn’t Sydney call me?” he
asks, more to himself than to me. “She knows I’d want
to help.” 



“Sir,” I say hesitantly. Admiral Chegwidden’s private
life is always a touchy subject. At times, he’s
receptive to advice; at others, he resents any implied
intrusions. “She does know that, I could tell. I think
the reason she didn’t come to you right away is
because . . . well, sir, she feels embarrassed. About
Danny’s previous problems and probably about her own
reactions.” 



“You mean you think she thinks I’d rub her nose in
it?” 



To my dismay, he sounds about ready to crawl through
the phone line and chew my ass in person. “No, sir, I
don’t think that at all,” I assure him, quick but
calm. “But lawyers know better than anyone that it’s
sometimes hard to admit you were wrong. She’ll sort it
out eventually, sir, and she knows when she does
you’ll be there to help her.” 



I swear his sigh lasts thirty full seconds.
Desperately, I hope that was the right thing to say. I
gather it is when he decides not to press the issue
any further. 



“Call me with what you find,” he says, back in grim
commanding officer mode. 



“Yes, sir.” I’m just about to hang up when I hear him
again. 



“And, Colonel?” 



“Sir?” 



“Thank you.” 



I smile and the line goes dead. Just then, I hear my
noble partner trying to scurry away into the kitchen. 



“Freeze.” 



I turn to face him, and he stops dead in his tracks,
pivoting around to look sheepishly at the floor
beneath my feet. 



“You’re coming with me, Commander?” I ask in my best
USMC drill sergeant tone. 



He chances a glance at my face and quickly returns his
gaze to the floor. “Well, I just thought – ” 



“And why did I hear this first from the Admiral, who,
I might add, was already wavering on consenting to my
trip in the first place?” 



He bites his lip nervously, and I give myself a mental
pat on the back. Damn, I’m good. Maybe our kids will
have more than one loving disciplinarian after all. 



“I just thought I could help,” he protests cajolingly.
“I’m Dr. Walden’s friend too, you know. Besides, I
don’t want you driving to Norfolk alone late at
night.” 



My _expression must be pretty incredulous because he
looks down again and shuffles his feet. 



“It’s 1613!” I cry, fighting the urge to laugh. “I’ll
be there by 1930. And, in case you need a reminder, I
am a United States Marine and more than capable of
taking care of myself.” He gets this speech every
time; it still hasn’t worked its way through that
thick skull. 



“Come on, Mac,” he coaxes, and I know I’m going to
relent without much more persuasion. “You know I can
help, and just think how grateful the Admiral’s going
to be when we work our magic with that kid.” 



I decide I could use a little more warming up. Just a
little. “Our magic, huh?” I muse encouragingly. 



“You know, Mac.” He moves closer, and his low drawl
draws me in. “You, me, the courtroom, a few witnesses
. . . subpoenas.” The last word is nothing but a
breath against my skin, and the room is suddenly
twenty degrees warmer. That same tone, that rhythm of
speech, could easily be used to lure a woman, this
woman, into bed. God, he’s laying it on thick. I must
be just this side of Heaven. 



“Ooo, Harm, stop,” I say, doing my best version of
‘coy,’ fanning myself with my hand and batting my
eyelashes. “I can barely contain the excitement.” 



“Well, why don’t I help you?” 



His voice is still so low and seductive, it takes me a
minute to realize his hands are headed playfully for
my throat, and I remember my earlier comment about his
high-maintenance ladies. Dodging out of his grasp, I
stand up and say with officious authority, “Come on,
stickboy, time to get moving. I’m ready to go, but
it’ll probably take you half an hour to pack.” 



“Well, I don’t keep a suitcase at the ready like some
paranoid Marine, if that’s what you mean,” he pouts
grumpily. 



I only smile over my shoulder at him as I head toward
the door. “We have to take Jingo out one last time
before we go, and get things ready for him while we’re
gone. Which one do you want?” 



He doesn’t hesitate in reaching for the leash. He’s
chosen wisely – I don’t think he has any idea what
needs to be done to further dog-proof my apartment.
While my boys are on a walk, I lay a plastic garbage
bag on the floor of my kitchen, in the corner opposite
Jingo’s food and water dishes, then spread newspaper
over it. He’s pretty well toilet trained and is used
to going on the paper when I’m not home overnight. I
don’t mind cleaning up after his occasional messes,
either; being away so much, it’s the least I can do. I
fill up his food and water bowls, add another large
dish of water, and set out half a dozen dog treats
nearby. Finally, I check to make sure his dog bed is
dry and in satisfactory condition, shut the doors to
my bed- and bathrooms, and give the thermostat and
stove burners one last check. 



Harm and Jingo reenter three minutes later. I give my
dog a brief but affectionate good-bye and promise to
be back in a day or two, although I don’t think he
understands much of that. Harm grabs my suitcase, I
lock up, and we head to his place. It takes him twice
as long as me to get ready, and he didn’t even have to
change. But then, what can you expect from a squid?
When I pose that question to him – rhetorically, of
course – he chases me out to the car. 



It occurs to me as we merge onto the beltway going
south out of the city that we are having an inordinate
amount of fun on this case. Maybe that’s because it’s
not yet official – it wasn’t even assigned to us by
the Admiral, but by his ex-girlfriend. Maybe it’s
because we know that, until we get to Norfolk, there’s
nothing we can do to help Seaman Danny Walden. And
maybe it’s because this is my best friend, and it’s
been too long since we’ve had such a good time
together. 



Even though I know it drives Harm nuts, I flip the
radio to a light favorites station and listen in for a
song I can sing along with. The music isn’t exactly to
my tastes, but the fun of the game makes up for that.
“You’re So Vain,” comes on, and I accompany the
chorus, causing Harm to wince jokingly. It’s obvious I
don’t have the kind of voice he does, but I’m no
slouch. Certainly not tone-deaf, in any case.  



Once a few years ago, Harm actually told me I had a
“good” voice, which, coming from him at the time it
did, I took as the next thing to Shakespeare. Of
course, I couldn’t tell him that; instead I
immediately replied that he should grab his guitar and
we could take it to the streets. He retrieved the case
from his bedroom in a lame attempt to call my bluff.
Please, give me a little more credit than that. I
responded by dragging him down to the corner of G and
46th, shoving the instrument into his hands and
breaking into a verse of “Blowin’ in the Wind.” I made
a dollar thirty-five before he managed to pack away
his six-string and haul it, and me, back up to his
apartment. He blushed for forty-six minutes
afterwards; I laughed for fifty-two. 



The memory alone makes me happy enough to rest my head
on his shoulder for a moment, where I giggle and
linger for the scent of soap and deodorant. Harm looks
down at me, startled and, I think, a little pleased. 



“What was that for?” 



I can’t tell him; he still scolds me when I bring up
the ‘hobo incident,’ as he’s entitled it. So I just
shrug and answer, “Nothing,” before jumping into the
first verse of “Closer to Fine.” 



I get the shock of my life when Harm joins me at the
chorus, hitting the harmonies without hesitation.
Trying not to let him see how surprised I am, afraid
he’ll stop singing, I grin so widely my cheeks hurt.
The emotion bubbling up in my lungs and bursting
through my voice is very near elation. This is why I
love this game. 



When the song is over and the radio starts blasting
commercials, I turn to Harm, tease thrusters on
full-blast. “I didn’t know you were such an Indigo
Girls fan, partner.” 



In profile, I see him roll his eyes. “I’m not,
. One of my girlfriends in law school liked
them quite a bit. She used to drag me to concerts,
make me play their songs on my guitar – it was an
obsession. A disease really.” 



I stare at him until he turns to glance at me, then
promptly flash him the raised eyebrow. “ of your
old law school girlfriends?” I clarify, my tone
dripping with sarcastic awe. “Just how many were
there, Superstud?” 



He positively glowers at me, and in the corner of my
mind, I wonder if he shouldn’t be giving more of his
interest to the interstate. I expect him to come back
with something along the lines of “Wouldn’t you like
to know?” or some other reply calculated to request
that I mind my own business. So I’m accordingly amazed
when the scowl turns thoughtful. 



“Five,” he answers after a moment, his attention once
again on the road. 



My mouth is hanging open, and there’s nothing I can do
about it. I gape at him for forty-three seconds while
he ignores my presence. At last, I sputter out,
“Five?” more impressed by the fact that he opened up
to me about something than by the number itself. 



“Five,” he affirms quietly. “Nothing serious. At
first, I had just gotten over my crash, and I wasn’t
exactly in the frame of mind for a relationship. Then,
as I got more involved in my studies, there wasn’t a
lot of time. The thing with Indigo Girl Number Three
was the longest. Eight months.” 



It takes me longer than it should to process this
information and formulate a coherent reply. “What
happened?” I ask with careful curiosity. 



He shrugs in a very male fashion. “I got sick of
hearing their album every minute of the day. And
that’s not a joke,” he adds when his eyes dart over
and catch my grin. “So, what about you, Ninja Girl?” 



Oh, there is so much more I want to hear about his
half of this subject. I want names, dates, pros, and
cons. I want to hear that they didn’t mean anything to
him. I want to ask about Diane, but part of me already
knows; they talked on the phone, wrote letters, kept
in touch because they had to, because they loved each
other. It was carefully non-committal, of course. Just
like the line of communication Harm and I maintained
when he left to fly. Because it hurts too much to draw
comparisons between Diane and myself, I focus on the
subject at hand. He’s just asked me about my
boyfriends in law school, and turnabout is fair play. 



I clear my throat, ask with light naivety that sounds
fake even to my ears, “What about me?” 



“How many men courted the great Sarah MacKenzie during
her three years at Duke?” he expounds with exaggerated
patience. 



I make a show of frowning in consideration, tilting my
head from side to side and using the fingers of both
hands to count silently. Harm notices my _expression
and laughs. The sound masks my reply. 



“What was that?” 



“Only one,” I repeat, softer now and introspective as
I remember. 



“Only one guy hit on you the whole time you were
there?” He sounds gratifyingly incredulous. “That’s
impossible, Mac!” 



“I didn’t say that,” I counter, secretly pleased by
the backhanded compliment. “Only one guy  me
while I was there.” 



Harm is quiet for several moments, opens his mouth
twice to speak before shutting it with a frown. He
doesn’t like this new development, I can tell. On the
third try, his vocal powers appear to be restored. 



“So what happened?” 



I sigh a little, kick my feet up onto the dashboard.
My shoes have long since disappeared. Harm turns down
the radio and switches on cruise control. 



“First year, I pretty much kept to myself,” I begin,
deciding to give him a little background. “Everything
was so new, and I was trying so hard, getting the
rhythm down. Weekends were for homework and reserve
duty – you know the drill.” 



He smiles and nods encouragingly, his eyes expectant. 



“Second year I was in a tax law class. A guy in his
third year always sat near me, and one day he told me
he needed a tutor. I took the job. A few months later,
we started seeing each other socially. He was a really
great guy, very sweet, very considerate. We just got
together a few times a week, went out for dinner,
played tennis, hiked around the city. I didn’t think
it was anything serious. I never told him about my
parents, my alcoholism, Chris. I didn’t think he
needed to know.” 



All the memories of my second year of law school come
flooding back, and after avoiding them for so long,
I’m surprised to realize just how little James Bales,
charming 3L, features in them. Suddenly it is so easy
to talk about this, easy to realize how little it
means now. It can’t hurt me anymore, and it doesn’t. 



Harm is looking at me again, watching and waiting,
wondering if he should back off. I smile at him warmly
in reassurance. “The night before he graduated, he
invited me over. His apartment was spotless, the light
was low. He had champagne and candles, the whole nine
yards. After dinner, he said he’d accepted a position
in Philadelphia, which I’d known for weeks. Then he
told me he’d looked into it, and it would be no
problem for me to transfer to Penn for my last year of
law school. I would quit the Corps and we’d live
together in Philly. ‘Simple as that, Sarah.’” 



I swear Harm’s eyes are about to pop out of his skull.
“Are you kidding me? What did you do?” 



“First, I wanted to laugh,” I recall with a measure of
grim amusement. “I was sure he had to be joking, even
though it was obvious he wasn’t. Then I told him I
wasn’t leaving, wished him luck, and headed for the
door. He pulled me back, accused me of leading him on.
I denied it, he called me an ‘emotionless robot,’ I
popped him in the nose, and left. My temper was a lot
worse back then,” I conclude with a little smile for
Harm’s benefit. 



“Yeah,” he muses, rubbing a hand along his chin. “The
Sarah MacKenzie I know would never haul off on a
pompous, arrogant asshole, no matter how presumptuous
and disrespectful he was being. That doesn’t sound
like my Marine at all.” 



That’s one of the nicest things Harm has ever said to
me. His next words only make it better, and remind me
again how lucky I am to have him for a friend. 



“Seriously, Mac, that guy was a jerk. Definitely not
worth wasting your time on. If I wasn’t sure you’d
broken his nose with your right jab all those years
ago, I’d track him down and finish the job myself.” 



Inside, I am glowing, so it’s somewhat difficult to
paste a warning grimace on my face. “Hey, it wasn’t
 many years ago!” He only chuckles. “Besides,
how did you know it was a right jab?” 



“You always lead with your right,” he answers simply,
and inexplicably my enchantment increases another
notch. How can a statement like that sound so
absolutely perfect? 



“Harm . . .” 



He glances over at me, and I just smile at him, my
heart in my eyes. His own are quizzical for a split
second before he returns the smile full-force. 



“Let’s find some music we can agree on.” 



Obediently, he flips the dial to a classic rock
station and we settle in for the long drive ahead. 

 

 



WEDNESDAY: 



I don’t know how she does it. We were on the road for
three hours yesterday afternoon, skipped supper in
favor of working on the case, and didn’t get to bed
until well after midnight. This morning, she dragged
my ass on a five-mile run at 0600, beat me out of the
shower, ate her weight in scrambled eggs at the mess
hall, and is currently busy getting Danny Walden out
of the biggest batch of trouble he’s ever seen. 



Last night, she single-handedly tracked down four of
his closest buddies and persuaded them to testify that
they’d never seen Danny use drugs aboard ship and
about what happened that night at the bar. The most
convincing testimony came from his bunkmate, who’s
known Danny since basic, has never seen him with drugs
in his possession, and who was the designated driver
on the first night in question. 



According to his story and those of the other boys,
pieced together to account for alcohol-induced lapses
in memory, Danny and a few others were celebrating
coming into port and got appropriately drunk. Somehow
or other, a discussion rose up about juvenile mishaps,
pranks, and trouble with the law, and Danny proudly
admitted that he’d been charged with possession and
trafficking of marijuana, released on the condition
that he enlist in the Navy. 



Of course, the guys wouldn’t let it rest at that and
accordingly asked Danny to obtain for them some pot.
All maintain – quite believably, truth be told – that
the request was merely a joke, a challenge of
disbelief rather than a drug order. And they all
passed their drug screens upon enlisting and those Mac
and I pushed through the lab at ten o’clock last
night. For that matter, so has Danny. 



Right now, Mac’s got Walden’s girlfriend on the stand,
to testify that Danny has never done drugs in her
presence or expressed an interest in them to her. The
girl is pretty shy but does all right on the cross,
and Danny Walden moves to the stand as she climbs
down. 



Mac starts out slow, asking the basics about why he
joined the Navy and what his life has been like since.
The thing is, the kid says he’s really happy to be in
service. He’s found a job he enjoys programming
computers, he’s made new friends, is taking
correspondence courses, and is well-liked by his
shipmates and superior officers. He claims to have
changed. And I believe him. 



I can tell Mac does too, and the members are duly
impressed. Danny Walden has truly blossomed in the
Navy. Mac draws him out, makes the most of this fact,
before throwing the first punch. 



“Seaman Walden,” she says after ten minutes of
background testimony, and I can tell by her tone it’s
about to get good. “Do you know who made the call to
port authority, alerting them to the presence of a
known drug dealer in the area?” 



“Yes, ma’am.” All Danny’s answers are matter-of-fact
and earnest, as though he really wants to help. This
is very good. “I did.” 



Mac looks at him with a frown that betrays just a hint
of calculated confusion. “You did?” 



“Yes, ma’am.” 



“Seaman, why would you call the authorities when you
knew the likely outcome was that you would be arrested
as well?” 



Danny glances at the members, at the prosecutor’s
table, back to Mac. “Well, ma’am, I thought I could
avoid that by just staying out of the picture until
the police arrested Chucky.” 



“And by Chucky, do you mean Charles Alter, the man you
arranged to meet for the exchange?” 



“Yes, ma’am.” 



“Did you know the police were looking for Mr. Alter
when you called them?” 



“Yes, ma’am.” 



“How?” 



“During my trial in DC, I was offered immunity if I
would testify about what I knew about Chucky – his
friends, where he hung out, his suppliers, stuff like
that.” 



“Your honor, Defense Exhibit F, a copy of the immunity
agreement signed by Washington, DC Assistant District
Attorney, Donna Marie Wells and the defendant, Danny
Walden. Seaman, why didn’t you take the immunity?” 



“Because at the time, ma’am, I considered Chucky a
friend.” 



“But you don’t anymore?” 



“No, ma’am. I’ve made new, better friends in the
Navy.” 



Mac nods at this but doesn’t pursue it; it’s time to
draw the focus away from the Navy’s influence on young
Danny and place it on Danny’s character itself. “So
you called the police,” she expands, “told them where
Mr. Alter would be, and stayed hidden waiting for the
arrest to be made?” 



“Yes, ma’am.” 



“But you were arrested also, Seaman. What happened?” 



Danny shifts in his seat. He looks a little
shamefaced, but if he sticks to what he told Mac and
me in the brig last night, he’s got no reason to be.
He made several wrong decisions over the past week,
but what he did that night wasn’t one of them. 



“I waited fifteen minutes past the time I’d told the
cops Chucky was going to be on the corner – ten
minutes past the meeting time he and I had set up. I
saw a couple of cops hiding near where I was. They
didn’t look like they were going to make a move any
time soon, so I figured they were waiting for the sale
to go down, to make two busts instead of one.” 



“So you went through with the purchase, knowing you
would be arrested?” 



“Yes, ma’am.” 



“Why did you do that?” 



“Because, ma’am, I wanted to get him off the streets.
I knew if I just walked away that Chucky would come
after me, or go to my mother’s house in Virginia. And
I knew if I started dealing again, it wouldn’t be just
a one-time thing, no matter how often I told myself it
would.” 



“And how did you know that?” 



“Because that’s what happened when I started dealing
two years ago. It was just supposed to be once, but
Chucky . . . sucks you in.” 



“So you chose to get yourself arrested for a crime you
never intended to commit rather than go through with
it against your conscience and against the principles
you’ve learned since enlisting in the Navy.” 



“Yes, ma’am.” 



For the first time, Mac turns her attention away from
Danny and the members. “No further questions, your
honor.” 



Danny holds up well through his cross. The prosecuting
JAG is young and hasn’t had much trial experience, as
Mac found out while researching his record early this
morning. That can only benefit our case, which as it
stands is pretty strong. I still can’t believe he
didn’t object once during Mac’s questioning, if only
to break the phenomenal roll she was on. Definitely a
rookie mistake. 



He asks Danny why he agreed to go through with the
sale once he sobered up, which is a legitimate point,
one which Mac agreed, at my urging, to leave for the
other side to explore in favor of concentrating on the
facets of Danny’s actions that would reflect most
positively on him. Then he questions the veracity of
Danny’s motives, but does so far more timidly than I
had in our practice cross-exam, and Danny handles it
coolly and with aplomb. All in all, he’s a great
witness, especially for someone so young, and I
attribute his success to too many hours spent watching
“Law and Order” and “The Practice.” 



The cross is over much quicker than Mac and I are
expecting, and I stand to present the rest of our
case, which at this point consists only of documents,
an audio tape of Danny’s call to the port authority,
and witnesses from the police dispatcher’s office and
the comm. room on board, all of which corroborate
Danny’s claim that he himself called in the anonymous
tip that ended up getting him arrested. The prosecutor
and I make our closing statements, the members adjourn
to deliberate, and Mac and I go to the officers’ mess
to wait out the verdict. 



I drop into a chair while she moves to the hot plate
to pour us each large helpings of caffeinated coffee.
It’s been a long couple of days. As I watch, she
creams and sugars her mug, stirs the brew with a red
plastic stick, sucks the stick clean, and promptly
reuses it to stir the cream in my cup. I only shake my
head and smile indulgently. Somehow, Mac makes coffee
for me better than I can, with the precisely perfect
java-to-cream ratio; mine is not to question her
methods, merely to appreciate their results. 



She tosses the stick and carries the mugs carefully to
my table, plopping down in the other chair with one
leg folded under her. “You had a great close,” she
states without preamble before diving into the
scalding drink. 



As usual, I am more humbled by her praise than I let
on. Mac is always one to give credit where credit is
due. She is more simple and straight-forward with her
compliments to me because she worries they would feed
my enormous ego otherwise. But I shine inside
regardless. 



“Thanks,” I reply with habitual offhandedness and then
more sincerely, “you did a fantastic job on Danny and
his buddies. I think we’ve got a good shot with this
one, Ninja Girl.” 



Her eyes smile into her steaming mug. “Me too.” 



We sit quietly for the next half hour or so, shooting
the breeze, noting how glad she is that sentencing is
to be completed immediately pending the jury’s
decision, pausing for a debate about whether or not to
grab a very belated lunch. We decide against it; she’s
too nervous to eat, and I’m unwilling to partake of
anything from the mess hall of a docked ship when
landlocked restaurants serving real food are
conveniently close by. 



She and I are just setting a date for a late dinner
shoreside on the way home when a petty officer enters
the room and comes to attention before us. 



“At ease, petty officer,” Mac says, and we are both
rising before he speaks. 



“Sir, ma’am, Captain McCollough sent me to inform you
that the members have reached a verdict.” 



“Thank you.” 



We follow him below deck back to the designated trial
room. Danny is waiting, as is the captain, the judge,
and the members. Mac shoots Danny an encouraging smile
as she and I take our seats. The prosecuting attorney
arrives just after us, and the judge orders the
defense to rise as the chief publishes the findings. 



A big, African-American senior chief rises, looks down
at the scrap of paper in his hands. “Seaman Daniel
Walden,” he states in a deep, booming voice, “on the
charge of possession of a controlled substance, this
court finds you . . . not guilty.” 



Beside me, Mac relaxes fractionally, and I hear Danny
sigh in relief, but we all know the battle has not yet
been won. 



“On the charge of conspiracy to traffic a controlled
substance,” he continues, “this court finds you . . .
not guilty.” 



Danny’s eyes close gratefully, and if I weren’t the
respectable lawyer that I am, mine would too. This was
our biggest hurdle, the one that relied most heavily
on the sympathy of the members. Technically, after
all, Danny did conspire to traffic marijuana, even if
he did so under the influence and continued the ruse
in order to aid in the capture of a criminal. Strictly
on the facts, he could easily have been found guilty.
Thankfully, the members took Danny and all the
evidence supporting his side of the story to heart.
There’s only one more count to worry about now. 



“On the charge of drunk and disorderly, this court
finds you . . . guilty as charged and sentences you to
one month’s docked pay, no time served.” 



This final charge was the least of our worries, and
one Mac and I spent no time contesting. In my opinion,
it was overzealous on the part of the
otherwise-reticent prosecutor. At the time he drafted
the charges, he was relatively certain he had an
iron-clad case against our client, mostly because
Danny refused to talk until he had counsel (another
fortunate legacy of television’s courtroom drama
craze). In that situation, adding on a misdemeanor
that is comparatively quite a bit less serious can
often be interpreted by the members as overconfidence
– rubbing the defendant’s nose in his crimes, so to
speak. It’s a choice this kid probably won’t make with
a few more years’ experience under his belt. However,
in hindsight, if he hadn’t added the D&D, Danny could
very likely have gotten off on all counts; at least
this way, the green JAGman is batting .333. 



Just as the members begin to head out, the judge bangs
his gavel once, calling out, “Just a moment,
everyone.” 



Mac glances at me quizzically; Danny’s eyes dart from
the judge to us, full of apprehension. 



“Seaman Walden,” the judge begins soberly. “For the
record, I’d like to state that I agree with the
members’ findings. However, I do not agree with the
assigned punishment.” 



To his credit, Danny straightens and nods, although
I’m sure inside he’s cowering in fear. 



“I can understand pride, which you claim led you to
contact Charles Alter, a known drug dealer. And I can
understand the fear and sense of duty that motivated
your subsequent actions. It’s the former I find
hardest to reconcile. Youthful pride has gotten men
into worse scrapes than yours, but that’s no excuse
for blatantly thoughtless and illegal actions.” 



By now, Danny is swallowing audibly and looking
properly chastised and anxious. I’m sure I’m the only
one who notices, but Mac is biting the corner of her
bottom lip in a rare show of nerves. Her thoughts
probably mirror mine: we’re not going to get away with
this as easily as we thought. 



“Accordingly, I feel a stronger punishment is in
order. I hereby sentence you to three months docked
pay, two months extra duty, with the following month
spent confined to the ship except in an emergency or
under orders from a superior officer. 



“I’m pleased and proud to see how positively the Navy
has impacted you, young man,” the judge concludes with
a paternal gleam in his eye. “But behavior like this
is unacceptable and is not to be repeated. Is that
understood?” 



Danny’s response is clear and resounding. “Yes, sir.” 



The judge bangs his gavel again. “Dismissed.” 



At that, the tension in the room plummets, the noise
of shuffling and conversation buzzes in the
background, and Danny turns to Mac and me with a huge
grin. 



“Thank you so much, sir, ma’am. I can’t tell you how
much I appreciate your help, all you did for me.” 



Mac is smiling almost as broadly. “You’re welcome,
Danny,” she says warmly, extending her hand which he
grasps and shakes with vigor. “I’m glad things have
worked out so well for you in the Navy.” 



“Me too, ma’am.” He turns to me, taking the hand I
offer. “Commander, thank you so much, sir. I can’t say
it enough.” 



“Well, that’s all right, Dan,” I reply. “Just don’t
make it a habit.” 



“No, sir, I won’t,” he assures me, and although I know
he has a history of dishonesty, I believe he means it.
Apparently, the Admiral was right about Danny needing
to get out from under his mother’s apron strings. This
kid has blossomed, and I feel an absurd surge of
pride. Now it’s time to see if he’s grown enough to
really listen to what I have to say. 



“Mac,” I say as the courtroom empties out. “I’d like a
word with Mr. Walden, if you don’t mind.” 



She looks at me oddly but complies, giving Danny a
light pat on the shoulder before she grabs her
briefcase and heads out. Danny watches me curiously,
and I motion for him to take a seat. Searching for a
good place to start, I pace back and forth in front of
the defense table. I haven’t really planned this
confrontation, at least not the way I would a
statement to the court. If I have to think on my feet,
I have to be moving around. 



“What did you want to talk about, sir?” he asks,
glancing around a little nervously. 



I hesitate for a moment, then answer him cryptically.
“Fathers and sons.” 



Danny’s eyebrows go up, and I get the distinct
impression he’d rather be anywhere but here.
Unfortunately for him, he’s got no choice – senior
officer’s prerogative is in full effect. 



“My father was a fighter pilot in Vietnam,” I
commence, in what Mac calls my story-telling voice.
Might as well start at the beginning. “When I was six,
he was shot down, went MIA. We didn’t find out what
happened to him until a couple years ago.” 



The poor kid looks worried; he’s got no clue what to
say to that. “I’m . . . sorry, sir,” is what he comes
up with after a moment’s deliberation. 



I nod in acknowledgement but move on quickly. I’m not
telling him this to garner his sympathy. “My point,
Danny, is that I know what it’s like to be the man of
the house at a young age. I had the same perspective
you probably do – the world gets divided into two
distinct groups: you and your mom against everyone
else. That’s a big responsibility,” I add, stopping in
front of him, watching him with understanding. “But
it’s one that makes you feel important, and needed,
and grown up.” 



He’s still frowning, unsure where exactly this sermon
is going, but he nods as he looks down at the table,
and I know I’ve begun to get through to him. 



“When I was twelve,” I continue as I revert to my
pacing, “my mom started dating a man she liked very
much. A few months later, she married him. He was a
decent guy – still is – but I never gave him a chance.
He cared about me, took good care of both of us, but
all I could see was my own hurt and betrayal that
suddenly I wasn’t the only man in her life. My anger
and jealousy kept me from getting to know a good man
who wanted more than anything to love me. And it
didn’t make things any easier for my mom. Even after
all this time, I’m closer to the Admiral than I am to
my own stepfather, the man who’s been around for me
four times longer than my father was. 



“What I’m trying to say, Danny,” I go on when I catch
my breath, “is that your mother deserves to find
happiness of her own, someone she can love, because we
all deserve that. All you can do is hope she finds a
good man who loves her and will take care of her the
way she deserves to be taken care of. And as a guy
who’s known him, served with him, for five years, I’m
telling you, you won’t find a better man for the job
than AJ Chegwidden. He loves your mom, and he cares
about you, despite everything that’s happened. He can
be gruff and prickly, but once you get past that, you
find someone who would kill or die for what’s his. He
would take good care of your family, Danny, and he
would never try to get between you and your mom. Hell,
that’s the reason he backed off as easily as he did
after your trial. It’s something you should think
about, especially now that you’re not around full-time
anymore.” 



He looks up quickly at this, and I can tell that last
part is something he’s been thinking about for a
while. If not for Frank, I would worry constantly
about who would take care of my mother if something
happened to me, especially if I were deployed at sea
for months on end. Danny reminds me a little of myself
at twelve, except that where I became obsessed with
joining the Navy and finding my father, he turned to
juvenile delinquency. I wish I could go back thirty
years or so and have the same conversation with my
younger self that I’m having with Sydney’s boy right
now. How different things might have been then . . . 



Danny is quiet for a long time, fidgeting his fingers
on the desk in front of him. When I sit down beside
him, he glances up at me thoughtfully and with only a
trace of resentment. I take this as a good sign. 



“I understand what you’re saying, sir.” I get the
feeling he does and isn’t just saying it to placate an
officer. “I’d like to think about it for awhile, but .
. . maybe I should call my mom. I know she still
thinks about him – the Admiral, I mean – and she
hasn’t dated anyone since they broke it off.” 



I nod, clap him on the shoulder. I’m pretty good at
this man-to-man thing. “That sounds like a good idea,
Danny,” I say with a smile. “I know she’s been frantic
with worry for the past couple days.” 



We both rise and walk to the hatch. Just outside the
door, before we go our separate ways, I add, “Why
don’t you tell your mom we’ll take her out to lunch
tomorrow, give her all the details of the case, if she
wants. I’m sure right now all she wants to hear is
that you’re okay and managed to keep yourself out of
the brig.” 



“Yeah. Only with a lot of help, sir,” he laughs
affably, shaking my hand and thanking me again before
he takes off for the comm. room. 



I don’t find Mac in the mess or the small lounge we
were granted as an office, so I make my way up to the
deck and down the gangway. My gaze sweeps the harbor,
glowing gold in the sunset. I can feel her out there
somewhere, waiting for me. Sure enough, she’s perched
on the hood of the Lexus, legs crossed, head tipped
back to the crimson sky. 



“Finished with your male bonding?” she asks in
amusement as I approach. 



From her current vantage point, I have to look up at
her. I find I don’t mind the change. 



“All done,” I answer, setting my briefcase next to her
and shifting closer. For some reason my heart is
jumping, and all I want to do is smile. Actually, grin
up at her like an idiot would be the more appropriate
description. “You ready to get out of here?” 



She smiles back and my lungs go warm and syrupy. “You
bet. You promised me dinner, remember?” 



“How could I forget?” 



She slides to the edge of the hood and I grab her
waist to guide her down, even though it’s no more than
a two-foot drop. For just a second, her body is flush
against me, and she’s got her hands on my biceps, and
God, it would be so easy to simply lean down and take
her mouth. Her eyes are so deep, so bright, and I
swear they’re begging me to do it. I tilt my head
almost imperceptibly. Her lips fall open just a bit,
just wide enough, and then –  



And then a Jeep prattles past us, its exhaust pipe
clanging on the cement, muffler missing and presumed
lost, and we pull apart guiltily. Awkwardness and
cowardice battle within, so I plaster a stupid grin on
my face, snag my briefcase, and open the car doors
with my handy little remote. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see Mac heave a giant breath, pick up her
briefcase, and slide into the car beside me. 



“So where are we going?” she asks in a friendly tone
that tells me we’ll just put that little incident
behind us like we always do. Thank God. 



“Someplace close,” I answer immediately. “I’m
starving.” 



“Sounds good, flyboy.” 



We settle on a small diner just outside the city that
at this late evening hour is almost deserted. I get an
omelet with peppers and green onions. Mac orders a
club sandwich and a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder,
which we end up sharing. When she’s not looking, I
sneak a couple of her fries, and I know she’s the one
who stole my strawberry, although she maintains it
rolled off my fruit salad onto the floor. 



I’m pretty quiet during the meal, still thinking about
what I told Danny and how it applies to my own life. I
know Mac notices, judging by the worried looks she
gives me from time to time, but she doesn’t press. We
take our time with dinner, dawdling over coffee and
leaving only when the waitresses start their closing
chores of mopping the floor and refilling the ketchup
bottles. At the car, Mac asks if I want her to drive
but I turn her down, hoping the task will keep me from
withdrawing into my mood completely. 



I take it I’m not successful when, twenty miles out of
Norfolk, Mac turns and calls me on it. 



“You’re brooding,” she states matter-of-factly. The
way she settles into her seat facing me shows that
she’s ready to listen to me whether I like it or not. 



I don’t bother to deny it; I’m not going to lie. 



Her voice is gentle when she prods, “Are you thinking
about Frank?” 



My surprise must show when I glance at her because she
goes on to explain. “I heard you tell Danny you wanted
to talk about fathers and sons.” 



That statement could have meant several different
things, and she picks the right one on the first shot.
This woman knows me too well. 



I look back at the road, adjust my grip on the
steering wheel, increase the cruise control speed by a
few miles per hour. Evasive tactics, all of them. I
don’t know if I’m prepared to put this into words yet
– for her or myself. 



I break before she does. “Yeah,” I admit on a long
sigh. “It’s just . . . I look at the Admiral and all
the struggles he’s had with Danny, and I get a whole
new appreciation for what Frank went through when I
was a teenager.” 



“Well, you never stole Frank’s car, used it to
transport marijuana, and gotten it impounded by the
police for over two months,” she notes, quick to jump
to my defense. 



I am not willing to let myself off the hook so easily.
“No, I didn’t. But I made things hard for him, overtly
and just by having such a bad attitude about our
relationship and his and my mom’s marriage. I never
even considered how my behavior affected him or even
my mother. All I cared about was that I didn’t want
him around, no matter who he was.” 



“Harm, you were just a kid. You didn’t know what had
happened to your father, and you were used to being
the man of the house. I’m sure Frank understood that.”




“I was worse than that, Mac,” I insist, trying to make
her understand something I’m not even sure I do. “I
refused to give him any place in my life. I was sullen
and resentful around him the whole time I lived at
home. He gave a hundred and ten percent at every
opportunity even when I made it clear I didn’t want
him around, and I never even acknowledged that!”  



I’m on a roll now. More than explaining things to my
partner, I am yelling at myself for 25 years’ worth of
bullish stupidity. 



“Harm – ” she protests softly, reaching over to lay a
hand on my arm. I barely feel it. 



“I have never put any effort into him, never expressed
the least bit of interest in his life. Hell, I still
don’t know what exactly he does at work, or what his
favorite sports teams are . . . or even if he 
sports.”  



Suddenly something hits me that, disgusted with myself
as I am, weighs on my heart like a ton of bricks.
“Mac,” I say quietly, confused, ashamed, and horrified
all at once. “I don’t think I’ve ever even touched him
except to shake his hand. Twenty-five years and I’m
still acting like we just met.” 



Before she has a chance to respond, I jerk the car
onto the shoulder and hurl myself out the door. All I
know is that I need to get away from her before I
embarrass myself even more, because I’m either about
to throw up or start crying. 



The surrounding landscape is slightly hilly but
forested only with long grass and scraggly bushes –
damn, no trees for me to hide behind. After about a
hundred yards’ angry strides, I stop and crouch over,
bracing my hands on my knees, expecting the dry heaves
to make an appearance some time soon. Breathing deeply
through my teeth, I squeeze my eyes shut against the
turmoil in my mind and body. Who knew it could hurt so
much to realize you were such a bastard? 



Distantly, I hear Mac shut off the engine and close
both car doors. I’m sure she remembered to lock up
too, though I couldn’t care less about that at the
moment. Slowly, she approaches, stopping just behind
me for a minute before she reaches out to rest a
gentle hand on my back. Her warmth brushes me, and I
vow not to let it in. But my shield isn’t entirely
successful, and I feel myself softening a little at
her touch. 



We stand like that for a long time, the wind blowing
around us, the sky darkening above. At last, I
straighten, my arms dangling helplessly at my sides. I
guess I’m not going to throw up after all. 



Her hand slides from my back and for one terrible
heartbeat, I’m sure she’s going to go back to the car,
leave me alone. But she steps in front of me instead.
I know she’s looking at me even though I can’t bring
myself to lower my eyes to hers. She’ll be concerned
and understanding, and I don’t deserve that, not now.
Without a word, she slips her arms around my waist,
pulls me close, and rests her cheek below my heart.
Until then, I’d forgotten that she took her shoes off
in the car and is presently barefoot. 



At first, I don’t move in her embrace. Then, after
what feels like an eternity, my chin drops to rest on
her head, my arms rise to wrap around her back, to
stroke her hair in a rhythm that does a great deal to
soothe me. 



“How long have I been such an asshole?” I breathe with
quiet desperation. 



Her shoulders shake with a small chuckle. “You’re not
an asshole,” she counters, squeezing me tighter. “You
were a confused kid, no worse than any other teenager
would have been under those circumstances, and a lot
better than most.” 



“But I’m not a teenager anymore, Mac,” I sigh in
defeat. “I’m 37 years old and still acting like a
spoiled kid.” 



“Sometimes, after so much time goes by, it’s easier to
let things stand as they are than shake them up. But
it’s not too late, you know. There’s plenty of time to
mend fences with Frank.” 



This part is the worst – humiliating, weak, and
infinitely easier to admit when she’s holding me and I
don’t have to look her in the eye. 



“I’m embarrassed,” I mumble, my lips in her hair for
cover as well as comfort. 



“What?” 



My chest expands and deflates in a bracing sigh. “I’m
embarrassed,” I repeat a little louder. “And ashamed
of the way I’ve acted for so long. I don’t know what
to say to him.” 



She pulls back, cradles my chin in her palm. Her eyes
are rich with sympathy and understanding, barren of
the condemnation I deserve. If I look into them hard
enough, it’s simple to imagine that her arms are still
around me and always will be. 



“Why don’t you just ask him to spend some time
together? You could just talk, go somewhere he likes,
do something . . . manly. Maybe you could go to a
tractor pull or something.” 



My laughter escapes before I can control it, and she
smiles in response. The welcome break in tension
doesn’t last long. Suddenly sober, my mind races over
the possible pitfalls of this plan. “What if he says
no?” I sound distressingly like a small child and
attempt to make my voice a bit more mature. “He’d have
every right,” I rationalize, already formulating
responses to any and all conceivable refusals. “I’ve
turned him down enough times in the past. Why would he
want to bother with me after all this time?” 



When Mac shakes her head at me, I can almost share her
belief that rejection is impossible. “He’s not going
to say no,” she says intractably. “He loves you.
Besides, you’re smart, funny, and fun to be around.
Who could say no to a tractor pull with you?” 



She smiles up at me and any arguments I may have had
in my brain vanish in her wake. 



“It’s 2126,” she informs me softly as she pulls her
cell phone out of her skirt pocket. “He’s probably
home from work by now.” 



Almost of their own accord, my hands cup her jaw, draw
her forward, and I place a lingering kiss on her
forehead. After a moment’s hesitation, I release her
to take the phone from her grasp.


“Thanks, Mac.” 



She only smiles. “I’ll go wait in the car.” 



With a grateful nod, I punch in my mom’s number and
wait anxiously as the line rings. 



“Hello?” 



“Hi, Mom, it’s me.” 



“Harm!” she cries happily. “It’s wonderful to hear
from you. How are you?” 



“I’m okay, Mom.” I stare after Mac as she picks her
way through the field, absently careful of her
shoeless feet. Yeah, I’m okay. 



“Mom, is Frank there?” 



She hesitates a moment, and a new wave of
self-disappointment washes over me. I’ve never asked
to speak to him before unless something was wrong and
I didn’t want to break it to Mom over the phone. 



“Yes, he just got home from the office. Is everything
all right, Harm?” 



I take a deep breath, gathering my courage, dispelling
my pride. “Yeah, Mom, everything’s fine. I just . . .
I’d like to talk to Frank for a minute.” 



She doesn’t push any further. “I’ll go get him.” 



I hear the receiver being rustled, the sound of
footsteps and muffled conversation before Frank’s
voice booms across the wire. 



“Harm! How are you, son?” 



For the first time, I don’t feel even a twinge of
resentment when he calls me that. “I’m good, Frank.
And yourself?” 



“Fine, just fine.” 



“Listen, Frank, I was thinking . . .” Suddenly, I’m as
nervous as I was at 13, asking Cindy Lorge to the
movies for my first date. Swallowing against the
butterflies swarming my stomach, I forge ahead. “Do
you remember a few years ago, you told me about that
cabin in the mountains where you and your buddies went
fishing?” 



I remember. It was ten years ago. He invited me along,
and I made up some bullshit excuse about law finals,
which actually concluded a week before he wanted to
go. As usual, Frank had taken my rejection in stride. 



“Sure, sure,” he replies affably. “Renny VanderMeer’s
place. Gosh, I haven’t been up there since Bob Laume
died – two years ago, I guess.” 



“Oh. Well, the thing is . . . I’ve got a couple
vacation days coming, and I thought I’d take them next
week Thursday and Friday. Or whenever,” I add,
belatedly realizing he might not want to clear his
schedule on the whim of an errant stepson. 



“And you wanted to use the cabin? I’m sure Renny would
be happy to let you stay. I’ll give him a call – ” 



“Well, Frank, I was wondering . . . I thought maybe
the two of us – you and me – could go up for a long
weekend. Do some fishing, talk . . . maybe watch a
little football. If you wanted to, I mean.” The words
come out in a rush, desperate to leave my crowded
throat, and I pray he doesn’t need me to repeat
myself. 



To his credit, Frank doesn’t ask if I’ve been
drinking, or if I’ve just been told I have three weeks
to live, as I might have in his position. Instead, he
is silent for a long minute, then roughly clears his
throat. 



“I, ah, I’d like that very much,” he answers, and I
can tell by his tone how startled he is – how touched.
Part of me feels like a heel for waiting so long to
ask; part of me is already excited. 



“That’s a great idea, Harm, and next Thursday is
perfect timing. I’ll call Renny right away.” 



“Good,” I sigh, relieved that he’s not pressuring me
for an explanation for this sudden desire to take a
father-son trip. “Good.” A question comes to mind, and
I decide it’s as decent a place as any to start. 



“Frank,” I ask, “do you even  football?” 



He laughs, and the weight over my heart lightens ten
pounds. “Yes. Do  like fishing?” 



“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I’ve only ever
been ice fishing, and that was a long time ago. I
guess we’ll find out soon.” 



“I guess we will.” 



Just as I’m about to say goodbye, he says my name in a
way that makes me think he’s forgotten something
important. 



“It can get pretty cold up in the mountains this time
of year.” 



At his statement, I’m half-hoping, half-afraid he’ll
suggest postponing the trip ‘til spring. I don’t know
if I’ll have the nerve to go through with this if we
put it off another six months. 



“Make sure you bring long pants and a jacket.” 



His instructions are so naturally paternal and full of
parental concern my eyes start to sting. 



“I will,” I promise. “I’ll call you when I know my
flight information.” 



“Good. Talk to you soon, Harm.” 



“G’bye, Frank.” 



I can’t call him ‘Dad.’ Frank would never ask me to.
But I think ‘Pop’ has a nice ring to it. 



Maybe we’ll discuss it over the weekend. 



*   *   *   * 



There is definitely a spring in my step as I trot back
to the car. I know because my body feels like it’s
floating, bubbling with the release of nervous energy
I’d built up during the call. Even the thunder
rumbling on the not-so-distant horizon can’t dampen my
spirits tonight. 



I slide behind the wheel, and Mac’s face lights up
when she sees my grin. 



“I’m glad you’re back,” she says with a sigh of
relief. “I thought for sure you’d get caught in the
rain.” 



“What rain?” 



As soon as the words leave my mouth, the first fat
drops splatter on the windshield. In unison, we turn
to the sound, then look back at each other and smile. 



“So, what happened?” she asks, seemingly eager enough
to jump out of her seat. “Did you talk to him?” 



Just because I know she’s so anxious for the scoop, I
meticulously check every gauge, instrument, and mirror
in the automobile before pulling back onto the
deserted highway with much more care than necessary. 



“Harm!” she screeches when I’ve sped up to 70 and
still haven’t answered her. 



“Okay, okay!” I laugh, playfully dodging her fist.
“Yes, I talked to him.” 



“And?” 



“, we’re going on a fishing trip next weekend.
Can you cover for me Thursday and Friday?” 



“Yes,” she replies immediately, without even making a
move toward her day planner to check her own schedule.




“Thanks. Now I just have to think of stuff for us to
talk about for four days.” 



Mac settles back and fastens her seatbelt. “Well,
you’re good at that.” 



Wow, she’s full of compliments for me tonight. This is
a pleasant new development. 



“Besides – ” she adds, setting my illusions back
firmly in their place, “ – and I’m just guessing here
– but there’s probably a lot you don’t know about
fishing, sailor.” 



That’s putting it kindly, but I give her an arch look
for good measure and flip on the wipers as the rain
pelts down. For the next several miles, the darkness
surrounding us is broken only by the SUV’s high beams,
the silence only by the sloshing of water under its
tires. All at once, I notice she is looking at me,
just looking. Watching me with an open warmth and
depth of emotion I usually only see in her eyes when I
turn and catch her staring at me off-guard. And I
learn that it’s nicer, more familiar somehow when she
doesn’t rush to hide that _expression. 



“Harm,” she says softly, although she has to know
she’s got my attention; I have all but abandoned the
car to its own directional devices, with passing
thanks that its alignment was just adjusted last
month. 



“What you did tonight was a great thing.” 



That’s all she says, all she needs to say. I think my
heart is gliding somewhere above my brain. 



It takes supreme effort to ground myself enough to
form a reasonably intelligent reply. 



“Almost sounds like you’re proud of me, Marine.” My
tone is the equivalent of a bashful shrug. 



I glance over to find her watching me, still faintly
smiling, and her brow wrinkles in a funny little
grimace, as if I’ve just stated something incredibly
obvious. 



“Always,” she says simply, blinking once before
turning her gaze forward. 



Tentatively, helpless to do anything else, I lower my
right hand from the wheel and place it palm up on the
console between us. At first, I don’t think she
notices, but after a few minutes, just as I’m about to
pull it away, she glances down, sneaks an inscrutable
glimpse at my face, and softly, hesitantly, rests her
hand in mine. I give her slender fingers a squeeze,
and she traces the hair on my knuckles with her thumb.




We stay like this until I need both hands to maneuver
the car along rain-slicked roads. The weather has
steadily worsened, and I’m sure we’re both rethinking
our decision not to stop for the night in the rustic
town we passed about ten miles ago. 



The rain is coming down in sheets, so hard I’m
actually a little worried about the paint. Beside me,
Mac is tense, her watchful gaze fixed alternately on
the few feet of road visible ahead of us, and the
roof. I want to scoff, to tell her it’s not going to
cave in above us, but I’m not so sure that’s a promise
I could keep. I don’t remember the last time it’s
rained this hard, or seemed this oppressively dark at
ten p.m. I’m going fifteen miles an hour on a two-lane
county highway, my headlights are providing me with
around three feet of visibility, we haven’t passed any
semblance of civilization in the last thirty-five
minutes, and I have no idea what happened to the car
that was directly in front of me until about five
miles ago. 



On the left shoulder, what look like the flashers of
three different vehicles are gleaming at odd angles;
Mac and I both rubberneck, but the lights are all we
can see. Much as I hate conceding to the elements, it
would be flat out stupid to continue driving in these
conditions. As if reading my mind, Mac squints and
leans forward, pointing to something I can’t see. 



“There’s an exit coming up with a wayside.” 



I think I might have caught a flash of green sign out
of the corner of my eye. 



“Are you sure?” 



She waits a minute, watching the road on her side.
“Yup. Here it comes; the white line’s veering off.” 



I still don’t notice, but I’ve trusted her with a lot
more than this. Guiding the car by feel alone, I steer
to the right, barely inching along. After ten minutes
proceeding blindly, I’m relieved we haven’t driven off
the road, but I don’t see the wayside sign until we’re
right on top of it. 



“Here we go.” 



I have to crank the wheel to make the turn on time,
but once we get close enough, two lights on the side
of the shelter become visible, weak and watery beacons
in the dark. I shut off the car, leave on the
headlights, and Mac collapses against her seat with an
audible sigh of relief. I try to express my own
release in a subtler manner but am distracted from the
task by the need to pry my fingers from around the
wheel. 



Mac reaches up to switch on the dome light and hunches
studiously over the map from my glove compartment.
Using the space between her bent knuckles as a scale,
she fusses around a bit, then looks up at me
plaintively. 



“As far as I can tell, there’s about twenty miles of
nothing in either direction.” 



I glance at the map to double check, and – because I
know that’s not really necessary – to piss her off. I
once made a joke about Female Map-Reading Disorder in
her presence and barely got hand back attached to my
body. 



“Well,” I say thoughtfully, “if we’re going to go on,
it looks like we’d almost be better off turning back
and aiming for that town we passed awhile ago. What
time is it?” 



A clap of thunder cuts off her reply. 



“What?” 



“2217.” 



“Okay. So at about 15 miles an hour – ” we share a
sardonic glance at the low number – “we could get back
there by about 2330.” 



“Assuming we make it through this,” she adds with a
nervous glance out the window, and I nod. 



“I think we should just stay here for the night.” 



“Are you serious?” Even in the dark, I can see her
eyes are almost popping out of her head. “Do you think
we’ll be safe?” 



Before I can answer, a bolt of lightning sparks
through the sky, illuminating the desolate wayside for
the space of a heartbeat. Mac looks spooked; I’m just
glad I didn’t see any trees or rising riverbeds in the
vicinity. 



“We’ll be safer staying here than trying our luck back
on the roads,” I answer honestly. “And we’re both
exhausted enough to sleep right through this storm.
Come on,” I add coaxingly. “It’ll be fun. Haven’t you
ever camped out in a car before?” 



She lets out a long breath, and I see the flash of her
smile. She trusts me to keep us safe, and she knows I
don’t want her to be scared, so she relaxes and makes
the best of things. Mac is very good at that. 



“Not exactly,” she says dryly, and I’m about to ask
her what exactly she  done in a parked car when
she gathers her purse and her jacket and unfastens her
seatbelt. “I’m going to go clean up.” 



That sounds like a good idea. I’ve had to use the head
for the last half hour. “Me too.” I stretch over to
grab my jacket and dop-kit from the backseat. “We’ll
go on three. Ready?” At her nod, I commence the
countdown. “One, two . . .” 



I hit three and we both jump from the car, slam the
doors as quickly as possible behind us, and break
madly for the shelter, she right, I left. By some
miracle – or, more accurately, on the winning end of
50/50 odds – I have chosen the correct side for the
men’s bathroom. On second thought, I almost wish I
hadn’t; men’s rooms in these roadside shelters are
typically slovenly and disgusting, and this one is no
exception. I stand a relatively safe two and a half
feet from the cleanest urinal I can find, trusting my
aim more than the nasty porcelain. Grateful for even
the runny green soap left in the dispenser, I wash my
hands thoroughly, splash some water on my face, and
brush my teeth, but only after letting the tap run for
a thirty-second count. 



Dop-kit in hand, I hustle back to the car and slip
into the back seat. Mac hasn’t returned yet, although
she’s usually faster than I am in the bathroom. Oh
well – I’m reasonably sure she hasn’t been devoured by
a mutant creature living in the ladies’ restroom or
abducted by storm-chasing aliens, so I’ll give her a
while yet. Meanwhile, it’s time to prepare our beds. 



Mac’s is easy enough; I simply lift the handle and
push the passenger seat down as far as it will go,
which is actually very near horizontal. Mine, however,
requires a bit more work. Leaning back into the trunk
space, I release the lever to lower the left and
middle sections of the rear seat and lock them into
their new, inverted position. Then I crawl into the
trunk to move our duffle bags to the right side,
completing preparations for the Rabb Lexus suite. 



I’ve just finished unbuttoning my uniform shirt when
the front door jerks open and Mac leaps in
breathlessly. She drops her jacket and bag on the
floor at her feet, then turns to look at me, surprised
at the car’s transformation. I scoot up to sit beside
her at the head of my ‘bed.’ 



“You’ve been busy,” she notes amusedly, shaking the
water out of her hair. 



“Only the best for you, Mac.” Wait a minute . . .
shaking the water from her hair? Didn’t she cover her
head with her jacket? 



Curiously, I lean closer. Her face is freshly
scrubbed, but she probably just . . . Then I catch a
suspiciously familiar scent drifting from her body. It
almost smells like . . . her soap? Tipping my head, I
plant my nose in her neck and sniff. Like a little
girl, she squeals and giggles delightedly, drawing her
shoulders up to her ears. Yup, smells like heaven.
Busted.  



“Did you ?” I ask incredulously, eyebrows
raised so high my forehead hurts. 



“Well, I was all grungy from being on the ship
overnight,” she says defensively. “The showers on
board aren’t exactly world-class plumbing, you know.” 



“And the stuff here is?” If the women’s facilities are
that much nicer than the men’s, I’m never using public
restrooms again. It will be my own little passive
protest campaign. 



“Harm.” She turns to me with exaggerated patience.
“This shelter looks like it was built fifty years ago.
And it’s probably only been used a handful of times
since then. Of  there’s not a shower in the
ladies’ room. But there is a back door.” 



“Then where . . . ?” 



And then it hits me. But she couldn’t possibly have .
. . Oh, my God. My partner just showered in the rain.
My partner, Sarah MacKenzie – the one with the
sensational body, which for the past five years I’ve
been forced to imagine or – in one lucky instance at
Gulfport – view photographically – was actually naked
in the rain and the thunder and the lightning, while I
sat twenty feet and a building away, making up the
beds like a clueless idiot. What the hell was I
thinking? I  I should’ve gone to check on her. 



Now I’m cranky. I’m tired and drained and grubby, and
I could have seen Mac naked if only I’d had the
foresight to spy on her for a minute. But no – I have
to be boring, predictable old Harmon Rabb and miss it
all. I cross my arms over my chest and let my frown
settle into a pout. 



I don’t think she can see through the dark, but she
must sense it, because she immediately tries to
placate me. Good thing she’s happy with me today, or
we just would have gotten into a fight about it. 



“Aw, Harm, don’t be mad. It was just a quick dip, and
there was no one back there. You didn’t want to spend
the night in an enclosed car with a smelly Marine, did
you?” 



Against my will, the corner of my mouth kicks up, just
a little. “You weren’t smelly,” I contradict
grudgingly. “What did you use for a towel?” 



“The paper towels in the bathroom. They were the
cleanest things in there.” 



Now my smile is genuine, and there’s nothing I can do
to stop it. “You should’ve seen the men’s,” I tell
her. “I don’t think they’ve been cleaned since the
early seventies.” 



“Gross. Hey, did you call the Admiral, tell him we’ll
be late to work tomorrow?” 



“No,” I admit smugly, glad to be one up on her for a
change. “I thought I’d let you have the honors. I
talked to him earlier about the result of the trial.” 



“Yeah, but you got to tell him the good news,” she
whines. I merely smile and hand over her phone. 



After a few seconds of huffing, she flips it on and
makes the call. Judging by her half of the
conversation, Chegwidden isn’t ecstatic about this new
development, but he’s willing to grant us a little
leeway in the aftermath of our success. We’ll have to
make up the time over the weekend, but that’s nothing
new for either of us. 



While Mac’s busy on the phone, I rummage around in our
luggage, pulling out any good stuff I come across.
From her bag, I snag a USMC sweatshirt and a pair of
cotton pants. I yank the NAVY sweatshirt and a fresh
t-shirt out of mine just as she hangs up the phone. 



“Is the big guy okay?” I ask, tossing her pants at her
head. 



“Reasonably.” She shifts around a bit, and I wish to
God it weren’t so damn dark in here when I hear the
zipper on her skirt and the clasp of her bra being
undone. She raises up a fraction to pull on her
bottoms, then flops back onto the seat, lying on her
back. 



“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say as though I’d just realized my
oversight. “Did you want a clean pair of underwear
too?” 



“That’s okay,” she replies without missing a beat. “I
had a spare set in my purse.” 



I barely manage to bite back a groan at that. How in
the hell am I supposed to keep my sanity around her
knowing she carries spare underwear in her purse? I’ve
held that bag for her, on numerous occasions,
blissfully ignorant of the fact that somewhere within
was an article of clothing I’ve fantasized about
countless times. Schmuck. 



With one more sigh of self-disgust, I change t-shirts
and take off my belt, placing it on top of my jacket
and shirt. It’s too cold to sleep in boxers, but the
slacks aren’t so bad, and at least my shoes are
finally off, although we both may live to regret that.
I stretch out as much as I can in the cramped confines
of the trunk, fold Mac’s sweatshirt into a messy
square, and drop my head on top of it. It’s soft
against my cheek and smells nice. Of course, I won’t
be able to put it on if it gets colder, but it’s a
trade-off I’m willing to make. 



“Harm, can you grab me something to use for a pillow?”




Feeling only a little guilty for hoarding her
sweatshirt, I pass her my own, listen as she slips it
between her head and the top of the seat with a soft,
“Thanks.” In our current positions, our heads and
middles line up, and I can almost see her chest rise
and fall as she breathes. Rain pounds hard, but not
unpleasantly, on the roof above us while thunder
rumbles nearly constantly, swelling and ebbing to
accompany sporadic bursts of lightning. I never
thought being stranded in my car in a thunderstorm
with Mac could be so . . . enjoyable. But it is. A
strange sense of peace settles over me, and I smile
without knowing why. I always associated the word
‘cozy’ with warm, dimly-lit rooms, fireplaces, and
candles, and soft furniture. But here, I can smell
Mac’s soap and hear her sigh and feel her warmth, and
I can’t think of a cozier place to be. 



Her voice floats lightly through the car. “Harm?”  



“Yeah?” In the faint glow from the shelter and
lightning, I can just make out the whites of her eyes.




“Do you have to be back by any certain time tomorrow?”




“No. But did I tell you we’re taking Sydney to lunch?”




“No.” 



“Can you? I told Danny to tell her we’d meet to
discuss the details.” 



“That sounds good – I’ll call her when we get into
town. Mario’s?” 



I consider this a moment and discard it. “No, let’s do
La Villa instead. Closer to her office.” 



“’Kay.” She shuffles around a bit, sighs wistfully. “I
wish we could open the moon roof.” 



“Do I smell that bad?” I’m joking. Mostly. 



“No,” she snorts. “It’d just be nice to look up at the
stars.” 



“Next time,” I promise. And I mean it. “Hey, Mac,” I
whisper after a moment. 



“Mm-hmm?” 



“Is this the weirdest place you’ve ever slept?” 



She laughs again and breathes indulgently, “Oh, Harm.”




I take that as a ‘no,’ but she expounds a second
later. “No, when I was in Bosnia, I slept in trenches,
rubble, even up in a tree once. And when I was little,
I spent almost every night in the closet. Sometimes in
the summer, I’d crawl out my window onto the roof and
stay the night out there. It was great, quiet and full
of stars.” 



I feel badly for reminding her about the painful
nights of her childhood, but she distracts us both
with her next words. “And it seems to me I spent a
couple nights in a Gypsy caravan not so long ago. That
definitely takes first prize. What about you?” 



She makes it sound like an affirmative response on my
part will inspire gravest sympathy for my sheltered
life. Hey, I don’t need her pity; I’m not so staid and
conventional that every night must be spent in the
comfort of my own bed. Yet. 



“If I recall, I was also in that Gypsy caravan three
years ago,” I say in a slow drawl intended to
subconsciously remind her that we spent those nights
in uncommonly close proximity. I think I’m successful
when she pauses just a second longer than necessary
before replying. 



“That was you?” she shoots back with sham surprise.
“Oh yeah . . . I remember now. The big guy in the
funny hat.” 



Properly scandalized, I jolt up to a near-sitting
position. “You promised no more jokes about the hat!”
I’m wagging my finger in her face, even as I realize
it is a fruitless endeavor; she can’t see it anyway. 



Mac, meanwhile, is about to bust a gut. I swear that
dumb little fedora has given her more amusement than
the combined total of all the jokes I’ve told her
since we met. I remain silent in the face of her
mirth, wanting her to think I’m pouting. But my
shoulders shake with secret chuckles, inevitably,
irrepressibly drawn out by her rich laughter. 



Finally, after nearly five solid minutes of
uncontrollable giggling, she pulls herself together
and makes a lame and watery attempt at an apology.
“I’m s-sorry, Harm. I know I promised, and I really
did try, but it was just . . .” 



“Mac.” 



Apparently, the warning tone in my voice isn’t strong
enough. 



“It was just so cute!” she sputters, and I can hear
her body shaking against the leather of the chair.
“Es-Especially the way you kept it tilted at . . . at
that little angle on your head.” 



“That’s how he told me to wear it!” I protest
defensively, loud enough to be heard over her
half-suppressed snickering. My fake pout is fast
deepening into a real one. I knew the thing was
stupid, after all. It’s not like I  to wear
it. But could my smart-ass partner cut me some slack
for an unfortunate disguise? No, obviously not. 



“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she coos with genuine remorse,
deducing I’m taking this more seriously than she is. 



I decide to let the ‘honey’ make up for the breach of
promise that just occurred. And some of the
humiliation. Okay, most of the humiliation. I don’t
think she notices what she’s called me. Oddly, that
makes it even better. 



“So where is the weirdest place you’ve ever slept?”
she asks, picking up the game again in a further
attempt at amends. 



I think about it for a minute, doing a quick survey of
my memory for something suitably strange. 



“When I was real little,” I muse, familiar with the
details more from my mother’s stories than from my own
recollection. “I lived next door to my best friend.
His name was Mitch, but I called him Mickey. We lived
in these tiny one-story houses on base, and our
bedroom windows faced each other’s. 



“One night – we couldn’t have been more than three or
four – we thought it would be a funny trick to trade
beds and surprise our moms when they came to wake us
up.” 



“Uh oh.” Apparently, Mac senses where this story is
going. 



“So we waited until it got pretty late and I snuck out
my window and helped him down from his. Then we each
climbed into the other’s room, got into bed, and fell
asleep. 



“When our moms came in to wake us up the next morning,
they were appropriately frightened and put up a fuss –
mine more than Mickey’s, I think because I was an only
child.” I smile fondly at the clearest memory I have
of the incident. “When he found out, my dad laughed
harder than I’d ever seen him laugh before. It made my
mom even madder, and I never did it again, but it was
worth it.” 



“I can’t believe you climbed out your window when you
were three years old!” Mac snorts, sounding a little
shocked and suitably impressed. “Harmon Rabb, baby
rebel. So where else did you sneak off to late at
night, flyboy?” 



“Well,” I reminisce with a sigh, “after we moved to La
Jolla, I used to sneak out into the backyard and spend
the night in the hammock. My mom would wake up the
next morning, frantic when she couldn’t find me. Frank
never said anything,” I recall faintly. At the time I
didn’t pay him enough attention to notice his
reaction. “I always assumed it was because he didn’t
care, but . . .” 



“But he did,” Mac finishes quietly, certainly, and I
know she’s right. “Maybe he understood.” 



I stay silent, and she amends, “Or maybe he just
understood that he  understand.” 



I like the idea of this. It sounds like my stepfather,
who consistently accepted me, and my moods, without
argument. 



“Maybe,” I agree slowly. 



We lie still for a long minute, me still contemplating
the past, she waiting, allowing me the space and time
I need. 



“So is that the best you’ve got, sailor?” Mac teases,
bringing us back to the topic at hand and saving me,
as usual, from becoming mired in history, in darkness.
“One night in your buddy’s bunk and some shifts in the
hammock?” 



“No,” I inform her haughtily. “For your information,
I’ve got another one, a possible winner, on the top of
my head. And remember, these are only the nights I can
remember.” 



“Ha!” she chortles, mock-appalled. “I’m not touching
that one with a ten-foot pole! What have you got,
flyboy?” 



“The summer after our junior year at the Academy,
Keeter and I were working construction for a
contractor in Annapolis.” This part isn’t necessary, I
just threw it in for bonus points; women think
construction workers are sexy – more to the point,
 thinks construction workers are sexy. I know
because I eavesdropped on a conversation she had with
Harriet when JAG HQ was getting its roof re-shingled.
But back to the story . . . 



“We decided to take a week off and go canoeing up in
Maine. So we rented all the supplies and headed out.
On one of the last nights, it started to rain, almost
as hard as it is now. We kept going for another couple
hours, bailing out the canoe when it came down really
hard. Finally, we found an inlet and pulled in for the
night. We could barely see to pitch the tent, and when
we got inside, we found out it had about a dozen leaks
in it – that was why we’d gotten it for so cheap.” 



“Uh oh,” Mac chuckles, perfectly able, I’m sure, to
imagine younger versions of Keeter and myself running
around like chickens with our heads cut off, soaking
wet and pissed as hell. “What did you do?” 



“Well, for awhile, we tried to squeeze under the
canoe.” A lesser man might not reveal to her exactly
how we attempted that, but this man will do just about
anything to get Sarah MacKenzie to laugh. “I laid on
my side, with Keeter right in front of me – like
spoons.” She titters in the back of her throat, but
holds in the sound I want to hear. 



“One side of the canoe was behind me on the ground,
and Keeter kept the other side propped up with his
arm. He whined the whole time about sailor’s itch and
kept reaching around to scratch his six. We were
huddled under the one sleeping bag, since the other
one was soaked through – ” 



And there it is. Like tickled, merry music, her laugh
floats deep and rich into the night air, and I smile
and shake my head, knowing however detailed her mental
picture of the incident might be, it comes nowhere
near the reality. I had never seen Keeter so angry or
embarrassed or cheerful – he could always find a way
to laugh at himself in any given situation. And I
don’t think he’d ever seen me so annoyed or
uncomfortable. 



“After about forty-five minutes, we knew it wasn’t
going to work out, so we stashed our gear under the
canoe and headed for higher ground. We hiked a little
ways and found a ranger station or campground office
or something, and there were a few cars in the lot. So
we found two that were open and slept the night in
their backseats.” 



“Harm!” she gasps half-amused, half-anxious. “You
didn’t! What if the owners had come back and found
some strange, hulking man asleep in the back of their
car? You could’ve been arrested! Or worse, what if
they had gotten in and driven off, with neither of you
ever noticing? Who knows where you could’ve ended up!”




“Come on, Mac, give me a little credit. Even I
couldn’t sleep through someone starting up a car and
driving away with me.” 



She says nothing, but her silence rings with
skepticism, and I sign resignedly. “Okay, so maybe I
could, but I didn’t. Keeter came and knocked on my
window the next morning and we got back on the water,
with no one the wiser.” 



“Thank God.” She’s trying to sound upset with me, but
I can hear the buried laughter; after all these years,
I know where to listen for it. Then she giggles again,
and her disapproving-mother front slips down the
drain. “I can just see the two of you, tall as you are
and big as Keeter is, cuddling under a canoe like
drowned rats. That’s beautiful.” 



That’s one word for it. Hey, as long as she’s happy.
“So, Mac, do I win?” 



“I suppose so,” she admits grudgingly. “Although you
don’t know how high up I was in that tree outside
Herzegovina.” 



I don’t think I want to know either. I doubt, being
Mac on top of everything, she slept too much anyway,
but I don’t like the idea of her up so high without a
safety net or something. And I don’t care to imagine
the kind of danger on the ground that drove her to the
tree limbs in the first place. 



A soft yawn fills the quiet between us. Afterwards,
Mac hums a little and murmurs, “Good night, Harm.” 



I breathe in her words, the smell of rain just barely
discernable in the chill air of the car, the electric
anticipation of thunder as it crescendos. This is
peace. This is comfort. 



This is us. 



“Good night, Mac.” 

 

 



THURSDAY: 



At 0700 on the dot, I open my eyes to a misty grey,
faintly sun-kissed silence. I know instantly where I
am, who I’m with, and that today is a Thursday. 



I hate Thursdays. Always have, always will. I’m not
sure where the prejudice came from, but I think it had
something to do with the fact that, throughout my
elementary school career, I had art class every
Thursday. And I hated art class, with a passionate
disgust my youthful soul only otherwise reserved for
boy cooties and boogers. I am a horrible artist – I
can’t draw a straight line, I can’t control the flow
of watercolors or acrylic paint, and a lump of clay in
my hands is a recipe for disaster. Logically, I
realize that the days of art class run by the
Nazi-like dowager Mrs. Finch are long gone, but my
hatred of Thursdays remains strong as ever. 



However, on this particular Thursday, I am waking up
next to Harmon Rabb. Not in his arms or even lying in
the same direction, but there he is, and here I am, a
scant foot apart after sharing the confines of his
Lexus for the night. He’s still sleeping, of course,
and I indulge myself by watching the steady rise and
fall of his chest, his face unlined and slightly
flushed in slumber, his lips faintly pursed and
infinitely kissable. After a brief argument, from
which my devilish half emerges victorious, I allow my
eyes to travel slowly down his body as far as I can
see. God, those flimsy white t-shirts make his chest
look so unbelievably well-defined, his shoulders so
broad. A bit lower and . . . yes, Harm is sporting
some very nice morning wood, and the secret thrill
shoots down my middle, just as expected. Harm’s little
sailor quite frequently rises with the sun, a fact
I’ve been privileged to discover whenever we end up in
the same room overnight. It never fails to make my
stomach jump and swirl happily, and, in fact, one of
my hottest fantasies is simply morning sex with my
partner. 



Now that I think about it, this Thursday is actually
shaping up pretty well. 



Careful to be as quiet as possible, I raise the back
of my seat and plan my course of action. I set the old
mental alarm for seven so that we could be back in
Washington with time to go home, shower and change,
and check in at the office briefly before lunch with
Sydney. I’d had a client interview at Bethesda, but
that was rescheduled before we left for Danny’s trial.
Harm has a dentist appointment at 0900 this morning; I
know because I made it for him when he persistently
avoided their phone calls and threw away the little
postcards for weeks. He’ll be a no-show, unavoidably,
and the receptionist will call and be bitchy, but Harm
will lay on the charm and agree to take the next
available time slot, and all will be right with the
world. So neither of us has any pressing reason to
hustle back to work before this afternoon, and by
setting off on the early side, we can travel and
settle in at our leisure. 



Feeling charitable and more than a little enchanted by
the picture he makes while asleep, I decide to let
Harm doze as long as he wants. With stealthy,
economical movements, I grab my purse from the floor
and slide over into the driver’s seat, taking the keys
from where Harm secured them in the visor. Such an
innovative and impenetrable hiding place, he may as
well have left them in the ignition, but neither of us
worried about anyone happening upon us in the middle
of a stormy night. Characteristically resourceful, if
I do say so myself, I turn the key backwards so the
battery is activated and roll down the driver’s
window. This way, I can crawl out of the car without
having to slam the door. Ingenuity, thy name is
MacKenzie. 



As an afterthought, I pull off Harm’s sweatshirt,
which I donned at one-thirty this morning after waking
with a chill, and drop it back in the car. I don’t
want to chance getting it wet or brushing it against
any surface in the nasty restroom because I plan to
try and steal it from under his nose when we part
company in DC. One would never guess by looking at it,
but that sweatshirt positively emanates Harm’s warmth
and his soothing, masculine scent. As I make my way
through puddles to the shelter, I vow not to give it
up without a fight. 



The bathroom has not improved with the new day, but at
least it’s probably not as vile as the men’s, and
there are still toilet paper and paper towels in
sufficient supply. I answer nature’s call, brush my
teeth and wash my face. These new facial cloths are
great – too expensive to be practical for everyday
use, but perfect for a hygienic woman on the go. A
quick comb through my hair and application of the
mini-deodorant I keep in my purse, and I’m ready to
face the world. In hindsight, I am even more grateful
I thought to take that shower last night – it is doing
wonders for my senses of smell and self esteem. 



Fresh and optimistic, with an odd ball of anticipation
in the pit of my stomach at the prospect of spending
the morning on a road trip with Harm – even if he
sleeps through most of it – I chuck my purse through
the window and hoist myself in after it. Harm, I note,
remains asleep, but has rolled onto his stomach and
buried his face in . . . my sweatshirt? I swallow and
smile, though my lungs feel dizzy, and turn back to
start the car. The unpaved driveway is only a little
swampy under the tires when I pull back onto the main
road and head towards the highway. 



Checking on my partner one more time, I find him
sleeping soundly, despite the noise of the engine and
motion of the vehicle. And he said he would’ve woken
up had someone gotten into that car in Maine and
driven away. Keep dreaming, flyboy. 



For forty-five minutes, I amuse myself by mouthing the
words to the songs playing in my head. Unwilling to
risk the radio, even at low volume, I mentally play
Lucinda Williams’ new CD as far as I can remember it.
Then I hit up on random tracks that happen to catch in
my mind. Traffic at this hour on these remote highways
is pretty much limited to semis, which in Virginia
travel at about 90 miles per hour. Reminding myself
that I’m in Harm’s bulky SUV and not the slick
corvette for which I have insurance, I keep the
speedometer just below 80, so I’ve got the roads
pretty much to myself. 



About halfway through “Anything But Down,” the Lexus’
fuel light blinks on. I twist around to see my
traveling companion still fast asleep and roll my eyes
affectionately. That’s my Harm – always finding some
way to get his loyal partner to pay for gas. We pass a
sign that advertises a gas station/convenience mart at
the next exit, and I meander into the right lane,
pulling off when the exit appears. 



The gas station is a decrepit awning stretched over
two gas pumps, one of which, I discover after I’ve
pulled the car up beside it, is diesel. It doesn’t
matter; I came in on the wrong side for the gas tank
anyway. Quickly parking beside the correct pump on the
proper side, I grab my purse and hop out – not through
the window this time, although I don’t slam the door
shut, choosing instead to press it partway closed
before locking up. 



I set the nozzle to pump automatically – these
contraptions aren’t as old as they look – and head for
the convenience store, which is a big dry-walled box
surprisingly well equipped for an oasis in the middle
of the Virginia hills. The elderly man behind the
counter looks stunned when I walk in. I guess he
doesn’t get many customers out here who aren’t
250-pound truckers. After giving him a nod and a
friendly smile, even though it is a Thursday, I select
two of the freshest looking muffins and prepare two
cups of coffee, pay for them and our gas, and go back
to the car. 



Harm, not surprisingly, has not regained
consciousness, nor does he after I shut the door
firmly behind me, heave a giant, slightly put-upon
sigh, and crank the motor. Well, if he’s just going to
sleep, then I’ll enjoy my muffin and coffee all by
myself, thank you. Both are actually, I discover,
above average as far as convenience store goods go. 



As the miles race by, I preview the day’s schedule: DC
by ten, work by 1130 or so, then lunch with Sydney. My
schedule this afternoon has been cleared – all the
better for me to catch up on my paperwork and help
Aldridge with a couple cases, as I’ve been promising
to for a week. Excellent. Then tomorrow, an interview
at Bethesda, a sentencing hearing at 1300, and the
weekly wrap-up. Next week will undoubtedly be busier,
especially with me covering for Harm while he’s on his
trip, but I’m going to take advantage of this lull
while it lasts. 



I hear Harm roll over and glance back to see the sun
shining directly on his head. As cautiously as
possible, I take the wheel with my knee and reach back
to hang his sweatshirt on the garment hook, blocking
the disruptive light from his face. I might grouse
about his laziness good-naturedly, but it makes me
happy to let him sleep, to treat him, even if the
treat is a small one. Harm does so much for me, more
than he realizes, simply by being around and being
him. His presence in my life grants me a freedom and
safety and wealth of emotion I never knew before. He’s
my best friend and half my family all rolled into one.
He annoys me, watches out for me, fights with me,
tries to take care of me. He holds me. No one’s ever
been all that he is to me, and if allowing him some
extra rest is what I can do for him now, it’s an
incredibly slight price to pay for the man. 



However, that same courtesy is not extended to the cup
of coffee  happened to purchase for him. Half an
hour outside DC, I decide his wares are fair game and
toss back the cooling brew. If I were still hungry I’d
make a move on his muffin too, but this must be his
lucky day. By the time his cup is empty and I’ve
shaken out the worst of the caffeine jolt, we’re
driving over the bridge and nearing Georgetown. I whip
out the old cellular and give Sydney a ring while
waiting at an interminably long traffic light on the
corner of 24th. 



At my apartment, I pull in behind my ‘vette and shut
off the car. He’s back there, snoring lightly, dead to
the world. No longer guarding my movements, I crawl
into the passenger seat and push the back to recline,
reclaiming my previous position. For two minutes and
twenty-two seconds, I let myself just watch him, the
lines of jaw and chin and cheek I know by heart, the
fringe of eyelashes, the strong, straight nose, the
vulnerable curve of his throat. He’s so beautiful, and
in my heart at least, he’s mine, and thinking about it
like this, while he’s this close, fills my throat with
something swift and sweet. 



Mustering all my Marine Corps discipline, I tear my
thoughts from my partner and remind myself it’s
Thursday and there’s work to be done. 



“C’mon, Harm, wakey, wakey,” I sing teasingly. “It’s
0943 – time to rise and shine.” 



At first, he doesn’t move; then one knee pulls up
toward his chest and he stirs with reluctance.
“Ma-aac,” he groans plaintively, refusing to open his
eyes. “Not yet.” 



I should have known he would be difficult. It’s time
to pull out the big guns. Leaning across his lax form,
I snag the sweatshirt hanging in his window, baring
his eyelids to the glare of mid-morning sunlight. My
hand drops to rest on his face, and I discover that I
love the way his whiskers scrape my fingers like
sandpaper. 



“Okay, Commander,” I say in a brisk voice that is
probably at odds with the fingers playing gently
through the hair behind his ear. “Up an’ at ‘em. Time
to get a move on.” 



His groan this time is practically a whine. He flings
his arm up to cover his eyes, dislodging mine from his
head in the process. Apparently, Harm doesn’t care for
this either; his free hand gropes blindly until it
encounters mine and snatches it, dragging it back so
that my palm returns to his cheek. I could not have
scripted a more endearing move. 



“Five more minutes, baby,” he wheedles, and right on
cue the warm, liquid string between my stomach and
center pulls taut, stealing my breath. Harm called me
‘baby.’ God, I love that. 



He nuzzles his jaw into my hand as startlingly blue
eyes prop open halfway. “Five more minutes, and I’ll
drive us back.” The fact that he knows who he’s with
and where he’s supposed to be makes me want to kiss
him until he forgets his own name, but I’m preoccupied
by the laughter that bubbles up in my chest. 



“Harm, we’re home,” I inform him patiently. “We’re
parked outside my apartment – ” 



“Uhhh?” Startled, he jerks into a sitting position,
blinking the haze from eyes that are darting at
dizzying speed around the vehicle. “What? Mac? How did
we get here?” 



He looks so adorably confused I have to laugh again.
“I drove us here, sunshine. It’s almost ten o’clock.
Now come on. I’m going to go up and get ready, and
you’ve gotta drive home and get cleaned up for work.
We’re dining with Sydney at La Villa at 1230. Think
you can handle all that?” 



I have my doubts at the perplexed _expression on his
face as he absorbs this information, but after a time,
he blinks and nods once. None too gently, he scrubs a
hand from his forehead to his chin, as whiskers rasp
delightfully in response. “Why didn’t you wake me?” 



His voice is still so rusty and low; right now I want
more than anything to climb onto his lap and curl in. 



“I thought I’d let you sleep in while you had the
chance,” I answer off-handedly, reaching back to grab
my duffel bag. “It was an easy drive. You feeling
okay?” 



Rather than replying, he frowns down at me, still
looking a bit out of sorts. “I would have gotten up,”
he insists, sounding cross and offended. 



God damn it. Can’t he ever just accept a favor – one
tiny, lousy favor – with a “thank you” instead of an
excuse? Why couldn’t he just say, “Thanks for the
extra z’s, partner, I really needed them after driving
for hours in that shitty weather yesterday”? Because
he just has to assert that he’s perfectly capable of
handling every little thing that goes on, that’s why.
Because he has to make absolutely sure  know that
he didn’t need that extra sleep, or me to get it for
him. Dumb jerk. God, I hate Thursdays. 



Keeping my _expression carefully neutral, I grab the
white paper bag containing his banana nut muffin from
the front seat and thrust it into his chest. 



“I got you some breakfast,” I say tightly, disgusted
with him, and with myself for allowing one stubborn
remark to ruin what had been a wonderful morning.
“I’ll see you at work.” 



With that, I shove the back door open and dump my
duffel onto the sidewalk. Before I can shoot out after
it, however, a large, warm hand wraps around my arm,
holding me in place. 



“Mac.” I turn to him with my most disinterested stare,
only to look down at the wrinkled grey ball of cotton
he’s holding out to me. My sweatshirt. Who gives a
rat’s ass? “You forgot this.” 



I reach for it, can feel him watching me, measuring
me, as I do. He’s wondering what’s wrong, why I
suddenly went cold and impatient. I’m wondering how
this man can take me from one emotional extreme to the
other in a matter of minutes. 



He must have figured me out, because abruptly, his
hand gentles, caressing rather than gripping. “I feel
great, Mac,” he tells me with sincere, grateful
contentment, and I feel the starch leaking out of my
spine. “Thank you.” 



And for all the edges I skirted earlier this morning,
I suddenly level out at the quiet, treasured peace
that is our friendship at its best. With something
akin to relief, I return his smile, brush my fingers
over his where they lay on my arm. “Good morning,
flyboy,” I say softly and slide from the car on a
cloud of muted bliss, no longer hell-bent on getting
as far away from all males as quickly as possible. 



As I unlock the front door to my building, Harm revs
the engine and honks merrily at me before pulling
away. 



Maybe Thursdays aren’t so bad after all. 



*   *   *   * 



I open the door to my office, as planned, at precisely
1131. The Gunny stops in to tell me the Admiral wants
to see Harm and me as soon as we’re in. Bud comes by
to ask me about a case we tried a few months ago.
Harriet rushes over to ask how things turned out and
whether I know if Sydney’s called the Admiral yet. 



Harm wanders past seventeen minutes later, looking
chipper if hurried. The man is hopelessly tardy. I got
home, took Jingo for a nice walk, cleaned up after his
night alone, took a shower, washed and dried my hair,
and even had time to buff my feet before coming in. He
looks like he barely remembered to shave on the way
over with the little Norelco he stows in his glove
compartment. I can’t decide whether I should be
shaking my head at sailors or men in general, but we
have bigger fish to fry. 



“Admiral wants to see us,” I tell him, perched in his
doorway while he organizes things in his office. 



He glances up, his eyes bright, his smile relaxed and
refreshed. “Well, what are you waiting for, Macks?” he
asks as he breezes past me toward Chegwidden’s office.




So it’s “Macks” today, is it? With a beleaguered sigh,
I hustle after him. At least that’s better than
“Mackie,” or “Merri-Mac,” or – Harm’s personal
favorite – “Mac-o-roon.” All the abuse I take, and I
can’t even call him “Harm-y mule” without getting the
cold shoulder for a week. Believe me; I’ve tried. 



The Admiral ditches a call from the head of the Army’s
CID unit to meet with us, giving me some clue as to
how anxious he was about this matter. 



“Have a seat,” he commands before we can come to
attention. We comply, and he continues, “Tell me about
Norfolk.” He focuses on me. “Begin from Sydney’s call
to you on Tuesday night.” 



At the way he says Dr. Walden’s name, an idea sparks
in my mind. When I don’t reply, Harm starts to speak,
but I cut him off with my
shut-up-and-let-me-do-the-talking glare. 



“Actually, sir,” I say innocently, as though the
practicality of the thought has just struck me . . .
which, truthfully, it has, although practicality is
 my motivating factor here. “Harm and I were just
about to meet Dr. Walden for lunch. At La Villa,” I
add, remembering the Admiral loves Italian food. “Why
don’t you join us? That way we could explain and
answer both your questions at once.” 



The Admiral hesitates, then frowns. From the corner of
my eye, I see Harm shooting me a warning glance. He
prefers a strict policy of non-interference when it
comes to our CO’s personal life; I, on the other hand,
am a bit more of a risk taker. 



“I’m not sure that would be wise,” Chegwidden states
with just enough uncertainty to reveal how much he
wants to go. “Does Dr. Walden know you’re inviting me
along?” 



“Well, sir, I didn’t think of it until just now,” I
answer honestly. “But I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
Okay, so I’m not exactly , but I can put up a
good front. I’m not exaggerating, however, when I say,
“I think Sydney would really like to see you. 



“Besides,” I elaborate when the Admiral remains
silent, “I could use the time to organize my thoughts
and go over my notes on all the details, sir. Couldn’t
you, Commander?” 



He looks reluctant to reply, so I reach my leg over
and step on his foot. “Um . . .” 



I roll, then narrow, my eyes at him. “Harm’s buying,”
I add smugly. La Villa’s no cheap date. That’ll teach
him to participate in any and all of my matchmaking
efforts in the future. 



Breaking at last out of his thoughtful daze, the
Admiral looks at Harm with a trace of amusement.
“Well, in that case, Colonel, I accept.” 



I hide my grin as Harm and I stand. “We had planned to
leave in about ten minutes, sir, if that’s all right
with you.” 



“Very well. Mr. Rabb, are you driving?” 



And then I remember and feel a little badly about what
I’ve inadvertently done. 



“Ah, yes sir, I guess I am.” 



The Admiral nods and starts packing away the work on
his desk. “Dismissed.” 



We come to attention before leaving the office. 



“Harm,” I say as soon as we’re in the anteroom. “I’m
sorry, I completely forgot.” 



He looks down at me, and I swear his lower lip is
sticking out, just a little. “That’s okay, Mac,” he
replies dejectedly, watching the floor at my feet and
making me feel like a puppy-kicking ogre. 



“No, it’s not,” I argue insistently. “I promised you
could drive the ‘vette, and now we’ll have to take
your car. Let me make it up to you.” God, anything to
take that cloud of disappointment from his face. 



“No, no,” he repeats bravely as we stop in front of
his office. “Really, Mac, don’t worry about it.” But
his eyes are limpid and vulnerable, and just the
slightest bit wounded . . . and right now he is
shamelessly playing me like a violin. 



“Harm,” I sigh, exasperated, and his eyes suddenly
gleam with excitement. It’s time to fish or cut bait.
“I promise you can drive it on Friday.” 



“Anywhere I want?” 



Wondering sardonically where that hurt little flyboy
has gone, I give him a withering glance before folding
like a house of cards. “All right.” 



His grin is so wide, I briefly entertain the notion
that he’s had this planned all along. Before I can
make any accusations, Gunny calls for attention on
deck as the Admiral strides through the bullpen.
Apparently, he’s a lot more eager for this meeting
than he let on. Harm and I duck into our offices, grab
our coats and covers, and scurry after him. 



With Harm behind the wheel and traffic on our side, at
least until we get into Washington, we make it to La
Villa five minutes ahead of schedule. Transport
conversation is dominated by the Admiral, who tells us
about an interesting case he assigned to Mattoni
yesterday. He’s extra loquacious, I think, so he can
make absolutely certain that neither Harm nor I
attempt to bring up the sensitive subject of our lunch
date. 



“I’m just going to go freshen up,” I announce as soon
as we’re shown to our table. Harm gives me a strange
look; the Admiral just looks bored. He realizes I’m
not going to powder my nose or anything equally
innocuous. I’m going back to the entrance to wait for
Sydney and warn her about the addition to our party.
I’m sure he’ll let Harm in on the secret once I’m
gone. 



I don’t have to wait long. Sydney strides through the
doors just thirty-two seconds after I begin my vigil.
She looks slightly worried but mostly purposeful. The
minute she sees me, she comes at me with open arms. 



“Sarah, thank you so much,” she exclaims, pulling me
into a fierce embrace, which I return somewhat
helplessly. “Thank you for helping my son. I can never
repay you.” 



“You’re very welcome,” I tell her sincerely, patting
her lightly on the back before we separate. “I was
glad we could help.” 



Her eyes widen as she remembers Harm. “Of course –
where is that nice partner of yours? I hope I didn’t
keep you waiting too long.” 



“No, not at all. We just got here ourselves. Actually,
Sydney, there’s a reason I’m waiting for you out
here.” I can tell by her _expression she suspects what
that reason is without any clues from me. She’s gone
from open and grateful to guarded and just a little
bit hopeful, as well as extremely nervous. The same as
AJ did when I brought up my great idea. 



“The Admiral’s here,” I say, probably unnecessarily. I
bite back a smile when Sydney’s hands fly up to
straighten her hair, adjust her collar and handbag
just so. Time to set the stage. “He heard about our
plans for lunch, and . . . well, I hope you don’t
mind, but we invited him along.” 



She bites her lip anxiously. “He’s here already?” It’s
more a statement than a question. 



I nod. “He and Harm are just inside. The Admiral . . .
he’s very excited to see you, ma’am.” I don’t want to
give too many of my commanding officer’s secrets away,
but I’ve got to give the woman something; she’s so
jumpy, she’s about ready to pop out of her shoes. 



“Sarah, please don’t call me ‘ma’am,’” she begs,
grabbing onto my arm like a lifeline. I nod in quick
assent, sensing she needs a friend more than a
military presence right now. “Did he really say he was
excited to see me?” 



For just a moment, I am back in high school again,
running interference for a shy classmate. But the
stakes this time are so much higher than a teenage
crush. Here, there is companionship and respect and
love, all hanging in the balance, and I am the
courageous tightrope walker. 



I stare Sydney right in the eyes and say with the
total, intensely instinctive honesty only women can
understand, “He didn’t have to.” 



Her chin drops and her eyes fall closed. When her face
rises again, it is set with determination and a
glimmer of hope that tells me this can work if all the
pieces fall correctly – with a little assistance from
yours truly, of course. 



“Come on.” I take her gently by the arm in a show of
support for her, solidarity for the men. “Let us tell
you about what happened yesterday.” 



Confident and graceful, we walk to the table. 



Harm and AJ rise when they see us approach. The
Admiral looks stunned, mesmerized by the woman at my
side, and I squelch an absurd rush of pride at the
sight. It’s not like he’s putting on a performance,
after all. The reaction is completely genuine, which
only makes it a thousand times more wonderful. 



“Sydney,” he breathes almost reverently as he pulls
out her chair. 



“AJ,” she returns, looking just as dazed as he. 



This is poetry, I sigh to myself as I practically melt
into the chair Harm presents me. This is an old,
romantic movie. This is –  



“Dr. Walden,” Harm greets, breaking the deliciously
tense silence that had sparked at the other end of the
table. 



This is the day I will single-handedly beat some sense
into my dolt of a partner for being such an
insensitive slob. 



There they were, gazing at each other the way a
starving man gazes at a banquet buffet, and here I
was, thoughtfully trying to time how long they would
remain entranced so I could give Harriet all the juicy
details back at the office. Until Harmon Rabb,
thick-headed Neanderthal, decides he’s uncomfortable
with the silence and shatters it by stealing Sydney’s
attention. How can one man be so incredibly dense? 



Ever a gracious guest, Sydney tears her eyes from the
Admiral’s and looks to Harm, only a bit surprised to
remember we’re still present. “Hello, Commander, how
are you?” 



Ever working to better my partner, I dig my heel into
his toes under the table. 



His eyes widen, and he leans to the side but doesn’t
otherwise react to my gesture. “Fine, thank you,
ma’am.” 



“Please, call me Sydney, Harm,” she says, settling
into her chair and picking up her menu. We all follow
her lead, and things are pretty much back to normal.
Damn it. 



A very nice looking young waiter stops to take our
drink orders, then fades professionally into the
background. Simultaneously, Sydney and the Admiral
turn expectant faces to Harm and me. 



“Please,” Sydney asks, patient now that she knows her
son is free. “Tell me everything that happened, from
the beginning.” 



Harm and I share a quick glance; he only looks a
little resentful about the foot stomping incident. By
tacit agreement, I take the lead, giving a brief
overview of what occurred the night Danny and his
buddies got drunk and the events leading up to his
getting arrested the following evening. We each
explain a little of the investigative work we did
Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. Harm handles most
of the details of the trial, and, proving that he is
not, in fact, totally ignorant in the ways of
interpersonal relationships, puts heavy emphasis on
the improvement Danny has made since enlisting and how
much he’s enjoying his work, his life, since joining
up. 



The Admiral doesn’t look surprised, but takes the news
with a faint glimmer of pride. I can’t tell whether
it’s for Danny or the Navy. Maybe both. Sydney, on the
other hand, looks half thrilled and half . . . ill.
For an instant, I wonder why, until I remember how
opposed she was to Danny’s enlistment. And now, she’s
probably feeling guilty for standing in the way of
something that has benefited her son. 



“Did you know he’s seeing someone?” I ask
conspiratorially, aiming to draw her attention and
energy away from self-criticism. Beside me, Harm
groans loud enough so only I can hear, then promptly
whisks his feet out of the way before I can nail them
with mine. 



Immediately, Sydney’s interest is peaked. “Really?”
she asks excitedly. “Who is she? What does she look
like? Tell me .” 



I think the Admiral groans at this point too, but I’m
too distracted to care. It’s gossip time, and I took
excellent mental notes for just such an opportunity. 



“Her name is Betsy Corney,” I begin as Dr. Walden and
I lean in closer to the center of the table. As if
summoned by a sixth sense, our waiter materializes to
remove the pasta plates from underneath our elbows. He
really is cute. Harm scowls at me when my eyes trace
the kid’s backside as he walks away. Prude. 



“She’s a seaman, like Danny, about five-six, big, blue
eyes, medium-length red hair – ” 



“Red?” Sydney drawls, impressed. “Natural? I never
figured my boy for a redhead.” 



“Definitely natural,” I confirm with certainty. “If
you could get that kind of color from a box, I’d be
the first to know about it.” 



In the background, I catch the Admiral rolling his
eyes at Harm and trying without much conviction to
suppress a sigh. Without taking her focus from me,
Sydney sends him a dismissive wave. It’s the familiar
motion of an established couple, and I bite back a
grin at the sight. 



“What’s she like?” Chegwidden only wishes he had
Sydney hanging on his every word the way I do now. 



“Well, I didn’t spend much time around her, but she
seemed great. Shy, but sweet. She testified on Danny’s
behalf, even though she was reluctant to talk in front
of the court, and she did a really nice job, didn’t
she, Harm?” 



He shifts forward, opening his mouth to respond, but
we don’t give him the time. 



“Did you see them together?” Sydney presses. “How did
they look?” 



My eyes slide to the ceiling affectionately. “Just
adorable, believe me. Betsy was so reassuring, all the
time telling Danny not to worry, that everything would
work out okay. And he was quite the gentleman,
especially when she was around. And the way they
looked at each other – ” 



We women pause to share a melting, moony look as we
remember all the pleasures of puppy love. 



“I think you’d really like her,” I conclude as my
audience sighs happily. 



“She even volunteered for extra duty for the two
months Danny’s got it,” Harm interjects, giving me a
tiny shard of hope for his romantic soul. Although it
just figures he’d find the romance only when it’s
expressed through proper Naval channels. 



“Extra duty?” Sydney repeats, and I gather Danny
didn’t tell her about the punishment he was assigned. 



The Admiral clears his throat and explains, “Yes, that
was part of Danny’s sentence for the drunk and
disorderly conviction.” 



“Only part?” she asks, frowning in confusion. “Two
 of overtime for being drunk and disorderly,
and there’s more?” 



“Well,” Harm says, taking up the buck, “the judge
ruled that the consequences of Danny’s actions were .
. . potentially severe enough to warrant a harsher
punishment than usual. He sentenced him to three
months docked wages, two of extra duty, and one
confined to the ship, barring an emergency.” 



Sydney’s frown deepens, and the three of us watch her
cautiously. I know it’s sometimes difficult for
civilians to comprehend the military justice system,
the various offenses and the punishments that are
doled out pending a guilty verdict, but Sydney always
seemed to understand and accept easier than most. That
might not be the case, however, when the soldier being
punished is her flesh and blood. 



“That sounds . . . quite excessive, doesn’t it?” she
asks after a moment, looking to the Admiral for
confirmation. 



He shakes his head, glancing briefly at Harm and me in
recognition. “Actually, Sydney, it was only through
thorough and efficient investigative work and a strong
defense case that Danny managed to avoid conviction on
possession and trafficking of an illegal substance,
either of which would have meant years in the brig.
Based on the facts and the evidence at hand, this was
the best possible outcome anyone could have hoped for,
and it sounds like your son realizes that. What Harm
and Mac did for Danny – and in the short time they had
to do it – was close to a miracle.” 



Obviously, he’s exaggerating to help Sydney
understand; the Admiral’s never that open with his
praise when we’re at the office. 



Sydney, though, slumps forward, dully shaking her
head. When she looks up, she is staring so hard at the
Admiral he blinks warily. 



“No, AJ.” Her tone is almost defeated, and there are
tears in her voice if not her eyes. “What  did
for him was a miracle.” 



At that, she rises suddenly from her seat and rushes
to the door. 



The Admiral has already shoved his chair back and is
half-standing when he turns to me with
uncharacteristic, but not un-endearing, hesitancy.
Why, I wonder absently, do men have such trouble with
women in emotional distress? For crying out loud, that
was practically an engraved invitation to follow and
comfort her. 



With a soft, encouraging smile, I tip my head in the
direction she ran, and my CO wastes no more time
pondering.  



“Colonel,” he clips, brisk but distracted, “if I’m not
back in ten minutes, handle my three o’clock meeting
with Patrick Hagger on the Marshal hearing.” 



“Yes, sir.” 



Ten bucks says he catches her just outside the
entrance, where she most likely stopped to wait for
him without appearing to do so. While Harm twists
around to stare after them, I calmly motion for the
waiter and order coffee. Harm and I will take our time
with it, and if our fellow diners don’t come back in
the next fifteen minutes, we’ll gladly leave them to
their own devices. By this time tomorrow, I expect the
Admiral will be in the best mood he’s had for months.
My staff is going to be so happy with me. 



I glance over to find Harm gaping at me, mouth hanging
open in disbelief. I don’t know whether to be
flattered or afraid. 



“What the hell did you just ?” he demands as the
waiter arrives to pour our coffee. We both ignore him
this time. 



“What do you mean?” I retort, genuinely confused. “I
didn’t do anything.” 



“Come on, Mac – I’ve never seen her so mad! They’re
going to get in a fight, and the Admiral’ll be a bear
all next week!” 



“Are you kidding me?” There’s no way he can be this
blind, I assure myself. It’s just a slow day for him,
that’s all. “She’s mad at , Harm, not at him.
There’s an important difference. Yes, they’ll probably
have a little fight, but then he’ll hug her and make
her feel better, and they’ll go home and rekindle
their relationship.” 



Harm winces uncomfortably. “Mac - ! That’s like
picturing your parents . . .” He trails off, making an
indistinct gesture with his hand. 



I roll my eyes, although I have to admit, he’s a
little bit right. “Harm,” I explain with devilish
persistence, “the Admiral and Dr. Walden are
consenting adults. They’re free to express their love
– ” 



Like a stubborn little boy, he plugs his ears with his
index fingers and squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to
listen to mature reason. He can be such a joy to
tease. 



I sip my coffee until he un-clams himself, content
merely to glower at me over his mug. 



“I may have missed my true calling,” I muse, ignoring
his hostile glare. “I would’ve made a hell of a
matchmaker, don’t you think?” 



“Yeah, well I don’t think my feet could withstand your
new career.” 



Before I can explain to him why it was necessary to
step on his toes and that, in actuality, I was only
helping him out, he spots something over my shoulder
and gets a smug glint in his eye. 



“Don’t quit your day job just yet,” he advises, his
typical cockiness back in full force. 



Puzzled, I swivel to see what he’s looking at, and my
spirits sink when I see Sydney approaching the table.
Alone. 



Then I notice her hair is mussed and her lipstick
suspiciously smudged. MacKenzie, you are the master. 



Sydney bends to scoop up her coat and purse, sending
me a glance that positively sparkles. 



“Don’t wait up, kids,” she smiles breezily, barely
sparing us a glance before hurrying back outside. 



I turn to find Harm gazing after her, shocked and
baffled. 



“You were saying, flyboy?” 



The corner of his mouth and one eyebrow kick up
ironically. “I think it’s time we got back to work,
Colonel.” 



Unabashedly, I grin up at him. “Just consider yourself
lucky I use my powers for good instead of evil.” 



Finally, he gives into a smile, shaking his head
helplessly. “At least you’re on my side, oh amazing
one.” 



“Don’t you forget it, sailor boy.” I wink at him
before getting up, holding out my coat expectantly. He
unfolds his long body from the chair and stands behind
me to help me into my jacket. I turn to help him into
his. 



Pulling the wallet from his breast pocket, he shucks a
few twenties on the table to cover the meal. I dig
into my purse for the tip. This is our routine. Harm
doesn’t carry many small bills; ones and fives are all
I ever have. Also, Harm’s a little stingy with
gratuities. I figure a few extra bucks out of my
pocket and into that of some kid who’s working his way
through school is money well spent. 



Harm glances down, scoffs, and shoots me a frustrated
look. Then he snatches back two of the singles I
shelled out for Austin, our attractive and solicitous
server, and shoves them into my jacket pocket. 



“That’s over twenty, Mac,” he scolds, forcibly turning
me to the exit with his hands on my shoulders. 



“Twenty percent is standard,” I counter, all too
accustomed to this argument. 



“Only because of people like you, who insist on
over-tipping.” 



Casually, I stick my hands in my pockets, ball up the
two dollars, and chuck them onto the table behind my
back. The whispered thump they make as they land tells
me my aim is accurate as ever. 



“You’re right, Harm,” I concede with false chagrin.
“I’ll have to start watching that.”  



He looks moderately appeased now that he’s done his
duty on behalf of cheap restaurant-goers across the
country. I take his arm and let him lead me out before
he can turn around and notice my little trick. Gets
him every time. 



By the time we get out to the parking lot, Sydney’s
car is long gone. We take our time driving back to the
office. As ranking officers once we arrive, there’s no
reason for us to rush. And unless I’m overestimating
the Admiral, Harm and I will be in charge tomorrow as
well. A nice, relaxing end to the week, and an excuse
for the staff to duck out early for the weekend, and
for Harm and I to get a head start on whatever it is
he chooses for us to do tomorrow night. 



For a Thursday, this isn’t bad at all. 

 

 



FRIDAY: 



I awake euphoric. Today, at long last, is Friday. And
it will be a wonderful Friday indeed. 



The Admiral called in at around 1730 yesterday
afternoon and left a message with Tiner that he was “a
bit under the weather” and wouldn’t be in today. Mac
and I knew better and now, thanks to our selfless
generosity, so do Bud, Harriet, Carolyn, Alan, the
Gunny, and Tiner. I have never seen the petty officer
look more relieved than he did when we let him in on
the secret of Chegwidden and Dr. Walden’s
reunification. 



I don’t have too much going on today. Just opening
statements for a check fraud case I’m prosecuting
against Singer, and if I have my way, it will close
today as well. The case is pretty open and shut – with
all the evidence I have, the Navy’s got this guy cold.
Singer and I have one more pre-trial conference this
morning, at which I will try again to convince her to
take a plea bargain. She keeps resisting, claiming her
client doesn’t want to deal, but I think it’s her own
stubbornness getting in the way. We all cut Lauren
some slack at first, but if that girl doesn’t grow up
soon, she won’t last another year at Headquarters,
much less make a career for herself there. 



In addition to the trial, which is more an exercise in
patience than anything else, I’ve got a couple motions
to file and a restraining order to type up. And then
there’s the little matter of my date with Mac. 



Okay, so it’s not really a date. At least, not in the
sense that I asked her out and will spend hours
tonight showering and shaving and getting dressed . .
. wait a minute . . . All right, so not in the sense
that I’ll get nervous and have to worry about whether
or not to kiss her good night – and if so, how deep,
and if not, what to do instead. There, that’s a little
more accurate. In any case, I still haven’t decided
what we’re going to do. And as appealing as the idea
of asking Mac over to “play with me” is, I have a
feeling if I whip out that phrase again, she’ll tell
me to shove my Friday night plans. 



As I step blearily into the shower, I agree to give
myself the morning to think about it, sure something
will come to me. For a week that was supposedly slower
than average, we’ve actually been pretty busy. A tire
slashing, a trip to the vet’s, an admiral’s banquet, a
trek to Norfolk and a full-day trial followed by a
night in the rain, and of course, Mac’s highly-touted
Sydney/Admiral matchmaking adventure. To hear her talk
about it, you’d think she single-handedly introduced
them, engineered their courtship, and is currently
planning their wedding. The woman’s a maniac. After
all that activity, we deserve a quiet night to
ourselves. Just what, exactly, we do during that night
has yet to be discovered. 



Inspiration strikes me on the way into work. I need to
stop off at the hardware store to pick up some shams
for the coffee table in the office kitchenette. I
swear it lists more to the right with every passing
day, but apparently I’m the only one who is troubled
enough by this to do something about it. I pull in at
the True-Value just outside Arlington, which I could
navigate my way through blindfolded thanks to all the
hours I spent there while restoring my place. After
grabbing a pack of shams – only the cheapest for JAG
HQ – I’m standing in the checkout line, glancing over
the sales table when I see it. 



That is it, and it is perfect. 



There on the table, amidst half-priced hammers,
citronella candles, and lawn decorations, sits a boxed
hammock, complete with tree riggings. I remember our
conversation from the other night, my promise about
the moon roof, and the weather forecast I heard on the
radio this morning – cool and clear tonight, no
showers until late next week. It was fate that placed
that hammock where it is. There’s no other
explanation. 



Suspiciously eyeing the surrounding customers, I hold
my place in line with my foot and stretch the rest of
my body towards the sales table, snagging the hammock
box with two seconds to spare before it’s my turn at
the register. All right – it’s on sale for $50. Score.
Not that my main concern is bargain shopping when it
comes to planning an evening with Mac. But I guess it
can’t hurt. 



Of course, this means an extensive recon and
establishment mission at lunchtime. After all, it’s
not like either of us has a back yard convenient for
hammock set up, and the thing’s not going to hang
itself. Come to think of it, I might know the perfect
place – not too far a drive away, but enough so that
I’ll have to authorize my own extended lunch hour.
Good thing the Admiral’s out today. Now I really hope
this meeting with Singer goes well. The less time I
spend worrying about a trial, the better. 



I tool off to work with the hammock safely under the
privacy screen in my trunk. It only takes a minute to
fix the shams in place under the table, and they work
like a charm. Too bad no one but me will ever notice.
Singer catches me on my way out of the break room and
babbles in my ear all the way to my office. Damn, not
even a chance to say hello to Mac before the
conference. She shoots me a sympathetic look as we
pass her doorway; I try to convey the gravity of my
annoyance with a slant of my eyes, but she only smiles
and rolls her own. 



Dogged by the overzealous young lieutenant every step
of the way, I continue down to Court Conference Room
C, where the man I’m prosecuting is under guard
awaiting his trial. Lucky for him, he gets to sit in
on this meeting, the outcome of which has a very real
impact on his future. I’m betting I can play to his
self-interest and career experience to get him to
accept the deal, even if his counsel is too stubborn
to see reason. 



I argue with Lauren for about ten minutes, and just
when I know I’ve either got to leave the room or deck
her out of sheer frustration, Lt. Cmdr. Bradenburg
steps in. 



“Sir,” he says with a hesitancy that might be
considered boyishly charming if it weren’t 100%
obvious that he’s guilty of forging his late
bunkmate’s signature on the latter’s own personal
checks. “Could you tell me more about this deal you’re
talking about?” With a quick, half-apologetic glance
at Singer, he adds, “If I could avoid spending more
than a year in the brig, I’d really appreciate it.” 



, I
want to snap. But, as I’d suspected, he’s the weak –
or rather, the stronger – link here, as well as his
own best shot at a reasonable outcome. If Singer
weren’t so hell-bent on chasing victory at any
expense, she’d realize that and act on it.
Unfortunately for Bradenburg – not to mention yours
truly – that isn’t the case. 



“Commander,” I begin, with a token attempt to keep the
disdain from my voice. “I have all the original checks
you forged with Commander Wyatt’s signature. I have
expert witnesses to testify that the signatures are
not Wyatt’s and that, based on extensive handwriting
samples we’ve obtained from your Naval record, they
are, in fact, yours. I have the clerk from the
pharmacy in Palm Beach to testify that you came into
her store, paid for medicine with one of Wyatt’s
checks, and used Wyatt’s ID to clear it. Based on all
that, the Navy’s got you on at least four counts of
forgery, four counts of check fraud, conduct
unbecoming an officer, and unlawful assumption of a
false identity.” 



Here, I spare Singer a brief glance, more for
Bradenburg’s benefit than anything, but I can tell
she’s nearly steaming in anger. Tough. 



“Now, the Navy understands there may be some
extenuating circumstances at work.” The commander
maintains the anti-depressants he bought were for his
unemployed father. I give this about a sixty percent
chance of being true, which is why I’m cutting such a
lenient deal. “But I’ve also got your ex-wife here to
testify about your history of depression. As far as I
know – ” again, I nod to opposing counsel, who looks
too mad to speak – “your case consists solely of your
testimony and your father’s, which will probably be
seen by the members as biased. My case is strong.” 



His isn’t, but I don’t say so. When he nods
thoughtfully, I can see he’s picked up on that all by
himself. “The deal I’ve been authorized to make,” I
proceed when it’s clear Singer won’t break her stony
silence, “is a dishonorable discharge, five months at
Leavenworth, and the provision that your last two
paychecks go to Wyatt’s estate to reimburse the funds
you stole, plus interest. I’ve talked to his sister –
who’s also his beneficiary – and she’s agreed not to
press civil charges against you if we go this route.
All you have to do is plead guilty to five counts of
check fraud.” 



He’s nodding vigorously, has even opened his mouth to
accept when Lauren throws her two cents in.
“Commander, I feel it would be better if this case
went to trial. We’ve got a strong chance of winning,
sir, and it would give you a chance to clear your good
name.” 



Now that’s laying it on a little thick, especially
since the guy’s all but admitted his wrongdoing. Not
to mention the fact that she stopped looking out for
her client’s best interest a long time ago.
Technically, I could report her to the bar for this.
Or worse, to the Admiral. 



“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Bradenburg says without much
remorse. “And I appreciate all your help. But I’d like
to take the deal. It sounds like my best shot right
now.” 



I present him the paperwork, and he signs it without
hesitation. After a brief stint in court to announce
the outcome before the judge and members, I’m free for
the rest of the afternoon. Good thing, too; Singer
looks absolutely livid, and I’m unwilling to chance
crossing her in a poorly-lit hallway or something
equally disastrous until she cools down. I’m not
ashamed to admit a little healthy fear of the
lieutenant – she is pure evil, after all. 



“Mac,” I call as I pound dully on her doorframe. She
looks up expectantly – must’ve heard me coming. 



“I’ve got a couple errands to run over lunch. I’ll be
back late.” 



“’Kay,” she responds, unaffected. Mac can be such an
easy-going boss. “Uh, Harm . . ?” 



She trails off and looks around helplessly. I frown in
confusion before it hits me that she’s trying to ask
about tonight. I haven’t let her in on the master
plan, after all. It’s going to be a surprise. 



“I’ll be back later this afternoon,” I reiterate. She
stares at me with those big, brown eyes, and I relent.
“And I’ll pick you up at 1900 sharp tonight. Nothing
too fancy, just no uniforms.” 



“No problem,” she agrees whole-heartedly. “See you
later.” 



I wink at her as I back out the door. Time’s
a-wasting, and I’ve got the perfect location for my
hammock hideaway in mind. I whistle on my way out of
the office, dodging Singer’s death glare as I board
the elevator. 



*   *   *   * 

 



I knock on Mac’s door at precisely 1900. Punctuality
is not one of my strongest virtues, but tonight is
special. Rocking back and forth on the balls of my
feet, I straighten my shirt and clasp my hands behind
my back. Then she opens the door, and my mouth starts
to water. 



She’s wearing the black pants I love, which flare just
a little at the ankles, and a pair of mulish black
heels that bring the top of her head almost level with
my nose. Her top is sleeveless with ties around her
neck. It’s sort of pinkish orange and just shimmery
enough that my fingers itch to brush against it and
watch as the light patterns change. 



Mac must notice me staring because there’s laughter in
her voice when she greets me. 



“I wasn’t sure this would be you.” I feel my face
flush slightly as I tear my gaze up and see her smile.
“You’re right on time, Harm.” 



“And I come bearing gifts,” I assure her, confidence
returning as I pull my right hand front and present
her with the pink rosebud I snagged on the way over. 



It’s her turn to stand speechless while I watch with
amusement and something more thickening my throat. Our
fingers brush when she takes the flower from me, and I
swear hers are trembling just a bit. I’ve brought Mac
flowers a couple of times before – usually for
hospital visits or her birthday, or in
congratulations. Roses, typically yellow. With other
women, I mix it up a little – sometimes daisies,
sometimes lilies, sometimes carnations. But Mac gets
roses, always roses. And tonight it’s pink, because
tonight just called for a pink rose. 



“I . . . thank you,” she says, soft and shy, before
blinking quickly, stepping back to motion me inside.
“It’s beautiful. I’ll be right back.” 



I close the door behind me, and she darts into the
kitchen without meeting my eyes. Just as I finish
patting myself on the back for thinking to pick up
something as simple as a flower, she reemerges, minus
the rose, carrying her purse, and smiling so that she
glows like flame. 



“You ready to go?” 



I nod, pull the door open for her. “All set.” 



Her fingers brush the sleeve of the dark green shirt I
paired with my khakis earlier this evening as she
glides past. In a satisfied sort of hum that makes my
skin tingle, she murmurs, “Nice shirt, flyboy.” As she
walks down the hall, I notice her own is
half-backless, the fabric meeting just below the
middle of her spine. There is no way she’s wearing a
bra under that. 



I swallow a groan and follow her out like a puppy,
distractedly checking to make sure the lock clicks in
place. 



Of course she likes the shirt. I chose it because it’s
her favorite; I’m no fool. Mac’s actually the one who
picked this out for me when she and Harriet took me
clothes shopping a couple months ago. The minute Renee
was gone, I happily ditched all the Hollywood clothes
she’d nagged me to wear. When Harriet heard me
complain to Mac that I’d have to go to the mall over
the weekend, she hatched a plan and dragged the two of
us into it, as usual. 



Though I had nightmares of playing Julia Roberts
primping and posing in the scene from “Pretty Woman,”
the ladies simply asked for my sizes and banished me
to the music store while they raided the men’s
department. Half an hour later, I met them at the
dressing room to find a whole new wardrobe waiting for
me. I pared it down by about half for financial and
stylistic considerations, and after trying everything
on (and only being asked to model once or twice) we’d
whittled it down to a third or so of the original
stock. Harriet, who’s more used to picking out clothes
for Bud, made a few choices that had both Mac and me
wincing, but Mac, who knows me better than anyone by
now, did an outstanding job, and best of all, the
whole process took less than two hours. I had to lobby
hard for a shirt that is nearly the exact shade of
brown as Mac’s eyes, as, according to Harriet, brown
is out this season. Mac eventually forged a compromise
– I could buy the brown shirt if I got the green one
too. So even though the top I’m currently wearing is
worth more than my last pair of tennis shoes and
softer than anything made for a manly man like myself
should be, I gave in, and all were appeased. 



When we get to the lot, Mac fishes around in her bag
for a minute, then comes up with the keys to the
‘vette and hands them to me with a flourish. I
surprise her by walking around to the passenger side
and opening her door before unlocking my own and
sliding behind the wheel with a twinge of nostalgia. I
still miss my pretty car every once in a while. 



“So where are you taking me tonight, flyboy?” she asks
as we pull out. 



“You’ll see, Marine,” I tell her with my best
secretive smile. 



*   *   *   * 



I take her to a little hole in the wall in a
not-so-reputable area off the Hill. Neither of us has
ever been there before, but I read somewhere it served
excellent Indian food. 



It does. And the lavishly decorated, authentic Delhi
interior makes up for the bland brick of the outside
walls. Mac and I sit next to each other on a
purple-cushioned bench behind a one-sided corner
booth. She gets chicken and duck curry (which even I
have to admit is damn good), and I get something I
can’t pronounce but that sure has a lot of vegetables
in it and is equally delicious. An hour and fifteen
minutes later, we leave the restaurant with full
stomachs and smiling faces. Good food, great company,
and a cool but pleasant night. What more could a guy
want? 



“Now where to, Harm?” Mac asks, shifting closer to me
as we walk to the car. 



“I thought we’d just go for a little drive,” I answer
as my hand finds its place low on her back, drawing
her into the warmth of my side. 



“Can’t resist now that you’ve got your hands on a
Corvette again, huh?” 



I smile down at her. “You know me, Mac.” 



It’s already dark, and the first stars are just
peeking through as we leave the city. I jump on the
state road and head up towards Leesburg. 



“Going anywhere in particular, flyboy?” I can hear the
tease in her tone – she thinks I’m taking us out to
visit “Sarah.” Honestly, I’m not as predictable as she
likes to think. Just you wait, MacKenzie. 



“Not really,” I shrug, and feel her knowing smile on
me as I turn my attention back to the windshield. 



We ride most of the way in companionable silence, me
appreciating the machine under my command, Mac off
somewhere in her own little world. Every now and then,
she glances over at me and smiles to let me know she
hasn’t forgotten I’m here. I want to reach over and
grab her hand. I settle for asking her what she’s
thinking about. 



“Nothing much,” she says on a long, misty sigh. “I’m
just . . . happy.” 



She turns back to gaze out her window, and I struggle
to keep my heart within my chest. That simple
statement fills me with a surge of contentedness and a
bashful sort of pride. Mac is happy. And I did it. I
can’t remember the last time I did anything better. 



I’m riding so high on that wave I almost miss the
second deer crossing sign after the “3 miles to
Leesburg” post that is my signal to turn off. Catching
it just in time out of the corner of my eye, I brake a
bit abruptly and ease the ‘vette onto the shoulder,
then a little ways into the woods. 



Mac is suddenly sitting up much straighter. “Um, Harm?
Is everything okay?” 



“Sure,” I reply, flashing her a killer grin. “Great.” 



She pauses when I shift to park and switch off the
ignition. “We’re on the grass.” 



I arch an eyebrow at her as her eyes dart around
rapidly, checking the car for damage. “Trust me, Mac.
I do have some experience with Corvettes. I know what
they can handle.” 



She still looks dubious, but I’ve got the keys in my
pocket now, so there’s not much she can do. 



“Harm.” She stares at me, squints, probably checking
 for damage. “Are you all right?” 



I watch her for a moment, just watch her, before
answering. “Last time, I promised you a moon roof.” 



She hesitates a minute, her eyes owlish on mine. Then
a slow blink, and a smile blooms across her face,
muted and warm. Her hand moves for the button to
release the car top, assuming, no doubt, that I intend
to stargaze from here. I stay her fingers with my own,
shake my head at her quizzical glance. 



“I’ve got a better idea,” I say before stepping out of
the car and going around for her. 



She’s confused enough that I get there in time to open
her door and help her out. Her gaze is playfully wary
as I lead her to the edge of the trees; she doesn’t
quite know what’s going on, but she’s pretty sure
she’s going to like it. I hope she’s right. 



All of the sudden, she stops, her grip on my hand
tightening briefly. As she stares, stunned, at the
rope hammock hanging before her, memories flash
through my mind . . . climbing on top of my dad as he
lay stretched out on our hammock at Miramar. The
nervous scent of late nights in La Jolla when I snuck
out to sleep on the hammock in Frank’s yard. A little
girl with dark hair and solemn eyes slipping out her
bedroom window to the welcome silence of the roof.
White lace and satin on a cold night in Russia. A warm
hand on my cheek, stroking me awake. 



“Oh, Harm,” she sighs, with contentment and, I think,
a little wonder. 



I would ask if she likes my surprise, but the answer
is obvious. In fact, by the look on her face, this may
be the best thing I’ve ever done. 



“You game, Ninja Girl?” I ask mischievously, hoping to
keep this from getting too serious. 



At last, she tears her gaze from the hammock to look
me in the eye, and my grin softens, deepens in
response to hers. 



“Absolutely. So how do we do this, Harm? Take turns?” 



“Well,” I muse, “it’s pretty big.” It’s a size
extra-large; I checked, but of course it won’t do to
let her suspect that. “I think maybe if I get in first
. . .” 



Trailing off, I move next to the hammock and lower
myself to sit on it. With the least clumsiness
possible, I swing my legs up, shift to the far end,
and hold the net open for her with my left arm. 



When Mac stares mutely down at me, I feel the first
glimmer of doubt in my plan. Maybe this wasn’t such a
great idea after all. Mac is not my girlfriend, not my
lover. We don’t lie down together, we don’t cuddle. I
can count on my fingers the number of times we’ve
hugged in the six years we’ve known each other, and
none were done for the simple pleasure of holding each
other. This elaborate sharing-the-hammock-scheme was
stupid, ridiculous. What the hell was I thinking? 



My brain is clawing desperately for some suitable form
of apology when her eyes light with a smile and she
all but jumps in next to me. I’m still trying to
contain my surprise when she laughs softly. 



“I’ve never actually been in a hammock before. I
wasn’t sure how to do it gracefully.” 



“You’ve  been in a hammock before?” 



She can’t see the shock on my face because her head is
busy burrowing against my chest.  



“Sailors sleep in hammocks, Gilligan,” she retorts. I
hate it when she calls me that. “Marines can take the
cold, hard ground.” Abruptly, she flips to her side
and almost topples us but settles quickly enough to
keep us aloft. Her left arm wraps around my waist as
her leg worms its way between mine. It is surprisingly
easy to adjust my body in response, and before I
realize it, we slip into the perfect position with a
nearly audible click. Distantly, I wonder how this can
feel so familiar. 



“What about when you were a kid?” 



Her head is just beneath my chin, and I catch the
scent of her shampoo in the crisp night air. I’m
finally getting to touch her shirt. It’s soft and kind
of slippery, and I think if I’m subtle about it, I
might be able to ease it up enough to get my fingers
on the skin of her lower back. 



“Hammocks aren’t exactly ‘the thing’ in a desert,
Harm,” she reminds me with a hint of teasing
superiority. “You can’t hang them from a cactus, and
even if you could, the object is to stay out of the
sun, not to bathe in it.” 



“Well, your education has been sorely lacking, then.” 



She heaves a dramatic sigh and slides her fingers up
to strum against my chest. “What would I do without
you around to expose me to all this, flyboy?” 



Her tone is joking, but underneath, I think she may be
serious. I tighten my arm around her, just a little,
but keep things light, clucking my tongue and shaking
my head. “I can’t even imagine, Mac. So, which one is
your favorite star?” 



Her head tilts upward and she hums, considering. “I
like that one,” she answers at last, reaching up to
point out a bright, faintly reddish dot to the right. 



I squint at it thoughtfully for a moment. “That’s
Mars, Mac.” 



Pouting, she pokes at my side. “How do you know?” 



“Sailors know things about the stars, remember?”
Silently, I thank the Academy for offering “Astronomy
for Nautical Use” as an alternative to the science
requirement. Fifteen years ago, I saw the class as a
prime opportunity to glean any information I could use
to enchant the ladies. Today, that opinion has only
strengthened with experience. “Pick another one.” 



“Fine . . . That one.” 



My eyes follow her finger to a bright star whose name
I don’t remember. “That’s the tip of Orion’s arrow,” I
tell her, pleased I can recall that much. “See?”
Rather than tax my own strength by straightening my
arm, I take her wrist and move hers to point out the
features. “His bow, his head, his belt. That faint
little patch right there is the quiver or pouch or
something. It’s actually a nebula.” 



I release her wrist, and her arm drops back to rest on
my chest. She looks up at me, her eyes warm with
humor. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not the first
girl you’ve ever taken stargazing?” 



Cursing the telltale blush heating my cheeks, I take
my chances she can’t see it in the moonlight and roll
my eyes indignantly. “Mac, please, give me some credit
here. Besides,” I add smugly, arching a brow at her.
“I don’t hear you complaining.” 



“No, you don’t. Which one’s your favorite then?” 



I point out the brightest star in the sky. “That one.
The North Star.” 



She looks up, frowns. “I think that’s Jupiter, Harm,”
she teases slyly. 



I heave a put-upon sigh as my finger shifts. “
Jupiter.” 



A laugh, soft and low, rumbles through her and into
me. Because it feels right, I pull her closer. 



“Why the North Star?” 



It’s strange that I still hesitate before telling her.
There’s so little I remember – really remember – about
my dad. So much of my conception of him comes from
stories I’ve heard from my mom and my grandma,
pictures I’ve seen of the two of us together. I used
to be afraid that somehow by sharing my first-hand
memories of him, they would escape, and I’d start to
forget. Mac broke me of that habit long ago, but I
guess it will never fully disappear. 



“It was always my dad’s favorite,” I explain, staring
at the white glow of the star above. “He used to show
it to me every night, tell me stories about men who
were lost and found their way home only by following
that star. For a long time after he was gone, I
wondered if he was lost too and imagined him looking
at the sky to find his way home.” 



Her arm tightens around my waist, her cheek brushing
my chest in comfort. “I bet he looked up at that star
too,” she murmurs after a moment. “Probably thinking
about you and wondering what you were doing.” 



“Probably,” I agree with a smile. The image brings a
peaceful, lingering sense of sadness and longing but
none of the pain that might have come with it a few
years ago. A big part of that is because of the woman
in my arms. “Satellite, two o’clock.” 



She turns her glance to the right, and I feel her
cheeks rise in a smile. “Sure enough.” 



We both watch it blink across the sky. By the time
it’s out of sight, Mac’s chest lifts deep and even
against my side. I raise my head just enough to make
sure her eyes are closed. Yup, she’s out. Lying back,
I cover the slim arm across my stomach with my own and
time my breaths to hers. I watch the North Star until
my eyes drift closed. 



*   *   *   * 



It’s still dark when I wake up. I probably could have
stayed out ‘til morning if it weren’t so damn cold.
Even in a long-sleeved shirt and slacks, my skin
thrums with chill, and my little fingers are tingling.
It takes a few seconds to realize why my bed feels so
small and my left side is ten times warmer than my
right – then I remember Mac and the hammock, and I
smile instead of shivering. 



Apparently, Mac took as much exception to the
temperature as I did; her hands are tucked beneath her
chin, her arms sandwiched between her chest and my
side. Her legs managed to weasel their way under each
of mine so that the lower half of her body is sort of
woven around me. There’s also a small, cold point
pressing on my neck. When I turn my head to
investigate, I discover it’s my partner’s nose and
that she’s buried her face below my chin. 



“Mac,” I mumble, reluctantly, resentfully dragging
myself awake. “What time is it?” 



She curls closer and ignores me. A sound surprisingly
similar to a purr comes from her throat. 



“Ma-a-ac.” I’m whining now. I don’t want to move, and
she’s lying on my watch. 



“Hmmmm . . . zero-seventeen.” Amazing. I don’t even
think she’s awake. 



“Let’s get up,” I suggest without enthusiasm. “We have
to go to work tomorrow.” I look up to scowl at the
moon; I swear it’s laughing at me. 



“Later. We’ll go later, Harm.” 



She hasn’t opened her eyes yet. Mac is such a light
sleeper that if she’s still out by now, she’s either
really trying or really tired. Looks like this one’s
up to me. 



With gigantic effort and a monumental groan of
displeasure, I push us both to a sitting position and
unwind Mac’s legs from around my own. When I pull hers
across me, she helps out by scooting further into my
lap, making me suspect she’s not as sleepy as she
appears. 



Sparing no concern for grace or finesse, I jerk my
legs to the ground, rock once or twice for leverage,
and stagger to my feet, Mac securely in my arms. A big
gulp of night air clears my head and lungs, and I
optimistically proclaim myself ready for action. 



My favorite way to carry a woman is full-on, with my
hands under her ass and her legs wrapped around my
waist. Preferably, her lips are, at the time, attached
somewhere to my face or neck. I’ve fantasized about
carrying Mac like that thousands of times – to the
desk in the Admiral’s office . . . to the stairs of my
apartment building . . . to her bed . . . to my
shower. For now, though, that will have to wait. I
decide as I bob and weave toward the car that the
damsel-in-distress mode of carrying a woman isn’t so
bad either. Not as exciting, certainly, but more
romantic in its way. Holding Mac like this, seeing her
head bent so trustingly at my chest, I remember to be
careful with her, protective of her. At first, her
height, her long legs, made this a challenge. But now
she feels so small and soft against me. I want to keep
her here for the rest of the night . . . forever. 



But we’re back at the car, and the keys are in my
pocket, and much as I wish it weren’t, it’s time to
let her go. 

 

 



SATURDAY: 



“Okay, Mac, stand up now. Right here.” 



My legs hit the ground with a thud. Harm supports me
until I’m steady, keeps his arm around my waist while
he fishes in his pocket for the keys. I take the
opportunity to press my cold hands to his middle. 



Of course I’m not as sleepy as he thinks. I’ve been
awake since he asked me the time but managed to
conceal that fact from him and myself pretty well up
to now. Despite the drastic drop in temperature, I
could have stayed in that hammock with him all night –
would have if he’d remained asleep. Then I thought I
could take a few more liberties in the cuddling
department under the guise of slumber, so I let myself
drift instead of cooperating with his request to get
up. I didn’t think he’d bite the bullet and carry me
back to the car, but he really took this one like a
man. Normally I’m not one for being coddled, but I am
a woman after all, and I’d have to be dead not to
appreciate the romance in that gesture. 



“Here we go.” Gently, carefully, he guides me into the
passenger seat, his hand covering my head to keep it
from bumping the door. Deciding to cut him some slack,
I pry my eyes open and lift my own legs into the car.
He beats me to the seatbelt, however, clips it in
place before I think to reach for it. 



“Thanks, Harm.” 



The heel of his thumb brushes my cheek as he
straightens and closes my door. A moment later, he
slides in next to me, turns the heat on as he
maneuvers the ‘vette back onto the road. “Go back to
sleep, Mac. I’ll wake you when we get to your place.” 



I smile at him as I close my eyes. I won’t sleep,
although blackness buzzes enticingly at the edges of
my mind. Now it’s more fun to pretend, to let myself
slip half-away and watch him from under my eyelashes. 



Though tired, he drives carefully, hands firm on the
wheel and the stick. His gaze darts over to check on
me every seven or eight minutes. Sometimes I catch him
smiling softly. There is no one in the world I’d
rather be driving with on the back roads of Virginia
at 12:30 on a Saturday morning. No one in the world
who would think to take me to a hammock in the woods
to watch the stars. 



Love bubbles hot and sweet in my chest, and I wonder
how I got so lucky. 



*   *   *   * 



“Here we are, Marine.” 



I shake the haze from behind my eyes and look up to
smile at my partner. We are parked behind his SUV in
front of my apartment building, and he is watching me
expectantly. 



“Hey,” I sigh as we unfasten our seatbelts. “Thanks
for the ride.” 



He chuckles without breeching the quiet cocoon that
has woven its way around us and hands me my keys.
“Anytime.” 



I smile to myself, roll my eyes affectionately when I
hear him come up behind me. Five years ago, he got it
in his head that it wasn’t safe for me to walk the
thirty feet from the curb to my front door alone, and
I haven’t been able to drill it out since. Maybe
that’s because, despite all my bluster, I never really
tried too hard to do it. It’s kind of nice, after all,
having someone worry about you. Even if the worry is
utterly ridiculous. 



He snatches the keys out of my hand, making me wonder
why he bothered to give them to me in the first place.
Stubborn and over-protective as ever, he opens the
door, ushers me in, and follows me up the steps to my
apartment. 



“You coming in?” I ask when he unlocks the deadbolt.
Now that we’re both awake, I wouldn’t mind if he
decided to hang around for awhile. 



“Nah. It’s a school night for us. What time you going
in tomorrow?” 



I shrug, not having given it much thought. The
Admiral’s not likely to be too strict about making up
hours given our outstanding performance the past
couple days, and I don’t have too much to do to
prepare for next week. I don’t think Harm does either.




“Maybe around nine or so,” I reply, leaning against
the doorjamb. “What about you?” 



“Yeah, that sounds good. Hey, you want to go running
after?” 



He sounds like a little boy asking a friend to come
out and play. I guess that’s how tonight started too –
we’ve come full circle. I smile and nod up at him.
“Yeah.” 



“Good. See you tomorrow then.” 



“Harm.” Before he can step away, I grab his sleeve,
absently rubbing the fabric between my fingers. God, I
love this shirt. 



He looks at me, a little curious, a little sleepy. And
happy. Tonight was so good for us. 



“I had a wonderful time tonight,” I say without
letting go his shirt. It’s not the first time I’ve
told him this; it is the first time I’ve meant it so
much. “Thank you.” 



Slowly, he raises his hand – the one whose sleeve I’m
not tugging on – and traces my cheek with the bend of
his index finger. He barely touches me and burns a
line across my skin. 



“My pleasure.” With a flick of his wrist, he whisks
his sleeve from my grasp and catches my hand in his.
Even as I watch him move, I can’t believe he’s doing
it. So quickly I’m not entirely sure I’m not imagining
it, he lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss
along my knuckles. 



While I gaze up at him like an idiot, my mouth hanging
half-open, he waggles his eyebrows at me and flashes
that killer grin. This time, though, there’s something
more to it, something luminous and bottomless that
strikes a wave of muffled shock and awareness in my
middle. 



“Lock up when you get in,” he murmurs, solemn despite
the smile, shuffling backwards a few steps before
spinning around and striding down the stairs. 



I don’t move, can’t even blink, for three and a half
minutes after he leaves. Floored again by Harmon Rabb,
Jr. What is it about that man? 



By the time I scrape myself up and muddle my way
inside, I am actually able to breathe somewhat
normally again. I lock the door – because it’s smart,
 because he ordered me to – and lean back against
it, allowing myself one melting sigh before I march to
the bathroom and prepare for bed. 



It shames me to admit I’m unreasonably reluctant to
wash my hand. 



*   *   *   * 



“Come on, Mac, get the lead out!” 



Audibly gritting my teeth, I glare at my partner and
sprint ahead of him. I swear if he taunts me one more
time, I’m going to jump-tackle him, drag him to the
ground, and wrestle with him ‘til he begs for mercy.
He thinks he’s so cute, using those damned long legs
of his to out pace me, then calling all of three feet
behind him to urge me on. Asshole. 



Was  swept off his feet and into a hammock last
night with no warning? No. Was  rendered mute and
senseless with a few words on my doorstep just shy of
one o’clock in the morning? No. Was  up half the
night, replaying the moment again and again in his
mind, the blood in his hand simmering in remembrance
of a phantom kiss? . If all that effort last night
was put in just so he could beat me in a run, I vow
he’ll be dead before the sun sets. 



That’s not entirely fair. I’m not that angry at him,
just the circumstances of the day, I suppose. I don’t
mind working weekends – in fact, I usually do – but a
big part of me just wanted to spend the day relaxed .
. . in civvies . . . with him. Not parked in front of
my computer typing up yet another amicus brief on
behalf of the JAG, the earpiece of a hard plastic
phone welded to my head. Absolutely ridiculous, given
we just spent essentially four solid days together and
were no more than twenty feet apart in the office, but
. . . I missed him today. And he’s got a shitload of
paperwork to finish tonight, since he puts all his off
until the weekends, and I know that means he can’t
come over, and . . . and right now I sound like a damn
high school kid mooning over her first love. Get a
grip, MacKenzie. 



Firmly summoning my resolve, I get a leg up on my
partner, sneak ahead of him to take the inside corner,
and shoot past the officer at the back gate, first by
a nose.  I’m in a good mood. 



“Too bad, flyboy,” I laugh, lowering the zipper on my
sweatshirt and walking with my hands on my hips to
cool down. “Beat by a Marine.” I don’t say “again,”
but my tone implies it well enough. 



Beside me, he’s still panting heavily. It always takes
him longer to level out than it does me. I tease him
it’s because he’s so much older. And a squid, of
course. 



“I had you for a mile until the very end,” he argues
when we pause briefly to stretch. “If I wasn’t such a
nice guy . . .” 



“Ooo,” I drawl. “ ‘If you weren’t such a nice guy . .
.’ You’d still owe me one.” I pause for a moment,
considering. “Next time the SG asks for an amicus,
it’s all yours.” 



He groans, all too familiar with the time-consuming
research, writing, and editing involved in the task.
“I’ll give you double or nothing on Monday.” 



I smile serenely and shake my head. Harm is very fast
when he’s got proper incentive; it’s not worth the
risk. One less brief to worry about is enough reward
for me. 



“All right.” He’s pouting now, and completely
adorable. There’s no way I’m caving, but I can still
appreciate the show. 



“You going back up?” 



He nods, looking up to the second floor with grim
determination. “You?” 



“Nope, I’m done.” 



“Lucky.” He walks me around the building to my car. 



“Harm, did you ever get the hammock last night?” I
forgot to remind him as we were leaving, and I’m
pretty sure he didn’t un-rig it between hauling me to
the car and driving us back. 



“I’ll get it tomorrow,” he says with a shrug. “I
thought I might go flying. You, ah, you want to come?”




Do I want to come? Nothing in the world could keep me
away. But please, don’t let that be written too
clearly on my face. 



“Okay,” I smile, pulling my keys from my pocket and
unlocking the car. “What time?” 



“Oh-eight hundred.” He grins and opens the door for
me. “I’ll pick you up. Bring a jacket.” 



I send him my best exasperated look. I can figure that
one out for myself, thanks. “Want me to bring
anything?” 



The look on his face says he’d just been waiting for
me to offer. “Food?” he suggests hopefully. 



Arching a brow and biting back a persistent smile, I
tilt my head to the side. “Egg salad sandwiches?” 



His head bobs up and down like an eager puppy’s. 



“Apples? Walnuts?” 



“Sounds good.” 



“Cookies?” 



His stomach growls in response, causing him to flush
and me to giggle. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no
higher compliment. 



“Cookies it is. See you tomorrow.” 



Suddenly gruff, he reaches out, pulls the zipper on my
sweatshirt up to my chin. Somehow, I get the feeling
the impersonal touch was his second choice. “See you
tomorrow. Wait inside – I’ll come up.” 



I know he will. Harm always comes up. Misguided
over-protectiveness, I call it. I nod anyway and slide
into the car. He closes the door for me. And we are
different. 



Harm will come up tomorrow, because he always comes
up. But something is different. I don’t know what, but
I know that it is. And so does Harm, judging by the
look on his face as he watches me drive away. 



Oh yeah. We are different. Something is different. 



I guess tomorrow we’ll find out how.