Lucky Break

LUCKY BREAK By

Jan Conwell Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.net

Triskelion Publishing 15327 W. Becker Lane Surprise, AZ 85379 Copyright 2005 Jan Conwell

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher except, where permitted by law. ISBN 1-933874-46-5 Publisher’s Note. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to a person or persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

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Chapter One On Monday morning at promptly 6:45, Fiona drove through the main gate of Sheppard Air Force Base, bound for the first day of her new job. She’d lived in Wichita Falls all her life, and had never been on this base. As she followed her map down the main road, she passed a huge chalk-gray plane poised as if it were taking off. Or landing. What she didn’t know about planes was a lot. That had to change—soon—if she wanted to keep her home. She parked her Toyota across from building 980, and gathered her purse and empty brief case. Touching the tiger’s eye hanging from her rearview mirror, she closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for luck in battle. She climbed out of the car, but that was as far as she got. Shifting her weight from one foot to another, Fiona eyed the cinder-block building with peeling trim. Apparently beige and brown threw up on this building. Did the government not authorize colors? She couldn’t really be doing this. The bat-size butterflies she’d felt as a college freshman were nothing compared to what occupied her stomach at the moment. These were shrieking, leather-winged pterodactyls. Aircraft. Maintenance. Fuel systems…flammable jet fuel? She tried to imagine her future as a tough, sexy, Top Gun ball-buster, brashly whipping new recruits into ace mechanics…but all she could see was Fiona the Flighty with her hair singed, cowered and whimpering in a corner, the school ablaze in a blistering inferno—the direct result of her “technical expertise”. Best if she just called Mike and told him no way. Mike’s oh-so-suave voice echoed in her head… “This is an opportunity a lot of people would love to have, Fiona. You have no idea how hard these jobs are to get. Some people wait for years to get a slot in the Palace Acquire Program, and I’m handing you this one on a platter.” The rat-bastard. She could still see his elegant hands playing with his tie, that day in the park when he’d dumped her. Married. He’d conveniently forgotten to tell her that part. Three years later, he remembered. This job was his bribe to keep her from telling the little missus. He knew if she took the job she’d never tell on him. What he didn’t know was that she would have never told. That didn’t make the choice any easier for her. Six months ago she’d graduated from Midwestern State with an MA in Mass Communications, high on optimism. Apparently Wichita Falls was already saturated with Mass Com Majors from MSU. She couldn’t get a job writing garage sale ads for the Shopper. She’d had two choices. Sell her house, or sell her pride. And there Momma always said she placed too high a value on intangibles. Momma, you should see me now. With a deep sigh, she crossed the street and opened the big glass door. A pale, pimply young man in camouflage sat at a desk in the breezeway. He stopped her. “I.D. ma’am?” “Oh. Of course.” She fished her new identification card out of her purse. The card had a computer chip in it. Very James Bond, she’d thought at the time of issue. Of course her

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picture made her look like a drowned cadaver with its eyes open. “Is security always this tight for tech school?” “Not always, ma’am. They’re conducting a security exercise. I wouldn’t go anywhere without your I.D. today or tomorrow if I were you. Thank you.” He waved her on through. She was an imposter, a spy who’d just gotten through the first checkpoint. A small brown plaque with white print announced the first door on the left as the Flight Administrative Office. She figured that was her first stop and stepped into the office. From behind a wall of cabinets came a tough, whisky and cigarettes voice. “Yes?” An office chair squeaked. A wiry old woman with steel gray hair and steel gray glasses peered over the office supplies lined up between them. Stern blue eyes fixed on Fiona and she was reminded of her sixth grade nightmare Mrs. Bilberry. “Come around here, Miss.” Fiona wound her way through a maze of copier paper, office equipment, and fake plants, and entered the tiny office fortress. “I’m Fiona Wright, the new Palace Acqu—er, I mean, the new instructor.” Mike had warned her to play down the PA internship part of her job, as most of the enlisted resented the program’s intrusion on the base. “Right. Good. I’m Shirley Kominsky, flight secretary.” Shirley suddenly bent over, barked a phlegmatic coughing fit that would make any four-pack-a-day smoker proud, and stood back up. “Excuse me. Before I take you to go meet the instructor supervisor, please fill out this locator card. Name, address, that kind of thing. Have you ever worked in a government job before?” She shuffled papers around as Fiona began to write. “No, ma’am. I spent a few years in the fast food business, did some subbing for WFISD, and here I am.” Fiona marveled at herself, blabbing all this to a perfect stranger. Mickey-D’s and grade school subbing…just the thing to inspire confidence in the new instructor. Maybe she should mention she was an expert on Shakespeare and Beowulf, while she was at it. Oh yeah. They’ll worship at my feet. “Well, don’t worry, it’s much worse than it seems.” Behind the steel-rim glasses, the stern blue eyes softened, and Shirley’s smile was a life buoy thrown out on a rope. “Once you get to know the place you’ll really hate it. And stop calling me ‘ma’am’. I get enough of that from the airmen. The instructors call me ‘Miss Shirley’, but you can call me just Shirley. We girls have got to stick together. Come on, I’ll show you where the ladies room and the break room are—men never think of those things—and then I’ll take you to meet your supervisor.” Fiona walked down the long hall following Just Shirley, dainty heels clicking on the linoleum floor behind the old woman’s sensible flats. The building was indeed as ancient as it had seemed from the outside, and the acrid ozone of a flickering florescent bulb stung her nostrils. The pterodactyls swooped and dived in her stomach. A little way down the hall, a door opened and a man barged out, head down in an attempt to untangle some sort of white coveralls. He ran smack into Miss Shirley, and grabbed her arm to help her balance. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You okay?” “Yes, I’m fine, Will. I would like you to meet Miss Wright.” The man stared at her, his face utterly devoid of expression, for a full five seconds. Fiona stared back. Straight black hair, cut severely short, and black, impenetrable eyes. She was close enough to see that he’d shaved, but a blue beard shadowed his chin and jaw. A tiny scar by the left corner of his upper lip, how did he get that?

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Then he blinked and said, “How d’you do? I’m Will McCrae.” He stuck out a brown, callused hand, and she shook it. “Are you the new hire for the civilian instructor slot?” His voice was deep and rich, with a touch of southern. And as devoid of expression as his face. “Yes, I am.” Her hair fell in her eyes again and ruined what little confidence she’d been able to conjure so far. “Welcome to Fuels, then. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to class.” With a nod, he walked past them. Fiona could have sworn he’d muttered ‘Thanks a lot, boss.’ Maybe she was just hearing things. She watched him stalk down the dimly lit hall. He walked like a heavyweight boxer, with loose, long strides. He was tall, maybe six-two? But slim, angular and graceful. Broad shoulders and a tight butt that seemed expressly made to wear that uniform. Silhouetted in the light from the glass doors at the end, he made a striking picture. She shook her head to get rid of the image. Men. Can’t live with ‘em. Can’t roast ‘em over a cheery bonfire. “Is he always that fun?” she asked Shirley. “No.” They looked at each other and shrugged. “All right, then.” Fiona glanced down the hall again, glad that he was gone now. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to work with him. “Well, off I go, into the Wild Blue Yonder.” They turned a corner and traveled another length of hall. Fiona looked left and right into open classroom doors, mystified at the incongruity between the men in camouflage battle dress uniforms and the classroom settings. Okay. What did she think? That the instructors would wear fuzzy sweaters covered with appliquéd apples and school buses? She wondered how long it would take before a military environment seemed normal to her rather than something out of a war movie. They reached the door at the end of the hall and another brown plaque with white lettering announced that they’d arrived at the Instructor Supervisor’s office. Peeling beige wallpaper covered the walls, and large, glass-covered bulletin boards filled with yellowing notices hung on both sides of the door. Shirley rapped hard on the door once, and someone bellowed “Enter!” Fiona’s first reaction upon seeing MSgt Flasque was one of familiarity: he looked like a younger version of Mr. Cabot, her elderly neighbor. Her new supervisor was short, with graying sandy hair, ruddy weathered skin, and blue eyes surrounded by laugh lines. A round paunch pushed out the front of his uniform shirt and made the buttons gap. Fiona’s guts unclenched. Maybe this person wouldn’t fire her the first week. It might take two weeks. “Come in. Come in.” MSgt Flasque jumped up and hurried around the desk, already reaching out his hand to shake hers. He invited both her and Shirley to sit down. Shirley declined, claimed she had to get back to the phones, and quickly dismissed herself, closing the door on her way out. Fiona sat on a vinyl couch so ugly it would sell for two thousand dollars in a designer magazine, and swallowed the frog in her throat. Her fear raced around in her mind like a trapped squirrel. One of the shrieking pterodactyls did a barrel roll. There was an entire freaking zoo in her body. She smothered the insane nervous laugh that almost whooped out, clamped her hands in her lap and tried to sit still. She crossed her feet. Then uncrossed them.

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MSgt Flasque leaned against his desk, propped his crossed arms on his belly and smiled down at her. “I trust Mrs. Kominsky has made you at home so far. We’ve been anxious for you to get here and get started. You’ll do great things, I’m sure.” She crossed her feet again. “Well, I have to be honest; I don’t have any aircraft experience—” “Please don’t worry about that. We will teach you everything you need to know. And of course, you’ll go over to the Faculty Development Flight for the Basic Instructor Course, as part of your training, so you’ll learn a little about Air Force training methods first. So please don’t fret, hon.” He reached out and patted her shoulder. “It’s got to be scary and new right now, but the way the qualification process works, you’ll be teaching Block I before you know it. That’s where we’ll start you once you’re out of BIC. Block I is just easy, basic stuff about forms, safety, and such.” Fiona felt her face get hot and closed her eyes. She’d been told about BIC, told about qualification for instructor duty, but it didn’t seem real until now, and he was being so nice. A little too friendly, but nice. Did he know what a fraud she was? She knew there were three kinds of screwdrivers; a flat kind, a pointy kind, and a butter knife kind. She knew to never use the hammer with the round thing because it makes a dent in the wood. She knew cantaloupe guts would clog a garbage disposal. That pretty much exhausted her supply of mechanical expertise. Mike had called in a favor to some high-priced civilian to secure this slot. Did this man resent having to hire her? How could he not? Forcing herself to sound calm, she said “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” “No such thing! You’re going to be a great asset here. You did us the favor by taking this job.” Fiona thought about the phone calls from creditors. The man had no idea who was getting the favor here. Okay, suck it up. She had the job, whether she’d gotten it honestly or not. No use sniveling about ethics now. MSgt Flasque talked for at least an hour about the usual run of the place. He outlined the yearly civilian evaluations, the “three-strikes” probationary period during which she would be trained. He explained the yearly TPRs (‘Trained Personnel Requirement’…she’d never learn all the acronyms!) and the duties, hours, and expectations. She was almost calm after his briefing, and ready to go on. He led her through the door on the other side of his office, into the instructor’s office. “You’ll take Mr. Vanter’s old desk, there between Sgt’s Kenny and McCrae. I have taken the liberty of having office supplies brought in and binders set up for your lesson plans, but if you need anything else, just see Mrs. Kominsky.” “Thank you.” “Well, you get settled, then you can head down to Civilian Personnel for your inprocessing appointments. The instructors are all in class right now, but they dismiss the airmen around fifteen-thirty for clean-up details. You’ll get a chance to meet them all then.” “Fifteen-thirty?” It was out before she could stop it. His blue eyes twinkled as he said “I guess that would be three-thirty p.m. for you. Don’t worry, hon, you’ll get used to it. Promise.”

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He went back into his office and shut the door. Fiona found herself alone in a large, bland, rectangular room that smelled like a crypt. A vast dry-erase board dominated one wall at the end, and at the other end was a door to the hall. In the corner, a TV blared CNN headlines. Fiona walked over and turned the volume down. Her spot was about in the middle of the long wall; face out and opposite MSgt Flasque’s door, between two other desks. She looked at her ugly, gray metal desk and sensed a funny little bud of pride blossoming in her chest. She’d never had a job that required a desk—at least not one that was hers. As a sub she’d used the teachers’ desks and had always been afraid to touch anything on them. She sat in the gray tweed office chair and almost tipped over backward. Opening drawers, she found sticky notes of all sizes and colors, highlighters, pencils, and a brand new box of dry-erase markers. Colors! She took the purple one out of the box and took off its cap, inhaling its stinging chemical odor. The lesson plan binders were white with clear plastic sheathing under which someone had slipped pieces of copier paper printed with ‘Block I’, ‘Block II,’ and ‘Block III’. The binders were empty, but in one drawer she found two boxes of document protector sleeves, ready to be filled with lesson plan pages. MSgt Flasque had said as soon as the ISS (another acronym!) came off of leave, he’d get her the first lesson plan outlines so she could start her “sit-behind” in Block I. It looked like this was really going to happen, in spite of everything. Her first job after earning a master’s degree in Journalism was to teach Aircraft Fuel Systems Maintenance. Fiona didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ***** Nine-ten. Break was over. Technical Sergeant William Joseph McCrae gathered his Block III lesson plan and handouts just as Rick Kenny bounced around the corner into the instructor’s office, snapping his fingers and whistling. TSgt Rick Kenny stood about five foot four and might weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet with rocks in his pockets. With long, skinny arms and the one eyebrow stretched across his forehead, he looked like a wiry, cheerful ape. If Will curbed the urge to knock him on the head sometimes, it was because the man was a damned good fuels mechanic. “Hey Will! Whassup?” “Rick.” “D’you hear about the newest addition to our team?” “I met her this morning.” “So it is a woman? Oh yeah. S-w-e-e-e-e-t! I thought maybe Tubbs was shittin’ me.” “Okay, the new instructor is a woman. So?” “Whaddya mean ‘So?’ Last time I looked around here,” Rick swept his arm around the empty instructor’s office to include the brown filing cabinets, gray desks, and beige walls, “the shop was manned entirely by males!” He howled at his cleverness and parked his hands into his uniform pants pockets. “This place could use some scenery!” “So…you want her to redecorate? You sound like you never worked with a female before, Rick. It’s not a new thing. Remember? Women’s lib and all that happened several

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decades ago. I’ve heard they even let them vote now.” Will looked down and back up again, eyebrows raised. “Pockets?” Rick grinned and took his hands out, holding them up like he was being robbed. “Okay! Okay! The Regulator strikes again! I swear, Will, you and your regs. You’re as fun as wet toilet paper. I don’t know why your students like you.” “They don’t. I threaten them. Here’s a thought; next time you iron that uniform, try turning the iron on. I’m late to class.” Will started out the office door, but stopped and turned. “Oh, and Rick? Don’t drool on the new instructor.” “Ha! I hope she’s hot! Give us a break from your ugly mug.” Will shook his head and left the office. On the way to class he passed two other instructors in the hall, moaning about their students. Feeding each other that old crap sandwich. In Will’s opinion, there was no such thing as a “Class from Hell.” Lazy bastards. He’d often wondered why he enjoyed being an instructor. He didn’t like people at all. But students were okay. Hyped up, ready to get their hands dirty, students were like sponges, hungry to learn every little detail. They even liked the smell of jet fuel. He smiled to himself. That would change, once they were in the field a while. You could usually smell a Fuelie before you saw him. No, if there was such a thing as a Class from Hell, it was the instructor’s doing. A bad instructor could turn a willing class of young men and women into a sullen, twelve-headed block of stubbornness. Instructor from Hell was more like it. But you’d never get these guys to see it. The airmen were Rocks or had Attitude Problems. But attitudes could change, given the right motivation. Usually it was just high spirits. And those rocks might be slower than their classmates when it came to bookwork, but most times they worked harder. Made great airmen out in the field. Still, he didn’t like being told how to do his job. He wasn’t going to tell other instructors how to do theirs. That left very little else to talk about with his coworkers. Which, as Will saw it, was perfect. Except now he’d gotten tagged to train the new instructor. That woman should be in a perfume commercial, not climbing into a fuel tank wearing whites and a respirator.

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Chapter Two A month later, Fiona walked down the long hallway of Wing Eight South of the North Plains Care Center, carrying a plastic tray with tea for two. The familiar odor of the place assaulted her. No matter how hard the staff tried—and this place was better than most—the smell of a nursing home was a faint miasma of stale pee and old age. Room Twenty, Momma’s room. Fiona waited a heartbeat before opening the door, steeling herself for the visit. Would it be a good day or a bad one? Over the past couple of years, there had been fewer and fewer good ones. Momma stood on the far side of the bed by the window, looking out, when Fiona stepped into the room. At the sound, Momma turned, her expression one of blank, roundeyed curiosity. Fiona sat the tray on the table by the door, and reached in her sweater pocket. “Hello, Momma. It’s a beautiful spring day out there, isn’t it? Look, I brought you something. I made it today in class.” Fiona held out the Christmas ornament she’d made in BIC. Tiny glass beads on wire shaped into a snowflake. “Basic Instructor Course—BIC. The course doesn’t teach me anything about aircraft, but we study teaching principles and communication. You remember, that’s what I studied in school—communication.” She’d been visiting here since she was twenty, six years now, and still didn’t know what to say to her mother in this place—at least not when her mother was “Mrs. Wright” instead of Momma. She knew from her mother’s expression that it was a Mrs. Wright day, but it never hurt to try. Fiona sat on the near edge of the bed, then got up and smoothed the dents out of the covers. She wished Momma would say something. “Well, to be honest, my voice still shakes when I get up in front of people, but at least I don’t feel like projectile vomiting anymore.” She tried out a laugh that didn’t carry but an inch or two past her nose. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pressed on. “We’re supposed to be learning how to teach hands-on lessons. Today we wove Dream Catchers, shot skeet, and made Christmas ornaments, like kids in grade-school.” She tried out the laugh again. It was a little better, but still pretty anemic. The irony of telling her mother about her day at school lay between them like a boulder she was supposed to pick up. Now Momma was the child and Fiona the adult. “Who are you looking for, dear?” Her mother’s forehead was an accordion of wrinkles as she peered up at what she obviously took to be a complete stranger. “Young lady, you are kind to bring me a gift. It is certainly lovely. But I fear you have me confused with someone else. I have no children. You must have the wrong house. I’m sorry. Do try next door: Mr. Cabot has children.” “Okay. Well, it’s for you, anyway. I’ll just put this here on your nightstand.” Fiona laid the ornament down next to a tiny, carved obsidian turtle she’d brought a couple months ago. She checked around to see that the room was clean, no dust, recently vacuumed. Horror stories in the news had made it hard to trust Momma’s care to strangers. North Plains was costly, but the relative peace of mind was worth it. That first government paycheck had been a godsend.

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“Would you like some tea, Mom—Mrs. Wright?” Long ago, the nurses had said it was probably better if Fiona went along with the delusions. Half the time, Momma didn’t know what time it was, what day or season. She rambled on about impossible things that could only have happened in dreams. Right now she stared at the wall, as if she’d vacated her body. Fiona was glad to play along with the delusions—it was too painful to do otherwise. She had learned early on to test the weather at the beginning of each visit and play it from there. Depending on how the Alzheimer’s treated her mother, Fiona was either a loving, careful daughter, or a polite young lady visiting Mrs. Wright. Apparently today was Polite Young Lady. “I’ve been going to Basic Instructor Course so I can teach Aircraft Maintenance.” she said. Saying it out loud was terrifying. Aircraft Maintenance? “That’s nice, dear. Tea. Would you like some tea? I was just going to have some.” Momma’s eyes clouded with confusion. Clutching her bony hands in her hair, she moaned. “Where is the tea pot? I think someone has stolen my silver tea service! Oh, how dangerous this neighborhood has gotten!” The panic in her voice threatened to break Fiona’s heart. “It’s here! It’s okay. Yes, I would love some tea. Here it is! Let me get it.” Fiona brought the tray around the end of the bed and put it on the low table near the window. She had stopped at the cafeteria for tea on her way in, a thermal hospital pitcher with a screw-on lid, and two plastic cups. Pouring it out, she handed one cup to her mother, and then sat on the pee-smelling rocking chair, left from a previous tenant. Momma sat opposite on a paisley divan situated near the window—her favorite spot, according to the nurses. Fiona looked out at the garden. Early spring green had begun to filter into the grass, but otherwise the landscape lay dormant. To either side of the scene hung light blue curtains with sunflowers along the bottom ruffle. Momma didn’t remember that Fiona had made them. The window was open a little and traffic sounds came in on the breeze. “Are you waiting for someone?” Momma asked. She was formal and gracious, as if the panic of a minute ago had never happened. They could have been two strangers waiting at an airport gate. A clock ticked loudly from the dresser. A cracked, hysterical voice down the hall screamed “Romero! Romero!” “No, ma’am, I’m just visiting. How have you been, Mrs. Wright?” Fiona took a sip of her tea. Her hand shook a little. “Thank you for asking, dear. I’ve put in a new vegetable garden, and it’s growing nicely. But you know these humid Missouri summers.” Momma’s hands fluttered and then settled in her navy gabardine lap. Since the day she was widowed at thirty-five, Momma had never worn anything but black, brown, navy, or gray. “It’s far too hot for me during the day now, so I go out in the early mornings. “Oh—the crepe myrtle is blooming, and there are asters and roses just everywhere. I do love the garden. I think I will put in a wisteria along the back fence this fall. It will take a couple of years to begin blooming, of course, but it will be beautiful once it does. Hank loves wisteria. He said he would build me an arbor for it to climb on.” Fiona sighed and sipped her tea. “That will be lovely, Mrs. Wright.” She knew Mrs. Wright wouldn’t notice that her visitor’s hand trembled. *****

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A week later, Fiona sat at her desk at the office. It was time for her first Staff Notes Meeting. Lots of firsts with this job. She tried to forget the fact that her evil twin sister was growing out of her chin. Nothing like a giant stress zit to make your day brighter. The room began to fill up with instructors and course development staff. MSgt Flasque presided from the front of the room, sitting at a commandeered instructor’s desk with his back to the huge dry-erase board. On the lower left corner of the board, a message for one of the instructors remained; “SSgt Bingham, Honor Guard Practice Rescheduled.” The instructors sat at their desks and additional chairs had been brought in for the office staff. Fiona had put a chair by her desk for Shirley, hoping to have a friendly face nearby. One of the course writers took it. He was a fat, bald man who breathed loudly as if he had just run a race. He looked at her and didn’t smile. “Well, let’s get started.” MSgt Flasque banged a stapler on the desk like a gavel. “I’d like to begin the meeting by introducing Miss Fiona Wright, born and raised right here in Wichita Falls. Will, you start us off, and the rest of you all will introduce yourselves.” MSgt Flasque beamed at Fiona. She was glad she’d had the training at BIC; if this much attention had focused on her a month ago, she would have passed out. As it was she was almost calm. Almost. “Yes sir.” Will stood up. His desk sat beside hers to the left, and she looked at him. He was a walking recruitment commercial for the military—crew cut, sharp creases ironed into his uniform, boots gleaming. “We’ve already met, of course. I’m TSgt Will McCrae, block supervisor for Blocks I, II, and III. Glad to have you aboard.” He sat down, elbows on his desk, and stared out to the center of the room, his face a blank canvas. Every once in a while the blank canvas would twitch, though. Fiona wondered if he was really all that glad she was aboard. Either he was lying through that straight face or he suffered sever gastrointestinal distress. Introductions made their way around the room. She’d met most of the people present, either in the hall or here in the office. But some faces were unfamiliar. Very few of her new coworkers smiled when they introduced themselves. One in particular, Staff Sergeant Bingham of the message board said; “So, where did you get your aircraft experience, Miss Wright?” Fiona scanned her mind for what they’d taught her in BIC. Head up, firm voice, don’t fidget with her hands. No foot shifting. “I don’t have any aircraft experience, SSgt Bingham. It is not a prerequisite for a Palace Acquire Internship. A degree, and a grade point average of above 3.5 are required. I was a communications major, so maybe the government figured I could bluff my way through.” Nobody laughed. Especially not SSgt Bingham. Bingham leaned forward in his chair and punched one fist into the other hand. His eyes were the color of ice, but his face was red. The red glowed an interesting sort orange under the blond curly hair—Fiona had to stifle the spazmanian-devil-laugh that erupted, much like Evil Twin, during stressful times. Now was so not the time to lose it. SSgt Bingham’s head might explode. Oh, not helping Fiona…stop it! “We take our training here very seriously, Miss Wright. I hope you don’t think anyone is going to carry your load.” “SSgt Bingham, please!” MSgt Flasque favored Fiona with a wink. “Miss Wright is not at fault for the way the Palace Acquire Program recruits its interns. She’s simply taking fair

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advantage of an employment opportunity. The program has been in place at Sheppard, and on other training bases, for years. I’m sure if the government offered you a job with a chance to make TSgt pay in two years, you’d jump at the chance, too.” Big hearty chuckles drifted around the room. Thanks a lot, MSgt Flasque. While she did appreciate his effort to diffuse the apparent hostility, she didn’t like the slant he put on things. A mention of her qualifications and work ethic would be nice. Right. And maybe her old manager at McDonalds could come down and say a word. Right after that, she could announce her candidacy for president. She took a deep breath and looked from face to face all around the room. “I assure each of you that I will study, learn, and master the material required to teach this course. If I don’t know or understand something, I will come to you, the experts, to find out. But no one,” she looked at Bingham, “will have to carry any of my responsibilities.” Another instructor, (TSgt Sikes, his tag said) leaned forward; “So, are you saying that just anyone could come in here and teach this course? That’s a little insulting to those of us with real experience in this job. Those of us who are qualified.” A familiar whiskey-and-cigarettes voice spoke up. “Gentlemen, you are missing the point.” Just Shirley leaned forward and coughed into her bony fist. Straightening, she sent a bland gaze toward Sikes and Bingham. “Does a brain surgeon start his education by opening up heads and poking around in gray matter? No, a brain surgeon does not. A brain surgeon begins by attending regular college, then medical school, and then specialty training. Does the Anatomy and Physiology professor at that medical school have to be a qualified brain surgeon to teach a simple biology course? “You know damned well that the airmen who leave here will get in-depth, aircraftspecific training when they get to their gaining units. Miss Wright can teach this material; it is not brain surgery.” The room was quiet for a minute, and then the fat, bald man next to Fiona burst out laughing, a rather alarming wheeze of laughter, in fact. A couple of smiles around the room lightened the atmosphere, and the meeting went on to other business. Fiona mouthed “Thank You” at Shirley, who winked and mouthed “Anytime.” ***** In the empty classroom with Will McCrae, preparing her lesson plans for her qualification training, Fiona closed her eyes and sent up a fervent wish for Mike Lucas to develop giant, oozing warts all over his face. And chronic hiccups. And an itchy rash on places he couldn’t scratch in public. She hadn’t expected the job he’d handed her to be a cakewalk, but this was juggling chainsaws. As MSgt Flasque had explained it, the qualification process for Air Force tech school instructors was fairly simple—at least if one has done the job he or she is to teach. She would sit through a class—known as a “sit-behind”. Then she would teach a class with a qualified instructor at the back of the room. Then she would solo. For Fiona the process didn’t appear quite so simple. How was she to learn the tech school subject as she learned to teach it? Every instructor in this building had worked on jets for years before they got here. Most of them had zero compunction about reminding her of

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that fact. This was, so far as she could tell, the one and only redeeming value in having Will McCrae as her training instructor. The man was not inclined to brag. Up ‘til now, he rarely even spoke. Will looked over Fiona’s shoulder, trying not to be distracted by the scent of flowers. It wafted out of all that hair, piled up and pinned with a silver clip. Little tendrils had escaped and she twisted one around her finger. Her lesson plan was open to the Orientation section. With all the plastic she had in there, Block I alone took up a four-inch binder. Damned civilians. He hated the idea that the quality of the airmen’s training was subject to the whims of civil service politics. Picking up the pile of class-start paperwork, he walked down the row of desks to the end. This civilian was just too damned feminine. Unlike half the guys on the instructor team, Will had no problem working with females. Some of the best mechanics he’d worked with had been women. But the type of women who made good mechanics wore uniforms and acted about as feminine as tanks. This one was hell and gone from that type. Gorgeous women were trouble. They batted their lashes. Distracted the men. Caused fights. They let the guys carry anything over two pounds and spent more time on their hair than on a fuel cell. Useless on the flightline. Fiona Wright was the worst instructor candidate he could think of; an inexperienced, unmilitary, gorgeous, female civilian. And he would train her—just as he had trained all the others—to the best of his abilities. Something told him it wasn’t going to be easy. Look at her lesson plan! Trussed up like a turkey, like she never intended to write a word on it. While he approved of how squared-away it looked, the woman had apparently given no thought to the function of a working lesson plan. “Why do you have all your lesson plan pages in document protectors?” he asked. Fiona looked up. She was glad he had moved down to the end of the row, because with him looking over her shoulder, she was paranoid she’d done something wrong. Again. “They’re supposed to be in document protectors, or we fail our ORI inspections.” Why did this man make her feel vapid and helpless? She had an MA, dammit! She didn’t need to be told how to manage a notebook. Will snorted. “Who told you that?” “TSgt Sikes did. Why?” Fiona narrowed her eyes at him. The sudden sinking feeling in her stomach told her she’d been the butt of yet another joke. That would be the third one this week. It was only Tuesday morning. “Well, for one thing, it’s bullshit. Do you even know what an ORI is? Operational Readiness Inspection. They don’t care if you put your lesson in document protectors, write it in crayon, or paint it on sheets of papyrus. They only care that it’s current, signed off, and in the classroom when you’re teaching.” He reached for a videotape sitting on a corner bookshelf. “And for another—more important—thing, you still need to personalize the right-hand side of your pages. All that plastic will be in the way. The noise of you pulling pages out and messing with them back here will distract the airmen from the lesson.” Will went up to the front of the class, shoved the tape into the VCR, and keyed up the TV monitor. He glanced back over his shoulder and shook his head. Was she always going to

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wear perfume, and that silky, lacy stuff to work? Ridiculous. A few eight-hour days on her feet up here and she’d be re-thinking those damned high-heels. Fiona sighed. She had come in early so she could learn how to set up the classroom for a new group of students. She had really hoped for another instructor for her sit-behind. While this one had decent manners compared to most of the herd, he emanated palpable “You’re wasting my time” vibes. She opened to the back of her lesson plan and peeked at the photographs she had hidden back there. One of her house, one of Momma. The pictures helped steady her resolve. Okay, Iron-Man, get over yourself. You’re stuck with me, and the feeling is mutual. With as straight a face as she could manage, she started pulling pages out of document protectors. But only enough to cover the lesson for that day. No need to let Sergeant I’mAlways-Right see her take them all out. She made a mental note to bring in some Chocolate Ex-Lax Brownies tomorrow morning, to thank TSgt Sikes for his advice. “Here. You’ll want to see the Progress Checks and answers before the students show up. We use this to grade their answer sheets after every exercise. Never leave it in the classroom when you go on breaks.” TSgt McCrae set a binder on the desk and pushed it over to her. The front of it said; ‘Block One/PC Answers’. “Oh my Goodness! I must have forgotten to look at myself in the mirror this morning.” Fiona put her fingers up to her forehead and rubbed furiously. “Apparently while I slept, somebody crept in my room and wrote ‘Stupid’ on my forehead.” She shoved the binder back toward him, and sent what she hoped were tiny, curare-tipped darts out of her eyes. “No, thank you. I’d like to do this from the students’ perspective. If I know the answers, then I won’t be able to catch the gaps in the lesson.” He went suddenly still. “There are no gaps in my lessons, ma’am.” Ma’am? His face was devoid of expression, but his eyes were so dark they were almost black, and he did a fine job with his own curare darts. He was clearly pissed, so how did he keep his voice that steady? She would love to be able to do that. “I meant no offense, sir. It’s just that at BIC—” “Those people have no clue what it’s like in a real tech school classroom. You might be better off taking what they say with a grain of salt.” “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.” What absolute crap. This guy had just the kind of dinosaur thinking her BIC instructor had warned her about. The ‘old guard’ didn’t want any truck with new ideas or methods. It was hard enough just to get them to use PowerPoint instead of their crumbling, twenty year old transparencies! They’d probably prefer to write their lessons in the dirt. With sticks. Then they could all just point, grunt and scratch. How had technology come so far with men in charge of it? Just then, dozens of pairs of combat boots sounded in the hall, not marching, exactly, but close. One young airman poked his head in the door, popped out again. After some whispering, he stepped in again, strode up to Will, and stood at attention. “Airman First Class Dodson reports as ordered, sir.” “Good, Airman Dodson. I appreciate your professionalism, but you don’t have to do a reporting statement here in class. Are the rest of the students out there?” “Yes, sir.”

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Will stepped into the hall, directed the remaining airmen into the classroom and told them to take their seats. While they sorted themselves and found places for their hats and briefcases, Fiona stood in the corner and observed them. So young! Fresh faces, pimples, clear eyes and nerves as tight as bowstrings. After subbing for the city schools, she expected a roomful of rowdy, insolent kids. These were young adults, quiet and professional. No cutting up, no chatting, not so much as a whisper. They got their materials ready, opened their notebooks, and then…just sat there, facing the front of the room. What did they do to these kids in boot camp? Amazing. Fiona found herself situated on the end of the back row, next to a beefy, athletic-looking black kid. He smelled of soap and fear. She smiled and he smiled back. He looked as nervous as she felt. His cloth name patch said his name was Perry, and the stripes on his arm said he was…oh what did two stripes mean again? Why was she here? Oh yeah. House. She opened her lesson plan book. Page one. (Not in document protectors…) Introduction and Orientation. TSgt McCrae wrote his name on the board, and turned to face the class. “Good morning. Welcome to the Aircraft Fuel Systems Maintenance Apprentice Course. I’m Technical Sergeant William McCrae, and I’ll be your instructor for the first part of your training here, Blocks I and II, at least. In the back you see Miss Wright, who is qualifying to become an instructor. You will treat her with the customs, courtesies and respect that you will use with any NCO or Officer. If you have any questions as we go through the orientation this morning, feel free to ask. Let’s begin.” ***** The day flew. Fiona wrote so fast in the right-side margin of every lesson plan page that she had writer’s cramp by lunchtime. She didn’t know what she should write, but he covered so much that wasn’t in the lesson plan’s outline! How could this possibly work? The study guide covered some of it, but not in nearly enough detail. Good thing she was no stranger to research and study. She would just have to live at the library for the next few years. Her roommate would starve on his own bad cooking, but a job is a job. She forced herself to let go of the pencil, and stretched out her hand. There was a deep dent on her finger where she’d gripped so tight. She looked down at her lesson plan and the page of notes she’d taken. Her writing looked like a seismograph reading—it would take a while to interpret this tonight. She’d drawn the diagrams of pumps and manifolds, check valves and fuel flow proportioners. TSgt McCrae’s drawings on the dry erase board had each been a decent semblance of the diagrams in the book. Hers looked like child’s colorful rendition of the lower intestinal tract. She took a deep breath, tried to picture herself--successful, confident, and capable. While she still didn’t manage the whole Top Gun fantasy, her imaginary Fiona stood mostly upright in front of the class, and her hair was singe-free. Not great, but better.

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As she listened to TSgt McCrae, she found herself relaxing to the cadence of his speech. His voice reminded her of cello music. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel its resonance in her chest. He had an accent, like hers, but rounder. The Carolinas, maybe? For all of his gruff demeanor, he was truly interesting to look at. He brought to mind the hero in an old spaghetti western…squinty-eyed from riding in the sun, tough and forbidding. Too clean-shaven for that, but even so he always had that shadow of a blue beard on his tan face. What would he look like if he smiled? TSgt McCrae did have a way with the airmen, dinosaur thinking or no. He didn’t joke with them, and by all accounts he would be described as terse, serious, and authoritative. But he constantly asked them “why” questions about the lesson, why use this equipment, why that step was the next procedure. Once he had demonstrated that he would not proceed without their full cooperation, the students answered, and soon a surprisingly easy atmosphere of give and take took over. She was new to the instructor game, but with two degrees, she knew a good teacher when she saw one. This guy could teach…she had to admit. Fiona was not too proud to ask questions, and eventually began to feel more like an able student than a fraudulent instructor. When she did ask, TSgt McCrae answered her with exactly the same tone and attention he used with the airmen. But occasionally he would stare at her for a few heartbeats after answering. She still couldn’t see past the poker face, but something in those black eyes made the elevator drop in her stomach.

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Chapter Three One of the best things about being the Boss was that Master Sergeant Rosco Flasque had not only his own office, his own computer, his own phone, and his own picture window with a view of the patio (he could see who took breaks and when), but that he had his own couch. Of course, it was an ugly couch, covered in burnt-orange Naugahyde. Supposed to be for guests and visitors to his office, seating for students in counseling, but Rosco was a man of vision, and the things he envisioned for that couch were definitely not government sanctioned. The phone rang. “Fuels Course, MSgt Flasque.” “Rosco! You up for a couple hours after lunch?” “Yeah, you bet! I can’t get free ‘til eleven or so. How ‘bout we sink the first hook by twelve thirty?” “Sounds great. Arrowhead or Wichita?” “Well, I’ve still got my boat parked in the marina at Arrowhead, let’s just go there. You get bait, I’ll get beer.” “Can do. See ya there.” Rosco hung up and swung his chair around to look out the window. The glass was covered in sun-reflecting tinted film, unnecessary since the window was under the patio awning, but Rosco had discovered that it allowed him to look out without allowing anyone to see in. This fact figured heavily in the things he had envisioned for the ugly couch. It was about damned time he’d gotten this office. Three years teaching brain-dead rocks how to pull cells and boost-pumps, another four years as Course Writer. The Course Writer job had its benefits. After the non-stop schedule of being on the instructor’s podium, he’d spent almost no time in his office as Writer; the stuff was already written, so all he’d had to do was make changes once in awhile. But he’d made Master halfway through the four years, and still had the same job title and description. Humiliating. With the promotion to Fuels Maintenance Course Instructor Supervisor almost a year ago, he finally got the recognition and respect that was due a Master Sergeant, as well as the pay. The supervisory experience looked great on his Enlisted Performance Reports too, but since he planned to pretty much coast from here to retirement, EPR’s were only so much paperwork. One solid knock sounded on the door. “Enter!” Rosco bellowed. The heavy door opened and an airman, with hair cut so close his white scalp gleamed, took three steps up to the desk and stood stiffly at attention. Beads of sweat stood on his upper lip and forehead. “Airman Thatcher reports as ordered.” “What d’you want, Thatcher?” “MSgt Flasque, sir, you told me to report to you at oh-seven-hundred.” “Well, what is it?” “Uniform discrepancies, sir.”

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“I know it was the uniform. Back up from the desk, airman.” Rosco rose from his desk, and came around to circle the boy. Leaning in close, he pretended to inspect the boy from his haircut to his combat boots. “Boots could still use work. It’s a right and a privilege to wear that uniform, airman. You’d best remember that from now on, if you want to stay in my Air Force. Dismissed.” “Thank you sir.” Amn Thatcher did a sharp about-face and left the office. Rosco turned on his computer, checked to see if Senior Airman Tyler had sent him the proposed schedule for the next four months of classes and instructors, printed a memo about Commander’s call, and then did an on-line search for the new spinner bait he’d read about. Just as he’d hit Send on his order for the lure, the phone rang again. “Fuels Course, MSgt Flasque.” “MSgt Flasque, this is Betty Thompson from Personnel.” A nasally voice crackled over the line. “Yes, Betty Thompson. How can I be of service to you?” “Our records show that a Miss Fiona Wright was scheduled to begin her Palace Acquire Internship in your organization on the last pay-period in February?” “You are so right, Betty. She did start then, has gone through BIC, and is now qualifying.” “Good. I needed to verify that she did start, and get her form 50 in the employee file and the 171’s to you. It sounds like everything is ready to go. You should be receiving those within three business days.” “Well then, sweetheart, consider it verified. I’ll get that file posted as soon as I get the forms.” Rosco let his voice go deep and smooth. “It’s been great talking with you. Have a great day, Betty.” Mrs. Thompson giggled like a school girl, and said “You too, MSgt Flasque.” Rosco hung up the phone, turned on the radio, and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. The old bat had said Miss Wright, not Mrs. Not that it mattered. It was his understanding that his newest fuels maintenance instructor was the mattress warmer of a friend of one of the top-dog civilians on base. The Good Ol’ Boy System was alive and well. God bless America! Civil service seemed straight enough on the outside, but anybody with high enough connections could get whatever job he wanted. All he—or she—had to do was fill out the paperwork just so and whisper in the right person’s ear. Rosco smiled. He bet she whispered plenty, to get a job like this one with no experience and no training. With manning cut to the bone, old Vanter’s empty civilian slot was pulled out from under them. The only way they were able to get another body on the podium was to accept a Palace Acquire. PA’s didn’t count against the manning dockets. So it had been her or nothing. No—worse. It had been her, or he would have had to go back on the podium to keep up with the increased student load. But PA’s were worse than useless, and he resented having one shoved down his throat without any input in the hiring process. Take a puffed-up college grad that didn’t know a fuel cell from her asshole, and put her in a classroom to teach airmen how to work on jets. Right. Oh well. At least he, personally, wouldn’t have to fill in the blanks in the schedule. That was

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the main thing. He was in coast-mode—officially ROAD: Retired On Active Duty—and proud of it. Ha! So, let the fancy mattress warmer teach Fuels. At promptly eleven a.m., Rosco cleared his desk, and got ready to leave for the day. The guys would look at him funny for leaving early. So what if he took a little time off? With nineteen and a half years in the service and retirement papers up next week, he was due a little R&R. He didn’t take off but once or twice a week, and he’d earned every damned minute of it. All those years of freezing his ass off on the flightline. Well, a few years in Germany, anyway. The rest had been in the Azores, Florida, and then Sheppard, where the work was inside. That changed nothing. He’d served Uncle Sam with his best, and now it was his turn. Before he turned off his computer, he printed out the revised schedule that Tyler had left him. The one with Miss Wright scheduled to start a Block I in a couple of weeks. He still couldn’t believe his luck. She was hot! Too skinny, but she had a perfect, tight little ass. Legs a mile long. She needed some sun, though. She was so pale he could see traces of blue veins at her temples. Almost zero in the tit department, too, but you can’t have everything. She dressed like a model, silky stuff that had no business here. She clicked down the halls in high heels like she was on a runway. Like she was wearing a goddamned tiara. He loved it. After Shirley’s squawking during staff notes, the princess had begun to act like she was entitled to be here. She even seemed to think she would fit in! Rosco laughed out loud, and looked out his window at the smoker’s patio. Miss Fiona Wright was completely oblivious to the depth of resentment the GIs felt toward her. How useful. Rosco unlocked the bottom right hand drawer of his desk, the one with the employee files in it. He took out the one labeled Wright, and opened it. He’d been bluffing about the “three strikes and you’re out” policy when he did the girl’s in-processing brief; he had no idea if such a policy existed. But something had told him to go for it, and he was glad he did. He had done a little homework. Civilian job security was not as solid as everyone believed it was. Supervisors didn’t want to do the paperwork and counseling it took to get somebody fired. As a result, incompetence was the rule rather than the exception. But there was a probationary period. He could get rid of her, if he was willing to do the paperwork. Getting rid of her wasn’t the goal. But the idea of probation was a nice little added pressure he could use…a motivational tool, you could say. Better yet was the clause in that pain-in-the-ass Palace Acquire Program contract: her performance here could determine whether or not she got a permanent slot at the end of her two year internship. If she got that far. That clause was what amounted to a “three-strike” policy, just like he’d promised Miss Wright. Since he knew she had no aversion sleeping her way to the top—she wouldn’t have been shoved down his goddamned throat otherwise—she would naturally want to keep her internship healthy and on the right track. God, he loved his job. *****

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So far, so good. Fiona had gotten through Block I, passed the Progress Checks, and aced the Block Test. Despite the constant harassment of the other instructors, she had developed a measure of confidence in her ability to do this job. Or more specifically, confidence that what Shirley had said was true; this was not brain surgery. Scary sometimes, potentially deadly if approached carelessly, but not brain surgery. After lunch, TSgt McCrae brought the class into the trainer lab, to conduct operational checks on simulated fuel control panels of three different types of aircraft. An F-16, a KC-135, and a C-5. There was great oohing and aahing from the students over the complicated-looking trainers, but TSgt McCrae told Fiona that despite their enormous expense, they were “really not much more than switches and lights” rigged up in metal boxes, each the size of a Cadillac turned on its side. There were normally twelve students in a class. Since one student washed back due to a Block test failure, Fiona was now number twelve. For this Block the students divided into three teams of four students each—one team per trainer. Her team currently worked on troubleshooting the C-5 trainer, which was Fiona’s personal favorite; it was very logically laid out, and didn’t make her dizzy with flashing lights the way the F-16 trainer did. As much as she tried to dislike him, TSgt McCrae had earned her respect. He clearly made an effort to teach her, not only the lesson plan material but also the fourteen billion administrative details of each lesson. She had a folder full of cheat-sheets so she could remember all the behind-the-scenes stuff she’d never have known otherwise…where to turn on the generator, where circuit breakers were hidden, how to operate these damned trainers. McCrae never appeared impatient with her, never treated any of her questions as anything but honest efforts to learn. Two things he did not do: defend her against the other instructors or join them in their harassment. At first she’d been angry that he wouldn’t tell the others to back off. Didn’t the man have an ounce of chivalry in him? But as time passed, she realized that if she didn’t toughen up, learn to withstand the cannibalistic flightline mentality, she would never make it. So she started her own line of defense. TSgt Sikes still thought those seeds she’d scattered all through his desk drawers were mouse turds. Yesterday he yelled for everybody to stop eating in the office—“it draws mice!” Iron-Man McCrae had actually grinned. Right in public. At the moment, Fiona was distracted—but by what, she couldn’t say. The other three students in her group each had a task, but she was just “extra” for this one. She watched the team working on the KC-135 trainer, and something about one of the female students didn’t seem right. Airmen were allowed to remove their outer, BDU shirts, and work in their brown undershirts when temperatures in the lab got uncomfortably warm. Then it hit her. Amn Savage was braless! Fiona had never been a strict adherent to bras herself—no need when your shoulder blades stuck out further in the back than your boobs did in the front. But any woman with a brain knows you don’t go around braless in a thin t-shirt in front of guys unless you’re extremely flat or sending a message. Amn Savage was so not flat. That particularly bouncy message was fine at a club or a barbeque, but on the job? She tried to catch TSgt McCrae’s eye. When that failed, she stepped over to him and said in a whisper, “Can I talk to you out in the hall?” “I can’t leave the airmen in a lab without supervision.”

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“How about just out of hearing range…in the doorway?” “All right.” When they stood just out of the door, facing in, Will looked at her. “What’s the problem?” “Take a look at Amn Savage. Tell me if you notice anything.” She watched him scowl as he searched for anything out of the ordinary. Then the airman turned around and idly executed a parade facing-movement with a decidedly hip-hop style. Will’s eyes flew open and he began to blush furiously. Fiona almost laughed out loud. “Uh, oh. Can you…hmmm. I…she has to put her shirt on. Now. I can’t tell her that. Do you know what could happen if a female student decides to accuse…” He took a deep breath. “Would you please call her out here and talk to her?” Suppressing a smile, Fiona said, “Sure. No problem.” She went back into the classroom and whispered to the airman in question. Amn Savage got her shirt and followed Fiona out into the hall. Two hectic little red patches stained TSgt McCrae’s cheekbones, but he had somewhat regained his composure. Fiona had never counseled a student before, other than the simulations in BIC, but she had a fair idea where to go with this one. As the airman buttoned up her shirt, Fiona sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Just Shirley had insisted she take the regs home and learn them. She stood facing the airman for about three seconds before speaking. “Amn Savage, you are, so far as I can tell, a competent, talented airman with great potential to be an asset to the Air Force. Do you know that Air Force Instruction 36-2903 states that proper undergarments are to be worn at all times while in uniform?” “No ma’am.” Airman Savage, an exotic, dark beauty, smirked and let her weight drop to one leg. The girl slyly turned her glance to the male instructor in front her, rather than look at Fiona. TSgt McCrae stared back, his face impassive, no trace of embarrassment now. This was the kind of thing that made Fiona mad. This perfectly intelligent young woman, one who could probably out-mechanic half the males in her class, felt she had to bounce her boobies for attention, as if her brains weren’t enough. Women’s liberation; take two steps forward and three steps back. Simon says. “You didn’t know that was a requirement, stipulated in a manual you’ve seen since Basic? Perhaps you have forgotten. In which case, you need a review. Tonight after class you will hand-write—legibly—the entire section of the regulation for female attire in uniform— BDU, Dress, and Mess-Dress uniforms. In addition to that, add two pages about professionalism and its importance in maintaining a cohesive and effective working group. You can turn it in to TSgt McCrae in the morning, first thing. And, you’ll need to wear your shirt the rest of the day.” The smirk slid off Amn Savage’s face. “Yes, ma’am.” She did an about-face and went back to her group. TSgt McCrae blew out a breath. His eyes sparkled as he shook his head. “Well done, ‘ma’am.’ I wouldn’t have touched a counseling like that with a ten-foot pole. Occupational suicide. We walk a thin line anymore. Of course, it got this way because of a handful of happy assholes that can’t keep their paws off the airmen. Thank you for handling that. Essays as punishment. That an English Major’s thing, or what?” “TSgt McCrae, I just had to counsel an airman on wear of the uniform. Do I need to counsel you on professional language?”

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The corners of his mouth twitched, and Fiona wondered again about that tiny scar. “Go back to your group, Miss Wright, they look like they need your help on that C-5.” ***** Fiona didn’t have a set day to see her mother every week, but she didn’t like to let more than seven or eight days go by without a visit. Today would have been the seventh day, but she just couldn’t do it. Guilt was no stranger. It was a terrible thing to know you avoided visiting someone penned up in what amounted to a cushy prison. She would go tomorrow, armed with her brightest smile. Today, the sun was warm, the wind was sweet, and she wanted to drive. Her favorite route was the long way all the way around the city. She took 287 toward City View and Iowa Park. This first part was the worst—heading west, straight into the late afternoon sun. Then she drove south on Wellington Road. This was her favorite part. Two-lane blacktop, no center stripe, no shoulders, mail boxes leaning out over the asphalt and loose dogs that would chase and bark like mad. Old, huge homes, set way back from the road, long drives leading up from brick and pole fences, and then within a mile, mobile home parks. Patches of henbit washed the low hills in deep purple. The mesquites had fat little buds, finally—the weather would be getting crazy soon. Fiona had been born in the year of the worst tornado in decades—Terrible Tuesday, April 10, 1979—and was proud of her tempestuous heritage. She loved Texas. And she loved her town. Most people she met at Sheppard, upon finding out she was born here, expressed a deep sympathy normally reserved for those with feet growing out of their ears. She didn’t care. Flat, hot, dusty. Hard red clay, stubbornly resistant to anything but equally stubborn farmers. Mesquite thorn, goat-head stickers, and prickly pear enough for everybody. This part of Texas, just fifteen minutes from the Texas-Oklahoma border, the beginning of I-44, wasn’t any more typical of the state than the dry washes of El Paso, or hilly, oak-rich Waco, or the salty shores of Galveston. The state was too big, too diverse to generalize, and that was one of the things she loved about it. This was home. Its tawny colors and cantankerous nature allowed her to stay sane. All her life she had seen herself reflected in the eyes of her sensible widowed mother, her friends, boyfriends and college classmates. They saw her as a flighty dreamer, a dandelion puff of esoteric beliefs and new-age nonsense. Maybe she was. But for some reason, out here, she was more than that.

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Chapter Four “You gonna wear that to work today?” Kevin shoveled cereal into his face as he talked, milk dripping unheeded down his chin. Fiona’s roommate was sweet, but he had horrible manners. Farnsworth, whose manners were only marginally better, hung out on the table next to Kevin. A long, scaly tail swished occasionally, knocking mail and stamps to the floor, as the lizard it was attached to sat and stared and blinked, his dignified iguana gaze aimed at nothing in particular. “This is the same kind of dress I’ve been wearing since I started this job. Where have you been?” Fiona looked down at her dress. Several layers of diaphanous floral silk formed a staggered hemline around her ankles. She hated the sleeves—the lace caught on everything. Looking up she shrugged and said, “A little too frou-frou, I’ll admit, but they feel nice, and there’s a dress code at work. The boss would likely frown on my holey jeans and Far-Side tshirts. I have the dresses and skirts I made, but they’re all batiks and tie-dyes. You of all people know how badly I need this job.” Fiona slid crispy fried eggs out onto her plate next to the bacon. Two slices of toast popped out of the toaster. She grabbed them, and the butter and plum jam out of the fridge. With this new job, she hadn’t been able to graze like she used to, so now she really packed it in at mealtimes. Maybe fear burned more calories than she thought—she hadn’t gained an ounce. She shoved her hair out of her face and carried her breakfast to the table. “Move over, Farnsworth. I love you dearly, but I will not share my breakfast.” The beast’s claws dug into the placemat he sat on. Fiona slid him to the other side of the table, and sat down to eat. Farnsworth closed his eyes, unperturbed. She looked across the table at Kevin, who buried his face in his cereal bowl to drain the last of the milk. “Besides, I’m picking up a new class today—my first—and I want to look professional. Thank God Mike liked to buy me clothes. I never could have afforded this stuff.” Kevin reappeared from the depths of his bowl. “Fiona, first of all let me say that this is enough discussion on women’s fashion to last me for the rest of my natural life. I think my testosterone levels are dropping as we speak. Tina won’t thank you. Second, let me point out that Mike bought you that stuff because he wanted you to look sexy. Not because it was professional business attire.” “What do you mean? It’s not low cut, see-through, nor sequined. I look nice enough.” “You look fine, and extremely feminine. Maybe too feminine? Don’t you work in a place where everyone else wears a uniform?” Fiona’s hackles went up. “No! Miss Shirley, the secretary, Mr. Tobias, the ISS, and several other civilians work there. They don’t wear uniforms. Hell, we’re lucky Mr. Tobias even wears shoes.” “But are they instructors? And do they wear purple silk?” Kevin stretched his face into an exaggerated leer. “You spend eight hours a day in front of eighteen year old guys. Eighteen-year-old guys are horny. Always. I remember.”

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“That’s sick, Kevin.” She had noticed a couple of ogles. “These are professional young people with fine military bearing and integrity!” ‘Military Bearing’ was a phrase she once heard TSgt McCrae say, and it struck a chord with her. “Okay, you win.” He got up and started to leave his bowl in the sink. When she raised an eyebrow, he threw it in the dishwasher. “Whatever you say. But if I were you, I’d hit the thrift shop and grab some mom-jeans and some fuzzy sweaters. The kind with apples and school-houses on ‘em.” He grinned his patented, lopsided, Kevin-grin, which still had milk on it, and ducked the dishtowel she threw at him. “Oh, do shut up and go get ready for class. I’ll be late this afternoon—going to see Momma after work.” Kevin, already down the hall, closed the door to the bathroom and turned on the shower. There’s a naked man on the other side of that wall. In about two seconds, he’ll be a soapy, slippery naked man…and I feel nothing. Was she dead from the neck down? Kevin was handsome, charming, and extremely intelligent. But she didn’t want him, never had. Mike was handsome, charming, and rich—and yet all he’d ever inspired was a silent gratitude for his speedy climaxes and consequent slumber. She looked over at Farnsworth. “What’s wrong with me, big guy? When it comes to the ‘call of the wild’, I always get a prerecorded message: ‘no operators available at this time’.” Moving at the speed of evolution, Farnsworth turned his head in her direction, and blinked once. He was a great listener, but never much for advice. Fiona thought about her choices of men over the years—a frat-boy, a jock, a banker, an artist, and Mike the Matrimonially Challenged. Fun, decent company, a way to avoid lonely Friday nights. But never passion. Not even lust. She was a fun girl. She liked life—even the tedium of daily routine could be interesting if one kept an open mind. Hell, in high school she had been voted “Girl Most Likely to Channel Elvis.” But her sex life was, and had forever been, one big snore. A renegade image of Will’s black eyes and calloused capable-looking hands crossed her mind. Maybe she just hadn’t found the right stimulus yet. ***** Later that same morning, Fiona stood in front of MSgt Flasque’s desk. It was stupid to have waited this long to protest, but when she’d walked into the classroom this morning and saw TSgt McCrae at the back of the room, studying his lesson plan, she’d freaked. “Sir, I can do this. Really. I have studied everything the Sheppard Library has on aircraft. I made perfect scores on all my PCs and on both the Block tests.” And she’d suffered for it, too. As terra firma texicanus she didn’t love aircraft the way these people did. But love them or not, she was in a foreign country, and her survival depended on speaking the language. “Fiona, I don’t understand what you’re asking me. What do you want me to do?” Flasque sat back in his chair, fingers dove-tailed over his belly, a jovial grin on his face. “Spell it out.” “I don’t want TSgt McCrae in there when I teach my first class.”

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Flasque’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Why not? Two months ago, you were scared we’d throw you to the wolves, with nobody to help you. And now you want to solo without a qualified instructor? Why?” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Is it Will? Is there a personality conflict between you two?” “No-no! That’s not it at all. I just…well, sir, he makes me nervous. Not him personally, just having somebody back there, watching me teach, judging every word. The airmen won’t know if I screw up. But he will.” And why, exactly was that so bad? She didn’t give a rat’s furry butt what Will McCrae thought of her or her teaching. Oh, Fiona, you lie like a cheap rug. Flasque got up and came around to her side of the desk, and put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. He chuckled. “I really do understand now. You know, there isn’t an instructor in this building who didn’t feel this way when he first started.” “Sir, every instructor in this building was a jet mechanic when he first started. I have no flight-line experience. The airmen may be sweet and docile, but the instructors smell my blood in the water, and they’re circling. Is there a chance I could have somebody else in there? TSgt Kenny? SrA Tyler?” Kenny was a fool, but he was easy going. Tyler was practically invisible most of the time anyway. Anybody but Will McCrae. “Fiona, it sounds like you do have a problem with TSgt McCrae. But you’ll have to work that out on your own. You will always work with people you don’t like. Let this be your OJT on how to ‘play well with others’. TSgt Kenny already has a class, and SrA Tyler is down the street in a continuation training class.” Flasque still had his hand on her shoulder, and she wished he would move it. It occurred to her that things could go badly for her if she bit him, but it was tempting. Desperation rose around her like a flood. “Sir, I know this material. I know the regs, I know the MSDSs, I know hydrazine cleanup procedures, and I know the forms. Please let me go solo now? I promise I’ll come to you—or even to TSgt McCrae—if I have a question.” She realized she was playing with her hair, and dropped her hand. “I can do this.” “Aw, hell, girl, I know you probably could.” Probably? She clamped down hard on her pride and kept her mouth shut. “But no matter how ready you feel, I am personally responsible for the quality of airmen that leave this schoolhouse. I can’t allow an untried instructor to teach without benefit of a backup. I know it’s nerve-wracking but you’ll get used to it.” He leaned in close, smelling of coffee and cologne. She shifted a few inches away. “Fiona, these airmen will graduate, go to the field, and work every day with toxic, explosive, volatile JP-8. It’s a dangerous job, and if an airman makes a mistake—God forbid it should be because of something they missed here— people can die.” She hadn’t thought of it that way, and a flush of shame crept up her face. “Sir, you are right. I’m sorry I even bothered you with this.” His eyes twinkled and he patted her shoulder one more time before removing his hand. “You’ll do fine. It won’t be long before you’ll have your own class. You’ll look back on this first one and laugh at how nervous you are.” Fiona dismissed herself, and headed back to the classroom just in time for uniform inspection. TSgt Sikes, at the far end of the hall, bellowed, “Fall out!” and airmen poured out of classroom doors. They assembled themselves in a row, the toes of one hundred twenty

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black combat boots along a line of linoleum tiles. Fiona leaned against a doorframe to watch. Four NCOs inspected the troops, slowly and carefully. She knew civilians were supposed to help with uniform inspections; as part of her job, she was to govern all areas of their training—not just their academic progress. But she couldn’t imagine leaning in three inches from an airman’s face to see if he shaved. Occasionally an NCO would say a quiet word to an airman who then retrieved a small piece of paper from his or her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it over. AETC Form 341—TSgt McCrae referred to it as an “Aw Shit” or “Atta Boy”, depending on whether an instructor sent it in as a discrepancy or a commendation. Fiona walked quietly behind the row of airmen, a long row of sun-brown necks and arms stiff at attention, to her door. Back in her class, she made sure everything was ready. Computers, check. Lesson plan, check. Paperwork, check. MSgt Flasque had been right, but the thought of McCrae watching her teach still made her guts freeze. She took a series of deep, cleansing breaths to calm the jittering and jiving of her nerves. Uniform inspection over, the airmen trooped back into the class, took their places. The room was quiet, and eleven young faces looked at her expectantly. TSgt McCrae stepped in, slipped behind the students, taking the last desk on the back row. He joined his expectant gaze to that of the airmen. Fiona almost preferred that he wear a sneer to echo what she knew he felt. At least that would make her mad enough to prove him wrong. As it was, he sat patiently, lesson plan open. Calm, scrutinizing. She wasn’t fooled; she could feel his “I’ll-rescue-you-when-youmake-a-mess-of-this” vibes. Okay, time for a little resolve, girl. He could just sit back and enjoy the show. She was a trained aircraft maintenance instructor. Now or never. Deep breathe, and…go! “Good morning class, I am GS-7 Fiona Wright, and I will be your instructor for Block I. The first hour of class today we will take care of paperwork, get familiar with policies and procedures, and cover introductions.” Her palms slicked over with sweat, her voice trembled, and her pterodactyls were back in full force, having the time of their acid-churning lives. If the pterodactyls were to be such an integral part of her life, maybe she should name them, like pets. It looked to be a long, long day. ***** Fiona sat at her desk with her shoes off, rubbing her feet in apology for the stiletto cruelty she’d inflicted on them. If only she could massage her abused vocal chords. By the last hour of the day she’d sounded like Just Shirley—without benefit of the coffin nails. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent salute to teachers, instructors, and professors everywhere. Aside from standing in front of people all day, the sheer energy it took to think quickly, answer questions, manage the lesson, give feedback after progress checks had left her drained…profootball players didn’t work this hard. Will walked into the office. She stiffened with renewed tension and waited for his evaluation of her first day. He’d said nothing all day. Not so much as a Hi, Bye, or Kiss My Ass. She thought she’d done all right. The building hadn’t burned down. She’d bobbled on a

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few questions, but managed to teach the lesson well enough that all the airmen passed their progress checks. It would have been nice to know she was at least on the right track. But if he even saw her in the office, he didn’t show it. He stood at the filing cabinet going through folders, his back a blatant rebuff, and as far as she was concerned, an unfair one. Fishing for compliments had never been her style, but feedback was a cornerstone of improvement, dammit! “So, TSgt McCrae, how did I do?” He didn’t turn around. He didn’t say a word. Maybe he was deaf and she’d not noticed. Maybe he was an asshole who couldn’t be bothered with other people. She was just about to speak up when he turned around and pinned her with those crazy black eyes. “I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse.” Oh goodness, should I fall at his feet now or wait and see if he has more high praise? Her thoughts must have showed on her traitorous face, because his mouth twitched. Damned if she was going to dignify that with a comment. She would do without feedback then. The microwave dinged and she reached around behind her to take her cup of tea. She dunked the tea bag up and down. The thought occurred to wash her hands first, but there was only energy enough to get her out to the car to go home. Any risk of hoof-n-mouth was the lesser evil. While the tea cooled, she took Ugly Man, a fist-sized, ceramic, Easter Island sort of statue, off her desk and leaned back with it held between both hands. She closed her eyes, and let the sound of the office phones and hallway traffic fade. Meditating, she envisioned a warm, white light entering her body with each breath, flooding her torso and limbs all the way out to the skin. As if she were being rinsed clean, she imagined the light flowing toward her hands, carrying away the mud-colors of tension and anger. Ugly Man absorbed them. When there was only white light, she knew she could handle anything. She opened her eyes to find TSgt McCrae staring at her. He shook his head and left the office. In the hall, he called the students into formation for their march back to the dorms. “Fall out!”

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Chapter Five “You lucky sonofabitch! You get all the breaks. I still don’t understand how come you get to qualify the new chick. I’m just as good an instructor, and I’ve been here longer than you.” Rick’s unibrow made an upside down W. He sounded genuinely hurt that he wasn’t sitting in on that woman’s class. He stood in the doorway of the instructor’s office, as Will cranked out pushups on the floor in front of his desk. Couldn’t he just go away? Will finished and got up from the floor, dusting his hands. “Well, first of all, women aren’t chicks, and the sooner you learn that, the better chance you have of avoiding a visit from the MEO office. Second, as the block supervisor for Blocks I, II, and III, I am the logical candidate for the boss to send in there. And third, I’d rather have my head shaved with a cheese grater than sit through somebody else’s lessons, and you know it. So it’s not like I’m getting any special favors from MSgt Flasque. Isn’t your break about up?” Rick grabbed a Block IV binder from the bookshelves and stomped out to give his students a progress check. He muttered something dire about wasters of opportunity. Will sighed and sat down at his desk, grateful that there’d been nobody else in the office for that little exchange. He hadn’t lied. He really would prefer to be teaching his own class. Three days into her first Block I, the woman was driving him insane. He slammed his fist on the desk. She shouldn’t be here! She had all the military professionalism of Carrot Top. She was an intelligent, natural communicator. Instead of technical jargon, she used plain English. She managed her voice like an actor, using pauses and an edge for authority where most instructors would have used volume. The woman could see the gaps in student understanding and knew just what to say to fill them. But she had all sorts of bleeding heart, fluffy-headed, radical ideas about “learning atmosphere”. She wanted to turn military training into kindergarten. Play-Doh and SillyPutty for the students? “They need some creative, kinesthetic outlet for their energy,” she’d said. When she brought out the pipe cleaners for them to “doodle” with, he thought he felt something rupture in his brain. Kinesthetic outlet, my ass. If they need an outlet for excess energy, let them do push-ups. The Air Force provided salary, room, and board for those airmen during their training. Not to mention a decent paying career with incredible job security. Housing allowances, uniform allotments, medical benefits. And one hundred percent paid tuition for college after they got to that job. That should make them want to learn. What happened to Order? Discipline? Military Bearing? The Air Force didn’t need a bunch of candy-ass crybabies. If an airman didn’t want to learn, paperwork from MSgt Flasque should be enough. And if it wasn’t enough, that airman didn’t need to be in the military. Life is tough sometimes, but if everybody does what needs doing, without whining, it works out. Will considered himself an example of the kind of military discipline necessary to make the Air Force effective. It wasn’t vanity. It was the simple truth. The boss had said that unless Miss Wright did something downright unsafe, she was to be allowed to teach “her way”, no matter how bizarre her methods. Will was to take notes and

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make reports. And he had done exactly that. After fourteen years in the United States Air Force, he understood the need for structure, for following orders without question. But he might very well have a stroke before he got this instructor qualified. Toys? Oh God, help this country if people like her get into power. They’ll have us “focus our mental energies” to jam radar frequencies. We can have love-ins around the White House lawn where we all hold hands and visualize peace flowing over the earth. That’ll keep those nukes at bay. You betcha. He must be going slowly insane. Fuel vapors had finally caught up with him after all these years. Because, despite his deeply held belief that the woman was a lunatic, she was beginning to get to him physically. Beginning to? She got to him the day she walked in the building. And he wasn’t sure he could stand it much longer. Here he was in his office, leaning against his desk, sweating from a couple dozen pushups. He wasn’t taking a break. He was cooling off. Less than half an hour ago, she had gone with him into the equipment room so he could show her which components to get for the fuel feed and fuel transfer objectives. That equipment room was a very small room. She turned around to ask him a question. They stood less than an inch apart. Then she tilted that dainty head back and looked up into his face. Green. Her eyes are golden-green, like the ground moss in the woods back home. They slanted a little, like a cat’s. The earthy, exotic scent of her made him dizzy. He almost kissed her. Instead, he’d mumbled something about making a phone call. Practically sprinted out of the room and down the hall. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked the ceiling. Maybe he needed to do more pushups. He was worse than Rick. Acting like he’d never worked with women. And this was only Block I. How the hell was he supposed to get through II and III? Maybe he should talk to Rosco and get somebody else in there with her. Rick would take his place in a heartbeat—and probably buy him a bottle of Cuervo as a thank you. Will wiped his brow, growled in the silence of the empty office. No. He’d spent too many years doing his job in spite of the odds. Twenty-four hour on-calls in the desert. Crawling around in fuel tanks in hundred and ten degree heat wearing a leaky respirator. Emergency repairs with safety wire, sealant and duct tape. He looked at the clock over the dry erase board. Time to get back to class. Okay. No whining to Rosco to let him out of this. He would show just the kind of discipline he expected from his airmen. Distance. Professionalism. Anger, too. That should help. Go in there, be calm, but use the anger. Watch the troopies play with their toys. Maybe she would drag out soft little mats so the troopies could take a nap after milk and cookies. *****

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Lunchtime, day four of Block I, and so far things were going well. Fiona had been able to field most of the students’ questions. TSgt “Just Call Me Rick” Kenny had suggested that she not let on how green she was, that she act from the very first day like she’d been teaching for ages. As tempting as it was, such a bluff was a recipe for disaster. Instead, her embarrassingly frequent response had been, “I don’t know the answer to that, but I’ll have an answer for you by the end of the next break.” After a while it had become sort of a class joke, but it paid off. The airmen appeared to respect her honesty, and she was careful to write the researched answers down in her lesson plan. Fiona sat at her desk in the instructor’s office. The god-forsaken TV was mercifully silent. She turned it off at least five times a day. Why have it on, blaring negativity and noise pollution into an empty room? Somebody put a sticky note on the power button that said, “Do Not Touch!” but she had the office to herself for lunch—they could all go eat mud. Normally she went to the gym. It was right down the street, too convenient to ignore. Besides, half an hour on a treadmill calmed her down and helped her use up nervous energy. But today her feet were killing her. Stupid heels. So today she was just going to sit very still and very quiet and enjoy the empty office. She went to the mini-fridge and pulled out tubs of cantaloupe, cheese and tuna salad, got crackers and a plastic spoon. Taking off her shoes and leaning back in the squeaky, graytweed office chair, she put her feet up on the desk. A desk, which was already beginning to develop little piles of clutter. She wasn’t a slob, really. Just sort of…naturally messy. At home she took pains to see that the bathroom and kitchen stayed clean. And she did the laundry on an almost regular basis. Fiona looked down at her lap. Cracker crumbs littered her skirt, so she held out the hem of it and walked over to the trash bin. Most of the crumbs made it in. Okay—maybe she was a slob. She looked around the office. Most desks were about as messy as hers, but the folks here wouldn’t know for a while just how bad hers could get. TSgt McCrae’s desk was immaculate, a silent condemnation of others’ habits. On her own desk Fiona had a picture of herself as a kid hanging upside down in a tree, one of Farnsworth as a hatchling eating bologna, one of her mother at fifty in a rare fit of color—a turquoise skirt suit. She loved best the cracked and faded photo of her mother and father at their wedding, the evidence of happiness on their faces. Scattered among the pictures were her favorite stones: tiger’s eye, for luck; hematite, for grounding; and rose quartz, for unconditional love—especially useful on days when she wanted to slap somebody cross-eyed. Feathers. Shells. On days when the rose quartz wasn’t enough, she could hold Ugly Man. The results were as psychosomatic as a sugar pill, but it worked. She had a yellow candle, for creativity, but they said she couldn’t light it here. Safety violation, of course. She looked around. Every desk had photos. Kids, wives, dogs, even cars and motorcycles. MSgt Flasque had one of himself on his fishing boat. Rick’s desk displayed an All Star line-up of Bobble-Head Dolls. In a corner of SrA Tyler’s desk stood his collection of figurines; an alien, a dragon, a wizard, and several gargoyles that made Ugly Man look like George Clooney.

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TSgt McCrae’s desk was bare. No photos, no figurines, awards, nothing. With the exception of the ubiquitous magnetic brown plastic sign with its white letters—TSgt William McCrae—issued from the base graphics shop, there was nothing to suggest who worked at that desk. Even his calendar was the standard Government Issue blotter. Where was his family? Did he have one? Of course. Everybody had a family—at least he was issued one, surely. Wife; size medium, one each. Children: boy, size small, girl, size extra small, one pair each. Maybe he was divorced. But no kids? Stiff-necked as he was, maybe he didn’t believe in kids. She made a tsk-tsk into the silence. Such an uncharitable thought. Momma would shame her for judging him. Being stiff-necked didn’t make him a monster. Fiona tiptoed over to his desk, feeling ridiculous, nervous, and just a tiny bit thrilled with herself. And sat down in his chair. She opened the center drawer. Nothing but pens and paperclips there. She opened the left three drawers, one at a time. Nothing. The right three. Nothing. Just lesson plans, folders, Air Force regulations and publications, blank forms. How could anybody be so neat? Aside from the nametag, there was nothing in or on this desk to identify its owner. She was about to get up and go back to her desk when she spotted the dog-eared corner of a paper—that soft, manila kid-paper—sticking out of the Block II lesson plan binder on his desk. Looking around the empty office, she opened the binder and lifted the page out. It looked like it had seen better days. “I love Daddy” scrawled in green crayon across the top and below that, two stick figures. The taller stick figure was obviously TSgt McCrae; it wore splotches of green and brown as clothes—crayon camouflage—and black spiky hair sticking straight up. The small stick figure was probably the artist. Fiona smiled. The artist was apparently a girl with red curly hair, wearing pink pants and an orange top with blue flowers. So the Iron-Man did have a soft side. He thawed a little in her estimation. Fiona replaced the page in the lesson plan, and went back to her desk. So was he married? He never mentioned any family whatsoever. In fact he never spoke of anything beyond work or military topics. Maybe divorced, living alone, and only getting visitation with his daughter. Fiona wondered what kind of dad he was. If his demeanor at work was any hint, Fiona understood the ex-wife, and felt sorry for the kid. He probably did room inspections on the house and made the girl fold her t-shirts in six-inch squares. Fiona imagined the after-work scene; wife and daughter trembling in formation while he walked along in front of them shouting “At-tenhut!” Oh, there she went again, judging him. She closed her eyes and said a silent contrition. Why was she being so harsh? He couldn’t be only a stiff, cardboard G.I. Joe. Look where he’d kept the drawing. Several times in the last week he’d almost smiled. And just this morning, she’d noticed him absent-mindedly smushing a small piece of green Play-Doh between his fingers as he listened to her lesson. He’d brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Fiona loved the salty fragrance, too. There was nothing like the smell of Play-Doh to make you turn instantly five. Of course, as soon as he’d seen her looking at him, he’d handed it to the neighboring airman, telling him to keep his toys to himself.

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Once in a while their eyes would meet over the heads of the airmen and hold for a few seconds. He might be all about rules on the outside, but that’s not what his eyes said. She leaned back in her office chair, and put her feet back on the desk. That day in the equipment room. He had been so close, the current between them unmistakable. She had almost kissed him, right on that tiny scar by that beautiful mouth. Now that would have taken some of the starch out if his jockeys, wouldn’t it? She smiled at the thought. Then frowned. One of the things her mother had always said about office romances was uncharacteristically crude: “Even dogs don’t shit where they eat.” Working in the front office at Rider High, Momma had been privy to all the work scandals. Some teacher invariably got involved with some other teacher, or the assistant principle, a notorious womanizer. When things cooled off or broke up, the people involved were stuck working in strange circumstances and avoiding other people, bad memories, or both. And of course, the gossips had a field day. This office was ten times worse. One wrong move and your career was history. No. Even if she were interested, which she was not, Iron Man McCrae was off limits. She needed this job. Besides, after Mike, she wasn’t interested in romance. She hadn’t suffered too much over Mike’s revelations of late—at least her heart wasn’t broken. But her pride, and more importantly her sense of who she was, was shattered. She really didn’t know what she’d been attracted to. That was a lie. She did know and she was not going to think about it. She would think about how Mike had been bossy, arrogant, and prone to tell her what to do about even the simplest things. Just like TSgt McCrae. In fact, he was probably worse than Mike. Sounds in the hallway announced that lunch hour was almost over. She put on her shoes and put away her lunch things. Okay, so TSgt McCrae was definitely off limits. She wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to him, anyway. Well, okay, on a physical level, yes. But it’s not like I’m some animal who can’t control myself. She would take her mother’s advice and keep things strictly professional. Strictly.

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Chapter Six Two days later, Fiona sat on the ugly orange couch in MSgt Flasque’s office, and wondered why he had called her in. She tried to hold her fidgeting hands still in her lap, and although it was torture, she managed to keep her face expressionless. Iron-Man McCrae would have been proud. “You may be wondering why I’ve called you in here.” MSgt Flasque sat behind his desk, leaning forward and studying some papers in a folder. Nothing gets by you, does it? She thought back to her BIC training. The instructor had said never leave the folder out on the desk when you counsel because it distracted the counselee with worries. Hmmm. Maybe MSgt Flasque hadn’t gone to BIC. “Now that you mention it MSgt Flasque, sir, I am curious.” Had she done something wrong? So far it had seemed like she made the most of what they’d taught her in BIC. Students’ grades were good. She’d been teaching for almost a week and hadn’t burned anything down. “Please, no ‘sir’, or ‘MSgt Flasque’. Call me Rosco, and that’s an order.” He put his elbows on the desk and steepled chubby fingers. “Well, first, let me assure you that you are doing fine. TSgt McCrae tells me that you have aced all the qualification PCs and the Block Test—we wish more of our students could score as high. Of course, having access to the answers helps, eh?” He gave a chuckle. “Sir—Rosco. Sir. Please know that I have never looked at an answer to any PC or test, not even after taking the test. I have gone into this thing from a students’ perspective from the very beginning so I could understand it better. My scores are honest.” The pulse suddenly pounding in her ears made it hard to hear. Had he really indicated she’d needed help to pass this course? “Oh—most of the instructors here use the answer keys! There’s no shame in making use of all the tools at your disposal, is there?” His blue eyes were merry and he leaned back in his creaking office chair. “Perhaps they do. But with respect, sir, that is not how I work. You have only my word for it, but I take all the tests from an airman’s viewpoint, and always will.” The beginnings of a quaver filtered into her voice, and wanted to kick herself for it. Damn it! She took a deep breath, counted to ten, and envisioned her own ability in the course material. She pictured poor, slow Amn Wagner finally figuring out the schematics because Fiona Wright had taught him how. “Well, good. It’s refreshing to see someone with such a determined attitude, Fiona. But that’s not why you’re in here, so let’s press on. As I said, TSgt McCrae has great things to say about your academic ability, and seems to think that, although rather unorthodox in approach, your teaching ability is adequate.” Adequate? TSgt McCrae can kiss my lily-white ass! By the end of this year, I’ll be teaching circles around him, flightline experience or no!

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“But there is an issue of your…” he waved a hand and looked down at the folder in front of him, “...er, dress and appearance. Among some of the military instructors in the fuels course.” MSgt Flasque looked up from the papers. For a fleeting instant, Fiona could have sworn there was a gleam in his eye. “Sir?” He got up from his chair and came around to lean against the front of the desk, looking down at her. “They think you are not appropriately dressed to deal with young men.” She shot straight up and stood facing him. “What? I am dressed every day as appropriately as any office personnel on this entire base—more so, considering some of the ladies over in personnel! Who said this about me? There is no—” “Please calm down, Fiona.” Putting a gentle hand on her arm, he leaned toward her, inches from her face, and said quietly, “I never said I agreed with them. You are beautiful, elegant and sophisticated. A class act—pardon the pun—professional in every way. We’ve never had a prettier instructor, I can tell you.” Fiona let that pass, and sat back down. Her hands were shaking so she wrapped them together and squeezed. How she could have blown up at her boss, of all people? And why wasn’t he pissed? Instead of getting angry, he was being supportive and sympathetic. Embarrassingly so, in fact. “So who is saying I dress inappropriately? Why? What, exactly, is wrong with my dress and appearance?” She felt a ridiculous need to be sure she was covered everywhere. She looked down at her long skirt, crossed her ankles. Was this material too thin? The neckline too low cut? He sat down beside her on the short couch. The Naugahyde upholstery squeaked and air swooshed out of the cushion. He turned to lean against the armrest, and stared at her for a minute. “As I said, I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with how you look. But there is a concern among the military instructors that you, ah, distract some of the male students. They think you would be more effective if you played down the feminine side and aimed for a more…gender-neutral look? He laughed softly, leaned forward a bit and grasped her elbow. “You know, this is a great compliment, coming from a hairy-legged man—I mean, bunch of men. I never had to counsel an instructor to tone down her attractiveness before.” Fiona suddenly realized exactly who the one with the problem was, and a cool calm washed over her. “Forgive me, sir, but to my mind, the idea of ‘gender-neutral’ dressing for the sake of effective instruction is an enormous load of horse manure. I think the instructors are the ones with the problem, not the airmen.” She stood and approached his desk where the folder lay closed. “Is this an official counseling? Do I need to sign an LOC, sir?” He managed to get out of the couch, and stood near her. “Well, yes, but just for formality’s sake, hon. Remember, a letter of counseling just basically outlines what we talked about.” He put a hand on the small of her back. She promptly took a small step away from him and his hand, and he continued without pause. “A counseling letter doesn’t necessarily mean you did anything wrong. It’s just that I promised him—them—that I would talk to you about this, and now I have.”

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He laughed again. “And, Fiona? I asked you to call me Rosco.” He handed her a pen and she took it, her hand shaking. She remembered the initial briefing when he had outlined her probationary period and its “three-strike” rule. Was this a strike? She was afraid to ask. Maybe she should request a copy? No, he said all these things were kept in an employee file, anyway. She turned and put a hand on the door. “Thank you for your patience and for your kind words, sir. I have to get back to class.” “All righty! Get to it. Remember—you are a professional instructor, who just happens to be very attractive. Who can fault you for that?” He stuck his hand out to shake, as if they were at the end of a business deal. So she shook it, and left the office, feeling sick. So, she was an ‘unorthodox, but adequate instructor’? ‘Too feminine to be effective’? She sincerely hoped that knuckle-dragging, chest-thumping, male chauvinist bastard had room in his tiny head for a piece of her mind. TSgt Will McCrae didn’t know what he was in for. With her heels echoing down the hallway, she marched back to her classroom. ***** Rosco smiled to himself as soon as the door was closed. Damn, he was good! He sat in his chair, spun it around, and laughed out loud. She’d tried to be cool about it, but he could see flames practically shooting out her nose when she left. Wonder how long it’ll be before she corners Will and gives him what for? That would be a show worth paying to see. Not everything he’d told her had been a lie. She was very capable with the course material. He knew she’d not looked at the test answers; Will had said she refused to so much as hold the binder with the answer keys. Actually, she was too capable. That was the reason for the whole dress and appearance thing. He needed something on paper. Just in case. And he needed to shake her up a little. No sense letting her get too comfortable. No, not everything had been a lie. One of the other instructors had mentioned her feminine dress and how it affected the students. But it hadn’t been Will. It had been Rick Kenny. And he hadn't been complaining either. Rick had come into Rosco’s office yesterday, laughing his ass off at a couple of the airmen from the student break-room. They had been discussing how ‘hot’ their instructor was. Although Rick had bawled them out in front of the other students for speaking disrespectfully, he said he’d almost ruptured himself not laughing. These kids were practically drooling. The image of kids drooling gave Rosco the idea. A little truth to flavor the bait…he’d never really come right out and said Will had been the one to complain, but if she’d taken the hint, and let her femmi-nazi temper do the rest, what could he do? Will held a grudging admiration for the woman, and was way too impressed with his own high-horse morals to rat out a colleague. But Rosco knew by what Will didn’t say that he thought Miss Wright dressed all wrong for the job.

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Now all Rosco had to do, being the diligent supervisor was wait for the fall-out, record the matter in Miss Wright’s employee file, and keep the pressure on. Maybe he could add a “strike two” if she started a screaming fight with Will? She didn’t know shit about Civil Service, or she would have known that the counseling letter was bogus—she hadn’t done anything wrong. He just needed her signature, and her own willingness to implicate herself in a “Formal Counseling”. Rosco spun his office chair around again and had to restrain himself from whooping out loud. He was a patient man. With time, and some intelligent work on his part, she would get to the point where she’d feel like dear ol’ Rosco was her only friend in the world. Then he would make his move. She really was worth it. He smiled at his ugly orange couch. ***** Fiona taught the rest of that Friday afternoon with SrA Tyler in the back of the class instead of TSgt McCrae. Not because she had kicked the latter out of her class, as satisfying as that would have been, but because he wasn’t in the building. According to SrA Tyler, who was about as authoritative as a marshmallow, TSgt McCrae had a family emergency and wouldn’t be back until the following Monday. She didn’t know whether to be mad or glad. She did know, however, that the whole thing had her so distracted she could barely think straight. Couldn’t think straight at all, in fact. She was halfway through a one-hour objective—board full of notes, questions, slides, the works—when one of the airmen raised his hand and said, “Miss Wright? Um, we did this objective before lunch.” Why didn’t they speak up sooner?! Was Tyler’s mouth sewn shut? Clearly her mind was not on her work, and she had just sworn there would be no “strike two”. “Okay, take five, people.” Kicking her shoes off and closing her classroom door, she breathed deeply and closed her eyes for some visualization. At first she tried a calming meditation, but that was interrupted several times with the satisfying image of a certain Technical Sergeant running for his life in front of a herd of bulls. The bulls caught him. At least she managed to limit visions of torture and dismemberment to only one of the enlisted staff. Oh, and Mike, while she was at it. When she felt a little calmer, she brought the class back in and taught the next objective. But not well.

By the end of the day, MSgt Flasque had skipped out early again. The airmen tended to their afternoon cleanup details, and the rest of the instructors tended to paperwork. Fiona had the back patio to herself. She wrapped a sweater around herself against the damp spring wind and picked flaking paint off the picnic table with her nails. Too feminine? She was not a distracter in the classroom. That was bullshit! Wasn’t it? The patio door opened and Shirley stepped out to join her. Sensible shoes, beige polyester pants suit. Shirley grinned at Fiona and said, “Hey girl, I didn’t know you smoked.”

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She shook a cigarette out of her pack, cupped bony hands around it, and squinted as she lit up. She exhaled the drag in a long column of white. “I don’t smoke. Well, I’m smoking, but not tobacco.” Shirley raised her eyebrows in question, and then nodded. “Who are you mad at? No, let me guess. He’s tall, dark, handsome, and had to go on emergency leave this afternoon.” Fiona pressed her lips tight at the description, and said, “That would be him.” “So what did he do? Take away your aromatherapy privileges?” “Very funny. No, he went to the boss and said I was distracting the male students by dressing inappropriately.” Fiona got mad all over again. “Bullshit!” “That’s what I said.” “No, I mean bullshit that he would do that. Will McCrae is one of the most professional people—military or civilian—that I have ever worked with. I’ve been on this base over twenty years, missy.” She cast a direct blue glare over the top of her steel frames. “There is no way he would have gone to the boss about something without addressing it with you first. If you hadn’t noticed, most of the men around here gossip like old women, with one notable exception. Okay, two—SrA Tyler doesn’t spread rumors, but that’s because he has the personality of tap water and nobody listens to him. Where’d you get such an idea about Will?” “MSgt Flasque called me in his office and said there had been ‘complaints’ about me. He didn’t come right out and say it was TSgt McCrae, but he didn’t have to.” Shirley made a rude noise and looked away. “MSgt Flasque say who did complain?” She turned back, with an ironic tilt to her expression. “No, he just said the ‘other instructors’. Why?” “Well, if I gave out my opinion on people who worked here, I’d be no better than the gossips. So I won’t sit here and trash anyone, even to clear up some apparent misconceptions.” She took another drag off her cigarette. “You still might consider dressing down a little, hon.” “What? Oh, no. Not you too, Shirley. There is nothing inappropriate about what I wear to work!” “Inappropriate, no. But sexy, alluring, distracting, yes. Take it as a compliment, babe. Tell your feminist instincts to back off and listen to me a minute.” She held up a bony hand as Fiona opened her mouth to object. “You stand all day in front of a room full of eighteen to twenty-five year olds. Most of them are still in Phase One of their training and hardly see anyone who is not in a uniform. They themselves can’t wear anything but Government Issue for their first four weeks here. Think of it. You are young enough to be close to their age, old enough to be mysterious, well spoken enough to be interesting, and pretty enough to get their blood going. They’re not pigs. They’re just young men.” Fiona remembered what Kevin had said last week. “You mean dress down how? I will not come to work dressed like a kindergarten teacher. Jumpsuits and frumpy sweaters make me allergic—bad for my energy and all that.” Shirley laughed. “Not necessary. Try jeans, tennies, and a t-shirt with a jacket. You’ll get pretty grungy once you get to Block III anyway, you know. Crawling in and out of F-16

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fuel tanks won’t do your silks and satins much good. Besides, you’ll have to wear the white coveralls. The guys usually just wear t-shirts and gym shorts under theirs.” “Whites. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to wear them since I was a civilian.” “Wrong.” That blue glare again. “They don’t wear them because they’re in the military and you know it. I’ve seen the lesson plan, and you’ve taught the lesson plan. It is all protective gear, from the respirator-mask and earplugs to the whites to the steel-toed boots. You have a responsibility to teach them safe practices. End of story.” Shirley patted Fiona’s hand to take the sting out of her scolding, but apparently she wasn’t through. “Now. I’ve heard you have some interesting ideas about educational theory.” “I thought ‘Wonderful Will’ didn’t gossip.” Fiona’s normally graceful posture was slumped into a pout. “He doesn’t. But everybody else does. Besides, it’s pretty hard to ignore when I walk by your classroom and see the students drawing cartoons on the board in the middle of their manifold diagrams. My point is this: if you go to all that trouble to teach these people something and teach it well, why let your pride, vanity, and a pair of four inch heels undo it? Get out of your own way. Dress for the job. I’d bet that within a month you’ll wonder what took you so long.” Fiona let out a long sigh. Growing up, she had been a be-spectacled freak, never sure of her appearance, and hopelessly out of tune with fashion. In high school, she’d fallen in with a couple of almost popular girls. They had taken pity on her and showed her how to wear makeup, fix her hair, and walk like she was “somebody”. She’d gotten contacts. She learned to sew her own artful clothing. She straightened her posture by watching Momma’s old Grace Kelly movies. If her creative nature made her to go a little overboard with color, at least she wasn’t invisible anymore. What a difference! Suddenly boys were asking her to football games, dances. Danny Sanders—a boy she’d dreamed about since she was in third grade—even took her to the prom, against all expectation. She realized then that looks were a controllable key to opening a door. Any door. It was a shallow thing, she knew, but it stood to reason that you had to get the door open before you could go through it. She’d never looked back. But Shirley was right. Why work so hard to get the lessons across and then sabotage her efforts? This wasn’t high school, and she wasn’t a shy freak anymore. She slapped her palm down on the picnic table. “Okay. Starting Monday, this flight will see a whole new me. Or maybe I’ll dress down so much I’ll be invisible. Won’t it mystify the students when they hear a disembodied voice from the front of the classroom?” “Honey, somehow I don’t think that is going to be a problem.”

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Chapter Seven “You sure you’re okay? I can take another day’s leave if I have to.” Will pulled the truck over to the curb in front of City View High to let his daughter out Monday morning. He couldn’t stand the sight of cuts on her face and bruises on her forehead where she’d hit the dashboard of her friend’s ancient—and now totaled—Mustang. His stomach rolled when he thought of his little girl climbing out of that pile of twisted steel and shattered glass. “No, Pops, but thank you for being there. I don’t think I could have taken one more second of mom and her screeching. I know I should have called Mom for a ride instead of letting Tami drive. But Mom is always mad about running me places, and well…she just makes me feel so stupid.” Olivia wiped a small freshet of tears away, careful of her makeup, and got her pack ready to go. Never down for long, she brightened, flashing dimples. “Maybe later this week you can come pick me up and we can go have ice cream?” She got out of the truck, walked a few steps, and turned around. Leaning in through the truck window, she tapped red lacquered nails on the door, and tilted her head. “You know Daddy, that new instructor we talked about? She might could come with us.” Will scowled. “You need to remember what I said about listening to the trash talk from kids at school. Besides, I didn’t talk about her, you did. I’ll see you later this week.” He slammed the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb. Olivia smiled and waved, knowing her dad would look back. She might be almost fifteen and a freshman in high school, but that didn’t stop him from treating her like a kindergartener. Since he’d moved back to Wichita Falls, they’d developed the father-daughter relationship she’d always wanted. She could never have had such a relationship with her stepfather. That numb bum had been so useless that when he drank himself to death, all Olivia had felt was distress at her mother’s financial plight. She knew her mother loved her, but the two of them had never been close. Mom was a toxic harpy, and that was that. When her real dad came back three years ago, she felt bright, valuable, cherished, for the first time in her life. He’d even given her Ozzy—hard to believe that monster had ever been a wiggling little ball of tongue and wagging tail—for her twelfth birthday. Her mom’s refusal to let her keep the dog was one of their biggest fights ever. She turned up the sidewalk to the school, enjoying the beautiful morning. A kid with flapping black jeans and two-tone hair hanging in his face cut across in front of her and she said “Excuse me, I was walking here!” “Piss off.” He turned around, and she saw it was the Flasque kid who had been bragging about the hot chick his dad was “working” with. He flipped her a grimy bird and kept going. Daddy was right. Who knows what that woman at work has to put up with? If the kid is this thick, what must the father be like? ***** The parking lot at bldg 980 was still nearly empty when Will got to work. Only three cars. Miss Shirley’s, SrA Tyler’s, and one other. Fiona’s Toyota. Usually when he got to work,

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the lot was completely empty, the sky still dark, and the building locked up. He liked being the first one to work. Everything was quiet for at least a half hour. Unloading the new “faces” board from his truck, he stopped to listen. Yep, the doves were back and nesting. He loved the sound of those doves, and missed them when they left for the winter. The sun was just coming up over the flightline. The newborn quality of the light and air made him want to stay outside and enjoy. But it was past time to get to work. He had to catch up on the stuff he’d missed Friday afternoon, and he still had to put this board on the wall. Hefting it up over his head, he started in. It had been his idea to create a “Look Sharp Airmen” board. A sort of motivational tool. He smiled. Miss GS-7 Fiona Wright. The woman’s silly educational theories must be contagious. Way too much work to do to be thinking about her so early; he corralled his thoughts back to the board. On fine-grained oak, he’d used a Dremmel to carve the squadron shield, the flight shield, and “Our Future Leaders” across the top. He’d stained it dark walnut and sealed it to a glossy sheen with layers of polyurethane. An eight by ten piece of Plexiglas in the center provided a window for the Airman of the Week’s picture to slide into. On either side of the Plexiglas was a place for hanging a carved oak plaque with a brass engraving plate for the list of names of those who had aced the entire course. Their names would be engraved on those brass plates, if he had to pay for it himself. Since acing the entire five blocks was rare, and at least forty names would fit on each plaque, he might have been a little optimistic putting two of them on there. But what the hell? The board was about motivating by example. Never a better time to start than now. ***** Fiona be-bopped around her empty classroom, setting up for the day’s lessons. Amazing how much time she had saved by “dressing down” this morning. She liked the nobrainer simplicity, not worrying about whether she had a run in her hose or static cling in her skirt. She liked the comfort of jeans and tennies, too. It’s never a bad thing when Monday feels like a weekend. She heard boots in the hallway and looked up in time to see Will march by, balancing what looked like a sheet of framed plywood flat on top of his head. Apparently he’d put the damned thing down to take his hat off in the building. Always the good, reg-abiding G.I., our TSgt McCrae. “Need any help with that?” She watched as he stopped and turned his head under the board. Then he did a double take, which couldn’t have been easy. He’d have a bald spot if he kept that up. She stifled a smile. Staring at her, his eyes widened. He swallowed with visible effort. “No. I got it. Thanks.” He turned forward again, and walked on as if he’d seen a ghost. Wow. Glasses and no makeup were definitely her look. And here all this time she’d thought she had to dress up to get attention—for an encore maybe she could shave her head and black out a couple of teeth. All the old insecurities flooded back and she was suddenly Momma’s shy eighth grader, not sure where to put her hands, except to shove her glasses back

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up her nose. Getting ready so fast this morning had been liberating and adventurous, but now she could feel herself becoming invisible, fading to nothing. But on the heels of that was mad. Good! She slammed the classroom door, and let the feeling roll through her. For a second she thought about running after him and asking if he’d gone to Flasque last week, but no. She made the change of her own volition. The counseling and Shirley's encouragement might have prompted it, but it was still a deliberate mood. To ask McCrae about it now would look weak. So mad was good. She needed to be mad. And practical, for once. Otherwise she’d never get through this day, this week. She had a class full of airmen due in half an hour. They would probably react like ol’ Double-Take Boy. It would be the worst kind of stupidity to make excuses for her appearance. Men never have this problem…they wake up, brush teeth, shave, comb hair—nobody suggested they paint their faces to be presentable. Well, to hell with that. I will not give in to this. I am worth more than my looks; I am good at my job, interesting to talk to, and a capable instructor. Any practical person could see that her looks in this job were irrelevant. The job was to teach airmen the fundamentals of fuel systems maintenance. Damn sure don’t need four-inch heels to do that. She took her sneakers off, and sat on the floor behind her desk in a lotus, a feat she definitely would not have attempted in the frou-frou silks. She was okay. She was, in fact, better than okay. She was wonderful! A strong, capable, independent woman and a great communicator who can teach anything she sets her mind to. Just then the door opened, and somebody walked in. Who in the hell? “Fiona?” Urrrrg. “Down here.” Fiona didn’t get up. Damn him. Miss Shirley had said he wouldn’t have gone to the boss about her, but damn him anyway. It was his fault she was down here this morning, him and his stupid double take. “You okay?” Will leaned around the desk and caught his breath. Yep. There she was, in jeans, pink socks, and a baggy blue t-shirt that said “Fairies Happen”. Her hair hung in a dark, shiny braid down her back, her face innocent of makeup. Back straight and shoulders squared, she had her long legs crossed inside out like some guru. He closed his eyes for a second and thought, great, just when I think I’m getting a handle on how she gets to me, she goes and gets authentic. Still weird, but authentic. He opened his eyes, but she was still there, still pulling at him like true north. He scrubbed his hand over his hair. “Um. What are you doing?” “Well, I was meditating. Now, I’m getting up so I can start class in a few minutes. Can I help you, TSgt McCrae?” She unfolded her legs and stood up. Will stared at her, took in the slanting green eyes, the heavy, black plastic framed glasses that slid down her nose. She reached up with her index finger and poked the glasses back up, and Will was lost. “Uh, no. Just going to…just…never mind. Good change. You look like you’re ready to do this job.” When he got to the door he said, “You know you can call me Will. Unless we’re in front of the airmen, of course.” He quietly shut the door. *****

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SrA Dave Tyler sat at his desk, typing up another schedule change. He knew what they said about him here. They called him “TB” to his face. Said it meant Total Brain. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew it meant Timid Boy. He once overheard that great braying ass, TSgt Sikes, tell Miss Wright about it on break. Sometimes it pays to wait and listen before coming into the office. Never know what you might hear. Timid Boy Tyler. Okay, so he was quiet. Will McCrae was quiet too, but nobody gave him rations of crap about it. Do a good job, keep your head down, and mind your own business and look where it gets you. Tyler, draw up the schedule! Tyler, get those supply forms in here! Tyler, launder the student coveralls! Like he was the schoolhouse maid or something. No thought to what he might need to get done in a given day, just give it to Tyler. Like having to sit in on Miss Wright’s class for McCrae, interrupting rare out-of-class time. Tyler, take my class, I have a hangnail and have to go to the hospital! Didn’t explain a thing, just yelled, “Tyler, get in there—I gotta go!” and left. That Wright woman had no business being here anyway, screwing up the lessons. The students could teach better. But he had to sit in on her class. He was ordered. He would stand up for himself, loud and clear. He would make sure nobody doubted that Dave Tyler was smarter than all of them. But as the lowest ranking enlisted in the shop, he had to do what he was told. He had to do what he was ordered to do. It mattered none that his belly-button lint had more brains than all these clowns combined. Well, there was more than one way to stand up for himself. Let them mock him. Let them grin like apes about his computer games. Better to let them think he was the geek they got paid to kick around. One of these days they might find a real surprise in the coffee-bar sugar bowl. They won’t order Timid Boy to do anything then. They’ll be busy, with signs posted on their desks: “On Toilet Until Further Notice.” He slapped his hand over his mouth before a laugh could escape. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment with MSgt Flasque. Who knows what that could be about? Flasque was maybe the least obnoxious of the bunch, but only because Dave didn’t really exist in Flasque’s realm of experience. That’s what was weird about a meeting; usually the boss-man just barked orders from inside his corner office. He glanced up from his computer to see the boss’s door, closed. Dave did a lot of the boss-man’s supervisory paperwork. He had to take the papers in for a signature on about eighty percent of it. That in itself wouldn’t be such a deal, except Flasque insisted that on certain paperwork, Dave was to bring a disc copy of the files to him and delete them from Dave’s own computer. But Flasque never even looked at the papers. Just signed and grunted. Question is, does he make me do his work because he trusts me or because he thinks I’m too stupid to know otherwise? Maybe tomorrow’s meeting would bring a little recognition? Don’t hold your breath, Timid Boy. That guy couldn’t pick you out of a line-up. That’s all right. If Dave didn’t hear what he wanted tomorrow, he might develop a case of administrative hiccups next time Flasque demands a spreadsheet full of facts. Something too big to dismiss as a typo. How fun would it be to watch the mighty Master Sergeant go down in flames for letting a Senior Airman write his reports for him? The Gandalf figure on his desk caught his attention, and he picked it up. Yes, sometimes people needed to learn

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lessons. He set the figure back down, taking care to put him back exactly where he should be, and sat back in his chair. On the other hand, if he did hear what he wanted, then maybe he could bargain for a little better position in this asylum. So, now the question is, what do I want to hear? ***** Monday afternoon, Will sat at the back of Fiona’s classroom, wishing he could concentrate on her lecture. She did make it interesting. Sometimes he actually had fun. That was a difficult concept for him to accept—having fun in tech school. There was probably regulatory guidance against it somewhere. As if she had no fear of what people thought, she hooted and whooped encouragement, jumped up and down for emphasis. She made up silly rhymes to help the airmen remember component functions. She let them create pneumonic acronyms for lists, allowing that the acronyms could be as politically incorrect as the airmen wanted, so long as they didn’t tell her about them. She made the airmen get up and sing the Air Force song if they acted sleepy during the dry parts of a lesson. Will secretly loved the Air Force song. He got goose bumps when he sang it. Of course, he’d lift his old truck over his head before he’d tell her that, or anyone else. But her unsuspected patriotism made him proud of her. He didn’t credit himself for her abilities; at least not for anything more than the facts he’d taught her. Fiona was alive, imaginative and fearless. Even when she made mistakes. At first her mistakes made her look straight at him. She’d freeze for a minute, blush like crazy, and apologize profusely to the class. She’d had her own class now for less than two weeks, but she learned fast. Her obvious effort brought to mind an Italian expression he’d heard once; sprezzatura. Grace under pressure. Now, less than two weeks on the podium, if she screwed up or didn’t know something, she made a joke about it. Then she calmly cleared up any misconceptions and pressed on. The airmen repaid her honesty with loyalty and respect. Every day she made fewer mistakes. Will wanted her. He’d known that from the first minute he saw her, but he hadn’t been able to reconcile his desire for her with his misgivings about her being here. How could he be so hungry for the scent of her hair and the touch of her skin, and at the same time is furious at her presence in his tech-school course? But first hand experience in her class forced him to see that she was a better teacher, or someday would be, than two thirds of the guys here. He’d been Block Supervisor at one time or another for every part of the course. As such, he’d been responsible for qualifying most of the instructors. He knew what they were like in the classroom. Rick, Jonas, Tubbs, they could teach a decent class; they got good grades and hard work out of even the most fractious airmen. The rest of the instructors either blamed bad grades on the students, or they made sure the students could “pass” the PCs and Tests.

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How did Fiona do it? How did she come in here, with no knowledge of or experience with aircraft, suffer daily through asinine practical jokes, and do this job? He was sure most of his fellow instructors would be reduced to quivering blobs in her place. How well would he have handled the situation? The fact that she was adapting so well was contrary to everything he knew about this job. He was fully aware of his own stubborn streak, but it didn’t make him blind. When he saw irrefutable evidence contrary to what he believed, he accepted that his belief was wrong, and changed it. Fiona Wright might not only belong here, she might actually be an asset to the course! But that possibility had crumbled any resistance he’d been able to maintain. He had no shield from her now. “TSgt McCrae?” She was looking at him, eyebrows raised in question. A class full of airmen waited expectantly. Caught daydreaming! “Say again? I was reading my notes.” Fiona had the good grace not to smile, but he could tell she wasn’t fooled. “Airman Newman wanted to know; why have dual floats in the fuel level control valve when only one of them is ever open at a time? The study guide doesn’t say, and although it’s a shock, I don’t know.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at the students’ sniggering. “It’s a redundant system, because the fuel level control valve is critical for safe fuel transfer in flight. If one float fails, the other would be there to stop incoming fuel.” “Thank you! I’d meant to ask you earlier, but forgot. Okay, folks. What’s the next component in this system and what is its function?” She looked around the room. “Airmen Miller?” Will vowed to pay better attention. How? Every time he came within ten feet of her, he felt like he had a fever. He stuttered. He forgot what he was saying. He generally made a giant dork of himself. He’d read once that the way to get somebody off your mind and out of your imagination was to actually do what you’d been fantasizing about. Maybe it would work for him. It was time to ask Miss Wright to lunch. That would do for a start. Not that lunch was what he was fantasizing about, but he doubted she’d be open to the idea of him leaping to the front of the classroom, sticking his tongue down her throat, and ravishing her there on the desk. So lunch would have to do for a start, if she’d consent to go with him. But did he really want her out of his system?

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Chapter Eight Rosco shut the door behind SrA Tyler, glad that both of his office doors were solid wood. The rest of the building had the kind with big vent screens at the bottom. He didn’t think anyone would be listening, but he didn’t want to take any chances. SrA Tyler stood in front of the desk like he was a tech school student instead of an instructor. “Please, sit down! Make yourself comfortable!” Rosco smiled his best supervisor smile at the little weirdo and gestured toward the couch. Tyler sat down, still looking pale and nervous. Or at least pale. Rosco wasn’t sure about nervous. “Relax. I have no bad news, nothing to gripe about, and you’re not in trouble.” He opened the mini-fridge behind his desk and took out a root beer. “Want one? I’m afraid it’s the only kind of beer I can offer here.” Hearty chuckle. Tyler didn’t take one. Rosco popped the top and drank deeply, then sat looking at the kid for a minute. He couldn’t tell if the boy was scared or just weird. Maybe both. He wished the kid would at least smile once in a while. Those solemn gray eyes looking at him creeped him out a little. Okay, Rosco, stop being a pussy and just start talking. “First let me start off by thanking you for the hard work you put in around here. I know you don’t think I notice, but I do. I pay attention. I keep track of who does what around here. I know who doesn’t make waves. You are a good troop, Tyler, and I am damned glad to have you on our team.” He took a swig of root beer and peeked at Tyler out of the corner of his eye. He was relieved to see that the kid had relaxed a little. He stalled for a second, rolling the cold can back and forth between his palms. “What I want to do is reward the hard work and effort you’ve put in, to give you an opportunity for better things. Have you ever heard of Promotion Below The Zone?” He watched Tyler nod, thinking if those eyes got any bigger they’d tumble out onto the carpet. “Good. I think you deserve it. So I’m going to put your name in the hat, write up a hell of a package to turn in on you. If we do our job right with the package, you’ll be wearing Staff Sergeant stripes before the end of the year.” Dave Tyler leaned forward, knowing he was freaking the old windbag out, and stared at him. “Can I have a root-beer, sir?” “Of course!” Rosco got another can and handed it across the desk. “Now. What I’ll need from you is a list of awards, recommendations, and references to send in along with the package. Any community involvement, volunteering, y’know, Little League, food drives, that kind of shit. No matter how small it seems, put it in, because we can write the package so that it puts all those things in their best light.” Another hearty chuckle. Dave was glad to know that he was not only not in trouble, but that this paragon of supervisory virtue had finally pulled his head out and was at long last going to recognize Dave’s efforts. Maybe he’d misjudged the old guy. “I can have that list to you by the end of the week, sir. What was that other thing you said? You said something about opportunities.” “Oh yeah, that. Well, as I see it, a tech school supervisor can’t be too careful about the people he lets teach his classes. The kind of airman we send out of here is a direct reflection not only on this course, but also on me personally. There is a certain instructor that seems to

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have gotten in here without the usual…prerequisites, shall we say. I think you know who I mean.” “Yes, sir. I do. If you don’t mind me asking sir, how did she get the job? I have heard of the Palace Acquire Program, but I don’t know anything about it.” Inside, Dave felt a little frisson of excitement. Yes! That uppity woman was under the gun, and this man is about to put him, Dave Tyler, on the trigger. This was way better than any Below the Zone Promotion. “Well…” Rosco leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. “Okay. What I’m going tell you doesn’t leave this room, capiche?” Dave nodded solemnly. “Not a word, sir.” “Miss Wright was dating” (big stage wink) “a good friend of the GS-14 in charge of the Palace Acquire Program. Apparently this GS-14 wanted his wife out of his hair, so he made a deal with this good friend. The Good Friend, coincidentally, runs a major personnel firm in Dallas. So they made a swap.” “A swap, sir?” Dave couldn’t believe he was hearing this. This was just too good to be true. He took a sip of his root beer. God, he hated root beer. “Fiona Wright got the instructor slot, and Bothersome Wife was offered a very lucrative management position on the North Texas Regional Real Estate Board. Word is Bothersome Wife was tearfully apologetic about taking the job, but Kindhearted GS-14 urged her to take full advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Rosco didn’t chuckle this time. He leaned his head back and crowed. His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, fingers laced. “Son, if there is one thing you learn in the military, let it be this; always make friends with the secretaries. The commanders act like they run the show, but it’s the secretaries that make things happen, and who know everything.” “Duly noted, sir.” Dave was actually beginning to like this guy. “But what does Miss Wright’s job have to do with me?” “Glad you asked, son, glad you asked.” Rosco took a big swig of root beer, let out a rumbling belch. “What I want to know is if we got a good bargain in this swap. My gut tells me we didn’t. My gut tells me that this little princess is just here to draw a paycheck and is likely to send some of our boys in blue out the door untrained.” Rosco looked serious. “What I need you to do is help me test her. If she passes, then we can relax and have confidence in her. If she fails, then we have proven that she wasn’t fit to work here, and that fucking GS-14 can just tell his buddy in Dallas ‘too bad, so sad.’” “How do we test her, sir?” Oh, this is going to be Too. Much. Fun. “Well, as you know, it’s damned near impossible to get rid of one of these civilians. They’re like buggers on your finger. Can’t shake ‘em off. But with diligence and evidence— solid evidence—I can be sure that a bad instructor doesn’t make it past the probationary period of employment here. I’m not saying that she is bad, understand, just that I want to be sure one way or another. So here is what I need you to do.” Dave left MSgt Rosco Flasque’s office with a whole new admiration for the man. Flasque might be an under-worked, over-paid windbag, but he had a mind that moved in interesting directions. *****

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Fiona yawned and arched her back in a bone-popping stretch. It was quitting time Monday. Shirley, Rick, Bingham and Tubbs had just finished their cigarettes and gone inside. The air was remarkably still for North Texas, and the starlings were having a noisy party in the cottonwood tree across the street. The late afternoon sun was a heavy gold coin balanced on the roof of the building next door. A sparrow and its mate were busy building a nest in the eaves of the patio awning. They took turns guarding it while the other gathered materials. Gratified by their progress over the last few days, Fiona looked forward to the peeping of baby birds. She sat crosslegged on top of the picnic table, and thought about her day. Last Friday, when Shirley had talked to her about dressing down, Fiona’s main fear was that she would become invisible again, the way she’d felt when she was a kid. She’d prepared herself for that. She’d been ready to do a good job, even if she were invisible. But the day had proven to her that nothing was ever that easy. Oh, the students were fine about it. They looked at her funny when they first came in. Then they gave a collective shrug and got on with their work. No big deal. If anything, they seemed to ask tougher questions. Apparently, her new image conveyed a readiness to tackle the work at hand; by the end of every objective, she had a long list of questions she had to find answers for. She didn’t mind. The airmen had sort of grown on her, and their curiosity was a good sign. Curious people keep learning. It was the bored ones you had to watch out for. She had to wonder, though, about MSgt Flasque. As she’d stepped out of the female latrine this morning, he had passed her in the hall. Without even breaking stride, he said, “Well, you certainly look comfortable.” The sarcasm in his voice wafted behind him like a bad smell. It was the first time since she’d started this job that the man had ever been anything but sweet, supportive and charming. He’d been so touchy-feely Friday that she’d almost come unglued. Wasn’t this whole gender-neutral crap his suggestion in the first place? What was even weirder was Will McCrae. After this morning’s small bit of awkwardness, she’d welcomed his apparent approval and offer of first-name friendship as a simple gesture of professional bon-ami. But in class today, every time she looked at him, he was staring at her. And not in a way that would suggest platonic, co-worker attentiveness. It was as if his poker face—indeed at times his brain—had taken the day off. What was up? Maybe he digs ugly women, and my plain face turns him on. Yeah, there’s a thought. Oh well. Too late to turn back now. After the initial case of nerves she’d overcome this morning and Will’s bug-eyed reaction, Fiona had enjoyed the freedom and comfort of dressing for the job. Shirley had been right—Fiona did wonder why it had taken her so long. She was also beginning to enjoy the teaching. Despite the continued harassment from the more pigheaded element, she knew she was getting the hang of it. At the end of a long day, she could look at herself in the mirror and know she’d done her best. And she knew that her best was getting better. Today had been a long day. Tomorrow would be longer: schematics and electrical readings. What she knew about electronic principles would almost fill a thimble. She would have to hit the library yet again tonight. Ugh. Electronics.

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One of the sparrows landed on the edge of the trash bin with a bit of grass in its beak, eyed her warily, and flitted up into the eves. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sparrow, sir. I’m a biped child of mother nature, just like you.” The bird cocked its head and eyed her dubiously. “Okay, I’m a featherless biped, but hey, I’m on your side! If it weren’t for me, Tubbs would have trashed your nest yesterday because he’s sick of you guys pooping on him. Drop a good one for me tomorrow, will you?” Fiona counted herself lucky to have the patio to herself. So of course then the glass breezeway door opened. She’d expected a class-leader airman, checking that patio details were done. She turned and saw Will. She studied him for a second, her thoughts returning to his odd behavior in class. She smiled and said, “I thought you didn’t smoke.” His normally black eyes glowed chocolate brown in the slanting sunlight. The air cast a golden glow around him. To Fiona it seemed that some ethereal special effects genius had staged a spotlight on him, as if to say; ‘Now, this is a fine example of nature. Male, Homo Sapiens, Featherless Biped Extraordinaire!’ Okay, Fiona, what was that about? “I thought you didn’t smoke, either,” quipped the extraordinary featherless biped. She raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, I like to come out here while the airmen are doing their afternoon cleanup. They know I check to see if their work is done right, but I don’t like to stand over them while they do it. It denotes a lack of confidence in them.” His mouth tugged up in a mischievous grin. “You know, for a weird, neo-hippy freak, you sometimes make a little sense.” Surely the golden light sparkling from his eyes had made her hallucinate. Did the IronMan just make a joke? She bit her bottom lip and put her feet down on the bench. Studying the toes of her Converse high-tops to keep from staring at him, she asked, “So. I told you my reason to be out here…what’s yours?” She sensed, more than heard, his quick little intake of breath and the sigh that followed, as if he’d decided something. He crossed the patio and climbed onto the table beside her. Close enough that their shoulders would touch if she moved to her right a few inches. He looked at her for a full minute. She would have repeated her question, but the blossoming warmth in her belly at his look kept her quiet. She liked the warmth in her belly, and it was rapidly moving south; if she spoke up, he might stop looking at her that way. Will had made up his mind to ask her to lunch, and yet here he was, like a kid asking his first date to the prom. But she was so damned beautiful. He loved her face without all the goop on it. She smelled like lavender and cedar, and looked like some kind of wood nymph. She made him feel crazy, made him think of talking trees and elves. He imagined her sitting by a stream with flowers braided in her hair, holding court among the forest animals. Oh God! It was true then. He had lost his mind. In its place was an insane desire to grab that dark braid, pull her head back, and kiss the little hollow at the base of her throat. So why couldn’t he just ask her out for a simple lunch? His dating mechanism was so rusty from disuse; he did feel like a teenager. His throat felt tight, and he’d swear his tongue had turned to lead. If just asking her to lunch did this to him, did he really want to see this through? An actual date with her might kill him. Well, waiting wouldn’t make it any easier. He focused on the straight white part in her dark hair, and took the plunge. “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”

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“Lunch?” “Yes, you know, lunch. That meal people eat in the middle of the day, the one between breakfast and supper. What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” “I usually go to the gym. You know that. You see me there often enough.” “Oh yeah. Okay.” Now what, smart guy? “What I mean is, would you want to go to lunch with me tomorrow? I usually go to the gym, too. As you said. Maybe we could go have a burger at Sonic or try that frou-frou sandwich place over on Enterprise.” Will looked at his combat boots on the bench below him and waited for her to say no. Fiona busted out laughing. “Well, I’ve been to the Renaissance Pear, and you have it pegged just right—it’s pretty frou-frou. You would get Pink-Poisoning from the décor. And I can just see you paying twenty bucks for cucumber sandwiches and radish curls. But Sonic is a normal enough place.” Mike took her to the Renaissance Pear once, last year for her birthday. He’d loved the atmosphere, praising the place as “an oasis of civilization in this backwater burg.” She should have known something was wrong with him right then. Fiona looked at Will, suddenly serious; “Can I ask you a question?” “Sure. Ask.” “Why?” He looked up. “Why not?” “Well, you’re an instructor, and I’m an instructor, and isn’t there some rule against fraternization or something? I mean I’ve been to approximately four hundred and twenty seven damned briefings on Who Can’t Go Where With Whom On Pain Of Death, Dismemberment, Or Even Courts Martial. I can’t keep up with it all. I figured it was safest if I just avoided everybody but Miss Shirley. She seems the least likely to get me in trouble.” It was Will’s turn to laugh now. The mellow rumble of his laughter slid over Fiona like warm brown velvet. Like the burnished brown in his eyes. He was looking at her that way again. But he was smiling now. He really should smile more often. She wondered how she could have ever thought he was stiff-necked and forbidding. “No, it’s not fraternization if you go to lunch with a co-worker. Here, to make it simple, I’ll list them. No students, no officers, no bosses, and no students. Oh yeah, no students. Did I mention no students? That about sums it up.” “You’re making fun of me.” “No, I’m not. Okay, a little. So, Sonic burgers for lunch tomorrow?” A wormy little curl of excitement had begun to grow in his middle, and Will felt like he might spring straight up. Restraint was costing him a great effort. He put his hands down on either side of his legs, and gripped the table. Fiona noticed where his left hand had gripped. It was an inch from her thigh. She wanted to slide her hand down over his knuckles and feel the hairs on the back of his hand. She wanted to see if his hand was as warm as his eyes were. As warm as that rich brown velvet laugh. She couldn’t believe what she was thinking. This couldn’t lead anywhere but trouble. Fraternization or not, he was a coworker, and it couldn’t be a good idea to go anywhere with him. But her muscles were trembling and her body said yes, yes, yes…anywhere with you…let’s go now. “Yes, TSgt McCrae. I mean, Will. I would enjoy a Sonic Burger with you tomorrow.”

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Will looked into Fiona’s eyes and she felt her stomach flutter. Ever so slowly, he reached over and nudged her glasses up her nose. “Good. Until then, then?” Then he bounded off the table and swung into the building, leaving her to stare after him in amazement. After a minute she actually closed her mouth.

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Chapter Nine Rosco tightened the last screw on the electrical trainer’s side instrument panel. He double-checked to make sure no snips of wire remained, and then carefully accounted for his tools. Next, he slipped the doctored inspection form into its welded metal pocket on the back of the trainer, glanced once more around the lab, turned out the light, and closed the lab door. His whistle echoed in the long hallway back to his office. The schoolhouse was strange at night. Empty, all the lights were out. None of the guys would believe he was here, but if security forces stopped in to check out the lights, it would be the most natural thing in the world for a supervisor to be working late. In his office, he opened a bottle of beer—real beer this time, thank God—and sat on the couch, leaning back. That Tyler kid was going to fit nicely into his plans. Not that Rosco had any intention of actually turning in a promotion package…too much trouble and those things never got approved anyway. But he’d needed a carrot, and with low ranking enlisted, promotion is always a good carrot. That was sure one weird-ass kid. He shook his head to clear away the image of round gray eyes. Lying down and stretching out, as much as he could with the couch as short as it was, Rosco stared at the ceiling, beer balanced on his belly. Miss Fiona had surprised him showing up that way. Birth-control-glasses and no makeup. Kind of took the edge off his hunger for her for a minute, looking so plain. The jeans had their own advantage—he could see her ass better, and her legs looked even longer. But the glasses and lack of makeup didn’t do a thing for him. He’d miscalculated her reaction to his counsel. Why did she have to take his talk so damned seriously? If only Will had been here Friday afternoon, she might have taken it out on him, and Rosco would have strike two already. But it didn’t matter. She was still a hot one and he was going to enjoy “working” with her. He chuckled and put his foot up on the back of the couch. As he saw it, she had one counseling letter, and if the kid did his job right, she’d soon have two. That ought to put her in a position to bargain with. Maybe he could get the flight commander, Captain Omant, to stop in and evaluate the new instructor. She’d freaked out bad enough on the idea of McCrae sitting in on her lessons; imagine what she’d do with the Captain back there! With a barking laugh, Rosco slapped the back of the couch with his hand and swung around to sit up. The rest of the beer went down in one long guzzle, and produced an admirable burp. Retirement looked great from this vantage point, no doubt, but now that he had things the way he wanted them, he had to admit, he was going to miss these little games. ***** “Your move.” Olivia smiled at her daddy, knowing he was not going to let her win, and loving him for it. He didn’t operate that way, and she was learning to stand on her own two feet because of the principles he taught her. Ozzy rested his massive canine head on the table, watching the chess pieces in case they tried to get away.

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“Well, you didn’t leave me much to work with, did you?” Will pushed his pawn over one space. Without looking up, he said, “I’ve asked Fiona Wright to lunch tomorrow. What do you think?” Olivia looked up, searched his face, and smiled. His expression was pensive, drawn, and worried. Worried about her. “Daddy, I think that might be the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Except having me, of course.” She deftly captured his queen, looked up and tilted a smile at him. “Check.” Will blew out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He had worried that Olivia would hate the idea of his dating, of him being involved with somebody other than her mother. That didn’t make sense on the surface of things; given how she fought with her mother every waking minute, but it was his experience that women, no matter what age, didn’t make sense. “So, you’re okay with it?” “Okay with it? I think it’s great! When do I get to meet her?” “Oh, Whoa. Hold on. I just told you I’m taking her to lunch tomorrow, not proposing marriage.” Will got up and opened a beer for himself, a Pepsi for Olivia. He came back to the table and sat down. “This lady is nice, but she’s just a co-worker, and we’re just friends. If things get anywhere past that, I’ll let you know. The only reason I told you about her were that I didn’t want it to be a shock. That’s all. It’s not really a big deal, anyway, just lunch. Olivia knew just how “not a big deal” it was by the fact that he mentioned it at all. If it were Just Lunch, he would never have brought it up. Her dad didn’t date, period. She wasn’t stupid enough to think he was celibate as a monk, but he just didn’t have relationships. He had his carpentry to keep busy with, his dog to talk to, his daughter to love, and his ex-wife to fight with. Until now, that had been all he seemed to want. So he could just stow the “no big deal”. All Olivia wanted to know was: what this woman was like, and was she going to be good to Pop? She reached over and scratched Ozzy behind his ears, earning a happy groan for her efforts. So far at least, it looked good. For a couple of weeks now, her normally unflappable Pops had been alternately happy, defensive, nervous, and distracted. He whistled while he shaved in the mornings. He froze and then retreated to his woodshop if she so much as mentioned his recent weirdness. He stared at the phone and sighed. And if his hair weren't so thick, he’d be bald already from the times he ran his hand over it. All of these things, in Olivia’s vast experience—she and her friends fell in love all the time—were good signs. She grinned. Her daddy was finally falling in love. Olivia couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more. “So, where are you taking her?” She watched Will make a wrong move on the board. Boy, he must have it bad, to play like this. He normally kicked her butt. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re going to the Sonic, right outside the base gate.” “What?” Olivia threw up her hands in exasperation. Ozzy ducked under the table, which wasn’t easy because he barely fit. “Daddy, if you want to do this right, you have to romance her at least a little. Sonic Burgers? Puh-leaze! Kelly says there’s a fancy sandwich place, The Renaissance Pear, right around the corner from the gate. You should take her there. Kelly says the ambiance is wonderful.”

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“Kelly is fourteen and has pink hair, Olivia. I told you I’m not romancing anyone. I’m taking a co-worker to lunch.” Will ran a hand over the dark stubble of his crew cut. “I was thinking maybe we could take the burgers to a park, though.” He really must be losing his mind. He was discussing dating plans with his fourteen-year-old daughter. Soon he’d be asking her advice on what to wear. Thank God for uniforms. “Checkmate. Daddy, you really like this lady, don’t you?” Olivia had her mother’s red hair, but Will’s dark eyes, and those dark eyes looked at him with such love and tenderness that Will finally relented. “Yes. I really like her. There. Are you happy? But don’t get your hopes up. It’s still just a lunch, and we’re still just co-workers. Now, thanks for taking advantage of your old man while he’s distracted…next time I’ll beat you fair and square. It’s time for you, young lady, to get your homework done.” “It’s done already. But I did promise to call Kelly back.” Olivia jumped out of her seat and flopped down the hall in ridiculous hound-dog house-shoes. She threw a sardonic glance over her shoulder. “If she has any good advice on your girlfriend, I’ll be sure and pass it on.” Then she giggled and flounced into her room. Will finished off his beer and went to the living room, collapsed onto the squashy plaid couch. “You betcha. Advice from pink-haired teenage girl. Maybe I’ll need it.” He stared at the ceiling. Ozzy lay his head on Will’s stomach and blew out a sympathetic sigh, and thumped his thick on the floor until Will consented to rub the wiry fur between his eyes. “She’s turned me into a kid again, Oz. I’m not sure what I should say to her, where I should take her, how I should act when I’m with her.” The only thing he was sure of was that he couldn’t get enough of her. ***** “Kevin! You home?” No answer. Fiona threw her purse on the kitchen table and turned on the lights in the kitchen. She set her pile of library books on the table, too, and went to the fridge. Instead of a message written on the dry erase board there; he’d taped a note. “Fiona—Went to Dallas for a Rangers game, staying Tuesday with Tina’s folks. I’ll be back Wednesday morning. –See ya, Kevin P.S. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but if you do, name it after me.” Well, Kevin was a dingle-berry sometimes, but he was a good guy and worked hard. He deserved a Rangers game once in a while. Fiona wadded up the note and threw it away, happy for Kevin but envious of the easy rapport between him and his girlfriend. Why couldn’t she have that? Because she worked very hard to avoid it. That’s why. She got a tall glass and filled it with peach iced tea, and took her armload of library books to the living room. This did not promise to be a fun evening. Curling up on the couch, she saw a flyer-ad for Sonic on top of the pile of newspapers. She pushed thoughts of Will McCrae as far from her mind as she could and opened the first

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book. Fundamentals of Electronic Circuitry. Oh hell. Maybe she’d be better off drinking strong coffee. She knew the stuff she needed to teach tomorrow. Okay, strike that. She knew it well enough if the students would just take their notes, and take her word for it. But that was not how learning worked and Fiona knew it. You had to know all the "whys” when you learned, or the facts didn’t make as much sense or stay with you long. So she needed to study all around the lesson plan facts. No more running to somebody for help. Only a handful of guys in the shop gave trustworthy answers, anyway. How could the others claim they took their training so seriously when they sent her back to class with bogus information for the airmen? The thought of those hyenas sitting around the office laughing made her insides feel shaky and undone. Over the last month and a half, the hyenas had worked hard to chip away at her. In a sick way, she almost admired their tenacity. Will had called it the flightline mentality, said they were being gentle compared to how they acted out on the job. “Fuelies eat their own kind,” he’d said. Great. Cannibalistic hyenas. He was probably right. They were fairly subtle. They did little things. Slammed a file drawer as she aimed to put away a file. Took turns keeping the computer busy—she’d had to work late two days in a row to get her TTMS logged in and her mail answered. Yesterday she’d stayed in the office at lunch because Bingham had told her the boss wanted to talk to her. Of course it had been bullshit, and she’d looked like a fool. Little things. But day after day, the little things added up. Last week, for example...one of those “last straw” moments. She’d really had to fight for control then. Lots of deep breathing, serious and immediate visualization. She wouldn’t cry front of the class—absolutely would not. But she was trying so hard to do this job well. The airmen deserved decent training. She really wanted to be pissed at Will’s non-intervention. But she didn’t want him to intervene, either. No valor in playing the damsel in distress. It was bad enough how she’d gotten the job. She damn well planned to keep it on her own merit. That day, Will had intervened. She’d made a huge mistake in her lecture, based on Sike’s misinformation. She asked Will to speak with her in the hall and they left the classroom. She asked him the question she’d asked Sikes, he’d told her the correct answer. She went back to class, and re-taught the objective. And felt stupid. Will disappeared for half an hour, then stepped quietly into the class and resumed his place in the back row, his face a blank mask. For the rest of the day after that, Sikes had practically tripped over himself trying to be helpful—even re-shelved her technical orders for her. What had Will said to the guy? Of course, she checked to be sure the tech order binders went back in the right place, signed in properly. Just one more way for Sikes to hang her. So now she had to study. Electronics. She looked longingly at her bookshelves, full of lovely Jung and Campbell, Chaucer and Updike. Fiona closed the electronics book with a sigh. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll have some tea and chocolate, then I’ll get back in the book, and really hit it.” She had her lesson plan and the list of “why” questions she had heard the students ask Will when he taught the lesson, so she had a good place to start. Mission: Loreena McKennitt CD, chocolate, and more tea.

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Snuggling down into the sofa with a handful of dark chocolate mini-bars, Fiona let her thoughts wander away from electronics and cannibalistic hyenas. She still hadn’t sorted out the Mike thing. She lay back against the fluffy couch pillows, closed her eyes and pictured opening a box. The lid squeaked. She should really clean house in there more often. Mike Lucas. He wasn’t a cannibal, or a hyena. At least she didn’t think so. She’d never seen him on the job, and he did have that whole GQ business tycoon thing going on, but she knew better. He was more of a peacock, one whose feathers she would love to pluck. She pictured a peacock, bald and squawking indignantly, and felt better. Mike Lucas. Will McCrae. Comparing Mike to Will was…well; there wasn’t even an analogy that fit. Mike was sophisticated, confident, and handsome. Some big shot in Dallas. She had first met him at a small jazz bar downtown called Frank’s Place. He’d been in town visiting friends. He’d bought her a drink, they’d talked, and then they’d dated for three years. Wavy brown hair that was going gray at the temples. She liked that he was almost twenty years older than she was. He wore his business success like his suit…something he could take off whenever he wanted. But he needed her, despite his arrogant manner and worldly ways. He had an ego fragile as glass. She felt comfortably in control of the situation. Since he lived in Dallas, and there was no way she was going to leave Wichita Falls, she was content to see him once every few weeks. He drove up, stayed the weekend with her, and then disappeared, back to the big city and his life. His work was a mystery; it sounded like a mixture of corporate ladder-climbing and sports contract trade-offs all in the name of Personnel Management. She was busy earning her MA though, and working insane hours to keep the bills paid, so she really didn’t care to know more. He seemed to like the arrangement as much as she did. They had fun when he did visit—going to the theater, drinking expensive champagne. Sex wasn’t great, but she had things the way she wanted them; he was around enough to satisfy her need for male company, but not in the way enough to cause any emotional damage. Fiona sighed and fluffed the tasseled pillows behind her. He was married, the bastard. Her pride was dented all out of shape. Still, after the initial shock had worn off, she had to admit that on some level she’d always known that things were not quite right in Mike’s world. She had let herself be lied to rather than risk disturbing the status quo. Thanks Momma. Mike was safe. Mike was a bookmark, holding a place in her life between where she had been, and where she was still afraid to go. She’d met him when she was twenty-three, never having embraced the white-picket fence dream her friends wanted. Romantic dreams were fine for other people, but she had no intention of falling—really falling—for anyone. Momma lived that dream, and look what happened to her. Fiona let a chocolate melt in her mouth, and the sensation made her think of Will. He too, was confident and handsome, but the similarities ended right there. William McCrae was straightforward, brilliant, almost comically noble, and possessed of a subtle humor that she wanted very much to explore. She sensed that below his fine military bearing, he was also deeply passionate.

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Fiona felt herself grow warm at the memory of his eyes on her. That passion was the very thing she had avoided all her life. That kind of passion ruined lives. Left nothing but ashes and sad, sad faces. She had accepted a lunch date with him! What was she going to do? Okay, so it was a lunch date. No big deal. She would go to lunch with him, get to know him as a co-worker and possibly a friend. He hadn’t really indicated there was any more to it than that, anyway. Oh Fiona, let’s not bullshit ourselves, shall we? Another chocolate. The color of it made her think of his eyes in the afternoon sunlight. The taste of it made her think of things she wanted to do to him. She wanted to see him lose that damned self-control. To be disgustingly honest, she wanted him to grab her and run off with her like a cave man. She would never forget the first time she’d seen him. Despite their opposite philosophies, despite the insanity of that job, there existed between them an unspoken union. At first she’d mistaken her reaction to him as a sort of Stockholm affect—she had been an unwilling captive of this stupid job. Will was a guard, but the nicest guard at the jail. For weeks now she’d tried to ignore how his black eyes made her insides hot and loose, how he smelled necessary, cosmic male for her female. It hadn’t helped. It wouldn’t surprise her if the female students in her class got pregnant from the vibes in that classroom. Maybe to speak of it would break the spell. But to be bare, unprotected, and vulnerable? Instinct told her that Will would never be content with pale weekend visits like Mike had. Will would have nothing less than everything from her, no compromises, no settling. No safety net, no emotional distance to cushion the fall. Sooner or later, her happiness would be too much. Something bad would have to balance it. A plane crash. A funeral. And then she would wear the same sad face as her mother. Nope. Not worth it. So, what was she going to do? Wear garlic around her neck? She smiled at her chocolate and wondered what Will would think if he knew she’d compared him to a vampire. How silly. Your flakey daughter tends to over-imagine, don’t she, Momma? Tomorrow’s lunch was at Sonic—a public place for a burger and fries, then back to work. Simple. She would just have to be more careful from now on. If she kept eating these damned chocolates, she’d need every available lunch hour for the gym, anyway. All she had to do was get through the qualifying process. Soon he’d be back to teaching his own classes. Once they weren’t around each other all the time, things would cool off. It didn’t matter what existed between them…it was a physical thing. And it would pass.

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Chapter Ten Tuesday morning, SrA Dave “Total Brain/Timid Boy” Tyler flipped on the light in the electrical lab. He was here insanely early, but he parked around back so no one would see him. The electronics objective didn’t come up until after lunch, but he didn’t want to take any chances. There was always somebody in the building at lunch, so he might not get another opportunity to slip in here without notice. The electrical trainers were the size of large TVs, flat fronts slanting up and back. Lights and electrical points were lined across the faces, labeled as ground, neutral, etc. and with the mock-up component each was supposed to power. The lesson on electrical schematics in this course was embarrassingly simple as far as Dave was concerned. But then this course treated people like vegetables, anyway. Crossing to trainer number Six in the corner, he looked in the metal pocket on the back of the trainer. The doctored inspection card, AF form 244, was present and accounted for, just as Flasque had said it would be, along with the valid one. Dave took the doctored card out and tucked it into his lesson plan binder, leaving the valid one that said there was nothing wrong with trainer number Six. The problem with number Six was not really a problem, it was just seriously overdue for inspection and had to be on a Red X status until PMEL could get to it. Flasque had assured Dave that the trainer would be more than just overdue for inspection, though. He’d said it would be downright uncooperative. When the students powered up the trainers to start taking connector readings, Dave was supposed to be there to keep things from getting out of hand. He couldn’t wait for the fun to start. ***** “You ready?” Will had keys in hand. He kept his eyes on the airmen, watching them form up for their march to the chow hall. Fiona stood in the classroom door, looking at his back. She took a deep breath. “Yes. Let me get my jacket, though. I’ll just be a minute.” Will looked at her. His dark eyes on her made the muscles in her belly tighten. Then he smiled and made it worse. She’d be curled up like a shrimp if he kept this up. “I’ll meet you at the truck,” he said, and started out after the last airman in formation. “Which one?” He called out over his shoulder, “The ugliest one out there.” In the instructor’s office, Fiona retrieved her jacket from the back of her office chair, grabbed her purse, and fought the urge to put on a touch of lipstick. This was not a date; it was nothing more than two coworkers going to lunch together. Just then, SSgt Bingham stepped into the room, glanced in her direction and said, “Your class on electrical readings today?” “Yes, why?”

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“I just thought I should call the fire department to have them on standby.” He hooted laughter, and a couple of other instructors joined in the merriment. Even SrA Tyler let out an uncharacteristic guffaw. A paper airplane zoomed by her head. Bingham made an innocent face and said “Sorry! You’re standing in front of our target.” She looked around and saw the “in” basket on top of the filing cabinet. She should be used to this by now. Damned hyenas. Having nothing to come back with that wouldn’t make matters worse, Fiona headed out the office door down the hall. The airmen were great, and she liked teaching. But she was pretty sure she hated this job. Once outside, she felt better. Brilliant sunshine, very little wind. A few cotton-ball clouds hung out over the flightline. Fiona saw the tiny stitch of a T-38 soar past the clouds, its scorched sound following it like an afterthought. She looked around and breathed in the warming air. Won’t need this jacket. Perfect day to play hooky. Out in the parking lot, it was easy to see which vehicle was Will’s. A beat-up blue Ford—well, more like blue, rust, and primer gray. It looked as though it had spent a decade herding cattle through mesquite pasture, and then another decade hauling rock. Will got out, came around and opened the door for her. When she was seated, he leaned in over her legs. Her breath caught in her throat, and he turned to face her, nose to nose. God, he smelled good. Overheated male. Why couldn’t he cover that up with some obnoxious cologne? Would really be helpful here. He turned and grabbed a small, equally beat-up yellow ice chest off the floor between the seats, and the moment passed. The space in front of her suddenly empty of him, she sucked in a shaky breath. A hollow, rattling thunk sounded behind her as he threw the ice chest in the bed. No wonder his truck looked like hell. He got in on his side, slammed the door, and then looked at her. “I’m starving.” Fiona couldn’t help but apply two meanings to that. “Me, too.” It took ten minutes for them to get off base. The exit, blocked with a slalom course of traffic cones, was a bottleneck of traffic. Fiona didn’t know what to say to him. The rapport they had developed in the classroom deserted her in this unfamiliar territory. It could only get worse. She closed her eyes and tried to picture past lunches with college friends. They were always chatty and impersonal with easy conversation. Then she looked at Will’s squinty-eyed cowboy profile. Nope. No college friends here. She needed that garlic now. When Will pulled into the drive-through instead of parking at a speaker to order, Fiona said, “Um, I think you’ve pulled into the wrong lane. This is the drive through.” He didn’t look at her. “I thought we could grab our food and head for Lucy Park. It’s a great day for it.” “Oh.” Fiona fixed her stare out the windshield, at the gray sedan in line ahead of them. “That’s okay isn’t it? The airmen have a CFC briefing back at the squadron, so lunch is going to be extended an hour.” He looked at her then, took a deep breath and said, “I figured if I wasn’t going to take you to that fancy sandwich place, the least I could do was give you a blanket to sit on while you eat.” Why were they doing this to each other? She looked at the brown, calloused hands curling easily over the steering wheel and her traitorous body wanted them, warm and rough, on her skin. Tilting a weak smile at him, she said, “Thank you. Lucy Park’s beautiful.”

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Lucy Park was beautiful. And Lucy Park was a public place. But a picnic? Sitting by a duck pond, in the sun, on a blanket, with this man? Bad idea. Be firm in your resolve, girl. Remember, he’ll have his own class soon, and then things will be fine.

They arrived at the park to find it almost empty. White ducks and mallards sailed around on the pond, a long vee of ripples behind each one on the still water. At the far end of the pond, on a short rounded bridge with an oriental style roof, stood an old woman and a little girl. The ducks below them scudded around each other in competition for bread. Fiona opened her truck door, and stood, not knowing what to do next. Will apparently had the whole thing planned, though; he pulled an olive green laundry bag out of the truck. Carrying it and their food, he walked to the southeast edge of the pond, a sunny patch of grass on a small peninsula. Pulling a worn quilt from the laundry bag, he spread out, taking care to make it straight and flat. Then he took off his BDU shirt and folded it, laid it on the blanket. He sat cross-legged on the northeast corner of the quilt, lay out the food and peered up at her from under the bill of his BDU cap. “You going to join me, or do I have to eat all this myself?” She reached in her pocket and felt the small, heavy lump of hematite there. If ever she needed its grounding influence, it was then. Just lunch. Just co-workers, chatting over a couple of burgers. Toeing off her shoes, she sat down on the corner opposite him on the quilt. The colors and handwork made her think of Momma. Good. Think of Momma. Rest homes. Mr. Cabot next door. Insurance and taxes. Anything but how damned hard-bodied he looked under that black t-shirt. Will handed her the bacon, Swiss, and mushroom she’d ordered, her fries and a sweating paper glass of iced tea. Just lunch. Slinging her braid back over her shoulder, she pulled the burger out of its foil-paper sack. “So have you lived here all your life?” Will stuck an onion ring in his mouth and munched. A golden crumb of batter clung to his bottom lip and he licked it off. Fiona could have sworn she felt his tongue on her lip too. She forced her eyes away from his face and looked out over the park to the north of them. “Yes, all my life. Same house, even. Where did you grow up?” “Well, I was born in South Carolina, but my dad was Air Force, so we moved everywhere. We’d lived in three countries and five states before I got to high school.” “Your dad must be proud that you followed his footsteps.” Will snorted. “He was an officer. But I can’t say he’s really proud of his enlisted son. I was supposed to go to college, get my degree, and then go in as an officer, following a hallowed line of McCrae men that reaches back forever. I don’t have anything against tradition. In fact, I’m proud to serve like they did. But going in as an officer? Well, let’s just say things didn’t work out that way. I did get my degree going to school at night, but by then I’d been enlisted almost eight years. The job was interesting. I decided to stay enlisted.” Will finished off the rest of his burger. The sun was bright in the new leaves of the nearby pecan tree. They looked fragile and optimistic, small, pale green, and furry as mouse ears. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he took off his combat boots, then checked surreptitiously to be sure he hadn’t accidentally put on the socks with a hole this morning. He

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glanced at Fiona. She had a mouthful of burger, concentrating as if the taste were a vital piece of information she’d need later. “So, you lived here all your life. You have two degrees, English and Mass Communications. What else? Married? Kids? I don’t see a ring.” He nodded toward her slim white hands and hoped he didn’t sound as obvious to her as he did to himself. “No and no. I live in my mother’s house—the house I grew up in. I have a roommate that I hardly ever see.” “Where is your mother?” Will immediately regretted asking when he saw the line form between her brows. “She’s at North Plains Care Center. Alzheimer’s.” Fiona pulled a deep breath and came up with a breezy smile. “Anyway. I love that house, and now that I’m not working every minute of every day to pay bills, I can start fixing it up a little. I’ve done some inside work over the years, inexpensive stuff—paint, mostly. But I still have some projects in mind; lay a brick walk and some landscaping, maybe replace the kitchen vinyl with ceramic tile. The outside trim is awful and needs attention. How about you? Married? Kids? I don’t see a ring on your hand, either.” “No, and yes. Fourteen-year-old daughter who lives with her mother. Well, half the time. The rest of the time she lives with me. I put in for instructor duty here so I could see her more. I was lucky—I love this job—but I would have done it anyway. She’s a great kid.” He watched her feed the rest of her fries to the ducks—some of them so bold as to walk right up on their blanket. Making shooing gestures that the ducks ignored completely, she said, “Okay my feathered biped friends, there is no more food. Vamoose!” Will wondered about the quick glance she tossed him as she’d said that, and the suppressed smile. She rolled on her stomach and stretched out beside him in the warm sun. Taking her glasses off, she propped her chin on the back of her hand and squinted up at him sideways. He had an annoying urge to put her glasses somewhere safe so they wouldn’t get stepped on. Fiona had seen Will’s face relax into doting, fatherly fondness when he spoke of his daughter. His expression let her understand how things were between them. Fiona had always wished she’d had a father growing up. She was glad Will and his daughter could be together and close. Over the course of their conversation, she had begun to feel more at ease. No less conscious of him—that would take a lobotomy—but at least she was in control of herself again. She felt the lump of hematite in her pocket press against the front of her thigh and smiled. Blinking in the sun as she looked at Will, she decided to put this lunch-date mistake to good use. “Can I ask you a question?” “You just did.” Oh, so literal is our featherless biped. “Okay, smart-ass. Seriously; why does everybody at the school house hate me?” God, that sounded whiny. “Well, they don’t all hate you. Jonas, Rick, Tubbs, Tyler. They don’t care about you one way or another.” Fiona pulled a handful of grass and threw it at him. Will caught a blade and positioned it between his two thumbs lengthwise and made a rattling kazoo sound with it. Without looking at her he said, “Actually, Rick does care one way…but his way of caring would probably get him a visit from Social Actions, and maybe an

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Article Fifteen. He says you’re totally hot. You should know that you were saved from his rabid attentions by the good graces of MSgt Flasque.” Fiona snorted. “Well, I thank MSgt Flasque for that, anyway.” Will looked at her lithe body stretched out beside him, dark hair glossy in the noon sun. The worn fabric of her jeans outlined her butt and it was all he could do not to lay his hand on one of those round cheeks. Her t-shirt had come untucked at her side, exposing a slim triangle of translucent skin. “Rick is one of the nicer ones, though, as ridiculous as he is.” She continued, breaking his reverie. “The ones that do hate me just won’t let up. I thought that if I studied, worked hard, mastered the material, they’d see I’m not the waste of personnel manning they seem to think. But they won’t let up, Will. Bingham and Sikes are the worst. I’m not asking them to like me, just to respect that I am doing a good job, and probably working twice as hard as they are.” “Modesty. Yes, a most commendable trait in a woman.” Will made a stuffy butler face. At her noise of protest, he rolled his eyes. “You are doing a good job, and it’s clear that you work hard. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised myself.” He saw her face and raised his hand, “—Now wait. You have to admit, it’s hard to accept for a bunch of guys with years of flightline experience to have an English Major traipse in and start teaching their career field. Especially one who wears purple silk and lets her airmen play with Play-Doh.” Fiona knew he was right, but that didn’t help. “Well, I’ve changed my image, but I’ll never stop with the Play-Doh. I’ve made a lot of progress with the course-work, though, and I’ve done my dead-level best to appear humble and ready to learn. What else do I have to do to get them to accept me?” “Honestly? You need time. When they see that you’re serious, that you can do the job, and are willing to put in the hours to help the airmen, they’ll come around.” He shrugged. “Bingham and Sikes may never, but they’re assholes, anyway.” “Okay. If you say so. I get really tired of their knuckle-dragging crap, but you’re right. The rest aren’t awful anymore. Tubbs even made a joke yesterday. As in, he told me a joke, rather than making me the butt of it.” She hadn’t thought of the situation in those terms. Some of the guys really were…well, not warming up, but thawing out? It was too much to expect friendship, but a cease-fire would be nice. Will was right. Time would help. If she hadn’t been so absorbed in the effort of learning fuel systems, she would have seen that already. She was a great believer in power of time. Fiona rolled over and sat up cross-legged, facing Will, and looked around. The old lady and little girl on the bridge had gone, but the park was not quite empty. A young mother played in the sand box with two fat babies. Off in the distance a couple held hands on a bench at the edge of the trees. She watched Will close his eyes and lean his head back in the sun. Being the good NCO, he never went outside in uniform without his hat. She wished he’d take it off now. She’d been with him on the “no-hat” area of the flightline for an equipment maintenance objective. His hair and eyebrows weren’t just dark. They were the black of crow feathers…the kind of black that glints with blue highlights in the sun. Even with his hat on, she could see the hair on the back of head, thick and short, like an animal’s pelt. She wondered how the

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stubble of his crew cut would feel against her palm. If it would feel rough against her cheek. Against other places… He had his sunglasses off, and a skier’s tan outlined where they would normally cover his eyes. Straight black eyelashes lay in contrast to the pale skin around his eyes. Tiny lines there at the corners, radiating out to span the upper planes of his cheekbones. Years of work on the flightline had weathered lines in interesting angles around his mouth. She wondered how old he was. She was only a little surprised when her hand lifted of its own volition and gently touched the scar at the left corner of his mouth. Will jumped and opened his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. “Where’d you get this scar?” she asked. She traced the thin half-inch line, and then realized she was about to begin tracing the outline of his lips. With a small gasp, she folded her hands in her lap. “My ex has a nasty habit of throwing things when she’s mad.” “Is that why you left her?” Fiona told herself that she didn’t care about his ex, about any woman that he’d ever been with. But she was glad they were talking about an ex rather than a wife. “As bad as it was, I wouldn’t have left her. She had my kid.” Will gazed off in the distance, but she could tell he wasn’t seeing the park. “My dad got stationed here during my sophomore year in high school. “I met Paula at Hirschi High, and we dated. We were seventeen when Paula got pregnant. I married her. Joined the Air Force to support her, first tour was in Little Rock. Our baby was born there. Paula didn’t like being married—at least not to me, anyway—so she divorced me and brought our daughter back here to Wichita Falls. She has family here. “I guess she didn’t know she could have taken me for half my retirement pay or she would have stayed longer.” Will wondered why he couldn’t just shut his mouth. What was wrong with him? Truth serum in his onion rings, maybe. “Is that what kept you from going in as an officer?” “Yes. And no. When I told dear old Dad that Paula was pregnant, he was disgusted by my apparent lack of control. He was more disgusted by my refusal to talk her into an abortion. I knew Air Force enlisted pay would be enough to let me support a wife and kid, so I joined.” An old man scuffed past them on the trail around the pond, a droopy basset hound plodding along beside him, ears dragging. Will watched their slow progress down the trail. “Between night school and correspondence, I got a degree, but I didn’t put in for Officer Training School. Too many years already, trying to live up to the old man’s standards. Impossible. Besides, I liked my work. If I’d gotten a commission, I’d have been managing aircraft, not working on them.” He looked over at her with a sardonic grin. “Pay would have been nice though. Officers make damned good money.” Fiona thought about everything he’d said. The situation with his father explained a lot about him. Even if he hadn’t gone in as an officer, he did behave sometimes as if brainwashed. Be Perfect. Conform. Exceed the Standard at All Cost. At least Momma had allowed her to be her flakey self.

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She found a patch of wood sorrel with tiny yellow flowers at the edge of the blanket. Pulling one of its teensy okra-shaped fruit, and she nibbled the tart sweetness for a second, and then asked, “So, tell me about your daughter. Does she look like you?” “Her name is Olivia Rose, after my grandmother. She’s got red hair, brown eyes, short legs, and thinks she knows everything there is worth knowing. She bosses all her friends and boyfriends around like a drill sergeant, and calls me every time she gets in a fight with her mother, hoping this time, I’ll take her side.” He looked up at Fiona, taking in the tilt of her head and the sheen of the sun on her dark hair. “She would like you. I don’t think she pulls stuff out of the grass and eats it, but she’s a nutcase, too.” He said it as a joke, but looking at her, he didn’t feel like joking. He reached out and brushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes, but found that he couldn’t stop there. Leaning over her, he touched his lips to hers. Soft. Her mouth was soft and so, so sweet. He’d been starving all his life, and didn’t know until that minute. He grew more urgent. She kissed him back, tongue slipping in to explore his mouth; she leaned into him, her small hand on his face. Suddenly she stopped and pulled away. She sat still, with her eyes closed and fists in her lap, breathing slowly, in and out, through her nose. “I’m sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “No. Don’t be sorry.” She opened her eyes, emeralds in the sun. But there were shadows behind them. “Will, I’m sorry. More than anything, I really need you to be my friend. I know—I hate how cliché that sounds, but it’s true.” She looked at him with her slanted cat’s eyes and tried a tentative smile. “Thank you for the picnic and the talk.” She put on her glasses, gathered the burger wrappers and got up. “It’s almost time for us to go back.” He thought that smile might just kill him. He watched her walk across the road to the trash barrel, long dark braid a metronome keeping time with her hips. Will silently cursed himself. She didn’t want this. She just wanted to be friends, and he’d gone and made a fool of himself. Had he really read her so wrong? ***** The trip back to work was quiet. Will turned into a parking spot, shifted, and cut the ignition. Silence ticked out seconds in time with the cooling engine. They both spoke at the same time. “Fiona, I wan—” “Will, I jus—” Each of them laughed. And then they did it again. “Okay, ladies first.” “I just wanted to say thank you, and that was a lovely kiss. Please don’t regret it—it was partly my fault, anyway. I have to take my own advice if we’re going to be friends. Don’t be sorry for anything, please?” “I am sorry. I got carried away. You’re right about it being awkward for us as coworkers.” He gave a funny little shrug with his face and a rueful smile. “Never thought I’d see the day you would have more common sense than me.” “And that is supposed to mean what, exactly?”

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She really didn’t get it, did she? Sitting cross-legged on the truck’s bench seat in hotpink tie-dye and purple Converse All Stars. With glittery stars painted on the toes. He grinned and gathered up his BDU hat and keys. “Well, let’s just say you’re not the most conventional person I’ve ever met.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Fiona opened the truck and got out. As they crossed the street, they encountered MSgt Flasque, striding out of the building. He waylaid Will by grabbing his arm. “Oh, Will! I’m glad I caught you. You gotta come with me. The First Sergeant and Chief MTL are putting together an elimination package on the Winston kid—you remember him. They want your input.” “Sir? I’d say Fiona’s good enough to go it alone by now, but the students are doing electrical readings this afternoon. Pretty big safety issue there for a new instructor.” “No problem. I’ve already got her class covered.” Flasque cast a twinkly blue smile at Fiona. “SrA Tyler’s a genius with electronics, kiddo. If you hit a snag, he’s your man. You won’t have any problems.” Rattling his keys and looking at his watch, Flasque grabbed at Will again and said, “C’mon. We were supposed to be there ten minutes ago. We can take my truck.” Fiona watched them pull away with faint misgivings. She didn’t know why, but her instincts said something was wrong. She had no doubt she could teach the lesson. She’d done fine as a student. She’d been ridiculously careful with her notes on the trainers, the multimeters, and the exercises themselves. Three hours of study in technical manuals last night hadn’t hurt either. The day was still bright, the cotton-ball clouds still hung out over the flightline, and she’d just had a strange but nice lunch with Will. With the emotional roller coaster ride of the last twenty-four hours, it was no small wonder she felt all jumbled up. Nothing but her flighty mind playing badminton with her nerves—God knew she was wound up tight enough. She needed an exhausting trip to the gym tomorrow to work off some excess energy. Yeah, a run would really help. Sure. Note to self; tonight’s supper is a pint of white-chocolate almond and at least half a bottle of blackberry merlot. She shrugged and headed into the building.

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Chapter Eleven Will stared out the bug-spattered truck window on the way to the First Shirt’s office, wondering about this sudden need for information on the Winston kid. It’s not like there was anything new he could tell them. MSgt Cosner, the Chief MTL of the 361st had already gotten Will’s statement, and Will had sent copies of everything in the airman’s file. What more could they want? “You enjoy lunch with our new instructor?” Rosco turned to Will and gave him a wink and a conspiratorial leer. “She’s not so bad on the eyes, eh?” “We had Sonic Burgers, sir.” Will kept his gaze straight ahead. “She wanted to understand how to get along better with the other instructors, so we talked.” He wanted Fiona. He couldn’t care less who knew it, but something in Flasque’s tone made him wary. “She looks decent enough. She stopped painting her face.” “You like that plain look? Oh yeah. I guess you would. I don’t know about you, boy. Takes all kinds.” Another wink and a hearty chuckle. “I do know one thing that you and I have in common; you’re going to love having an office all to yourself.” “Do what?” Will looked sharply over at Rosco. “Aw, c’mon. You know I only have another six months or so to retirement. It’s between you and Sikes in the toss for my seat. I’d say Rick had a shot at it, but he can’t test until next year. Good thing, too. When testing time came around he was too busy. Playing with that fat blonde over in Avionics—whuz’r name, Lewis? Yeah. SSgt Lewis. Don’t know what he saw in that. Anyway, you’ll make Master for sure this time. It’s still early for that stripe, but you’re a fast burner. You don’t do nothin’ except study anyway.” What the hell does he know about how I spend my time? Will snorted. “Maybe I don’t want the headaches that come with your job. I like being on the podium. That’s part of the reason I put in for this job…remember? I like to train airmen.” They sat at the end of a long line of traffic, waiting for a troop formation to pass. Rosco had the air on in the cab, but even with the windows rolled up, Will could hear the faint sound of the cadence; “Hunh-hoo-hree-hoor! Lef…Lef…Lef, Right, Lef…” Rosco chuckled. “You? Yeah, you want the job. I never saw the likes of you for logging hours in the classroom, true, but you want my job so you can fix things. You’re a fixer-upper, you are. There’s a lot to fix in this course, God knows, but I am too far-gone to care at this point, and I don’t mind sayin’ it. I don’t envy you the mess you’ll inherit come inspection time. ORI’s scheduled for early next year.” The traffic moved ahead, and Will thought about having Rosco’s job. Yeah, he could do that job. And he welcomed the opportunity to make things better for the course. But in his experience, stripes never came your way until they came, and no amount of worrying about it made any difference once you handed in your test answer sheet. In a couple of weeks—maybe sooner—the list would come out, and he’d know one way or another. A sudden icy thought froze him: if he were to take Rosco’s job as Instructor Supervisor, there was no way he could see Fiona. He’d be her boss.

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***** “Okay! Now that everybody is familiar with the multi-meter, and you each have a list of the readings and procedures you’ll need for the lab, let’s head that way. Look for room C-7, right next to the safety-wire lab. Amn Miller—hands out of pockets. You know the reg.” The airmen were excited about the lab because up to this point the material had been mostly academic, and some of it very dry, no matter how she tried to dress it up. Now was their chance to do some hands-on work, and they were more than ready. Their excitement was contagious and transmitted itself to her, despite how she felt about the electronics lab. Electricity interested her even less than aircraft principles. She knew the lesson, she’d checked the forms, and she’d turned on the four-hundred Hz generator outside that powered the trainers. She kept a checklist of all the maddening details that went in to teaching these objectives, literally checking things off as she did them. It was embarrassing, but it kept her from forgetting things, and helped her save face—she refused to ask where things were or what she was supposed to do next. No sense giving the gruesome twosome more ammunition against her. The students settled in their chairs, two per trainer, except for Amn Newman who had a trainer to himself. They hooked up the leads to their yellow Fluke multi-meters. SrA Tyler stood in the corner near Amn Newman, notebook in hand. The airmen were well behaved by any educational standard she’d ever known, but they were boys, boys with shiny machines and lots of switches in front of them. Last week she’d taught the computerized CAMS lesson—the Core Automated Maintenance System. Herding cats would have been easier. “Do not, I repeat, do not touch anything until I tell you to do so. What is the first thing you do when approaching a piece of equipment to operate it or repair it?” The class spoke in droning unison. “Check the forms.” They acted embarrassed when she made them repeat after her, but she saw to it that safety precautions were drilled into their minds like catechisms. “Good. I checked the forms on these, and everything is good to go. Open your binders to page one of the first exercise. First step—Excuse me, Amn Newman— are you touching a power switch?” Amn Newman’s hand slowly drifted back to the table as the other airmen snickered. “By now you are all aware that I want you to have zero fun in my class. But there is another reason for you stay with me on this: it is critical that you get in the habit of following instructions explicitly. Some day it may save your life—or the life of the pilot who flies your jet.” “Yes ma’am.” “All right. Amn Newman, what is the first step on page one?” “After checking the forms?” He beamed a freckled, angel-faced smile. “Yes, Amn Newman.” “Power on!” He let out a whoop and reached up, as did one of each pair of students around the room, to flip the Power Switch. Nothing was supposed to happen—lots of switches had to be turned on in sequence for anything happen. But number Six began to sizzle and buzz, its lights blinked, and as a tendril

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of smoke snaked out from the side of the trainer, a loud pop! exploded in front of Amn Newman, who promptly flipped over backward in his chair. SrA Tyler, standing right next to the trainer, had the good sense to hit the Power Switch. The fireworks stopped, and the room fell silent. Acrid blue smoke stained the air. Amn Newman, no worse for his scare, got up off the floor, rubbing his head. “Ma’am, did I do that? I just flipped the Power Switch, I swear!” “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Are you okay?” “Yes ma’am, I landed on my head.” There was nervous laughter from the students. SrA Tyler reached around behind the trainer, pulled the inspection card from its pocket. He looked up at Fiona, and pinned her with an unblinking, round-eyed stare as he addressed the class. “Power Off your trainers, multi-meters off. Take a break, people. I’ll send for you in the student break room when we’re ready to get started again.” ***** Rosco had gauged it was about time to head back and made his excuses to the Shirt and MSgt Cosner. They had looked at him oddly when he showed up with McCrae, but he didn’t care. It was easily explained, no harm done, and just enough time killed to keep McCrae out of the way and still get back to the school house when he needed to be there. As he pulled open the glass door at the end of the hall, he saw a line of airmen filing out of the electrical trainer lab. One of them, a tall kid with red hair and freckles, was rubbing the back of his head. Just in time. SrA Tyler stepped out and looked around. Fixing his gaze on Rosco, he gave a slight nod. Rosco looked over, but Will had apparently detoured into the flight office. Whew! He had to admit that the Tyler kid spooked him. But good…mission accomplished. No, not yet. There was a matter of statements, counseling, and then a serious safety infraction to be recorded on Miss Wright’s employee record. Strike Two! ***** Fiona pushed the offending inspection card over toward Will, sitting across from her at a student desk in the empty classroom. SrA Tyler had taken the students back into the lab to finish the objective, as per MSgt Flasque’s instructions. Fiona had been directed to “take the rest of the afternoon to calm down.” Calm down? A red X write-up was the most serious, and nobody in their right mind would use a piece of equipment with such a warning on it. “Will, I swear I checked the forms before the lab, and that was not the card I checked! Look at it—it’s brand new for one thing. The others aren’t exactly beat up, but they look…older. The only thing on any of the forms was a diagonal on number Three, a burnedout bulb, but even that one had been fixed and signed off. I can’t believe I didn’t have the students look at the forms: I have no witnesses. I can’t prove a thing!”

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Fiona hated to cry, mostly because it made her nose stuffy and her head hurt, but this was far worse. She prided herself in what she’d accomplished so far, and yet here she was, blubbering like a ninny in front of Will McCrae. MSgt Flasque had been patient, sympathetic, and understanding, but firm in his admonishments during her counseling. She’d felt like a fool, asserting her innocence with irrefutable evidence to the contrary on the desk in front of him. SrA Tyler had skulked in the corner the whole time, nodding like a gray-eyed specter, and Fiona still resented his presence there. Something was wrong, and he was part of it. She didn’t know how, but she was sure he was involved. “Did you make a comment on the counseling form? You know you have the right to make a rebuttal.” “Yes, I wrote a statement. At least, I stated that I had checked the forms before the exercise. I didn’t claim somebody had switched them or anything. That sounds paranoid as hell, doesn’t it? Why would somebody want to do that? Oh Will, if those trainers were hooked up to the building power instead of that generator, that short could have caused a fire! It doesn’t matter what I wrote on that counseling form. I look guilty and stupid, or paranoid and stupid.” Tears slid down her cheeks and her milk-white complexion was a red, splotchy mess. The abject misery and fear in her eyes tore at Will’s heart. Now that he knew he might have to choose between the supervisory position and being with Fiona, he realized just what she was beginning to mean to him. Duty vs. love. Story of his life. Would he ever be able to have both? Will wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and hold her so she could just bawl her eyes out. But at the moment, all he could do—all she would have allowed him to do—was hand her more tissues. He wasn’t sure what to think. She was right. Either she hadn’t checked the forms or somebody had switched them. But why? Who would take such a risk? He knew some of the guys resented her being here, but to try to get her fired? The bizarre thing was that he believed her. She’d shown him her checklists, a whole folder full of them, written in her crazy green sparkly ink with the heading “Left Brain Assistant.” The one for the electronics lab had a column for 244 Forms. Five stars, and a checkmark with a circle around it. Five good trainers, and one with a corrected diagonal writeup. Her story made sense. “Fiona, don’t worry. C’mon, you’re not going to lose your job. Hasn’t anyone told you how hard it is to fire a civilian? You could ax-murder the pope and brag about it in the papers. They’d still have to give you a written warning and three months’ evaluation time! I once knew a civilian inst”—a knock at the door. Great. He started for the door to head off whoever was there, but Shirley came in and closed it behind her. He blew out a breath of relief. Good. The only person he would have let in, and exactly the person Fiona needed to see. As soon as Shirley wrapped her arms around Fiona— something Will wished with every cell in his body he could do himself—she began to cry in earnest. “Fiona? Honey, I just heard. Tell me, what kind of bullshit is he trying to pull?” “What bullshit?” Will looked up in alarm. “I was just trying to tell her how hard she is to get rid of.”

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They both looked at him. Fiona laughed through her tears and Will realized what he’d said. He rubbed a hand over his hair. “I mean…okay. You know what I mean.” Apparently Shirley already understood more than he did. Must be a woman thing. Shirley had said “he”. So she knew, or thought she knew, who might be trying to set Fiona up to fail. SrA Tyler made his skin crawl, but his instincts told him the airman wasn’t in it alone. That trip to the First Sergeant’s office after lunch had felt as trumped up as the inspection form he was looking at. ***** “Okay, Shirley. Tell me what you know.” Will sat across from her on the smoking patio; long after the rest of the shop had gone home. Blue dusk settled in cool pockets around them. The fire of Shirley’s cigarette glowed in the deepening darkness. “Will, you know I hate this. I’ve always made it a personal rule never to sit around gossiping about the people I work with. But Fiona is a good kid. She works her ass off every day, and if she had an ounce of experience, she could teach circles around ninety percent of these bozos.” “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Remember? I sat in the classroom watching her progress, from student to instructor. She is remarkable.” “Sugar, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were more than a little smitten with our fair Fiona.” She let out a laugh that turned into a cough. “Why does everybody keep saying that?” She snorted. “Because for somebody who never lets on what he’s thinking, you’ve got it all over your face.” “I’m glad you’re enjoying your entertainment at my expense.” “Aw hon, it’s not that bad. But who else noticed?” “Rosco. After Fiona went home this afternoon, I went to talk to him. Wanted to ask some questions, find out a little more about this mess. I told him she’s too paranoid not to have checked the forms. He gave me a ration of shit about messing with her when I could be her supervisor in six months. I don’t know where he’d get an idea like that. And I do not have it ‘all over my face.’ Enough about that. This afternoon you said something…you know who switched those forms?” “To be honest, I don’t know anything solid, at least about this. I know that MSgt Flasque is a sleaze bucket, and that he was a hair’s breadth from getting caught messing with one of his female subordinates down at Hurlburt Field, ten or eleven years ago. You know…you scratch my back and I’ll write you a Five EPR. She broke it off with him, and started making noises about going up the chain with it. He must have had something on her, though, because all of a sudden she was meek as a lamb. Got orders a month later. Makes my stomach turn to see him walking around with breath in his body.” “Do you think he would try to get Fiona fired?” “Oh, hell yeah! In a heartbeat! Except it doesn’t make sense here. If she leaves, then he’d have to help fill the holes in the teaching schedule. Capt. Omant is adamant that there be no lag in the student output—he made that clear when old man Vanter retired. Said he didn’t care if Flasque had to teach full time, the scheduled number of classes would go through.

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There is very little Flasque hates more than honest work.” She flipped ashes off into the grass and dragged long on her cigarette. Will watched the ember glow brightly, then dull down again. She breathed out a column of smoke with her next words. “I can’t imagine how getting her fired could help him, as much as I’d like to see him hang for it. I’m sorry, Will.” “What about the other guys in the shop? Bingham and Sikes hate her, but they hate her on principle, not personally. Maybe that’s enough for some people to pull a stunt like this. Of course, she sort of hung herself by not having the airmen check the forms. Nothing we can prove.” He felt helpless to do anything. What Shirley said about Flasque made sense. But would the other instructors really put their resentment ahead of their job security? They might be assholes, but they were assholes with wives and kids to feed. Shirley blew out a final stream of cigarette exhaust and stuffed the butt in a bucket of sand at the end of the table. “Did you say Tyler was in the lab with her when this happened?” “Yeah, but he doesn’t have anything against Fiona, not that I can tell. He hates everybody equally. What gets me is that anybody could have switched those forms. Fiona is sort of hard to miss…all you’d have to do is go in behind her after she’d set up.” Shirley laughed. “She is hard to miss. She may have gotten rid of the silks and satins, but she still dresses like a rainbow. But how could anybody be sure she wouldn’t have the students check the forms? That would mess up a plan, wouldn’t it? Maybe whoever did it was willing to take that risk.” She yawned and stretched. Will heard her joints pop. “Yes, but it would be a pretty low risk. The airmen assume those trainers are safe; they barely give the forms a glance before they put them back.” Will stood up from the table, had a good stretch himself. “I’m sorry, Shirley. I didn’t mean to keep you here so late. Thank you for telling me what you did about Flasque. I never trusted him, and now I’ll know to at least watch him more closely. Let’s both keep an eye out. If you hear of anything, or see anything suspicious, let me know?” “Sure, hon. You know I will. She’s a good kid.” Shirley snorted a laugh. “She’s sure shaken up this place.” They got up and started for the parking lot. “You really got it bad for her, don’t you?” “I hate to see anyone work so hard and then get railroaded.” Will heard the defensive tone in his voice. Shirley was a fine woman, and a friend. She deserved a better answer. “Yeah, pretty bad. She won’t have anything to do with me, though.” “Well, Hell’s Bells, Will! With all the crap she’s gotten over this job, it’s no wonder she’s leery of romancing a coworker. You be patient. She’s got it bad for you too. She just doesn’t know it yet.” He heard her gravelly chuckle in the dark. “What’s so funny?” “Nothin’. I’m just glad I’m too old to worry about love anymore. My Vernon may be a doddering old fool, but he’s mine and he’s not goin’ anywhere.” “Thanks a lot, Shirley.” “Anytime, hon.”

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Chapter Twelve Thanks to the events of the day, and Kevin’s breaking news that he and Tina were getting married; Fiona didn’t get to sleep until at least three the next morning. Her new salary was enough to cover her bills, so she no longer needed Kevin’s rent. She was happy for Kevin. He’d spent more and more time over at Tina’s, anyway—it was almost as if he’d already moved out. They were cute together; Tina was tough and athletic, Kevin gangly and bookish. They were planning a June wedding, and Fiona was to be one of the bridesmaids. If she knew Tina, the bridesmaids would wear Banana Republic and hiking boots. She had already come to miss Kevin’s humor and advice. Her roommate for almost three years, he was the closest thing she had to a brother. It was good having somebody around even when they hardly saw each other. Fiona’s life had—at least for the last six or seven years—consisted of work and school. No time for long coffee-chats with girlfriends. No time for friends, period. She could have used a long chat tonight. Jitters were bad tonight. If momma had been home, she’d have said, “Fiona, go! Get some of that out of your system!” A lap around the three mile square—up Fairway to Callfield and across, down Rhea Road, the back home on Southwest Parkway. It had worked in high school. It hadn’t worked tonight. Her body was exhausted, but her brain still writhed with worry. Meditation. Long bath. Warm Milk. A little help, but not enough. She could meditate until she floated to the ceiling. When she opened her eyes, the fact remained that somebody was trying to get her fired. Another fact remained that she wanted Will McCrae. And couldn’t have him. No bubble bath or warm milk was going to change that. Not even chocolate helped. In fact, chocolate just made her think kinky thoughts about Will. Definitely counter-productive. Poised on the blade of a knife, the last thing she needed was to have a work-place fling so she could sign another counseling form. A billion people a year had office romances, but how could she take the chance that there wasn’t some obscure policy somewhere? Work was beginning to feel like a carnival house of mirrors. Nothing was what it seemed. Nothing to be done about Will, either. Nothing she could do but ignore the faint, insistent buzz between her legs when he looked at her the way he did. It wouldn’t be easy. Not after that kiss. God, the man could kiss. Even so, she was glad she worked with him. Despite her original image of him as a stuffy, right wing robot, patriotism didn’t seem corny anymore. Last week they’d come out of the building at 1630, just in time for the daily playing of the National Anthem. As the metallic strains of the song echoed over the base, cars stopped in the street, and military people everywhere froze, saluting toward the base flag. She and Will stopped in front of the doors, she with her hand over her heart and he with a salute. Instead of the usual urge to hear “Play ball!” at the end, she’d had chills. She’d gotten chills from listening to the National Anthem. Okay, it was corny. But she liked it. She didn’t want to like it. Or to get jitters over Will McCrae.

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Fiona turned to look out her window at the waning moon. Her mind chased its tail back to the subject of work. Tomorrow. She would cope. Her mother had not raised a wimp. She would fight for her job, and keep it. Who was after her? SSgt Bingham? Sikes? Tyler? All three? Why? Fiona had to wonder what she had done to deserve such animosity from anyone. This was the twenty-first century; surely it wasn’t just because she had a uterus. Was it? Some of those guys did have calluses on the tops of their knuckles. Okay. She had a uterus—and yet still managed to teach that course. Imagine. She also had done nothing to deserve sabotage. Analysis would serve no purpose except to fray her nerves even more. All she could do, realistically, was be hyper-vigilant at work, follow procedures to the letter, and not expect help from anyone. With that exhausting thought, she finally fell asleep. ***** While Fiona lay awake trying to figure out who tried to sink her battleship, Will lay awake puzzling out how to protect her. She was better armed now. At least her guard was up. But nobody should have to live that way. She was right about one thing. There was no way to prove anything—short of torture. That little ghoul Tyler knew something. Had to. Will turned his mind from the thought. Too tempting. With a sigh, he lay back against the pillows and opened his mind. How could he help her? Should he try to enlist help from others? He’d been so busy trying to identify the bad guys, he’d forgotten there were some pretty decent guys at the shop. Rick. He was a randy fool, but essentially honorable. Hell of a mechanic, too. Small enough to fit into almost any tank on any aircraft. Probably the glove box of Will’s old Ford, too—it was pretty roomy. Will smiled in the dark. What about Tubbs? Jonas? They were solid, too. Tubbs was a braggart, carried about fifty pounds too many and had a laugh that would peel paint off the walls. But he would stand up on the fair side of a fight. Jonas was less apt to stand up to any fight, but he was usually observant enough that he didn’t have to. He heard and saw everything. As tall as Rick was short, as skinny as Tubbs was fat, Jonas was a chess-playing, coin-collecting bookworm. But he was a good guy. Will felt a flush of shame that he was just now getting around to appreciating these guys. He’d noticed them, sure. It was part of his job as an NCO to pay attention to people, put them where they’d best serve the mission. But it was also part of his job to help promote a cohesive team spirit in his shop. That part of the job made him nervous. Up ‘til now, he’d kept his head down and avoided any kind of contact. Unfortunately there was no regulatory guidance on the management of interpersonal commitment. With a growl of frustration he got out of bed and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. He headed downstairs, Ozzy thumping down after him, and got a drink of water. They went out on the front porch. The night air made him feel better, and he sat on a battered chaise surrounded by Olivia’s flowerpots. Ozzy lay down at the foot of it, but he gave Will a look that clearly said they were crazy to give up a warm room for a breezy porch. Putting his

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massive head down on his paws, he let out a long, dog-sigh and stared at Will, hoping for a change of plans. Will leaned back and stretched out. Was he really thinking of making friends at work? Fiona, get out of my head! Look what she’d done to him! Any more of this and he’d have the guys all over to the house so they could bond over ice cream and cry at sad movies. He gazed up at the thin fingernail moon and the scrim of clouds around it. Wonder what kind of ice cream she eats when she watches sad movies? Still, shame it took such a drastic turn of events for him to think of these guys as allies. He’d worked with them for a couple of years now, and the only thing he knew about them other than their work ethic was that they weren’t assholes. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a beer with them once in a while. The shop needed new stands for the F-4 component trainers. Maybe they could help him build some. And maybe they won’t realize you’re recruiting them to help you watch over Fiona? Right. Did that make him one of the good guys or the bad guys? He thought about Fiona’s misery, and the plea she’d whispered earlier that day—“Oh Will, I can’t lose this job!”—and felt the hairs on his neck rise. Dammit! He had to help her. If he could recruit help from the guys in the shop, he would. She was no damsel in distress; in fact he suspected that she was quite a bit tougher than she looked. But somebody was out to get her, and he would not sit around reading regulations while that happened. A freshening breeze set to spinning the silly pinwheel Olivia had poked down in the flowerbed just off the porch. It made a whick-whick-whick as tiny sparks of light flickered off the foil. It looked so damned cheery he had to smile. Despite the awkwardness at the end of their picnic yesterday, he had come to another decision. He was going to court Miss Fiona Wright. It would take patience. And it would take serious control of his libido when he was around her. But Will had patience in abundance. And he could keep a pretty straight face…she didn’t have to know he got hard when she came too close. Thank God for long BDU shirts. Sooner or later, she would realize he wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t going to hurt her. With that satisfying thought, Will fell asleep. ***** Wednesday afternoon, Fiona opened the door to Room Twenty. Momma sat on the little paisley couch by the window, looking out. “Momma?” Fiona didn’t expect a response, at least not recognition. Her mother turned. In the welcoming light that came over her face, Fiona was a daughter again. She hid her face as she brought Momma’s laundry over to the bed and made a production of putting it away in the dresser drawers. “I’m glad to see you looking so bright and cheery this afternoon.” Momma came over and touched Fiona’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to give me a hug, dear?” The warm smile on her face was lined and tired, but it was Momma’s smile. “Of course. I’m sorry. I just wanted to get these put away so you wouldn’t bother with it.” She hugged her mother tight, mindful of the frail bones but almost not caring in her relief

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and gratitude. The scent of Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew brought back such a barrage of memories; Fiona was ten years old again. She held her mother away from her and said, “Let me look at you. How have you been?” “Fine, dear. Of course, I’m glad to see you.” She reached a knobby, warm hand up and wiped her daughter’s tears away. “Has it been a long time, or have I just not been with it?” Fiona smiled at her mother’s use of ‘with it’. Even when Momma tried to be modern, she was always a couple of decades behind. “Let’s not worry about that. Help me finish putting away these things and we’ll go out in the garden. It’s a glorious afternoon, and the birds are making a huge noise out there. Apparently Thomas has just refilled the bird feeders.” They sat on a bench with daisy-printed cushions. The heart shaped leaves of morning glory and the lace of cardinal creeper covered an arbor above their heads, casting dappled shade. The morning glory flowers had closed, but a tiny emerald hummingbird sampled the scarlet trumpets of the cardinal flowers, the buzz of its wings made Fiona think of Will and his maddening affect on her. She smiled, and ducked her head. Not now, Will. Get out of my head. The breeze freshened and blew little flat spaces in Momma’s hair, showing pale scalp. Thomas, the center’s ancient gardener, pulled weeds out from under the rose bushes in the far corner. Fiona told about the teaching job she’d started and was getting good at. Momma asked polite questions about the roommate (whom she had been led to believe was a girl) and smiled fondly at news of the roommate’s incipient wedding. Fiona related her recent idea for a teacher’s magazine—a forum for discussion of methods and an exchange of ideas—and relished the pride in her mother’s eyes. The plans might be decades in the future at the rate she was going, but since she’d started at Fuels, Fiona had finally discovered what she wanted to do with her life. Momma might have preached common sense, but she had also encouraged Fiona to pursue a career she could love. “You look happy, girl. Is there a young man?” Momma asked, smoothing down her skirt in the wind. “Maybe. Probably not. You know I don’t take guys seriously. They’re all too full of themselves. Bunch of preening peacocks.” She looked into eyes that were once as green as her own, but now were faded. “You’ll probably marry late, like I did.” “You were thirty when you married. That’s not so young these days.” “Well, I’m glad you’re waiting until Mr. Wright comes along.” Fiona reached for Momma’s hand. It had been a long time since she’d heard that corny joke. She didn’t realize until now how much she’d missed it. After a couple of hours—the longest she’d been able to enjoy her mother’s company in almost a year—Momma grew tired and asked to go inside. Back in her room, she sipped some water but refused dinner, saying she had filled up on good news from her daughter. They hugged again, and Fiona left her, as she’d found her, sitting on the paisley couch by the window. *****

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Thursday morning, Fiona leaned her hip against the edge of her desk in the instructor’s office and looked up at Will. “You want me to make her a dress?” He’d said he needed to talk to her about something. She’d assumed it was about The Great Electric Lab Debacle. Yesterday had gone fine, if a little strained. The airmen had asked questions, accepted her circumspect answers, and then turned back to their safety-wire trainers. So far, Will hadn’t even mentioned the lab. He wanted her to sew? “Yes. She has this prom-thing to go to, and she doesn’t like any of the dresses her mother can afford. I won’t spend crazy money on a dress she’s going to wear exactly once to a prom that isn’t even hers.” “What do you mean, the prom’s not hers?” “She’s a freshman, but she’s going to Junior Prom. With some Mark Dugan kid.” “So, you want me to sew a prom dress.” This was a side of Iron-Man McCrae she’d not seen. Given the scowl on old Iron-Man’s face, Mark Dugan would be wise to keep his body parts to himself. Before, during, and after Junior Prom. “No. I’d rather she didn’t go at all. But she’s fourteen. Her mother says she’s old enough to go on chaperoned dates. I could say no, but Paula’s probably right.” Fiona was amused at the whole protective father routine. She was also, she had to admit, a teeny bit envious of Olivia. It would have been frustrating, annoying, and wonderful to have a dad to be protective of her when she’d been fourteen. Olivia was a lucky daughter. And Will seemed more and more like Mr. Wright every time Fiona talked to him. Whoa! Too cozy. Time to shift gears. She took off her glasses and gently nibbled one earpiece. Raising an eyebrow in overt appraisal, she looked down the length of his body and then back up, slowly. Her voice was a sultry purr. “So…what do I get out of this deal?” A deep and instant flush of red suffused his face. Bingham would have been proud. “I—um. What?” He rubbed a hand over his hair. If it weren’t already in a crew cut, it would have stuck straight up by now anyway. He aimed his hands toward his pockets, then held them out like foreign objects for a second, and finally settled for crossing his arms over his chest. It was too painful to watch, so she let him off the hook. “I mean sewing a prom dress doesn’t happen in five minutes. And fabric can be pricey.” She made a show of examining her nails. “Oh. I know! I mean…well, I’d give Olivia money for material, so you won’t be out any…” When he finally caught on that she was messing with him, his eyes narrowed. “You know, there are times when you’re really funny, and then there’s now.” The blush receded and he looked gorgeous again. Or rather, more gorgeous. She suspected the man could be covered head-to-toe in chickenpox and still be appealing. “I thought maybe you had some work you needed done around the house,” he said. He picked up Ugly Man, examined him, set him back amid the clutter. “You said something earlier about fixing up the place. I can lay tile, do repairs. I have a carpentry shop in my back yard, full of tools.” “My roommate has always taken care of any house-maintenance chores. He keeps the house pretty squared away as far as repairs are concerned. And sorry, but I want to do the

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rest myself. You assume that because I have ovaries, I can sew, but I can’t lay tile.” She watched his eyes go wide again before he looked down at his boots. Apparently ‘ovaries’ wasn’t politically correct enough to say in a government office. Place gets more fun all the time, doesn’t it? “Your roommate?” he asked, raising his eyes to meet hers. “Yes. Kevin. Remember when we talked at our picnic? I told you I had a roommate.” She thought about messing with him some more—he made it so much fun—but the disappointment on his face was just too much to take. “Old college buddy. He’s moving out, though. He and his girlfriend are getting married.” Will sagged against the desk. His obvious relief touched her way more than she wanted it to, curling a pleasant little wave of tension in her stomach. “Okay. So, you don’t need repairs, and fixing up the house is your baby.” He heaved a deep sigh and stared at the dry erase board for a second, as if it listed a menu of barter suggestions. Evidently it did, because he looked back at her, eyes dark and serious. “Anything you want built? I can build anything.” Yeah, like a fire in my…oh, this is so not helping. Deep breath. Any ideas? She snapped her fingers. “I got it. There’s this great bench, with an arbor, at the nursing home where my mother lives. If I drew up a plan, would you build it? I’d buy the materials, of course.” The memory of his furious blush made her smile again. “Perfect. The barter system is alive and well. How about dinner Sunday?” “Dinner?” Will grinned. “Relax. You can meet Olivia. You two could go through some of those damned fashion magazines she reads. Might give you a better idea of what she wants. I grill a pretty mean steak. Oh, wait—you’re not a vegetarian are you?” He slapped his forehead with his palm. “Hello. You had a burger the other day.” Fiona laughed. “No. I assure you, I’m quite carnivorous.” Will mastered the trembling corners of his mouth, but the heat in his eyes made her realize what she’d said, and how it sounded. She tried to ignore the flush of tingling warmth that flooded through her, and failed. Her traitorous body insisted on responding to him. A visit to Will’s house was potentially dangerous. Just a little too “Meet the Parents” for comfort. Still…he was offering a fair trade. She could leave whenever she wanted. Olivia would be there. Nothing could happen with his fourteen year old daughter around. Perfectly platonic, chaperoned exchange of skills and services. The back yard really needed an arbor, too. “Okay. Sunday it is. What time?” “Make it around four—she’s got a thing she’s going to with her mom and won’t be back ‘til then.” “Do I need to bring anything?” “You can bring a rough sketch of your bench.” He stood away from the desk and took a short step closer. “You’re not allergic to dogs, are you?” “Not that I know of…why?” “Just asking. Ozzy likes people, but I have a feeling he’s going to like you more than most.” Something moved in the depths of his dark eyes, and she was grateful she was already

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leaning on the desk. The whole “perfectly platonic” thing would be much easier to believe if he would just quit looking at her. She cleared her throat. “Well. I’ve got a class to teach, don’t I?” She grabbed her PC binder and scooted around him. Maybe he’d wait a minute before joining her, and she’d have time to get her act back together. There was that buzzing again. ***** While Fiona and Will were bartering services, Rosco loaded an ice chest, fishing poles and his beat-up canvas director’s chair into the back of his truck. He wanted to get the hell out of Dodge for a while. It was worth burning a couple days’ leave. Slamming the tailgate shut, he stalked back to the house. Gravel crunched on the driveway and the air was chilly. He wasn’t used to moods like this. He was famous for rolling with the punches, big or small. But yesterday hit him when he wasn’t looking. He hadn’t realized McCrae was such a sucker for Fiona. Not that he cared, of course. But somebody ought to save the poor bastard. She was a bimbo. Just like the bimbo ex-wife—that whole ‘accidental pregnancy’ thing. One kid and ten years later, history. Let him support her long enough to be sure she got half his retirement pay, and split. Manipulative. User. Bitch. Just like that slut from Hurlburt. Battin’ her lashes and bendin’ over all the time. Used him to keep her job—then squealed about it. Like she didn’t beg for him to nail her in the tool room! Sure took that EPR he wrote. Fiona “Princess” Wright was just like all of ‘em. Who wouldn’t see that? Rosco dug grabbed the rest of the stuff and headed back to the truck. He slammed the front door but it didn’t feel as good as it should have. He kicked at the boy’s goddamn cat, but missed. The pity was that McCrae played the whole fucking knight-in-shining-armor scene. He questioned people, hovered around, protected that user-bitch. Didn’t he know what kind of woman he was making a fool of himself over? She was a twist. A cheap, conniving, manipulative little twist, and here was dumb old Will, poking into things that were none of his business to “save her”. What made him think she hadn’t screwed up in that lab? Rosco had half a mind to nail her on that couch and fire her ass anyway. He’d managed two strikes against her. He could manage three. He loaded his bedroll and a pillow in the cab beside him, went around, and got in. A few days at Jack’s cabin at Arrowhead. That’s what he needed. Get away from everything. Drink beer. Catch fish. Forget about the stupid piece of tail at the office. Just concentrate on practicing for retirement. Rosco aimed the truck key for the ignition slot, but his hand was shaking and he missed. He put his forehead on the steering wheel and said all the obscene words he knew. Then he tried the ignition again and made it. He spun the truck’s tires peeling out of his driveway, and the gravel that shot out from under them broke the porch light and two panes of glass on his front door.

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Chapter Thirteen “Will! Whazzup!” “It’s a fine Friday morning, Rick, what’s up with you?” Rick stopped in his tracks, PC binder in hand. “No, Will. This is the part where you say ‘shut up and button your pocket flaps, Rick’”. The eyebrow made the upside down ‘w’ across his forehead as he took three cautious steps in Will’s direction. “You okay?” Will glanced up from the folder in front of him. At the sight of Rick’s face, a laugh tried to bubble up out of his chest. “Why? Do I look sick? Am I bleeding from somewhere I’m not aware of? So far as I know, I’m fine.” Doubt had stamped itself on Rick’s features, but it was slowly erased by the omnipresent grin, and this particular grin was about to split his monkey face in two. “Hot damn, Will McCrae’s in love!” Will jumped up from the edge of his desk and hissed—“Would you shut up?” He looked around the room and walked over to close the office door. Rick jumped around, primate arms swinging. “Man, this ain’t something you hide— this is something you yell from the control tower! You, of all people. I’d have bet my Z that you’d die a lonely, crabby old fart, throwing rocks at kids for stepping in your yard.” He bent over and let out a barking laugh. Will was surprised to discover he didn’t mind Rick’s assessment of his personality…he probably deserved it. “Well, now that you’ve had your fun, Cupid, can I talk to you?” “I already got that new shipment of phenolphthalein inventoried and put away, and the sealant chemicals and syringes won’t be in until next week.” “No, I don’t mean about work.” Rick staggered around with his hand on his chest. “Will, man, you’re gonna kill me if you don’t stop this.” Then he straightened and said “Okay. Whaddaya need?” After a glance around to see that Rosco’s office was empty, Will told him about the electric lab debacle, and about his suspicions concerning what might or might not have taken place. He was careful to omit Shirley’s revelations about Flasque. His gut told him it was true, but he wouldn’t tell what he didn’t know to be first hand fact. “I need you to help me keep an eye on Bingham, Sikes, and Tyler. I’m not saying they did anything, but somebody did, and those are the ones who have either motive or opportunity.” God, he sounded like a script for a bad television drama. “Do you think Tubbs and Jonas would help me out with this too?” “Are you kidding? Tubbs hates Bingham and Sikes like he hates Slim Fast. Jonas’ll have reservations, but he likes Fiona and thinks she’s good for the airmen. No problem. We got your back. We got Fiona’s back…man oh man, would I like to have her back—oops. My bad.” Rick put his hands up. “I’ll get Tubbs and Jonas to the chow hall at lunch, you can talk to them there.” Rick leaned close. “You, uh, sleep with her yet?” “Rick, you are dancing on a very thin patch of ice here. And there are sharks in the water below you.”

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“No, then, huh? Ha! You will. You know how Tubbs looks at cheesecake? That’s how Fiona looks at you.” Rick made a starving-man face with his tongue hanging out as he put away his PC binder and gathered a handful of flightline badges and earplugs for his students. He bounced out of the room, snapping his fingers and singing in a rusty falsetto, “It’s gettin’ hot in here—so take off all yo’ clothes…” as the door swung shut on him. Will sighed. This whole interpersonal relationships thing was going to be more work than he’d realized. Good thing Fiona was worth it. ***** “Mom, it’s really about time Daddy started seeing somebody, you know. He’s lived in Wichita Falls for over three years, and in all that time I don’t think he’s had a single girlfriend.” Olivia wished she hadn’t said anything about Fiona making her dress. But Mom didn’t sew, and Olivia wanted a really gorgeous dress to wear to the prom with Mark. It wasn’t going to cost Mom a penny; how could she object? Then it struck her: Mom was pissed about Fiona! The prom dress had nothing to do with it. But that was just too weird. Mom had said maybe three pleasant words about Pops over the course of Olivia’s entire life. Her mother’s mouth was a tight, thin line, the red lipstick she wore making it look like a bleeding cut. Her nostrils flared and she gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles were white. “Of course there is nothing wrong with your father seeing anyone, Olivia. Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would I care?” Olivia could plainly see she cared. “Did you think he was just going to hang around, fixing the plumbing and the car so you don’t have to pay somebody? I bet he’ll still do those kinds of things, even if he and Fiona get married.” Poor Mom. Bill had been dead for two years. Mom had been dating for over a year, but she didn’t seem to find anybody she really wanted. Did she want Daddy? That would never happen. And although Olivia loved her toxic-harpy mother, she was glad, for her dad’s sake. “Olivia. Can you drop this? I. Do. Not. Care. If your dad gets married in the next five minutes, if I never see him again—as long as he pays his child support—I will be a happy, happy woman. Now.” She faced Olivia and made a big, red grin. “Do you have the gift for Brittany? We’re here.” They pulled up in front of a fancy brick house decorated for a baby shower. Olivia wouldn’t have minded coming to it—showers were fun—but Brittany was the daughter of her mother’s friend Rochelle, and Olivia hated Rochelle. The woman was a social climbing dragon. Her daughter Brittany was a platinum blonde dragon-in-training, about to hatch a baby dragon. She sighed and resigned herself to a couple hours of name dropping, and such nasal tones, wasn’t this just too much fun? Yee-hah. ***** Will’s place in City View was a small, tidy brick house in a neighborhood of small, tidy brick houses. Fiona doubted she could find it again without an address. A couple of homey

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touches graced the front porch—a worn wooden chaise, clay pots of impatiens and caladiums. A pink and silver foil pinwheel in the flowerbed spun with the slight breeze. Fiona had the feeling these were Olivia’s touches though, not Will’s. She raised her hand to ring the doorbell when a huge, wiry-haired monster of a dog came barreling around the house and onto the porch. It jumped up, planted its front paws on the doorframe to either side of her head, and shoved its snuffling nose in her face. Squinting her eyes, she expected either a dog-tongue bath or a face-ectomy, but nothing happened. The dog stood there, pale tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Then it looked over its shoulder, clearly waiting for whoever was supposed to put away this intruder. That was when Will came around the corner. “Ozzy! Down!” Ozzy downed. “Thank you.” Fiona said. The dog had the long, elegant lines of a greyhound, but thicker; he probably weighed as much as Will. She stroked the stiff, bristly wheat colored hair on Ozzy’s head. It wasn’t difficult. His head came up to her elbow. “Funny what you learn about people when you visit their houses. You never said anything about raising horses.” Will laughed and stepped up on the porch. “Ozzy is an Irish wolfhound, and very gentle. He only eats Dog-Chow and an occasional meter-reader. Say hello, Ozzy.” Ozzy sat down with a bony whump, put one brick-sized paw up for Fiona to shake, which, of course she did. She fell in love with the bristly beast instantly.

“Olivia’s not back yet. Apparently I was wrong about the time, but she’ll be here within the hour.” Will shoved Ozzy out of the way and offered Fiona a chair. “What would you like to drink? I have water, tea, coffee, beer, tequila, orange juice…” “I’ll have a beer, if you’re having one.” Fiona thought maybe a beer would take the edge off her nerves. Small cousins of the pterodactyls were flapping around in her midsection. If she couldn’t make them go away, maybe she could get them drunk so they’d settle down. “Two beers, coming up.” He went to the kitchen. Ozzy lay down on the floor, looking up at her. Fiona supposed he couldn’t fit all that tongue in his mouth and so it had to hang over the side like that. Poor guy. She looked around the living room. Sparsely furnished, white paint, nothing on the walls, mini-blinds on the windows. The furniture—a worn sofa and the armchair she sat in— was upholstered in shades of brown plaid and herringbone. The impression was one of utilitarian function, like a waiting room in a state government office. The coffee table, end tables, and entertainment center were the exception. Obviously handcrafted, beautiful pieces, they didn’t match, but complimented each other. Still, everything in the room had a function—nothing was merely decorative. The place looked like a barracks! Will brought the beers in, handed her one, and sat on the nearest end of the couch. Fiona was accustomed to seeing him in his BDUs at work. In worn Levi’s and an equally worn sage green Henley, Will seemed more approachable. Great. That was all she needed. A more approachable, touchable, appealing Will McCrae. Fiona took a huge swallow of her beer. And choked. Will was out of his seat and patting her back in less than a second. “You okay?” When she caught her breath, she nodded. And burped.

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“It’s pretty good beer, eh?” He grinned, the stubble of a Saturday beard dark on his chin. “We’ve got an hour to kill before Olivia gets here.” Their eyes met. The thought of what they could do with an hour had clearly occurred to both of them. Will cleared his throat. “Did you bring those plans for your bench?” Yes! Fiona had forgotten about them. Perfect. She dug them out of her bag and spread them out on the coffee table. Will leaned in close to look at them, and she was too aware of his scent. He smelled like the sun…warm and salty like he’d spent the day outside. Bars of light shone in through the blinds on the window, striping the table and his arms. He’d pushed his shirtsleeves up on his forearms, and blue-black hairs curled on his wrists. She wanted to feel those hairs with her face. “Fiona?” He was looking at her, sitting dead still. Then he blinked, and shook his head, as if he’d been the one zoning out. “I said, do you have measurements for this? If you don’t care about specifics, you can just give me the general finished dimensions you want, and I can take it from there. But if you want it to be just like your mom’s, I’ll need measurements.” “Oh. Well, I think the thing is around two feet deep, four feet wide, and it’s tall enough that you could stand under it. The backrest slants a little, like one of those Adirondack chairs. Build it about like that. I trust your judgment more than my drawing.” Will took a drink of his beer and said, “You want it out of cedar, right?” “Why? Oh. Weather. Of course. Cedar.” Cedar was one of her favorite essential oils…she had massage oil made with it…but so far she’d only ever used it as bath oil. This line of thinking gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “slippery slope of danger”. Slippery, cedar-scented Will…oh do please stop, Fiona. Ten years of dating duds and now she finds one that turns her on? I must have been a real bitch in my last life. “You want to see the shop? It’s not much, but it works for what I need.” “Sure. First—where’s the lady’s room?” “Latrine? Through there. First door on your right.” Fiona didn’t need to use the restroom. She needed to get away from those dark eyes. She needed cold water on her face, and counting to ten. No, fifty. Will closed his eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help. The image persisted. She’d let her hair loose, long and fine, hanging down her back. He’d thought he was used to her weird dressing but today she’d shown up in a plain white vee-neck t-shirt and a long crazy-colored skirt that brushed the tops of worn moccasins. On anybody else, the combination would have looked contrived and silly. On Fiona it was irresistibly feminine. Would she notice if he disappeared long enough for a cold shower? Geez, Olivia, hurry up and get home! He needed a chaperone. Now. Okay, no chaperone. Distraction was his next best hope. Taking the bench sketch to the study, he pinned it up on the bulletin board over his desk. He’d need a lumber list. Four by fours for the corner posts. Ten or twelve foot? Twelve, which will put more in the ground. Concrete to hold it in place. Galvanized screws. Oh, don’t think screws. Two by fours, ten-foot cedar. Lattice. Would she want lattice? No. Too common. Angle supports. Yeah, that would be overkill but he wanted the thing so solid he could park a truck on it. He studied the plan, scribbling the board footage he’d need.

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She had a good eye for drawing…good proportion, dimension. Of course, the way he was beginning to feel about her, she could have done it in crayon using her feet and he would have called it a masterpiece. Shirley was right. He had it bad. ***** Will and Fiona spent half an hour in the small, crowded woodshop. She was shocked. Unlike his tidy desk at work or his barracks-style house, the shop was a messy, wonderful riot of creativity. Pencil-marked boards of varying lengths leaned everywhere. Drifts of sawdust banked in corners. Mysterious tools lay scattered on the long, battered work counter running the circumference of the shop. She loved the magic, hallowed feeling of the place—it seemed a privilege to be allowed in. Will explained the uses of saws, lathes, and sanders. The actual production process of furniture had never occurred to her—you just go to a store and buy a dresser or a dining room set. She imagined him out here, cutting and sanding, sawdust in his hair, varnish and stain on his hands. Yet another side of Iron-Man McCrae…the craftsman. The passion that he stowed away so rigidly at work expressed itself out here. She envied the wood. “So what does this do?” She held a loose contraption, a mutant combination of vice and corkscrew…and when she looked up, Will stood close, studying her. She took a quick step backward, holding the contraption up like a shield. “Looks like a medieval torture device, but I don’t see any blood.” The drunken pterodactyl cousins had begun a tavern song in her stomach. Something about a wanton wench and haymows and strong, lusty men. She tried to drown them out. “I can imagine a couple of uses for the Gruesome Twosome involving this. They’d never have children…” Will winced and took the thing from her. “No, it’s not a torture device. And on behalf of men everywhere, I’d have to protest that particular use, even for them. He set it on the table, but she picked it up again and tried to turn it. “It’s a Jorgenson clamp,” he said, watching her. “Holds wood together while the glue dries, like a vice. The clamping parts are made of wood, so it doesn’t damage surfaces.” She’d already figured out how to turn the thing, which was impressive since it required an odd mix of coordinated twisting pressure to operate. It usually took new carpenters a while to get the hang of it. The tip of her tongue stuck out, touching her upper lip. The look of concentration on her face fascinated him and pulled him to her like a magnet. With his eyes he traced the outline of her face, down the curved cheek, around the delicately pointed chin, up to her pale temple. She was here, in his house. Bed, just upstairs. He could feel himself grow hard, trembling with the desire to touch her, to make those green eyes go vague and unseeing. Inarticulate need for her pulsed through him and he fought it back. He was losing the battle. Fiona looked up to see him staring intently with those black eyes, his pupils indiscernible from the irises. Her breath caught and she took another tiny step back. She could practically smell the lust between them. Being in a woodshop full of cedar shavings didn’t help, dammit. She laid the clamp on the table and dusted her hands on the back of her skirt. Clearing her throat, she said, “Well now, see? It’s clear that you are a superior

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instructor. After such expert tutelage, I could probably come out here and build a house.” She bowed deeply, clowning, and said, “How about another beer, oh wise instructor?” He bowed deeply in return. “Your wish is my command, my lady.” If she knew how true that was, she would probably run. As they left the shop, he guarded and guided her around the jumble of wood stacks and tools, with his hand on the small of her back. Once outside he quickly took it away because it felt just too good to touch her. Ozzy got up from his post by the shop door and lumbered after them. Small brown curls of dried pine-blossoms littered the ground and the patio as they stepped up on it. The pine tree overhead was hosting a party of glossy grackles; their weird whirrs, clicks, and whistles announcing the black birds’ mating season. In the far corner of the yard, oblivious to the dog or the humans, a male crackle spread his wings and opened his tail feathers into a vee, dancing around a female. Had the whole world conspired to make this harder? Will brushed pine-blossoms off the top of the picnic table and sat on it. Fiona squeaked as something poked her from behind. Ozzy. She turned around, dislodging his friendly nose from her butt crack, and said, “I love you too, big guy, but it just wouldn’t work between us. I’m an instructor, you’re Irish…” Ozzy wagged his tail, clearly unconcerned about species differences. Picking a skirt-wedgie out of her rear as unobtrusively as possible, she looked up at Will. “Tell your dog he’s not my type, would you?” Oh. That was so the wrong thing to say. The words hung out there between them, defying gravity and her intense effort to call them back. “So, what is your type?” She looked around the yard. How did she ever think she could come to his house and traipse around, platonic and chaste? “How did I know those would be the next words out of your mouth?” That fine, inviting mouth. Ozzy whumped his haunches down and sat waiting for her answer. “Well, Ozzy, for starters, I’d have to say as great as you are, I generally don’t go for quadrupeds. Nothing personal.” She petted the dog as a diversionary tactic, hoping to think of something to say to change the subject. Her tongue chose that moment to freeze to the roof of her mouth. Will chose that moment to get real. Damn him. “Look. I understand that you’re in a tight spot with work. But as an expert on all things military, I can assure you there is no regulation, guidance, instruction, policy, or supplement to any of the aforementioned that prohibits you and I from seeing each other.” Fiona crossed her arms. “Of course not. I can see you fine. All the way from over here, even.” “Cute. So may I assume that since you know this is not a legal problem, and that you still make wise-ass remarks, you’re not interested in me?” “Yes, you may assume that.” She made a point of looking at Ozzy. Or rather, a point of not looking at Will. The legs of the patio table scraped on the concrete as Will climbed down. She still looked away, but she could sense that he stood very close. “I’ve thought some less-than-generous things about you since we met, but until now I would never have called you a liar.” “What?” Now she looked at him. He looked pissed. And dangerous. And sexy as hell. “You heard me. You’re a liar.”

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“I didn’t lie. I said you could assume that I’m not interested in you.” That ought to take care of things. Nothing like parsimonious quibbling to douse the ol’ flames of love. No, passion. No, plain lust. That’s all. Love is not even in this zip code. Will was still staring at her, his face expressionless, but his eyes burning into her. This must be what a bird feels like when a snake is about to eat it. Will smiled then, and made everything worse because he was so beautiful when he smiled. Compounding his sin, he reached out and touched her face. The palm of his hand was as warm and rough as she’d fantasized it would be. “Fiona, if you’d stop backpedaling for two seconds, I think I could teach you a thing or two about assumptions. You did say I’m an excellent instructor.” The cello vibrations of his voice hummed in her ribs. Traitorous ribs. Between that humming, her pounding heart, and that damned buzz between her legs, she’d turned into a freaking orchestra. Oh hell. Here was living proof that she wasn’t dead from the neck down, and she was running from it. As if this hot-blooded and apparently determined source of potential mind-blowing orgasms was a bad thing. That settled it. Office protocol be damned. She parted her lips to say “Kiss me, Will,” but he’d read the decision behind her eyes already. He was not gentle this time. Crushing her against him, his fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, he swore softly. Their lips met and melded and melted together in slick, hot promise. She opened her mouth to take in his questing tongue, and a sudden flush of heat ignited her skin. With a squeak of hinge, the back screen door slammed open and banged against the house. “Daddy! Are you out here—Oh!” A short, curly haired red head skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open. Will and Fiona jumped apart like guilty children, and stood, breathing hard. Fiona almost flinched when the girl looked her way. Then the girl looked at Will, eyebrows raised, and flashed a wide grin—a sort of facial thumbs-up. She might as well have been wearing a t-shirt with ‘I Am My Father’s Matchmaker’ printed across the front. Suddenly remembering her manners, she bounced forward, stuck out a perky little hand, bright with rings and painted nails. Fiona reached her own hand out and the girl squeezed it. “You must be Fiona. I’m Olivia. I’m so glad to meet you! Daddy wouldn’t tell me anything about you other than the fact that you work with him, so it’s good to finally see you in person. Now he’s been boring you with his wood shop.” She glared at her dad. “Way to go, Pop.” Fiona looked from the daughter to the father and back again, wondering if she looked as red as she felt. Ozzy shoved his nose in Olivia’s chest, tail swinging a sideways arc that would knock over small children. “Oz! Good boy.” She baby-talked and scratched under his chin. “I love the big ugly Ozzy-dog!” Apparently the feeling was mutual, because the tail wagging sped up, threatening to lift him off the ground like a helicopter blade. Suddenly spinning on her heels, Olivia marched back to the house. “Don’t just stand there! Come in! I have got the best magazines for you to see!” Fiona looked at Will, the corners of her lips tugging up. Despite the interruption, the heat between them still radiated through her body. As if they were two giant magnets, the pull of his body dragged through her blood whispering now, touch him now. She thought stupidly of Sleeping Beauty…did she feel this way waking up to a kiss? Glancing up at Will,

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she crossed her eyes and grinned. He shrugged, and aimed a neck-wringing gesture at his daughter. Fiona tiptoed to lean close to his ear and whispered, “She’s adorable. I think you should keep her.”

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Chapter Fourteen “This board is a genius idea. Magnificent. Really dresses up the hall.” Captain Omant stood gazing up at the current Look-sharp Airman of the Week, an A1C Dodson in Block V. “I told the other supervisors about it, and several of them have put up something similar. I had no idea so many students had aced the course—fantastic.” Rosco nodded sagely. “Well, good, Sir, I’m glad you like the idea. As I see it, the airmen need an example, a goal to strive for. So I designed it and had one of my men make it. He did a good job, too. The airmen really notice it. They’re competitive at that age, and this kind of thing gets their juices going. The instructors pull a lot more positive 341’s during uniform inspections these days.” He clicked his ballpoint pen in and out, pretending to look at the board while he studied Captain Omant out of the corner of his eye. Little popfart. Medium build, medium hair, medium face. Guy was like goddamned wallpaper. That was fine with Rosco. He would prefer a more imposing figure of a man, but Mr. Wallpaper here would serve the purpose. The purpose being to push all the Wright buttons. Wright Buttons! Ha! Too bad he couldn’t say that one out loud. Captain Omant stopped a class of airmen on their way to the cell-test lab and began asking them questions about their schooling. Damned busybody. It had been so easy to set up a fake instructor evaluation for Fiona. Maybe it would keep her off balance. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d pass it with flying colors, but he wanted to make her nervous. Of course he’d told Will to make himself scarce. She couldn’t have anybody to help her. Dumb twist didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to have a 281 until she’d been teaching on her own for three months. But that was too late for Rosco’s plans. He needed some paperwork—or at least he needed something with the Captain’s signature on it, just in case. He could figure out a way to use it later. Rosco had arrived at a decision over the long fishing weekend: he was going to have to get rid of Fiona Wright—after he’d gotten what he wanted out of her. The decision had cheered him right up. Right. Wright buttons. Ha! He stood, still clicking his pen until the Captain finished with the airmen. “Well, sir, if you’ll step this way, I’ll get you situated in Miss Wright’s class. She knows you’re coming. Should be all set up and ready to start.” ***** Fiona wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans, but there was nothing she could do about her stomach. The Ptera-pets were back, full force. Couldn’t the airmen hear them shrieking? She pictured the Dragons of Perth, wheeling over sharp stony canyons… “Miss Wright? You okay?” Amn Miller’s anxious face made it clear just how well her poker face was holding up. “I’m fine, Amn Miller. Must have gotten a bad McMuffin.” MSgt Flasque had surprised her this morning with news of a 281—the form name for an instructor’s teaching evaluation. A 281 was, according to SSgt Tubbs, no big deal. “If you teach by the rules,” he’d assured her, “don’t leave anything out, and remember what you

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learned in BIC, you’ll do fine. The ones who have to worry were the ones who take shortcuts all the time, and then have to fly right for the eval.” Okay. She could do that. She always taught by the precepts she learned in BIC, she never took shortcuts, and she was—thanks to her phobia of forgetting details—slavishly devoted to the use of checklists. None of that helped calm her nerves. The supervisor was supposed to do an instructor’s evaluation. Not the flight commander. So why was Captain Omant doing hers? I’m on trial. That’s why. She checked around the room one more time, to be sure she hadn’t missed something that could be construed as a safety violation. When something as innocuous as a fan sitting on top of a filing cabinet could be a safety write-up, it paid to be paranoid. How had the Air Force gotten the idea that its people were stupid? Good thing she’d had all those safety briefings. She might otherwise staple her ears to the desk. Almost time. She called for the class’s attention. “Listen up! How many of you have wished that the one who’s always evaluating you would get evaluated?” Mischievous grins and raised hands. Even one “Hoo-ah!” in the back. “Well, today’s your lucky day.” She went on to explain about the upcoming eval, reminded them of basic protocol when an officer entered the room. “I want you to act normal—as normal as you dingle-berries can, anyway—as if Captain Omant is not even in the room. Remember. He’s evaluating me, not you. So ask questions. This is still a lesson and you still have an obligation to learn it.” “Room Ten-Hut!” Good catch, Newman! Kid might be goofy, but he’s going to make somebody an ace troop. The airmen had snapped to attention, eyes to the front of the room. The Captain came in and looked around. “At ease. Please be seated, and let’s get started.” He sidled down the back row. His crisp blue uniform contrasted starkly with the airmen’s battle dress as he seated himself at the empty desk Will normally used. Fiona fervently wished it were Will sitting at that desk. Still, she had to smile inside. How far she had come! Just over two weeks ago, she’d been a freakedout nervous wreck opposing Will’s presence in her classroom. MSgt Flasque had told her she’d get used to it. Now if she could just get past this eval, she'd be doing all the good. With that thought in mind, she began. The lesson covered the lecture portion on trouble-shooting the refuel/defuel system. At first the Captain’s scribbling made her nervous. How could he have so much to write about? Is it good or bad? But she got busy teaching, the airmen exercised their normal curiosity, and the hour flew by. At the end of it, Capt. Omant gave her a nod, took his clipboard, and slipped out of the room. With his departure, her nervousness seeped back in, staining her confidence. If she had an aura reading right now, her colors would be seaweed, pond scum, and that ugly fishingworm yellow. Nothing to be done for it. Either she passed or she didn’t. “Okay, you guys. Good job. Thank you for your participation. You’ll take the PC after break. Take fifteen this time—I’ll be a few minutes late.” She went to her desk in the instructor’s office, nuked a cup of tea, and sat down. Capt. Omant stood in the doorway and smiled. “Miss Wright—would you come visit me down the hall a minute?”

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In the subsequent two-minute brief, the Captain told her she’d done fine, that the 281 wasn’t a real one, and that he looked forward to having her teach with them a long time. She passed! He handed her a copy of AETC Form 281. She stopped in the hallway outside the Flight Office, hands shaking, and read the list of criteria, much like the checklist her BIC instructor had used to grade her speeches. Six ‘Outstanding’s, two ‘Excellent’s, two ‘Satisfactory’s, and—thank God—no ‘Needs Improvement’s. Below the checklist was a section for comments, filled with Capt. Omant’s neat, square, blueprint lettering: “Perfect pace for the students. Excellent use of students to “teach” the lesson. Constant and perceptive questions. Surprising degree of mechanical intuition. Real-world analogies of operational principles made the lesson accessible. Use of modeling clay and pipe cleaners; interesting, but possible distraction from lesson? Consider handing the marker to students who are to approach the board; throwing markers in class is a potential safety hazard. Apparent rapport with airmen. Good job!” The sudden rush of relief at those words—evidence that she really did have what it took to teach—make her realize how tightly she’d been holding on. So much hung on her ability to keep this job. Fiona made it back to her lukewarm cup of tea before she broke down and buried her face in her hands. For someone who hated to cry, she’d been doing a damned lot of it since coming to this place. Rick happened to be in the office, and the sight of tears affected him the way gushing arterial blood would affect normal people. He almost called 911. “Relax Rick.” She said through her tears, laughing. “This is just a relief reaction. I’m fine.” She thought for a minute about Rick and a couple of the other instructors. In the last few days, she’d notice Tubbs and Jonas had begun to actually acknowledge her presence, aside from walking around her instead of through her. They were practically friendly. Of course, Rick was his usual ridiculous self, but somehow even he had changed toward her—fewer suggestive comments and more real conversation. Was she making friends here? ***** The next morning, Fiona all but bounced into the test office. She had just put her airmen on break. They were wrung out after the block test, and she’d assigned them the odious task of clearing the desks out of the classroom and mopping/waxing/buffing the floor. They had grumbled about it, but she knew they didn’t want to launch into Block III at the moment. If the last block test were any indication, they’d be in there singing and jazzing around within an hour. Couple of ‘em had pretty good voices, too. Right now, though, she was so jazzed herself, she thought she might break out in azalea blossoms all over her body. Bright pink ones. She did it! Not only did all of the students pass, (and it had been a close one with Amn Wagner—at least four hours of after-school tutoring over the last week) but also they had excelled.

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“They averaged a ninety-six Will! That’s two block tests in a row above ninety-five!” Fiona did a little cha-cha around the small room, hooting, “Yoohoo!” After her victory dance, she plopped down in a gray tweed office chair and spun it around in slow circles. She was proud, tired, and exhilarated. Other than the flight offices at the front of the building, and MSgt Flasque’s office, this was the only room separate from the instructors’ giant shared office—which Flasque called, insultingly enough, The Stable. All the test materials were kept in here under lock and key, and the room doubled as both a computer room and a discreet place to counsel airmen. The instructors all had to share the one computer for test records, course development, and email. The only exception was SrA Tyler, who had a computer on his desk. Nobody complained, though, because they knew that a computer came with whatever dogs-body work Tyler had to do for Flasque. Will was busy at the computer desk. He spoke to her without turning around, intent on a file he was updating. “Did you have any doubt?” “No. Yes. Well…you never know! Amn Wagner gave me a scare there for a while.” She got up and lugged her folders to the file cabinet in the corner. She logged in the testbinder, meticulously recording that she had returned eleven copies of Block Test II, eleven disks, and one answer key. If it’s true that “God is in the details”, Fiona intended to be downright holy about her test records. No slip ups. Leaving her class folders on top of the cabinet, she sat back down. “Will, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.” He finished with whatever he’d been doing and closed his computer file, then swung around in the office chair, facing her. Long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. “I didn’t do anything. You’re a good instructor, Fiona. In spite of yourself.” Those damned black eyes were merry. Images of their kiss in his back yard rushed to her mind, and she wondered how long it would be before they could resume that little experiment. Tonight Fiona was obligated to take Olivia shopping for dress fabric. Tomorrow night, Will had to attend a school function…if she didn’t get some time alone with him soon, she might explode. Then there would be azalea blossoms all over the place. What she wanted to do was close the test-office doors and sit on Will’s lap. Facing him. What they would do after that, well…probably not allowed in a government office. Best not follow those thoughts too closely. The doors stood open, but there was no one in The Stable. For now, she could only look at Will, no students around, no coworkers, no daughter. And so she did. Slowly. From the toes of his combat boots, up his long, muscular legs, to the extravagant bulge in his BDU pants, to a flat belly in a black t-shirt, broad chest and shoulders stretching the thin cotton tight, to his angular face. He watched her watch him. He didn’t seem to mind. That warm buzz between her legs was very insistent; couldn’t he hear it? Will felt the heat of Fiona’s frankly lascivious appraisal. His normal ability to sit still deserted him, and it took more effort than he’d ever expended not to jump up and grab her. He was pretty sure that if she didn’t stop staring at him like that he was going to violate quite a few regulations. Military bearing would fly right out the window. He looked down at his

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lap. He had so little blood circulation in his brain; he doubted he’d make it out if the building caught on fire. A blind man could feel the tension in the room. Fiona could not afford rumors at this juncture in her career. Had to break the spell. “Fiona.” “Yes, Will?” “You have drool on your chin.” He grinned and sat up straight. And winced. Fiona laughed, spun her chair around again and imagined those pink blossoms spinning out of her hair. They flew all over the room, floating on her wild mood. “I’m sorry. No. I am not sorry. But I’ll be good now. Promise.” She stopped spinning and turned to face him. “So. I’ve qualified in Blocks I and II.” She felt ready for anything at this point. “What’s next?” “You’ll go with your airmen—as a student—through Blocks III and IV. Components and Fuel Cells. Rick’s teaching both of them. I’ll pick up a new class in a couple of days. Their eyes met again, telegraphing the longing they didn’t dare express in the office. She didn’t need him to tell her he’d miss being in the classroom with her every day. She knew how her days would lose their shine without him. She shook her head and sighed, and went to the test cabinet to get her lesson plan and paperwork. On the pretense of locking the cabinet, Will got up and stood behind Fiona. He leaned down close to her and quietly said, “It’s really better this way. You know I can’t concentrate with you around.” She closed her eyes and broke out in delicious chills all over at the caress of his breath over her bare neck. Her nipples were so hard they hurt, and for just a second, she stepped back against him. The heat between their bodies made her breath quicken, and she moved away quickly before either of them started something they couldn’t finish. She turned and reveled in the torturous, dizzying passion in Will’s eyes. Then she left the test office, went to her desk, and made a cup of tea. It took a while to get her breathing back to normal. Soon she would have to check on the airmen in a minute. After lunch she’d have test grades to record and student files to update. But for now she could just sit still. A chair squeaked and she looked up to see Will at the desk through the open test-office door. Leaning back against her seat, she closed her eyes. Then opened them with a shock as Bingham and Sikes burst into the instructor office. Their latest debate still raged over the difference between this year’s possible point cutoff for MSgt promotions and last year’s. When they spied Fiona they dropped their argument like dogs dropping a dead bone to chase a live rabbit. Sikes looked at Bingham and winked. “So, Miss Wright. How’d your students do on their block test? Any of them going on to Block III? We’ve never seen a whole class wash back before. Might be an interesting thing to watch…wait, do we have enough copier paper? That’s a lot of counseling letters to print out!” Sikes’ voice was one of those high, reedy ones that sound so odd coming from a large man. Thanks to her 281 score and her class’s test scores, the gruesome twosome couldn’t touch her today. She’d slowly developed some emotional calluses against them as the weeks had worn on. She checked her inner temperature. Nope. They didn’t even register on her pissed-off scale any more.

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Eyeing him over the edge of her teacup, Fiona said quietly, “They made a ninety-six class average, TSgt Sikes. No failures, three over ninety, and five perfect scores.” Sikes and Bingham looked at each other and burst out laughing. It sounded forced. What was so damned funny now? It would be her luck if she had missed something in the test data and had to eat crow about her class’s score. Okay, apparently they could still make her worry, a little bit. Bingham chewed mouthful of sunflower seeds and spat the hulls one at a time at the trashcan. One in three made the target. The rest of the spit-soaked hulls lay scattered on the floor. He smirked at her, the seeds in his mouth pouching his cheek out in a lump. “Good job teaching the test. I bet your desk has dents in it.” He kicked his desk and grinned at Sikes. Whew! Okay. She hadn’t been sure what to think when they’d laughed at her good test score, but this was more like it. Acid comments, derision, spite. She’d raged over Bingham’s constant references to “podium-kicking” when she first started this job, but not now. Now they bored her. Couldn’t he come up with something new? No, that required original thinking. Ol’ Tomato Face probably ran out of original thoughts around the time he learned to walk. “No, Bingham, I don’t kick for main points any more.” She turned on her brightest smile. “I just borrowed a page from your book. It’s easier to leave the answers out where the students can see them.” Bingham choked on a sunflower seed and spit the rest of them out. Red crept slowly from his neck, up his pug-nosed face, to the roots of his curly blonde hair. He looked like a thermometer in a toaster. “You know, you talk a pretty good game for somebody on her way out the door!” Will listened to their sparring from the test-office. ‘Out the door?’—Was Bingham the one setting her up? He had to fight the urge to push Bingham’s face in for spewing this ration about test compromise. Just last week the bastard’d gotten busted leaving PC answers in the classroom during break. On his desk. Open, coincidentally, to the page most helpful to any student who happened to wander by. What burned Will the most was that not a damned thing had been done about it. TSgt Sikes wrote SSgt Bingham’s EPR. Not Will. A sudden crash rattled the walls. Sounded like it came from the sealant lab down the hall. Fiona jumped up and ran. Will followed right behind her. Before they reached the lab door, a white-faced airman banged it open and ran to Will. “TSgt McCrae! I gotta call 911! TSgt Kenny’s hurt!” When they entered the lab, Rick lay sprawled on his back against a C-130 wing tank. His face was pasty white and tinged with green, but he was alive. Then Will noticed that Rick’s left arm made a sharp right angle where right angles shouldn’t occur. Opening and slowly focusing his eyes, Rick managed a grin. “Watch that last step—it’s a doozie,” he said and let out a weak chuckle. Everybody relaxed. A Rick making jokes was a Rick who was going to be fine. Will looked up at the circle of anxious faces surrounding them. “What happened? A female airman—AIC Hwang—blanched, swallowed, and spoke up. “It was me sir. I did it. They said TSgt Kenny was on a ladder, g-g-getting a box of gloves off the top of the

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locker. I opened the door and knocked him off the ladder into the trainer.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them go. “Is he alright? What can I do to help?” “Amn Hwang, unless you have super-human vision and could see through that solid lab door, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Will looked at Rick meaningfully. “Of course, a ladder in front of a door might have contributed to the fall.” Looking back up at the girl, he smiled. “He’ll be fine. You’ll have a great story to tell about tech school…the day you got fed up and took out an instructor.” He stood up. “Okay, you guys, let’s clear out and give the man a little breathing room.” Half an hour later, Will watched the ambulance drive away from the curb. The paramedics had pronounced Rick basically sound with the exception of a broken arm—and a wise ass that might soon get other body parts broken. He would be back to work in a day or two; but with a cast on his arm, he wouldn’t be able to manage the Block III and IV labs. MSgt Flasque said it would be best if Rick took the new class in Will’s place. Will wanted to take Rick’s place in III and IV so bad he’d almost asked Flasque to put him in there. Bad idea. More time with Fiona. Close, private quarters, those fuel tanks.

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Chapter Fifteen Will knocked on Flasque’s office door. “Enter!” He went in, closed the door behind him, and stood in front of Rosco’s desk. “What’s up Will?” Flasque put a folder in a drawer, grabbed his keys and locked it. Weird, even for him. “Why did you put Fiona in Block III under Bingham?” Will stood with his arms at his sides, feet apart. His fingers slowly curled and uncurled. “What do you mean ‘why’?” Flasque stared at Will, eyes snapping in an otherwise bland face. “Rick broke his arm. Bingham is qualified in Block III. Seems pretty cut and dried to me. What’s the matter? You got some kind of monopoly on training our pretty new instructor?” He leered. “I can’t say as I blame you. But I told you to be careful messing with hired help.” “This has nothing to do with me. Everybody in this building knows that both Sikes and Bingham have it in for her. The last thing she needs is to have one of them for a qualifying trainer. You can’t honestly believe Bingham is going to teach her what she needs to know.” The muscles in Flasque’s jaws clenched, and his nostrils flared, but his voice stayed level. “Now, you might just think about what you’re saying before you say it, Will. It sounded for minute there like you were questioning the decision of your superior.” “Fiona is an instructor, Sergeant Flasque. Our primary duty in training instructors is to get them able to teach as well as they can, as soon as they can. Bingham isn’t—” Flasque shot to his feet. “Do not tell me what is or is not my primary duty! You are an instructor in my chain of command, and you will follow the directives I give you until I tell you to stop following them.” He seemed to realize he was standing, and sat down. Will had never seen the man so quick to take offense. Why was he so pissed? On the computer monitor to Flasque’s left, a cartoon fish jumped out of screen saver water and ate a dragonfly. A splash sounded as the fish fell back into the water, and a ring of ripples expanded in circles. Flasque stared at the screen for a second. When he looked back at Will, he sounded jovial, almost fatherly. “Look, I know it’s tough to see a little thing like her swimming in a shark tank like this. But she took the job here. She has to make it on her own. SSgt Bingham has been told to put personal bias aside and train the new instructor to the best of his ability.” He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted his head. “I think you’re too personally involved with this girl, Will. Your training would be no less biased than Bingham’s.” “With all due respect, Sergeant Flasque,” Will almost choked on the words. His hands had curled into fists again and he had to force them open. “I think putting another instructor in there to train Miss Wright would be the most effective solution. Not me. Tubbs and Jonas are both full-course qualified, both good instructors.” “That would mean pulling half the Stable out of their classes to play Musical Instructors. I don’t know about jumbling everybody around like that because of a personality conflict. We work with people every day that we don’t necessarily like, and sooner or later she’s going to have to toughen up. But if…” Flasque scowled. Then his face brightened with

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a slow smile. It was not a face to trust, and the hairs on Will’s arms stood out in reaction to the chills it inspired. “I’ll consider it, Will. The first day or two in Block III is nothing but lecture anyway. I’ll let you know what I decide.” Flasque’s voice dropped to a tone of quiet menace. “In the meantime, you might consider the fact that I am still the supervisor. You have a while to wait. Remember that, the next time you want to barge in here and tell me how to do my job.” “My apologies. Sir.” Will turned and left Rosco’s office, shaking with the need to push over a wall or a tree or a bus. Duty. Honor. Bearing. These ideas were the foundation upon which he had built his life. But right now, he wanted to throw his boss through a plate glass window. ***** Rosco watched as Will left the office. Aside from his own outbursts—job must be getting to me more than I thought—he was absolutely delighted with the visit. It had given him an inspired idea. His original plan—conceived when Rick had broken his arm—had been to have Bingham teach Blocks III and IV. Even without Rosco’s encouragement, Bingham would screw things up for Fiona every chance he got. Hell, he’d lie awake at night, working out new and interesting ways to sandbag the bitch. But watching Will struggle against his temper made Rosco realize that Bingham would, sooner or later, go too far. Unlike Will, that idiot had zero self-control, and couldn’t see past his own damned nose when it came to consequences. Rosco unlocked the drawer with Fiona’s file in it, and laid her folder open on his desk. He picked up the copy of her 281, his hand shaking. Now he understood. He had overreacted to his frustration with her unexpected success here—who could blame him? She’d been shoved down his throat and then she prissed around here like some prima donna. But he couldn’t afford to lose his cool. This was a time for subtlety. Putting Bingham in that position was like aiming an elephant gun at a mouse. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. The new idea? Simple. Will was clearly smitten with that stupid little twist. All Rosco had to do was let nature take its course. Given a couple of days to worry about it, Will would jump at the chance to take that class away from Bingham. All Rosco had to do was wait, and keep his eyeballs peeled. Sooner or later, he would catch them making more than doe eyes at each other. Then he could close the trap. Fiona would be his. At least until he was through with her. ***** Fiona fought the tension that crept up her back, making her shoulders hunch forward and her stomach knot. She could do this work, and although the material she faced was new, it wasn’t so scary now that she was used to teaching. The tension came from the realization of who was out to get her. Flasque.

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It was the only thing that made sense now. She still didn’t know why, but the minute he called her into his office this morning and told her about the new instructor schedule, cooing with sympathy and remorse, she knew. She suddenly remembered all the times her instincts had told her that his patting hands and his cheery, cajoling voice were somehow bad news. She had ignored those vibes, believed she was overreacting. She was apparently good at ignoring vibes she didn’t want to get. Was her life destined to follow this pattern? First Mike, now Flasque. When would she to learn to pay attention? Fiona hitched a deep breath, and the airman next to her looked over with his eyebrows raised. She shrugged, picked up her pencil, and got back to her notes. As the morning wore on, she had begun to realize something else: her presence in the classroom had a perversely enjoyable effect on SSgt Bingham. Either that, or he always turned red and stuttered when he taught. She had her lesson plan open in front of her so she could scribble personalization in the right-hand margins. At least three times in the last hour, she’d caught him skipping parts of the outline. She’d bet her next paycheck that those parts of the outline were not on the block test. After she’d asked him a few student-ish questions about those particular points, Bingham had gotten more thorough. He’d also gotten redder. How red will he get before his head explodes? That would be worth a paycheck. So she was being set up to fail. All right. Old Tomato Face up there would ‘forget’ to tell her quite a bit, maybe even ‘accidentally’ give her some crucial misinformation. But she knew how to research, and she knew who would give her honest help. It would be twice as hard—as if learning this job wasn’t hard enough—but she could do it. She had to do it. Failure was not an option. Fiona’s pencil snapped in half. She slanted a sheepish grin at her neighbor, and got out a new pencil. She intended to succeed in this damnable job. The airmen deserved solid, effective training. Momma deserved the best care available. And Fiona deserved to keep her home. Flasque’s favorite comment to a complaining instructor was “Registration time at SIU!” which stood for “Suck It Up” University. Well, now he could sign up for a course himself. She would succeed. ***** Will cut the truck engine and took the keys out of the ignition. “Wow, Pops! I never thought I’d see the day you’d come shopping with me. Fiona, you are witnessing a historical event.” Olivia’s eyes were the same black-brown as his, but hers were surrounded by sparkly purple eye shadow, green eyeliner, and gobs of black, smudgy mascara. Will made a mental note to ask Fiona if she could subtly curb Olivia’s enthusiasm with the makeup. Maybe I can ask her if she’ll have the rest of children while I’m at it. Fiona leaned forward to look past Olivia in the cab of the truck. “Well then, Olivia, I count myself privileged to be a part of this blessed miracle.” She snickered and cast that green-eyed glance at him. “Will? Olivia seems to think you don’t like shopping? Why ever

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not? Who could not like to go shopping for fabric? Rows and rows of beautiful, colorful fabric! It’s like a religious experience!” “If you two are through torturing me, could we just get this over with?” They piled out of Will’s truck, a choice of vehicle made necessary by the fact that their next stop was Sutherland’s Building Supply, and headed into Hancock Fabrics. Will suffered himself to be led across the parking lot to the store, not minding nearly as much as he pretended. At least he was spending time with Fiona. She wore a flowing skirt and something with long, full sleeves that Olivia called a peasant blouse. Peasant? Nothing poor about it. The patterns of color made Will think of incense and elephant caravans. She had bells on her ankles. Her hair was loose and hanging in a straight, glossy sheet down her back, making him crazy with the need to put his hands and face in it. Her face was bare, but she had traced a delicate line of charcoal gray around her slanted green eyes. She looked for all the world like a sixteen-year old Hindu Gypsy. He watched her laughing and combing through the sidewalk sale displays with Olivia. What would he do if his duty put him in a position to lose her? He didn’t even have her yet, really. Of course, he didn’t have the course supervisor position, either. Yet. Anything could happen between now and then. Then stop wasting your time by worrying about it now, fool. Fair enough. He would worry about duty later. Right now, he was going…shopping. ***** After their shopping trip they headed to Fiona’s house with a pizza. Olivia loved Farnsworth at first sight, but it was hard to know what Farnsworth thought of Olivia. He did blink twice, though. Will sat on the couch next to Fiona, staring around him at her bizarre house. A fireplace, open on three sides, divided the living room from the kitchen. To his left at the end of the long room stood a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall cage, at least three feet deep. There was a damned tree in it. A live tree, thriving under a heat lamp, and a garden center’s inventory of houseplants. Will grunted. A lizard condo. No surprise. The rest of the room was a jungle of more plants. The floor had been stripped of carpet. The chipped concrete floor beneath it was painted to look like quarry stone and wore faded area rugs of intricate detail. The walls were pale yellow. Around the doors and windows, painted flowering vines scrolled and curled like the illustrations of an ancient manuscript. Over the front door, a painted dragon perched, weirdly three-dimensional in the corner’s shadow and light, its tail twisted in impossible knot work. On every wall stood a bookshelf crammed with books, pottery, stones, and shells. Baskets filled the corners, full of magazines and blankets. There was no unifying theme to the place. Just a patchwork of color and styles that should have jarred his nerves. Instead, he wanted to explore for the hours it would take to see every detail. Something frozen in him began to thaw. He looked around to find Fiona watching him, a shy smile on her face. “You did all this?” he asked.

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“Yes. It took a while. But I like to paint.” He shook his head and made a mental note to see everything, every detail. Later. Rather than water down his praise with words, he kept silent and watched her set out their pizza picnic on a scarred coffee table. Her hands, with their silver gypsy rings, were too graceful for the mundane task. He imagined them twisting in an intricate, ancient dance to the beat of a doumbek. During his time in the desert, he’s seen dancers who could make a man lose his mind. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but she moved with the same boneless grace. You’re turning into a soap opera. Stop staring at her, fool. He made a show of looking around at the overstuffed monstrosity he sat on, patterned with bright blue roses as big as his head. “You know, this couch is almost as ugly as mine.” Fiona froze beside him, a slice of thin crust pepperoni halfway to her mouth. “I can’t believe you said that. This couch is…well it’s…okay, you’re right.” She shrugged. “It’s horrible. I have a love-hate relationship with this couch. You have to admit, though, it’s comfortable.” Will gave a little bounce. “Yep. It is. And if you took these back cushions off, you could sleep twelve people on it.” Deep in a velvet beanbag on the other side of the table, Olivia giggled. Will blushed. Fiona rescued him. “My mother bought this couch with an income tax return when I was thirteen or so. At the time I thought it was the most hideous thing on the planet. Even refused to sit on it. Of course, my mother was almost old enough to be my grandmother. Add to that the fact that thirteen-year-olds are naturally evil,” she threw a grin at Olivia, “and you can imagine how I overreacted.” She took a sip of her iced tea. “But over the years it kind of grew on me. Two years after Momma went into the center, I was still trying to get used to being ‘the head of the house’. Sleeping in the master bedroom was the logical thing to do, given the adjacent bathroom and all, but I couldn’t bring myself to move into it.” Will watched her eyes go distant, seeing the past. “I slept on this couch for a year. One night I had a dream. Momma was in a bobbing, wooden rowboat full of people. They were about to row out to a ship anchored way off in the distance. She smiled this dreamy smile at me and threw me a silk bag, about the size of a deck of cards. Then she blew me a kiss. She waved goodbye, and some old guy at the end of the boat rowed them away. In the bag I found a small, gold key.” Fiona shook her head and her eyes cleared. “I took it as a sign it was okay to be head of the house. Maybe I gave myself that dream, made it up to give myself an excuse to have the house. But it didn’t matter. The room felt like a master bedroom after that, not Momma’s room.” Olivia struggled out of the beanbag and ran, weeping, to embrace Fiona. “Oh you poor thing!” Fiona smiled through a cloud of Olivia’s red curls. “It’s okay, honey.” She patted the girl gently on the back. “My mom’s been at the center six years now, and she’s better off there where they can help her. Really. Don’t be sad.” Will didn’t know what to make of this woman. One minute she was a fragile wildflower, the next she was an oak.

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The rest of their dinner they listened to the latest cafeteria drama at Olivia’s school— something to do with Richard Kittinger who managed to fit an entire monster cinnamon bun into his mouth, but then couldn’t get it out, and the school nurse had to dig it out with a spoon. Will stood up and stretched. “Well, before you two get started on your girlie stuff”—he dodged a hail of wadded up pizzeria napkins—“I would like a tour of your house. And then I’d like to see where you’re going to want that arbor.” “A tour?” Fiona tilted her head. “Given that your house is decorated Early American Barracks, I wouldn’t think you’d care about interior design.” “I don’t, particularly, but a tour might give me ideas for things you’ll want built later.” He grinned and tugged a handful Olivia’s hair. “You don’t think this brat’s gonna settle for off-the-rack prom dresses after having one custom-made, do you?” ***** After a quick run through the house and back yard with Will, Fiona put the leaf in the dining room table and spread out the slippery, heavy gold satin Olivia had chosen for her dress. She showed Olivia how to pin the pattern, explained various markings and details, and then set the girl to cutting out the pieces. Despite the earlier jibe about her ovaries qualifying her to sew, she firmly believed that every girl should be taught at least the basics of sewing, and then she could take it or leave it. Will waited outside on the back porch. After checking to see that Olivia was doing all right, Fiona slipped out after him. “Nice night. Mind if I join you?” “Come on over. You know, you’ll never be able to sneak up on anybody with bells on your ankles.” He moved over on the bench at the edge of the porch and patted the seat. “You’ve got a great yard here. It’s huge. Never would have guessed from the street.” Fiona sat next to him. He slipped his arm around her, his hand resting on her right hip. He loved how she carried herself. Straight without being stiff. She had her own kind of bearing, and the NCO in him respected her for it. “Momma was the landscape designer. She loves gardening. I just maintain what she started.” Fiona had never felt anything as comfortably perfect as sitting there with him…a bodily version of the deja vue she’d felt when they first met. “Someday I’ll put in some raised beds for azaleas and peonies, and I’ve always wanted fruit trees. But for now the house comes first.” It was dark out, with only star light and a first-quarter moon, but Will could see the shine in her eyes. “You love this house, don’t you?” “Yes, I do. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. That’s why I have to keep my job, Will. That damned job, that I’m so mixed up about, is the only thing that will keep me from losing this place.” “Bingham giving you any trouble yet?” Will felt her shift at the mention of the guy’s name and again he wanted to punch that pug face in.

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“Well, it’s a toss-up as to who is training whom, actually. For some reason, I think I make him nervous. I’d bet he’s taught more thoroughly in the last three days than he has in the last three classes combined.” There was laughter in her voice. Will touched her chin and turned her face to look at him. “You’re amazing. Bingham would be a fool to underestimate you.” She looked into his eyes in the starlight. “Thank you for saying that. But Bingham’s not the one I’m worried about.” “What?” She looked down at her hands and hitched a deep sigh. “It’s Flasque. All along it’s been Flasque trying to get me fired. Or trying to get me to quit.” “Damn. Shirley said it didn’t make sense for Flasque to be behind it, that he’d have to work if he got rid of you. But I have to say it looks like he’s pulling something. I just can’t figure out what, or why.” “I genuinely don’t know. Up until yesterday morning, I thought he was all right. A little too touchy-feely and disgustingly cheerful maybe, but otherwise a stand-up guy. He’s been kind, supportive, encouraging.” Fiona untangled a leaf from the hem of her long skirt and twirled it by the stem. Will took her other hand in his. “You know it’s all an act, though, don’t you? There are things I would tell you about him, but I won’t because it’s hearsay. I didn’t even know him when it was supposed to have happened. Just know that Flasque has got nobody’s best interests at heart but his own. Please be careful of him.” “I know. And I will be careful. But I will do anything to keep this job. I just have to survive him, and then it will be all right. He’ll retire soon, from what the guys say. It’s good to know you’re on my side, and those three clowns at work.” Because of the torturous days he’d endured holding back his physical desire for her, Will was surprised to discover that simply holding Fiona, sitting with her in the dark, was enough. He laid his cheek against the top of her head, and said quietly, “I’m not going anywhere.” But in his mind’s eye, he could see calendar pages drifting down like leaves, reminding him that in less than six months, he might have to make a choice.

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Chapter Sixteen “So what’s this about?” SSgt Bingham stood in the hall outside the component lab. The top half of his whites hung down around his waist. “Rosco kicked you out of the lab because you won’t wear your whites the way you’re supposed to. Sets a bad example for the airmen.” Will wore what Fiona called his poker face. “That’s real funny, McCrae. What the fuck is going on?” Bingham stood with his feet apart and his arms crossed across his chest like a bar bouncer. He was beet red, wearing whites over a blue t-shirt. Very patriotic. Will felt his poker face slip a little. “Just kidding.” Will said. He couldn’t smash this idiot’s face in, but he intended to milk this little occasion for all the satisfaction he could get. “Here. I’ll bring you up to speed: Rick’s got the new class, Tubbs has got Block II, I’m taking this class, Jonas has got the current Block IV, and Sikes has got Block V out on the flightline injecting sealant. Mick is at NCO academy, and Wade’s on leave.” “Other than you taking this class, I knew all that.” Bingham looked suspicious. “That doesn’t tell me why I’m out of this one.” “Rosco wants you to head up a group of detail airmen and police the outside of the building. Serious attention to the patio—you guys throw your butts everywhere out there. We’ve got some VIPs coming tomorrow, and the place needs to look tight.” “This is airmen’s work. I’m an NCO. I’ll get Tyler on it.” He started to walk away. “Ah, no.” Whirling around, he glared at Will out of eyes so pale they were almost clear. “Why?” “Oops. Sorry. Staff Sergeant Bingham…a slight oversight. Tyler can’t do it. He’s in with Jonas, qualifying to teach Block IV. Looks like it’s all you, Staff Sergeant Bingham.” Will didn’t typically mention rank, but Bingham deserved to have his nose rubbed in his own mess. Bingham’s face had darkened to blood-blister red. Will granted him a benevolent smile. It was getting easier to smile these days. “I don’t know what you’re pullin’ McCrae, but your rank doesn’t make you bulletproof. If I find out you f—” “Go talk to MSgt Flasque. I don’t have time to give you a remedial lesson in how to follow orders. I’ve got a class to teach. Excuse me.” Bingham stomped away looking like a bulldog with a mouth full of bees. Will gave himself over to a deep belly laugh. Rick might be right. Maybe Fiona was loosening him up. He opened the heavy lab door, made sure to touch the static discharge plate on the door facing, and surveyed the class. Twelve white Oompa-Loompas with monster-goggles looked up at him from various heights and angles around the room. Some of them had little snorkels of paper sticking up from the bridges of their noses to let the fog out of their goggles. “Sergeant McCrae! Am I ever glad to see you!” Amn Newman waved a socket wrench and almost fell off the F-4 trainer he was perched on. “I wish I could say the same, Newman.” The airmen had a good laugh, celebrating at Newman’s expense. Amn Newman wasn’t fazed in the least. “Does this mean you’re our new Block III instructor?”

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“Yes it does.” A hearty chorus of hoots and shouts rose from eleven students. The twelfth OompaLoompa did not join the chorus. Instead, she grinned over her shoulder at Will. She picked up a speed handle and went to work removing a panel from the F-16 wing-tank trainer. With those goggles on and her braids wrapped around her head, Fiona looked like a scuba-diving German Fraulein. Bending over the trainer, however, she managed to make that pair of baggy white cotton coveralls look like something Victoria’s Secret would be proud of. There were large gray smudges on each of her butt cheeks from sitting on the trainer. Lucky trainer.

With the airmen on break, Fiona and Will had the lab to themselves. They sat at a right angle to each other around a lab table covered with fake 244’s and other forms the airmen filled out for components removed. Fiona rubbed the dent on the bridge of her nose. She liked the mechanic work in this block, but she detested wearing goggles. Just can’t WAIT to strap on one of those suffocating respirators. She looked at Will. The white of his coveralls contrasted with his dark coloring and tan skin. “So. How did you get Bingham out of here?” “I went to Flasque and said ‘pretty please’. It almost killed me.” “Well, then, I owe you a debt of deepest gratitude.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “However will I repay you?” Will laughed. Coquetry didn’t suit her, but it was fun to see her try it. “I can think of quite a few things that would suffice. However, all of them require the removal of those whites, and anything else you might be wearing under there.” “What makes you think I’m wearing anything under here?” Will groaned. “Please. How am I supposed to think straight now?” He closed his eyes and immediately an image assailed him: Fiona slowly stepping naked out of her coveralls. She still had her socks on and the goggle-dent on her nose. It was a very detailed image. “Will?” He opened his eyes. She looked at him funny, kind of breathless, and under the table her right knee gently connected with his left one. For a second, all of his sensory equipment shut down except the nerves in his left knee. Then all of his sensory equipment came on, needles way over in the red. “Yes?” “We need…when can we…” “I know. Me too. Very soon. But as bad as I hate to say it; not tonight.” She tilted her head with a sly grin. “You have a headache?” “No. I have a daughter’s band concert. Tomorrow night?” “Yes. Come over to my house.” Fiona felt her heartbeat in her throat. He was looking at her steadily; his eyes had gone jet black and she thought she just might drown in them. She wouldn’t mind. “I will. Tomorrow night. When?” “I don’t care, Will. Just come over.”

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The lab door opened and the airmen filed in, joking and laughing. From the outside at least, life picked up its normal rhythm. They spent the rest of the day pulling boost pumps and manifolds, safety wiring cannon plugs and filling out forms. Will went around to each group of students, inspecting their work, giving them advice, and helping. Fiona’s group was having trouble re-installing the number four pump on the F16 trainer and Will stepped up to give them an assist. She’d never realized how many incidental touches occur during close mechanic work. It was like repeatedly grabbing a live wire and having to keep quiet about the shock. ***** Late that afternoon, with the airmen on clean-up detail, Will sat in the flight office, hiding. He didn’t want to hide…he wanted to go find Fiona and drag her off into a cave somewhere and do very primitive things to her. He was hiding in the flight office because he had to make some progress on the rewrite of a lesson plan. He’d started it when Fiona first hired on, and hadn’t touched it since. Ordinarily he could block out all the noise and commotion of the instructor’s office. Nothing was ordinary anymore. So here he sat, at a conference table in the flight office. Captain Omant was out, keeping up with the management demands of four tech-school courses. Shirley’s disembodied voice floated up out of her little canyon of file cabinets, computer cabinets, and supply cabinets. She had said hello to him as he passed her, but that was it. She was no bigger fan of idle chitchat than he was; he wouldn’t be bothered with conversation. In fact, the muted tones of her phone correspondence lent him just the “office” concentration he needed to get his work done. Except that it wasn’t working. He had reread the same paragraph four times already, and still didn’t know what it said. He used to give Rick great rations of shit over just this kind of diddling around. Well, now the joke was on him. Love apparently did that to a man. He wouldn’t have fully realized he was in love had he not gone to the gym today at lunch. Of course it would have occurred to him sooner or later, but that didn’t matter. Today did. Will was a dedicated gym rat. He felt better when he worked out—blood felt rinsed, as if it had been run through a filter. But even without that, he would have gone; the Air Force fit-tested its personnel annually. There’s no excuse for failing a test when you know what the questions are. Since Fiona had started teaching Fuels, he’d seen her at the fitness center across the street, almost daily. There is really only one reason to go to a gym, as he saw it, and that was not to socialize. She seemed to feel the same way. So they smiled, waved, and went on to their respective workouts. Lately, however, he’d had to make a concerted effort to find a room where she was not…for the same reason he was in the flight office working on his rewrite. Today he’d come around a corner, intending to work out in the nautilus room. And there she was. Modest enough in a tank and sweat pants, but sitting on a yoga mat, her legs in a wide vee, her nose almost touching the floor. His legs felt like rubber and he sat abruptly on the nearest weight bench.

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She looked up, saw him, and then affected the platonic coworker’s face they’d each worked so hard to perfect over the last few days. But not before he’d seen her green eyes kindle. With an about-face, he headed off to the cardio room. If he was going to sweat, it might as well be for a good cause. Not ten minutes later, while he was minding his own business on a stair machine, she climbed on the treadmill in front of him. He would have accused her of certain violations of the Geneva Convention, except that it was the only treadmill available. Heroically, he prepared himself to endure the torture of watching her. She was unconsciously alluring after her workouts—the healthy sheen of sweat on her flushed face, clothes sticking to her—he didn’t think he could stand the temptation of watching the workout itself. After a few minutes’ walking warm up, she began to run. Will smiled at the study guide in front of him in the flight office, but he saw only the image at the gym… Fiona Wright, that gorgeous, mysterious creature, that woodland nymph of ethereal beauty and dancer’s grace, cranked up the treadmill to six miles an hour. And she started flapping. Her elbows went out and up, braid bouncing on her back between them. Her knees flew in bizarre, complicated arcs. Her feet splayed to the side with each step. She ran, God bless her, like the world’s tallest, clumsiest duck! God must be watching over her; only a miracle could keep her from pitching over on her face. That was when he knew. He was utterly, irrevocably, passionately in love with Fiona Wright. The sudden noise of the copier brought him back to the present. Thanks to the upholstered cubicle-divider panel that sectioned off his end of the room, he couldn’t see who was at the copier, but it was undoubtedly Rick. Nobody else whistled as badly. Or as constantly. Shirley’s voice floated up again. “Rick?” “Yes, Miss Shirley?” “You know the promotion list for Master Sergeant is coming out tomorrow?” “Yes, Miss Shirley?” “Well, I couldn’t possibly know who’s on that list, and wouldn’t dream of telling anyone, even if I did know.” “Yes, Miss Shirley?” “But, I was thinking…if I were to accidentally have a cake decorated tonight, do you spell McCrae with an ‘m-c’ or an ‘m-a-c’?” Will froze. He’d made Master! Rick poked his head around the partition. “Looks like you get Rosco’s office, big guy!” Then he winked. It was hard to tell when Rick winked, because his whole face scrunched up. You had to assume he was either winking or having a seizure. *****

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It was just getting dark when Fiona wrestled the door open at Texhoma Care Center. With Momma’s laundry in a basket on one hip, dresses in garment bags hanging down her back, and a potted Dracaena wrapped in the other arm, she was about to drop all of it. One of the nurses coming out of a tenant’s room saw her and ran to help. “Thank you!” Fiona handed over the plant. “Momma always said I like the lazy man’s load.” The nurse—this one’s name was Linda—looked puzzled. “Lazy man’s load? That looked more like Hercules’s load to me!” “No. A lazy man brings everything at once so he doesn’t have to make two trips.” They both laughed and headed down the length of Wing Eight. When they got to Room Twenty, Linda turned to Fiona, put her finger to her lips in a “be quiet” gesture, and opened the door. Fiona tiptoed in with the basket and dresses, and saw Momma sound asleep in the hospital-style bed, under a fuzzy blue blanket. Her knobby, veined hands lay by her sides. One of them twitched. Fiona smiled at the nurse and spoke quietly. “What’s the matter? Did she get worn out ‘Senior-cising’ today?” A brief shadow flickered across Linda’s face. “No. She was having a really bad time of it, and Dr. Pershing gave her a sedative. You know how she gets. I’m sorry, but she won’t be awake for quite awhile.” She set the plant down and left, easing the door closed. Fiona moved the plant to the table by the window, put away her mother’s clothes, and kissed her sleeping mother goodbye. Tonight she would go home and finish Olivia’s dress. Next week she would come back, with pictures of the arbor Will was building. Momma would love it. She might even tell Momma about Will. What would she tell her? ‘I have a new boyfriend’? ‘I’m sleeping with a guy at work’? Well, she wasn’t, but she would be by then. Wouldn’t she? She wasn’t sure what to make of all this. She was afraid she’d miss something important if she ignored the wild rush he set up in her blood. No man had ever affected her like this. Leaving the Center’s parking lot, she turned onto Beverly Loop 11, barely aware of the evening rush hour traffic. Tomorrow night. He would come to her house. They would finally be alone. Together. She looked in the rearview mirror at herself and laughed. “You act like you never had sex before!” A car honked at her and she put her eyes back on the road. She was nervous. What if he didn’t like her body? She’d always worn pushup bras; he had no idea just how flat chested she was. She knew she was decent enough looking by most standards, but growing up as a skinny, concave-chested bookworm had left its mark on her confidence. Kids at Rider High had called her Ironing Board. There were benefits to reading a lot, though. Over the years, she’d compensated for her lack of confidence and voluptuous curves by improving her skills in bed. Fiona snorted at herself. Actually, she had approached sex the way she’d approached this job. Read, read, study, read. She’d learned quite a bit from her research, given the responses of her old college boyfriends. Mike had said she was a 110 plugged into a 220. Whatever that meant. He must

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have been dead from the neck up if he couldn’t tell she was practically reading from a tech manual. Sex had always been…an activity to manage so you could get on with your life. Guys are tame and manageable after sex. She could be safely in control of any relationship as long as she controlled the sex. But it had never touched her. Mild pleasure at a man’s enjoyment of her skills, sometimes even a brief wave of desire. Until she’d met Will, she’d never understood what all the fuss was about. She was so not in control around Will. Under all that camouflage and military bearing was a man of appetite, capable of an ardor she might not be able to match. What if it’s all a big disappointment for both of them? It won’t be disappointing. I think that’s what I’m really afraid of. He shakes me up so bad I can’t think straight, and all he has to do is look at me. That’s never happened before. She took a deep breath and counted to ten. Another car horn blared as she drifted out of her lane. “Sorry!” she yelled over her shoulder. Speaking aloud to calm her nerves, she said, “Okay, Wright. Focus on getting home? Will’s passionate ardor is a moot point if you’re smeared all over the highway. You can fantasize while you sew.” At this rate, she would probably sew her fingers together.

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Chapter Seventeen Dave Tyler knocked on the doorframe of MSgt Flasque’s office. Knocking was a formality since the door was open and the office empty. He went around the desk to get a sticky-note. The boss had said to bring in any mention of volunteer work, no matter how minor. After racking his brain and coming up with zilch, Dave had just remembered about the Relay For Life booth he’d helped with—one of those mandatory fun things—last fall. He’d typed up the information on the event to give to Flasque, but he could just put it on the desk with a note. Then he noticed the recycle bin under Rosco’s printer. Or, more precisely, he noticed the folder on top of the papers in that bin. The folder was labeled with Flasque’s loose scrawl, “Tyler—Below The Zone”. He snagged the folder and, checking around to see who might be where, took it back to his own desk. His package? No. It was an extra copy. Flasque said he’d sent the thing in already. But that was recent—Dave had been hoping his new info would be in time to make the last draft before the package went up the chain. Every bit counted, after all. All the pages in the folder were the original lists and career data he’d turned in. No forms, no letter to the powers that be. Didn’t matter. Flasque could have printed a letter and not made a copy. Yeah. Why copy something and then throw it away? Simple. The folder was just extra stuff. He took the pages out and put them in a drawer of his desk. His stomach churned and his face and ears felt hot. Could the flight secretary still have the package? Maybe. He wasn’t ready to stand in front of her like a pathetic loser trying out for the basketball team. All right, how could he find out if Flasque had really sent it up the chain like he’d said? Call. His hand shook as he dialed Miss Shirley’s extension. “No, hon,” she said. “I don’t have anything from MSgt Flasque on you. He has to send it through here, though, so I can get the Captain’s signature on it. I’ll keep an eye out, and when it crosses my desk, I’ll let you know. Give it a few days. Maybe he just hasn’t gotten it down here yet.” Dave hung up the phone. Knowing it was useless, but not able to stop himself, he got that sticky note, affixed it to the volunteer info page. “For Promotion Package—Tyler”, and put it on Flasque’s desk. Then he put the empty folder with his name on it back in the recycle bin, and took a deep breath. He suddenly felt calm. Cold and still and silent inside, like new snow falling on the ground. His hands weren’t shaking at all when he left Flasque’s office. His stomach felt fine when he got the key Jonas needed for the cell-test supply cabinet. He really was fine. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever felt better. *****

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As Fiona filed back to the component lab with the airmen after mid-morning break, they passed the cell-test lab. SrA Tyler came out, and when the door swung open, Fiona caught a glimpse inside the lab. She could have sworn she saw, stretched out on a table in front of Jonas, a baby whale. It had wet, white towels draped over it. It was bleeding in several places. As soon as they were in the component lab, the airmen busy with goggles and tech manuals, Fiona pulled Will aside. “Will? Is there something going on here that I should know about?” she asked in a whisper. Will turned his back to the class and kept his voice low. “Oh. Um. I was going to talk to you about that. I didn’t find out until late yesterday, and you’d already left. Lt. Col Bresnan will probably be by this morning to announce it. Hey!” He looked at her sharply. “How’d you find out? I swear, if that Rick opened his big—” “Will!” All the airmen stopped and looked at her. Oops. “What?” “Why is there a bleeding baby whale in the cell-test lab?” About three heartbeats passed. Then, much to Fiona’s amazement—she thought Will liked animals—he threw his head back and howled laughter at the ceiling. The rich, happy sound of it made her smile, but she was beginning to get irritated. He was laughing at her! The airmen stood around gawping at him. When Will could talk, he wiped the tears from his eyes. Still wheezing laughter, he said “Thank you.” He almost lost it again. “I haven’t laughed that hard in years.” “Don’t mention it. You wanna share the funny?” Will turned to the students and used his NCO voice. “Class—those of you with forms to fill out or CAMS jobs to enter, go ahead. The rest of you: do not start working on trainers until I get back.” A chorus of “Yes sirs!” sounded from them. He looked at Fiona, and started to bubble over again. She stomped on his foot. “Oww!” It didn’t stop his smiling, but at least he got himself under control. He grabbed her by the elbow, an innocent touch, but one that burned through the sleeve of her coveralls, even in her distracted state. Steering her like a child out the door and down the hall, pausing once to wipe his eyes again as he chuckled, he stopped at the cell-test lab door. “We’ll need to wear these in there, and we’ll need to stay at the back of the room so we don’t disturb the class going on.” He handed her a pair of goggles. She took them and put them on. Once she opened the door and had a good look, she could see it was clearly not a baby whale on the table. Long, dark wet-gray, and about as big around as a large dolphin, it was what appeared to be an inflated rubber bag with a metal connector plate toward one end, air compressor hoses leading out of it. She blinked at Will behind her goggles. “A fuel cell?” His eyes were dancing behind his. “A fuel cell.” “Why is it bleeding?” His mirth threatened to fizz over again but she surreptitiously reached behind him and grabbed a healthy pinch of skin on his back.

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“Owwwww! Why do you keep abusing me?” His eyes were still merry, though. Maybe she hadn’t pinched hard enough. She looked at him flatly, using her best ‘the queen is not amused’ look. He relented. “Okay. We dunk the towels in a solution of phenolphthalein, water and alcohol, and then lay them over the inflated cell, which has an ammonia-soaked wad of cloth inside. If there is a leak even as small as a pinhole, the air coming out of the cell, tainted with ammonia, causes a reaction in the phenolphthalein and turns the towel red. Then we can fix the leak.” It was Fiona’s turn to laugh. “Who thought of that? It’s brilliant!” “You’ll learn all about it in Block IV. We’ll do that same test. You want to watch out for the phenolphthalein, though. Nasty stuff. I saw a guy once, on a dare, wet his finger,” Will held up the tip of his pinky for emphasis, “dip it in the powder, and lick it off. That idiot ended up in the hospital for a week.” “What does it do?” “It used to be the active ingredient in a lot of over-the-counter laxatives, if that gives you any idea. But it was too toxic—deadly in a large enough dose—and there’s no antidote. Now it’s off the market.” Fiona looked back at the students gathered around the inflated cell as she and Will opened the door to leave. On the way to the component lab she asked, “Why do they let airmen handle it?” “They wear goggles, chemical resistant gloves, and wash their hands. As long as you don’t ingest it, it’s still safer to work with than JP-8. Bleeding baby whale, huh? I’m sorry, but I have to tell this to the guys. You’ll hear whale jokes for at least a month, but this is too good not to share.” “Yeah, go ahead. Laugh it up. Fun job you guys have here…poison chemicals, volatile vapors. I can see why you loved your work on the flightline so much. Who wouldn’t want to come in every day and face possible death and dismemberment?” She gave him a bemused grin. At the door she stopped him with a hand on his arm, and then dropped it away quickly, looking both ways down the hall. She kept forgetting she wasn’t supposed to touch him. “So. Are you going to tell me what the squadron commander is coming here to announce this morning?” Will’s smile faded. “My promotion to Master Sergeant.” “Oh, congratulations! You mus—” she caught herself and lowered the volume, looking at him more carefully. “Congratulations? You don’t look very happy for a man who just got a major promotion. What’s wrong?” “Nothing. Well…no. Nothing.” He took a deep breath, and ran his hand over his hair. “There’s a tradition on the day that a promotion list comes out—a practically mandatory tradition—that requires all the guys who make the stripe to host a party at the NCO club. That means tonight. I’d invite you, but it’s sort of a military thing. I’m sorry.” “Why would that—oh.” He was telling her their long awaited date to be alone together was off. Oh no, it’s not. She looked into Will’s dark eyes. “Tomorrow is Saturday, Will.” “Yes.” He looked so disappointed about tonight. She wanted to kiss him for it. “Call me when you leave the party tonight. I’ll meet you at your house. We don’t have to get up early, you know.”

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It took a second for the “we” to sink in, but when it did, a grin spread slowly across his face, and she would have sworn his eyes dilated behind those goggles. Of course, fifteen minutes ago she could have sworn she’d seen a bleeding baby whale. ***** Later that afternoon, while Fiona got dressed after a shower, Kevin came by to get the rest of his stuff. He had already moved in with Tina, for the most part, but he still had boxes stacked in his room. “Fiona!” He bellowed from the living room. The sound of his voice traveled so that it was soon coming from the direction of the kitchen. “I’m eating whatever this is in the blue Tupperware!” “Help yourself, Pig Boy!” She hollered back. Same old Kevin. She hoped he and Tina would make enough with their combined salaries to feed him. “I’ll be out in a minute!” She came into the kitchen to find him at the sink wolfing down the last of the homemade chili, with Farnsworth draped around his neck like a gym towel. “So, how’s married life treating you?” she asked. “I’m not married yet. I may not survive the wedding. I never thought Tina would be the type to run around screeching hysterically, but apparently no woman is immune to the pressures of wedding planning. I came over here for a respite.” “Oh. I thought you came over to get the last of your boxes and eat all the food in the house.” He grinned. “That too.” “Well, you’re going to have to fend for yourself in a little while, because I have some shopping to do.” She piled a handful of silver jewelry on the kitchen table and sat down to put it on. One thing she did miss by dressing for work; her silver. No jewelry allowed in the labs. “On a Friday night? What kind of person goes shopping on Friday night?” “Me. I have no groceries—especially since you ate the last of the chili—and I’m having company this weekend. I’ve got to do it early, though: I’ve got a date, late tonight. Kevin crossed his arms over his chest and drew his brows together. “How late? With whom?” “Oh-ho! You should talk! Not that it’s your business, but with an associate I met at work. He has to attend a military function first, and then we are going to…” She couldn’t help a glimmer of a smile, “…celebrate. He made Master Sergeant today. He deserves it, too. He works hard and probably has more brains in his head than half the shop combined.” “Have I heard you mention this paragon of intelligent work ethic before?” “I don’t remember. Will McCrae? He was my qualifying trainer.” “Iron Man? You are extolling the virtues of Iron Man McCrae? I thought you said they don’t use real jet fuel in those tanks. The fumes have driven you barmy!” “Very funny. And it’s vapors, not fumes. I’ve just gotten to know him a little better. He’s not so bad once you get past the NCO to the man.” She’d finished with her jewelry and combed through still-damp hair with her fingers.

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Kevin came over and sat at the table with her. Farnsworth blinked, stuck his fat pale tongue out, and stared at the wall. “Fiona, there’s something you’re not telling me. I am not going to leave, nor will I allow you to leave, until you tell me what it is.” He looked down his long sharp nose at her and waited. He did look like he could wait forever. “There’s really nothing to tell.” “Right. You didn’t even notice that I chunked my dirty dish in the sink. Spit it out. What gives?” Fiona breathed out a big sigh. This would be the first time she’d said anything out loud to anybody about Will. Maybe she should see how it sounded. “He’s tall. Good-looking enough to make me stare at him, but not so much that he’s pretty. He…kisses really well. And he makes furniture. He’s building an arbor for the back yard in return for my sewing his daughter’s prom dress.” Kevin leaned over the table, stared at her intently for a full minute, and then sat back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “You’re in love. Finally. Good.” “I am not! That’s ridiculous! He’s a coworker, for one thing. That alone means it can’t have much of a future, if my mother is to be believed. For another, it’s just physical. I have the hots for him. We’ll mess around this weekend, I’ll get over it, and then I’ll get on with my life. He’s like a pill to help me get Mike out my system.” “Mike was never in your system and you know it. Mike was a pill to keep a guy like this McCrae out of your system.” He slapped his hands down on the table. “Ha! It’s about time. I’m glad for you, kiddo.” “You’re not listening, Kevin, and don’t call me kiddo. My boss calls me that, and I hate it. I said it’s just a thing. It will pass and I will get back to normal.” “You make it sound like mumps or something. He’s not a disease, and Permanently Lonely is not normal. You’re letting him build you furniture. You’re sewing for his kid, for God’s sake. You have stars in your eyes. Stop fighting. Enjoy it! I can’t think of anybody who deserves this more.” He parked his elbows on the table and a Kevin-grin on his face. The sincerity in his tone touched her, and she gave up. Whether she was admitting her feelings to Kevin or herself, she wasn’t sure. She toyed with the placemat on the table in front of her. “He is special. Not just his looks, although…oh my God…” She stuck her tongue out and wagged her hand. “Uh, Fiona, if you don’t mind…keep that part of the girl talk to yourself or I’ll develop a lisp.” She grinned. “It’s the way he deals with everything. He’s so straightforward. No bull. I think—okay, this is going to sound corny as hell—he’s…noble. You get the feeling that he is exactly what he shows himself to be. No more, no less.” “He sounds like he’s almost good enough for you.” Kevin reached his hand across the table and took hers. “I want to meet him, of course, so I can threaten him with dire big-brother threats if he so much as—” “Kevin, just stow it.” She gave him a playful smirk. “I might even take your key, so there’s no chance you can barge in here this weekend on some ridiculous pretense of forgetting something.”

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“This weekend, you say? Well, that’s good to know…I might just have to drop by. No ridiculous pretense. Just making a friendly visit to an ex roommate. I might bring Tina. She, obviously enough, is an excellent judge of character.” “You do and I’ll tell her about the time you got drunk and took that stripper to—” Kevin prayed his hands in front of his chin. “Okay, okay. I will tell her about that, but not until she’s smaller and weaker than me. She’s small enough now, but she won’t be weak enough until she’s eighty.” He stood up, lowered Farnsworth to the table, and fished in his jeans pocket. “Here. You might want to give this to your G.I. Joe later.” He laid his house key in her palm. “Oh, I was just kidding! Here! Take this back!” He folded her hand over it. “No. Keep it, and don’t give it to him until you know it’s time.” He kissed her forehead and left the dining room. Halfway down the hall, he burst out in a mock frenzy of tears and wailing. “Oh heavens! Our little girl has gone and fallen in love! Booo-hoo-hooo!” “Kevin!” She had to yell to be heard over his commotion. “What?” he called from his old room. “That chili was at least two weeks old. You might not live until morning.” He popped his head around the corner and gave her a horrible grimace. “Your cooking can’t kill me. I’ve had almost three years of it…built up a strong immunity, you know, like those people who eat arsenic in small amounts for a long time…” Then he popped back in the room. She found her shoes, keys, and purse and started out the door. She yelled over her shoulder as she went out, “Put your bowl in the dishwasher!” ***** Will, Rick, Tubbs, and Jonas stood around a back corner table at the Sheppard enlisted club. The club was a dank, dark cave that smelled like an oft-flooded basement, but after several drinks, the revelers didn’t mind. Will worked on his third beer, Rick and Tubbs on their fifth each, and Jonas—having declared himself designated driver—sipped a soda and lime. “Why are all these people here? I know that guy didn’t make Master.” Rick pointed with his beer hand to a Technical Sergeant from the 365th. The cast on Rick’s right arm extended from wrist to elbow covered in airmen’s signatures. Tubbs grabbed Rick’s shoulders and spun him halfway around. “He’s having Mandatory Fun like Sikes over there.” They looked at the front of the room by the bar and saw Flasque and Sikes, standing sort of together apart like mutually disappointed blind dates. Flasque saw them and raised his drink in a salute. Will knew he’d be subjected to much back-pounding, congratulating bull from Flasque and several officers before the night was over. Sikes glowered and turned to face the bar. Jonas pitched in his opinion. “Gentlemen, these people—the ones who are not Master Sergeant Selectees—are here for one of three reasons. To brown-nose their superiors, to make face-time with subordinates, or to drink free booze.”

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“Yeah, Will; we love you man, but you gotta know we’re only here for the beer.” Tubbs’ florid face was a study in drunken good spirit. Officers were everywhere. They wandered through the crowd congratulating the newly selected, who were easily identifiable due to the giant, foil Air Force stripes they had to wear stuck on their shoulders. Will wondered how Fiona would have felt, being the only civilian in this throng of BDUs. Jonas shook the ice in his glass and stared at Will. “For a man who just got a major promotion, you don’t look so happy.” “Why does everybody keep saying that?” “Because it’s true.” Rick peered up at Will and furrowed his unibrow. “Yeah, man!” Tubbs stepped over and slugged Will in the arm. “In six months—more like five if we know Flasque like we think we do—you’ll be off the podium and ridin’ a desk. You should be jumpin’ for joy! Smile, man!” Will leveled a dead stare at him. “I am smiling.” Then, because the guys really were great for coming out with him, he grinned. “Did I ever tell you Tubbs, you’re beautiful when you’re drunk?” “So what am I—chopped liver?” Rick leaned toward Will and overbalanced a little, which was understandable for a man pitting his puny hundred and twenty pounds in a drinking game against Tubbs’ two hundred. “Well, I, for one, have never been known to kick a man while he’s down,” Jonas had to speak loudly to be heard over an argument at the next table, “but I’m relieved—no, I’m thrilled—that Sikes didn’t make Master. Otherwise we’d all be jumping through our assets six months from now, calling him boss. And then we could all kiss progress and quality course materials goodbye.” He lifted his soda in a toast. “Here’s to Will’s desk-jockey job—long may he defend us against the Tyranny of the ISS!” “Here-Here!” said Rick and Tubbs, clanking their beer bottles loudly together. A slightly more direct hit would have shattered them. “Thanks, Jonas.” “You’re welcome, Will. But you still haven’t said why you look like they just killed your dog instead of giving you a raise.” Rick piped up. “Oh, he’s jus’ upset because if he’s the boss he can’t—hey! Would ya’ watch where you put your damn big feet, Will?” “He can’t what if he’s the boss?” Jonas made a point of looking at Will who made a point of looking elsewhere. Tubbs, who stood on the far side of Rick and was thus in no danger of Will’s feet, chimed in, “Think about it, Jonas. Who’s he been moonin’ over like a sick cow for the past few weeks? And who’s been making sure she goes straight to him if she needs help with Bingham or Sikes and their bullshit?” “Oh, for crying out loud! You guys are too much!” Will slammed his beer down and went to the bar. Standing in line, he glanced back to the table in time to see Rick and Tubbs elbow each other and grin. He mentally adjusted his drink order and came back with four shots of Cuervo instead of three. Jonas rocked his half glass of soda back and forth. “I’m not drinking. Thanks anyway.” “You’re welcome anyway. These two are for me.” He threw them back, one after the other, and finished his beer.

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“Yeah, my man!” Rick and Tubbs aimed a high five at each other. They missed entirely, but this did not diminish their cheer in the least. Determined to steer his well-meaning new friends away from the subject of Fiona, Will asked, “So, you guys want to come out to the house next weekend and help me build some new F-4 stands? The ones we’ve got are trashed.” He nodded at Rick. “Much like you. I talked to Flasque and he said the squadron would pay for the wood if I’d build ‘em.” Rick and Tubbs both looked at Jonas, and then they all three looked at Will. Tubbs spoke for them. “Will, man, we thought you lived at the schoolhouse. We didn’t know you had, like, an actual residence.” “Eat shit, Tubbs.” After many more shots, an unknown quantity of beer, and the agreement on a plan to meet at Will’s the weekend after next, the party was over. Or at least it was over for Jonas, and since he had the keys, the party was over for the rest of them by proxy. Rick was loudly declaring—in a made-up song that would have been sad had anyone been able to hear it—his undying devotion to SSgt Lewis from over in avionics. Tubbs struggled valiantly not to throw up on anybody. Will, though faring better than the other two, kept silent and morose, wallowing in the misery of his dilemma. Jonas managed to herd them, stumbling, into his Taurus. With Rick’s warbled song ringing through the confines of the car, he pulled out of the parking lot. Tubbs lived with a wife, five kids, and three dogs, in a section of Wichita Falls, just inside the corner of Kemp and Callfield, affectionately known by local citizens as “Dogpatch”. As soon as they pulled up to his house, he opened the door and threw up on the curb. Bowing to hearty congratulations from the guys on having lasted so long—and almost pitching over into the mess—he waved them a bleary goodnight. His wife helped him into the house. On their way to Rick’s apartment complex on Midwestern Parkway, Rick managed to ask Will and Jonas eight times whether he should propose to SSgt Lewis. “She has all those damn kids! Two of ‘em! I’ll be like Tubbs and his ol’ lady, living in…whaddyacallit…squalor!” Jonas escorted Rick up the stairs to make sure he got up to— and into—the right apartment. Will got in the shotgun seat and waited. The fresh night air was therapeutic. He laid his head back, staring at the white moon. Full moon in a day or two. His thoughts wandered around up there until a shadow fell across him and brought him back to earth. Jonas got in and started the car. “Tubbs was only half kidding, Will. We really don’t know where you live.” “Oh. Over in City View.” Will gave him the address. He hoped he didn’t slur. Master Sergeants probably weren’t supposed to slur. Somewhere there was a reg that said so. “You’ve been great, Jonas. Thanks for gettin’ everybody home an’ stuff.” “My pleasure, your hangover. Anyway, it gives me blackmail fodder. Never know what useful tidbits I might hear.” They rode in silence until they were almost at Will’s place. The streetlights attracted swarms of bugs and he had to look away because their swirling flight made him sick and dizzy. Jonas turned a serious face to Will. “You know, you of all people should not be upset about this promotion.”

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“Oh yeah? Why?” “Huh. Aside from the substantial raise in pay? For one thing, corny as it may sound, there’s the mission. You know damned well the airmen won’t get trained if Sikes runs the shop. Two; Flasque hasn’t done a thing for this course. I risk crawling up your future-boss’s butt here, but you’ll manage the course with integrity and hard work. We need that.” “I know, Jonas. I wanna make things better. I intend to. I can. But that still doesn’t help me.” “With Fiona?” “Yeah, with Fiona.” As they pulled up at the curb and stopped, Jonas smiled patiently. “For a smart guy, you can be pretty dense. That’s the simplest problem of all for a man in your shoes.” “How in the hell is it simple?” “Will, just marry the girl before Rosco retires.” Although he was deeply drunk, Jonas’s suggestion went off in Will’s head like an emergency flare. He thanked Jonas, made his way into the house, tripped over Ozzy, and promptly passed out on the living room floor.

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Chapter Eighteen Having finally fallen asleep around midnight, Fiona woke up at seven-thirty Saturday morning and made a pitcher of the special hangover cure she’d developed for Kevin. She’d barely stepped out of the shower when the phone rang at five to nine. Grabbing a towel, she ran to catch it. “Hello?” “I’m sorry, Fiona. Did I wake you? I’m so, so sorry.” She chuckled. “It must have been a bad one. Are you all right? Did you at least eat the worm?” “No. The worm ate me. I’d come over, but my truck’s still on base. Please forgive me. I have no excuse except drunken amnesia. Jonas was D.D. and when he asked where was home, I just told him my address.” “You sound pretty bad off.” “I’m getting better. Ozzy’s mad at me though. I don’t know why.” “Poor baby. I tell you what. I’ll grab some clothes and be right over.” “You could just forget the first part and come over.” “No way, Jose.” “Oh, please don’t say Jose…”

When Will answered his door, he looked to be in pretty rough shape, but not as bad as she expected. He even looked sexy, in a barefoot, unshaven kind of way. “You don’t look so bad.” “Thanks. I’m happy to see you too.” “Here, help me with these.” She handed him a plastic grocery bag and Will followed her into the kitchen. “What’s all this?” “A hangover remedy.” “Geez, Fiona. It’s only one hangover and me. There won’t be a repeat performance. That’s part of the trouble; I don’t normally poison myself.” “Calm down. I also brought lunch for later. Do you like chicken and noodles?” “Right now, no. Later, maybe.” She sent him up for a hot shower, and while he was in it she poured him a glass of stinky-tea to help him feel better. It tasted like boiled socks and cinnamon, but it worked. Ozzy pushed his nose into her stomach in a bid for attention. She rubbed his ears and leaned down to talk to him. “Ozzy, why are you mad at Will? What did he do?” Ozzy blinked his enormous sad eyes at her and didn’t say. But he did wag his tail. Will thumped down the stairs and into the kitchen, scrubbing his head with a towel. The towel, and a pair of ragged cutoffs, appeared to be the only things he wore. She couldn’t help but stare. He was beautiful. All the recent entanglements and worries of her life fell away and she feasted her eyes on the fine, hot-blooded, nearly naked male in front of her. “Fiona.”

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“Yes?” “You’re staring.” “Yes.” “Well, you either need to stop, or come here and let me do something about it.” “Which do you prefer?” “Come here.” It was that simple. She walked into his arms, against his hot skin. There were still drops of water on his back and ribs, and he smelled like Irish Spring. He pulled her up to him hard and they fit together, toes, hips, and bellies. His mouth was as hot as his skin. She opened her lips and he deepened the kiss, and although she knew she was standing still, it felt like she was falling. She pulled back, breathless, and looked at his face. “Where’s your room?” Will led her up the stairs. She could feel him tremble with need, but when they reached the bed, he lay her down gently, leaning over her. She looked up at him, taking in the dark hair on his chest, the way that chest was heaving. She wanted to put her hands everywhere on him at once. “We’re wearing entirely too many clothes.” “I’ll help with that.” Unbuttoning the oversized cotton shirt she wore, Will found she wasn’t wearing a bra. He uttered a soft oath and ran a thumb over one rosy, hard nipple. Electric current fired through her body and she involuntarily arched her back, pushing her breast into his hand. He was panting, and she leaned up to take his breath and the sweet wetness of his mouth. She put her hands on his chest and pushed gently. “Stand up, Will.” Shrugging out of her shirt, she reached for the buttons on his shorts as he reached for hers. She shimmied out of her shorts and sat naked on the edge of his bed. Will’s breathing was ragged and her hands shook as she pushed his shorts down over his hips. His erection sprang out to meet her. She smiled up at him and laid her cheek against it, pushing it against his belly, loving the hard satin feel of it on her face. She began to love him with her mouth. She felt powerful with Will, in control like she’d always been, but on the verge of surrendering that control to him. What would that be like? To surrender, to let him make love to her and just enjoy. A foreign concept. She batted away annoying thoughts that took her focus off Will. The past was the past. He put his hands on her shoulders, as if to stop her, and she shook her head. He groaned her name, and she felt him tremble. He loved this and so did she as she felt the wash of power again. She’d never been more aroused in her life. Will shuddered and finally stopped her, trying to get himself under control. He pushed her down on the bed, sliding their bodies and rolling until they lay back against the pillows. Fiona marveled at the sensation their skin made together as he slid over her, warm and fragrant. He kissed her, first lightly on the corners of her mouth, and then persistently, devouring her mouth as if he were starving. Dipping his head, he found her nipple, twirling his tongue around it in a teasing circles that made her push her breast up against his mouth. More. Bite it… The hard hot length of his pushed against her, setting fire to the soft skin of her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, and murmured against his kiss, “Please…now. Now.”

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Lifting up his head, Will paused, looking into her eyes as if to read something there. He shifted his weight, and looked down the length of her body, lovingly sliding his hand down her ribs, over hipbone and thigh. “Soon. I want to touch you. God, you’re beautiful.” He reached back up to her breast, and gently rolled her wet nipple between thumb and finger until she groaned with pleasure. Sweet torture. No man had ever pulled at her so, made her believe she could reach a climax from their lovemaking. This one made her believe. This one made her willing to beg. She shivered in anticipation, wanting him inside, wanting him to shove and rock and pound her… Urging him to slide back over her, she slipped her hands down his strong back to cleanlined buttocks and slid her knees apart, feeling his hard sex there, pushing against the wet center of her, hot, hard, and ready. She arched her hips to take him in. Oh, yes, now, now. And the phone rang. Paula’s voice came over the answering machine, harsh and shouting; “Will? Pick up! It’s Olivia! I can’t find her!” Will froze for a split second, and then reached over Fiona to grab the phone. “Clarify that, Paula.” The speaker screeched with feedback, but he didn’t shut if off. “What do you mean, ‘clarify’? I can’t find her! She’s not in her room; she’s not on the patio. I’ve called all her friends, Kelly, Amanda, Tami, all of them. Nobody’s seen her!” “I’ll be there in a minute.” He hung up the phone, kissed Fiona quickly, and then rolled off the bed to grab shorts and a t-shirt. Fiona gathered her clothes and began to dress. “I’m going too.” “Fiona, I—” “You what?” She stood naked, next to Will, her nostrils flared. The carpet and the fact that she was barefoot took some of the impact out of her tapping toe. God help him, his daughter might be missing and here he was, lusting after this woman even now. “Okay. But I’m warning you, Paula is like battery acid for the mind.” “Don’t worry about Paula and me. Let’s just find Olivia.” Less than two minutes later they pulled to the curb. “Great. Where is she?” Will cut the engine and looked around. “Maybe she’s put her car in the garage?” she ventured. Tension radiated from him in waves. His eyes were wild; his pulse was visible in the veins along his throat. Should she mention the black car she saw when they’d pulled out of his driveway? Half a block down from his house...a woman sitting behind the wheel, staring at them. He glanced at the rearview mirror and twisted around. “There she is behind us. What the hell is she doing? The woman makes no sense. None.” She tried to envision Olivia happy and healthy…at the library or with girlfriends in the mall. Can’t afford negativity at a time like this. Olivia, please be okay? “I’ll bet she circled the block to see if Olivia took a walk. That’s what I’d do if I were her.” “You’re right.” Will bunched his fists on the steering wheel and breathed loudly through his nose. God help whoever might harm this man’s baby girl. Paula parked the black Nissan in her driveway and got out. As she walked around to Will’s side, Fiona guessed the woman must work Saturdays, given the way she was dressed. Striking red suit, expensive heels, sophisticated makeup, auburn hair in a modern, highmaintenance style that must have taken an hour. She looked like a cross between an

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investment banker and a country club restaurant hostess. Right now she looked more pissed than worried. A heavy gold bracelet caught a flash of morning sunlight. She stood by the car as they got out. Fiona caught a drift of heavy perfume—seductive perfume, not exactly the thing for a day at the office. “Paula.” “Will.” “This is Fiona Wright. She’s going to help us find Olivia.” “Certainly she is. Won’t you come inside?” She led them into the house. Being only three or four blocks from Will’s house, hers was almost identical in design and floor plan. But where Will’s house was stark and barren of style, Paula’s was an Ikea showplace. Glass and red lacquer, metal and blonde wood. The look of the house mirrored the look of the woman. Sleek, contemporary, and chilly. Next to Paula’s professional polish, Fiona felt a little underdressed. The woman kept staring at her. Not politely. Wishing she had a bra, Fiona crossed her arms in front of her. Paula laid her keys in a chrome bowl on an orange Lucite table by the front door, and gestured them toward the kitchen. For a woman who can’t find her kid, she sure seems collected. Fiona was instantly ashamed of her unkind thought. Maybe this was how the woman expressed fear. Some people freak out. Some people go cold. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Paula stepped into the kitchen and got out three black and white ceramic mugs. “There’s fresh coffee. Fiona, do you take cream or sugar?” “For God’s sake, Paula! We’ve got to start searching for Olivia!” Will’s voice boomed through the quiet house. The woman put her face into her hands and wept, loudly. Will came around and laid his arm across her shoulders, looking miserable. “I’m sorry, but we really don’t have time for coffee,” he said gently. Paula took her hands away from her face. “You’re right. I just can’t think.” Her eyes were dry. Fiona wished she could weep so prettily. She always looked like she’d disturbed a wasps’ nest with her face. Maybe the woman wore contact lenses? They could really dry out your eyes. Still, something wasn’t right here. She was ready to chastise herself for more ungenerous thoughts when Paula turned toward the kitchen bar where the phone hung, and grabbed the phone book. She lifted the book and there was a piece of stationary under it, butterflies and daisies across the top. Paula’s manicured hand went to her face in surprise. “Oh! Will! I’m so sorry…but it’s okay! Look! Olivia’s okay!” She lifted the page and showed them. A girl’s curly handwriting looped across it: “Mom, I’ll be home by supper. I’ll bring you a souvenir buffalo patty! ☺ Love, Olivia.”

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Fiona wondered how Paula could have missed the note if she’d called all the people she said she’d called. Then she saw the bulletin board over the phone, a list of Olivia’s numbers. Fiona, would you quit wishing this woman were evil? You’re being ridiculous! Will’s expression darkened into something Fiona was glad she didn’t have to face. He crossed his arms over his chest, turned his face to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. He was doing a fair imitation of her breathing meditation, slow breaths, in and out through the nose. But he was still trembling, and his hands were clenched. “I’m sorry, Will. I’m so sorry to have called you over here for nothing. Olivia’s church group scheduled a trip to Lawton, the Wichita Mountains. They planned it weeks ago, and I guess I’d forgotten. They must have picked her up early in the church bus. I must say I hope that youth pastor isn’t driving. He looks awfully young.” She looked pointedly at Fiona, and then turned to Will. “Here, have some coffee. Cream, no sugar, right?” “No thanks. We’ll be leaving now.” “Oh, please. It’s the least I can do. Stay a minute? I’d like to get to know your…friend.” She smiled at Fiona. Lots of teeth. Fiona heard the theme to Jaws. To her relief, Will declined. “Have a great day, Paula.” Back in the Camry, on their way to Will’s house, Fiona let out a breath. “That was weird. I’m glad Olivia’s okay, though.” “That was a damned false alarm is what it was. She knew where Olivia was all along.” Will sounded calm at first, but then he swore and slammed his fists down on the dashboard. “I’m sorry. That woman makes me want to break things.” “A false alarm?” Fiona didn’t want to voice her misgivings—the ones she’d been chiding herself for—about the situation. It’s never a good idea to bad-mouth somebody’s ex, no matter how sympathetic you feel. Somehow it always backfires. “Maybe she just wanted a chance to meet the person you’re involved with. Olivia spends so much time at your house, and if Paula thinks I’m going to be around a lot…” He looked at her, his eyes blazing. “If she wanted to meet you, all she had to do was ask. No bullshit, no games.” He shivered as if a chill had passed over him. “She made me think my daughter was missing, Fiona. How could anybody think that was a thing to do?” ***** Figuring the day was lost for passion, Fiona suggested the two of them take a day trip to the Wichita Mountains. With luck they might even see Olivia and her church group. Will agreed. By noon, they’d changed, packed a picnic, loaded Ozzy in the rescued truck, and were headed up I-44 to Lawton, Oklahoma. The day was perfect. Bright sunshine, a few clouds to decorate the sky, steady breeze enough to keep them cool. Ozzy was spastic with the joy of chasing rabbits and anything else that moved, but after an hour he returned, panting, plopped down on the quilt at their feet and dozed. A hawk flew over. Will and Fiona lay side by side on their backs on Will’s old quilt. The lengthening dappled shade of a wind-twisted live oak made lacy patterns over them. A wide southern slope of a grass prairie spread out below them, dotted with grazing buffalo and longhorn cattle. On the northern edge, three-hundred million year old granite rose out of the

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ground in smooth cliffs and boulders, each rounded, ancient hide splotched with green, orange and purple lichens. Will reached over and fingered the agate pendant Fiona wore around her neck on a thin leather cord. “So what’s this about?” “It’s a rock, Will. Look around you. They’re everywhere.” Lazy laughter erupted out of him toward the sky and he said, “Okay, smart ass. Let me be more specific. What makes you surround yourself with crystals and rocks, what makes you meditate, and what makes you hold that ugly statue on your desk when the Gruesome Twosome has been especially nasty?” His question was innocent enough, but she felt it was somehow unfair, invasive. How could she answer it without risk to herself? She turned her head to look at his profile. “Do you feel this place?” “What do you mean, feel it?” “If you were to close your eyes and try to describe this place, what words would fit best?” He looked as if he expected a trick, but he closed his eyes. “Old, no—ancient. Patient? Timeless.” He opened one eye and peered at her. “How’d I do?” “Fine. It is ancient and patient and timeless.” She smiled. “So what’s your point?” “What you sense is the energy of this place.” “The energy.” “Yes. You know, people didn’t know about electricity until somebody found a way to measure it. There are other kinds of energy; we just can’t measure them yet. But everything and everyplace has an energy that you can feel if you pay attention. How did it feel to be at the NCO club last night?” “Well, until I got drunk, it felt like being trapped in a vat of poisonous snakes.” Will looked at her, lying on her side facing him with her bent arm tucked under her head. He thought he understood. “Okay, I get it. Places have energy. That doesn’t answer my question.” Fiona thought for a minute, and then said “What do you tell the airmen to do when they’re beginning to get angry over a component that won’t come off or go on the way it’s supposed to?” “I tell them to put down the tools, step away, and go walk a lap around the building. You know that.” “But why do you tell them that, instead of telling them ‘try harder, never give up’?” “Because the madder they get, the worse the problem gets.” He grinned. “And because aircraft parts are extremely expensive and dent easily when you beat them with a socket wrench in a temper tantrum.” “So you’re saying they need to calm down, change their focus?” “I guess so, yes.” “That’s the reason I like crystals and stones, the reason I meditate, the reason I visualize Ugly Man draining away negativity. Thinking about ancient, patient, timeless energy lets me be calm and focus on what needs doing. It helps me keep my balance.” “I’ll buy that.”

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She rolled over on her back again, and Will looked up at the sky. The hawk continued to circle above them, so high it was a dark speck spiraling slowly down, and then it plummeted, dropping like a stone toward the earth. Fiona fascinated him with her bizarre perspectives, because as crazy as she sounded, she made sense. He never knew from one minute to the next whether she was a librarian or a fortuneteller. Jonas’ advice floated through his memory. “Will, marry the girl…” Good advice. Will got the feeling that he could live with Fiona all his life and never solve all of her mystery. But he could have a helluva time trying. Suddenly he sat up, turned to face her, and said, “Okay. Teach me.” “Teach you what?” “Teach me how to meditate.” “Now?” “We just agreed this place was ancient, patient, and timeless. Can you think of a better place to learn to meditate?” The afternoon sun burnished his eyes into the warm golden glow she loved. His expression was one of genuine interest, but also of challenge. “C’mon. I taught you how to get fuel in and out of the pressurized external fuel tank of an F-16. The least you can do is teach me how to balance my universe.” “Are you making fun of me Will?” “Fiona, I am having fun, being with you, exploring perspectives on life that I’ve never considered. I am not making fun of you.” “Okay. Which kind of meditation do you want to learn?” She tugged an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “There are different kinds?” “Maybe millions.” Will grinned. “Well then. You pick the one that helps you most when you feel rotten.” “Do you feel rotten?” “No, I feel great. But you never know when such a thing might come in handy.” “How very logical of you. All right. We’ll do a chakra meditation. Close your eyes, sit with your legs crossed, put your hands on your knees, palms up, and touch your forefinger to your thumb. No, don’t squeeze. Let your hands relax. Good. Now imagine there is a giant flute running vertically through your body—” “A giant flute?” “Will.” “I’m sorry. Keep going.” “There are seven chakras along the length of this flute; my yoga teacher described them as flowers whose petals, when closed, would cover holes spiraling up along the flute. If your chakras are not open, then your energy can’t flow. The first chakra is the root chakra and is sort of…even with your tailbone.” “I can think of another root it’s even with.” “Yes, that too. Concentrate.” She went on to explain the other six chakras and how they connect to one’s inner life, her voice mellow and smooth. At first Will felt silly, sitting in the Wichita Mountains like a yogi, but when he opened his eyes fifteen minutes later, he was aware of the clean high that

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normally followed a good run. “I can see why you would use that one to feel better. That’s amazing.” “Wait until I tell the guys at work about this.” “You do and I’ll tell them you voted for Bush this reelection.” “You wouldn’t!” “Try me. Fiona?” “Yes?” “Let’s go back to town.” “Let’s.” Ozzy had taken off on another rabbit hunt but he hadn’t gone far. They got the truck loaded with dog and gear and started the hour-long drive back over the border to Wichita Falls. They had agreed to go to Fiona’s house, to avoid any further aggravation from Paula for the time being. The sun had sunk below the horizon to their right as they headed south. Purple dusk seeped across the sky from the left. The truck windows were down, and the wind coming off the fields brought the scent of freshly tilled earth. Fiona mulled over Will’s inquiry into her stones and meditation. He hadn’t been judgmental, just curious. She’d given him a truthful answer, but not the entire truth. What she hadn’t explained was the desperation she’d felt growing up. The fear that no matter what precious treasures life had to offer, those treasures could all be taken away in an instant. In a plane crash. Like the one that had taken her father. Anything could happen. Anytime. Just when you were happiest. Momma had been her life-long reminder that you had to keep a balance. If you never let anyone or anything become too important, then you couldn’t be destroyed when it was taken away. Already her home was too important to her. Her need to keep it had caused her to take an ill-gained job she didn’t want and wasn’t qualified for. Now, thanks to that same job, she had an even worse threat to her balance. If she were to lose Will, she would never again be alive the way she as she was now. She could meditate all day, think a hundred “non-grasping” Zen thoughts, and still not find the strength to push Will away. She was lost and found at the same time, a baptism she could never take back. She was in love.

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Chapter Nineteen They had hardly gotten into the house before passion took over. Will locked the front door, and then pinned her against it with his body and his hands. Nothing would get in their way tonight. When she broke their kiss, looking up at him with glazed eyes, he let her lead him to her bedroom. Guiding him to sit on the bed, she took a step back. She stood in the light of the open window, its filmy curtains billowing out around her. At first he wondered what she was doing. Keeping a steady gaze on his face, she began to take her clothes off, slowly, one piece at a time, in a strangely modest but deliberate strip tease. The weird combination of innocence and decadence sent all the blood from his brain straight to his groin. When she was naked, Fiona pulled Will to his feet. Unbuttoning his shirt, she paused between buttons to place tiny kisses on each inch of flesh she uncovered. She slid his shirt back over his shoulders, and he heard the soft sibilance when it landed behind him as she pressed her body to his. The satin feel of their bellies together made him want to hurry, but she took her time, unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down over his hips and calves. Her hands were soft on his skin and left a tingling trail of sensation wherever she touched. Free of the restrictive jeans, his sex jutted out toward her. She kneeled, kissed the tip of him, and then looked up into his face. Standing, she guided him down onto the bed and settled the length of her body against his in a sinuous dance of skin on skin. Suddenly Will understood what was happening. She was performing. That was what had felt wrong this morning. She was good, he had to give her that—hell, this was every man’s dream—but it wasn’t real. While he knew that she was aroused by their mutual desire, she had wrapped herself up in a pattern that precluded anything but choreographed moves. He wanted to show her that they were not like everyone else. Together they made a unique creature, unknown and unknowable in the world. Every time they came together, there would be new pleasures to find. Beginning tonight. He put his hands on her shoulders, and rolled her over onto her back. “Fiona, stop.” He looked into her eyes and gently kissed her nose. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong. I love what you’re doing. You drive me crazy. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. But, just…let me touch you.” Dark hair fell in waves around her head, across the pillows. She was not a dream. She was here, and somewhere in the middle of all her bravado and technique, she was real. And magic. The room was warm, and the glow of the full moon cast tree-branch shadows on the wall above the headboard. Moonbeams slanted across them and lined the silhouette of her, breast, belly, hip, in warm white light. She reached to touch him, but he caught her hand and gently held it. Leaning on one elbow, he looked down into her face. “I’m sorry if you want more right now. We’ll have more, I swear. But first I am going to memorize you. Your scent,

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your taste, the feel of your skin. I intend to learn all the sounds you make, during all the kinds of pleasure we will share. Let me touch you?” The wind soughed in the trees, like the shushing roar of ocean waves. Will lay his head down on the pillow next to her. She seemed jumpy at not being in control. She lay very still, breathing deeply. He began to make slow, smooth circles on her stomach with the flat of his hand. He had never felt anything like her skin, and gloried in touching her, his hand smoothing over her shoulder and down one arm, around her belly in a slow circle, smoothing gently over her mound and back up, silkily, to her breast, slowly, his hand gliding warm over every slope and angle, without teasing. Will felt Fiona let go, felt the beginnings of trust, and it pulled him inexorably to her like the tide. The tide wanted to pull him under, to make him lose control, make him slide over her and cover her fine, warm skin with his mouth and plunge himself into her. But there was time. They had forever. “I have an idea,” he murmured against her temple, “Let’s try that chakra meditation lying down. You’ll have to guide me through it, since I don’t remember all of them. Remind me of the colors and expressions you connected with them today.” “Are you serious?” “I’ve never been more serious in my life. Now what was the first one?” “The root chakra, r-red, survival instinct.” “Oh yeah. Here, right?” He slid down the length of her until he was between her legs, and then dipped his head and tasted her. She shuddered and tried to pull him back up to her. “Please? Let me?” he whispered against the inside of her thigh. She dropped her hands away and lay still, breathing hard. Will slid his tongue in and around the root of her, taking his time, licking into her, relishing the slick swelling there. She was perfect, sweet, wet, and luscious. She tasted like the smell of seashells. After a while, she began to moan and thrash her head on the pillow, her hips bucking rhythmically until at last she lay still. He laid his head on her lower belly until her trembling calmed and her breathing slowed. “What’s the next one?” “You still meditating?” “Fiona.” “The sacral chakra, right where your head is now, orange, emotional and sexual health.” Will placed a kiss on the sweet swell of her belly below her navel. Traced his tongue lightly around in a spiral. This is where she’ll carry my child someday. Gratitude washed over him at having her in his life. He closed his eyes and pressed a fervent kiss there, a blessing for their future, and moved up. He dipped his tongue in her navel, and laid his cheek in the hollow right below her ribcage. “Solar plexus, yellow, creativity. Oh. That tickles.” Her belly muscles tensed and loosened. “Sorry.” He said, smiling against her skin. He pushed up on his hands, bowed his head so that the top of his crew cut brushed her belly. “Stop!” She laughed, her muscles quivering against his wrists on either side of her. “Okay…never mind…it kinda felt good. Do it again, but slowly.” When he obliged, she

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sucked in her breath, but not to laugh. He lowered himself and laid his face against her skin again. He must be going crazy…he sensed a soft golden light in his mind, as if this chakra, this part of her, was fine. He dotted a line of kisses along the arched ridge of her ribs, and smushed his face into her belly once before moving up, keeping his weight on his elbows. He waited, kissed gently between her breasts, and waited again, but she didn’t say anything. “What’s this one?” he prompted. A subtle hitch in her breathing told him plenty. “Heart chakra. Green, n-nurturing and love.” She let out a sob and Will held her tight, laying his head on her chest. Her heart pounded and he waited until her breathing slowed. Moving slowly, and touching her skin so lightly he could barely feel it himself, he traced the tip of his tongue around her sweet small breasts in a figure eight, tasted each nipple, pausing at her intake of breath. Responding to his teasing licks, her nipples tightened into hard pink knots. He sucked each one again in turn, and then kissed her firmly right between them on her breastbone. He kept his words to himself. Only time would let him prove how deeply he loved her. He moved up. “Throat chakra. Aqua, self-expression.” Her voice was mellow, a soft wind instrument playing low notes. Fiona’s throat was a work of art. Greek goddesses wished they could have a throat like hers. The smooth white column of it invited his lips and he nibbled a collar of kisses there. She began to stir under him and he held her still. Will sensed his own need for healing in this area, and trusted they would learn it together. He slid his body on top of hers; satin skins together, their faces even now. His sex, hard and urgent, nestled heavily in the cradle of her thighs. He was shaking with need, but it wasn’t time yet. “What’s this one?” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Third eye, indigo, intuition and imagination.” Her hands began to roam up his back, but he didn’t try to stop them. He kissed her again, and murmured soft laughter against her skin. “What?” she asked with her eyes closed. “That means you have five eyes, counting your glasses.” “Very clever. You’re not done yet, Will.” There was a smile in her voice, but she kept her eyes closed, and Will imagined the depth of her intuition and imagination…this was another glowing, healthy place in her. He slid his body against her, making them both gasp when his erection pushed up against the slick wetness between her legs. She slowly opened her eyes. The heat in her gaze made his breath catch. “Crown chakra, deep purple and white, spiritual connection.” And there she was. Fiona. Not some automaton trained to please men and send them on their way, but her. Will propped himself up on his elbows, marking this moment, this mingling of power and surrender in her slanted green eyes, in his memory. “You know, this is a door. I can’t come back through it after loving you, Fiona. Do you want this for us?” She touched his face lightly with both hands, knowing that it had been too late for a long, long time. “Kiss me, Will.” Will plunged himself inside her and the tide pulled them both under. *****

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Fiona woke the next morning, tangled in the body of a large, warm sexy-smelling male, to the sound of growling and hissing. “Will, I think Ozzy and Farnsworth are at it again.” Will’s face was buried between his pillow and hers, covered in her hair. He turned a little and opened one sleepy eye. “So?” “Do you think they’ll hurt each other?” “Not more than once.” The sound of crashing brought her out of bed. She found the two animals in the living room, Farnsworth on top of a bookcase, forelegs bowed fiercely and tail whipping, with Ozzy standing guard below. Damage assessment: a picture frame, pottery vase, some books scattered. Not as much as it had sounded like, at least. “You two! Cease-fire! Ozzy, sit!” He sat, but the look he gave her said she’d better yell at Farnsworth too. Knowing it would do no good to yell at a lizard, she complied. “Farnsworth, stay there! Bad Lizard!” By this time, Will was standing in the doorway, eyeing the scene with a lopsided grin. “You want me to get you a chair and a whip? You look like a circus trainer. Of course, most of them wear clothes, so far as I remember.” He was naked too, and Fiona left canine and reptile to fight it out on their own terms. She slid her arms around his waist, and he slid his around her. “Come back to bed, Fiona. I want you to put all your clothes on and then strip them off again.” “I thought you didn’t want me to ‘perform’ for you. Just us, having ‘natural, mutually satisfying sex’?” He grinned wickedly and his eyes smoldered. “Well, you’ve gone to such lengths to master the art of sexual seduction; seems a shame to let it go to waste. Teach me, oh wise Mistress. I, your devoted apprentice, promise every lesson will be mutually satisfying.” They spent the rest of the morning in bed, feeding each other finger foods while they rested between lessons. Around one in the afternoon, Ozzy showed up at the side of the bed with his leash in his mouth. He laid the slobbery thing on Will’s back. “Eyah! Ozzy!” Ozzy stood, staring at Will, ears back, nothing moving except his tail, wagging slowly back and forth, narrowly missing a glass of water on the nightstand. “Okay. You win.” He looked at Fiona. “Isn’t there a park just east of here? Right on the other side of the fire department, I think.” “Kiwanis Park. I practically grew up there. Short walk if you cut through the Selligson’s back yard and go over their fence, longer walk if you go around, down Southwest Parkway.” “As much as I’d like to see you wrestle Ozzy over a fence, I think we should take the long way.” The weather smiled on them, pale blue skies and deep early summer grass. The wind low and steady. On the way to the park, Fiona noticed that Will always put himself between her and the traffic. She tried not to be too pleased by the gesture, but it touched her. Once in the park, Will surveyed the playground equipment. “Okay, where do you want to start?”

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“Well, from the looks of things, I think we would be cruel not to let Ozzy check out the prairie dogs first. Then, swings.” The dog trembled with his instinctive desire to chase the small tan rodents dotting the landscaped compound in the center of the park. A four-foot wood and chain link fence surrounded the compound. Apparently the prairie dogs felt safe in their enclosure; they came right to the edge, scratching and digging in the dirt. Will watched the rodents and Ozzy for a second. “Cool. Dog TV.” He tied Ozzy’s leash to the chain link between the compound’s wooden posts, and they went to the swings. Fiona sat on hers, a wide band of curved black plastic, and thought about all the time she’d spent here as a kid. Momma had always told her to ‘go run it off’ so she might manage to be still when she got home. “You said you have a digital camera?” “Yes. Why?” “I’ll be visiting Momma next week, and I’d like to take her a picture of the arbor you’re building, if it’s done enough to be recognizable.” “Sure. It’s almost finished, just sanding and sealer left.” He leaned against the chain of his swing. “You go see her often?” “I try to go every week. But I don’t always make it. Organization was never my strong suit.” He looked at her, squinting in the strong sun, and reached for her hand across the gap between them. They swung slowly, dragging their feet in the dug-out ovals of red clay dust below. “You really don’t see it, do you?” he asked. “See what?” “Here’s an idea; how about we play your word game from yesterday. If you were to describe yourself, what words would you use?” “Oh, puh-leeze, you don’t want to listen to a woman talk about herself. No man in his right mind would volunteer for that.” “Why don’t you let me decide? Someday you’ll learn that I don’t ask for something I don’t want. Counterproductive. So? What words? Say them fast—don’t think.” “I let you think about the energy of the Wichita Mountains.” “Stop stalling. Describe yourself.” “Skinny, flat-chested, pale.” “Those are physical characteristics. I know you’re skinny, flat chested and pale. I had you naked under me last night. And in front of me this morning. And on top of me after lunch.” He brought her hand up and kissed her knuckles, looking into her eyes. “You are beautiful, and I love every inch of you. But I want you to describe this,” he poked a finger at her forehead, “and this,” then he tapped the center of her chest. She felt, more than heard, the sound in the bone there. “You said you knew the flat-chested part.” “Fiona.” “Okay, Okay! I’m flighty. I’m frivolous. I lack follow through. I’m too sensitive, too emotional, and too talkative. Is that enough?” “If you were describing a friend to her face, would you leave it at that?” “Not fair.” “Why?”

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“Because anything positive sounds like self-absorbed bragging.” “Okay. I can see you need help. Here. Listen to me. Take notes, if necessary: I am a good leader. I’m practical and intelligent. I am a talented woodworker. I have excellent taste in women—at least lately. I am moderately good-looking—” “Don’t forget modest to a fault.” “No. I’m not modest, but I’m not conceited either. I’m a good father. I am a recovering anti-social, I make friends easily with large, ugly animals. Should I go on? I could, you know.” The chains of their swings screeched distantly over their heads in slow unison. Dust from the baseball fields swirled by in a gust of wind, and Will blinked it away, but then he pinned her with a calm, unrelenting stare. “So what do you want me to say? I am flighty. I am not a good leader, or practical, I have no kids to mother—” “Listen to yourself! You work so hard to keep from ending up like your mother that you’ve split yourself in two!” “I thought you wanted me to be positive. Now you’re saying I’m schizophrenic?” “Don’t change the subject. It’s as if you can’t see any characteristic in yourself that reminds you of your mother.” “What the hell does that mean?” She stopped swinging and glared at him. “You don’t even know my mother.” “You’ve told me enough to put together a pretty fair picture. Was she practical?” “Yes.” “Was she dependable?” “Yes.” “Could she handle tough situations?” Fiona sighed and looked at the sky. “Yes. But I’m none of those things. I’m a flake and everyone knows it. At least I’m aware of my faults.” “Who says flakiness is a fault?” She looked at him and laughed. It sounded a little desperate. “I’m serious. You are one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. I blame your flakiness for part of that. Sorry, but it’s true. But you are also all those solid things you said about your mom. Geez, Fiona, you’ve done nothing all your life except study and work. How is that frivolous?” She’d never thought about herself in those terms. All her life she’d heard cautions; be careful. Don’t be so emotional. Impulsive behavior will wreck your life. It’s irresponsible to trust in luck. Momma lived by these precepts, never dated, never remarried, never; it seemed to Fiona, laughed. Fiona hadn’t tried to be a flake. It had just worked out that way. She soaked herself in the colorful, the fantastic, and the determined belief in all things ethereal. She had lived, to the degree she had been able, as an antidote to her mother’s stoic resignation. But there was no antidote to the fear of love. She looked over at Will. Why am I not afraid now? Will got up, took her hand, and together they walked back to Ozzy, who drooled avidly as a prairie dog pup ate peanuts not five feet from the dog’s giant head.

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Leaning against the wooden rail, Will pulled Fiona to him and touched her face. “You are a confounding puzzle. I will never be able to solve you. But it’s not a bad thing to be dependable. You have taken care of your mother, managed a household, paid the bills, and earned two degrees, all while raising a moderately well-adjusted iguana.” He kissed her when she opened her mouth to laugh. “You are a tough, capable flake. I don’t dish out compliments like this every day, though. You should be writing this down.” Fiona took his hand from her face and kissed its palm. “For the record, Farnsworth is Kevin’s. I’m just lizard-sitting until Tina gives Kevin permission to have him back.” “When will that be?” “If I know Tina, never. It’s not a squeamish girl thing—god, not with Tina. She’s afraid Farnsworth will eat Trisket, her Chihuahua. She should worry about Kevin eating him first.” She squatted down and stroked Ozzy’s course, wheat-colored fur. “Do you think Farnsworth and Ozzy will ever get along?” “Sure, someday. Until then, they’ll just be situational awareness training for each other. Let’s walk some more.” He untied the leash from the chain link and Ozzy got up. “Come on, you. Those are your cousins. Stop drooling.” Kiwanis was not the pecan tree shaded antique that Lucy Park was, but it had its own charm. It sprawled over several acres, with benches and landscape trees tucked in around baseball fields and playground equipment. On the east side, its vast open field attracted boys with Frisbees, gliders, and kites. Out of curiosity, Fiona led them around to the bench where Mike had delivered the news that he was married. Knowing how awful she had felt at the time, she wondered what she would feel now, three months later. She sat on the bench, and was relieved to find she felt nothing. Mike, along with the gradual damage she’d let him inflict on her pride, was gone. No—that wasn’t quite right. She still felt the greasy film of guilt at having taken the job he’d offered, a job she hadn’t honestly applied for. Who might have the job now if she hadn’t taken it? She almost told Will about it then. She did feel guilty about the job and the underhanded way she’d gotten it, and swore to herself that she would talk to Will about it, a sort of contrition—the best she could offer, given the straights she was in. But the day was bright and Ozzy strained on his leash, eager to investigate a few renegade prairie dog mounds outside the compound. When he bored of that, they meandered through the park, watched Little-Leaguers at practice and admired pinkcheeked babies in strollers. By the time they returned home she had forgotten about the job, forgotten about everything but Will. They undressed each other again, enjoyed a long, extravagantly soapy shower. Then they went to bed. After an hour of lavish mutual attention, they dozed, sweaty, exhausted, and deeply satisfied. Around eight that evening, Will finally made himself leave so he could prepare for work the next day. But as he stood on the porch in the deepening dusk and kissed her goodbye, he put his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes, his face solemn. “Someday I won’t leave, Fiona. I don’t expect us to set a wedding date this minute, but we belong to each other now. We always will.”

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Chapter Twenty Fiona pulled into the parking lot at work. Seeing Will’s battered blue truck, she felt a now-familiar heat suffuse her body. She could probably read by the light of her weekend afterglow. She shook her head in amazement. Never in a million years would she have guessed surrender could feel so…empowering? Of course, she had to admit that experiencing her first non-self-inflicted orgasm at age twenty-six might have something to do with her current state of euphoria. This much I know: orgasms are infinitely better when generously administered by a tall, dark, handsome Will. She grinned at her silliness and shivered with pleasure at the memory. Settling in to the day ahead of her, she put her lunch things away in the mini-fridge, but her mind was still on her time with Will. Lying awake last night, she had missed him. Funny how she was already used to having him beside her. Love wasn’t scary anymore. She felt wild. Ridiculously happy. Dizzy. But not afraid. Fiona shook her head, coming back to reality. Sikes or Bingham would put a damper on her high spirits the minute they came through the door, so she took her cup of Earl Grey out onto the empty smoker’s patio. The sun was barely up and the starlings and sparrows were crazy with the news of it. She felt optimistic she could do anything. Then Will stepped out on the porch, and it occurred to her that there was one thing that would be very hard to accomplish. Not touching him. They looked at each other and her mind whirled at the giddy rush of feeling. He must have felt the same way, because he gave her a sheepish grin and said, “And I thought it was hard to concentrate last week.” “I know. I promise to be good, if that helps.” A sly smile lit his eyes. “You are good. That, my lovely Fiona, is my primary difficulty. I have an excellent memory.” He hitched a deep, shuddery breath. “I have to go inside and set up the lab. Don’t misunderstand this, but could you not come in until the students are ready to work?” “I was already thinking that might be necessary.” Seeing the look in his eyes, and knowing what that look meant, she had to look away, or she’d get up right then and step into the warm circle of his arms. “Go. Get to class. I’ll give it half an hour.” With a shaky laugh she added, “As if I had a choice.” Somehow they managed. She wondered if the airmen could sense the tension in the room. Did anyone notice that her team didn’t get as close supervision or as much assistance as the other three teams got? Will put the students on a break midway through the morning. By tacit agreement, she stayed in the lab while he went down to the instructor’s office. Fiona sat at the lab table, antsy for something to do. There was a broken long-handled dental mirror—useful in tight places during repairs and inspections—in her team’s tool kit. Deciding to log the discrepancy in the tool inventory and get a replacement, she headed down to the equipment room. She had just closed the tool drawer and was about to lock it when the door opened and Will walked in. They stood perfectly still for five heartbeats. Then she was in his arms. Like a condemned man, he kissed her frantically, pulling her against him. The satisfaction of

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touching him after hours of restraint ran hot and welcome through her blood. But he suddenly stopped and pulled away. He held her by the nape of her neck, looking lost and panicked, the bruise of their kiss swelling his lips. “We can’t do this. Oh god, we have to find a way to work together.” “How?” She closed her eyes and kissed the inside of his wrist. She was about to pull away when the door opened. “I’d say get a room, but it looks like you already did.” The sneer on TSgt Sikes’ face shouted an echo through Fiona’s mind. Strike Three! ***** At three thirty, while the airmen took care of cleanup details, Rosco prepared to call Fiona into his office. He’d needed to wait until the end of the day before he could conduct the counseling. He needed that much time to get himself under control. When Sikes first told him what he’d seen, Rosco’s first reaction was to bray laughter in the TSgt’s face. Too easy! His plan had succeeded far sooner than he’d thought possible! Then he’d had to grapple with blood-red jealousy. He knew it was stupid, and he didn’t envy Will at all—who would want to be led around by his dick? She’d made a fool of Will, and now everyone would know it, Rosco wouldn’t have to say a word. But he had felt jealous, and thinking about it later, he understood why. He had done all the work, the planning; he was the boss. He should, by rights, get to put that little twist in her place. And there was Will, getting what Rosco deserved. Well, he could fix that easy enough. There were other reasons for the delay, for postponing the counseling. For one, he wanted Miss Fiona to stew in her fear. Every hour she had to wait would make her that much more compliant when he finally made his offer. For another, he was going to make Will understand, once and for all, just what kind of woman he had set his sights on. He needed time to think about what he wanted to say. Exactly. Precisely. Some things were just too important to rush. ***** Fiona’s hands shook as she gathered her lunch-tubs and gym bag and sat at her desk. She selected a stone, the small, cold lump of hematite, so heavy for its size, and held it, letting it grow warm in her hand. She closed her eyes and concentrated on feeling grounded and sure, instead of ready to fly away like dandelion fluff in a hard wind. She didn’t think she was supposed to leave yet. She was aware of the absurd irony; this was one counseling she actually deserved. Would he fire her? Everyone said a civilian was hard to fire, but she had two letters in her file, and now another on its way. She just wished he would damn well get it over with. Will had hardly looked at her this afternoon, and when he did, the apology in his eyes tore at her like a fishhook in her guts. Sikes and Bingham had come and gone for the afternoon with cheery, leering faces, not saying anything out right, but managing to send their message all the same. They didn’t care that she would lose her home if she lost this job. They didn’t care that Momma might have to go to one of those dank, depressing places that made do with a shortage of nurses and a thirdrate cleaning crew.

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Fiona let her thinking revert back to the time before she had this cushy job. It wasn’t cushy by a huge percentage of Americans’ standards, but it let her pay her bills and still keep Momma in a decent center. Maybe if she sold the house, worked two full time jobs, she could keep Momma in the center, and move to an apartment downtown. They’d probably hire her back at Mickey D’s as a night manager. Maybe work in retail sales during the day? She’d better hurry. With school almost out, college kids would get the jobs. Thinking about the practical aspects of the matter was better than thinking about how it would hurt to sell her home. Airmen invaded the office for the last of their details. One emptied wastebaskets while another pushed a noisy, ancient vacuum around the office. When they finished and left, the room was quieter than before they came in. At five minutes to four, Rosco stepped out of the office, looking like a doctor who had to inform a family of a loved one’s death, and said “Fiona, please come in here.” She went in and sat on the couch in front of the desk. She really hated this damned couch. Flasque sat down behind his desk and rubbed his hands over his face. What’s he so distressed about? He wasn’t about to lose his job. She felt tears sting her eyes and took deep breaths through her nose. Control it. She would not cry today. At least not until she got home. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, here, Fiona. I have to ask you straight out; is what TSgt Sikes told me true? Were you and Will McCrae kissing in the equipment room?” Fiona looked down at her hands. Hearing Flasque say it like that made her sound ridiculous, a naughty high-school freshman in the principal’s office. She looked back up at him. “Yes sir.” “You know that is unprofessional behavior.” “Yes sir.” “What if a student had walked in there instead of TSgt Sikes?” Fiona wanted to shout, “Then the student would have grinned, left, and talked about it behind his hands…not run to make brownie points with you!” But she didn’t. She sat and looked at Flasque and said nothing. It wouldn’t help to tell him that she had spent the day berating herself for the lack of control. To tell him that she and Will couldn’t even look at each other for the painful knowledge of what they had done—to her job and to his credibility. But she couldn’t tell Flasque that she was sorry, either. Once upon a time, she had believed she would die without ever knowing love. “I have no defense, MSgt Flasque. If I have compromised the Fuels Course or the flight or the squadron in any way, let me know what I can do to fix it. Other than that, I can only say what I did was grossly unprofessional.” Flasque looked at her without speaking. A gleam sparkled in his eye for the briefest second. Was he enjoying this? Then she remembered. This was the man who was trying to get her fired. She didn’t know how this situation could possibly be his fault, but it was clear he was enjoying the result. She had played right into his hand. “Fiona, I’m going to give you one more chance.” Her eyes flew open. “Sir? I mean, really?” Flasque got up and came around the desk and sat next to her on the couch. Visions of her “dress and appearance” counseling flew through her mind and she scooted over as far as

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she could to her end. Flasque put his hand on her knee, and Fiona was amazed and repulsed at how cold his hand felt through her jeans. “Honey, I understand that people make mistakes.” He scooted a little closer to her and leaned in. “We all make mistakes. You are young, beautiful, and full of life. How could you not make a mistake or two?” He gave one of the chuckles she had come to despise. “But—look at me now—I want you to know I am willing to let this slide. I have a counseling form for you to sign, of course, due to the possible legal complications if I don’t. But if you can assure me that this thing with Will is over, that you won’t be having any more to do with him, here or otherwise, then I can put that counseling letter away and forget it exists.” He leaned in even closer. She could smell root beer and microwave popcorn. Something stirred in the icy depths of his small blue eyes, and Fiona began to understand what was going on. Mystery solved. “I have no doubt you’re good, Fiona. It is worth it to me, personally, to see that you stay employed here. Do you understand me?” Yeah, I understand you, all right. I just drop my pants and you’ll forget all about Strikes One, Two and Three. “MSgt Flasque. I want you to know, I understand you loud and clear. I also want you to understand how grateful I am that you are willing to give me this chance to…prove…my worth to this course, and to you, as my employer.” Flasque patted her knee, even slid it up her thigh a little ways, and then seemed to realize what he was doing. He chuckled as he floundered out of the couch and took the form off his desk. “Well, like I said. We’re only human, right? Here, you sign this letter, just for formality’s sake, and I’ll put it away.” Fiona got up and read the form carefully, signed it, and handed it back. She looked him in the eye and gave him her sexiest, Playboy Bunny smile, the one that used to make Mike’s brains leak out his ears. Her voice was a throaty purr. “MSgt Flasque, I think you will be surprised just how…grateful…I can be. Am I free to go now? I’m sure you have things to do.” Flasque was flushed to his scalp. He cleared his throat. “O-of-of course. Certainly. I’ll be talking to you,” he looked at her and winked, “later this week.” It was all she could do to keep from laughing and crying as she left the office. She felt filthy and wanted a shower now. She didn’t see Will at his desk as she gathered her things, but she heard Flasque open the far door of the test-office, then the low mix of their voices. When both of Flasque’s doors were shut, she started down the hall for the flight office. If Captain Omant were not in, she would talk to Shirley. Actually, Shirley might know where the good Captain was at this hour and might help her set up a meeting. Fiona was suddenly in the mood for a conference.

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Chapter Twenty One Will sat on the damned ugly orange couch. Back when he’d gone through BIC, his instructor said to always consider desk/chair arrangements. The idea was to put a counselee in a position that best suited the situation at hand. The power play dynamics of the boss behind a desk, peering down on some poor slob squatting on this low couch, was not lost on him. Now he was the poor slob. Flasque rubbed his hands over his face. Will fisted his hands to keep himself still. What’s he got to be upset about? He’s been after her all this time, and now he’s got what he wants! “God, Will. I hate to do this to you. Of all the guys in my shop…” “Sir, I violated a basic tenet of military professionalism—actually I’ve had to counsel a pair of students for this same thing, I’m embarrassed to say. There is no excuse, and I didn’t intend to make any. I’m here to accept punishment due and fix whatever damage I’ve done.” “No! Oh no—you misunderstand me, Will! You made a mistake. So what? We’re only human. I was just telling your…was just telling Fiona that very same thing. What I meant was I hate to tell you what I’m about to have to tell you. You must have it pretty bad to act so contrary to your nature. Even the guys have mentioned that you haven’t been yourself lately.” Will didn’t have to think long to know just who would be discussing his behavior with Flasque. What the gruesome twosome couldn’t possibly know was that his reputed “nature” was nothing like these people knew. It took Fiona to bring out his fun side and make him realize that there were some fine people in the world who deserved to know it. He had been himself lately…he had been Will McCrae, in love. Too bad that was no excuse for what he’d done. “What is it you have to tell me?” “Well, it’s about Miss Wright. Has she ever told you how she got this job?” “I know she came in through the Palace Acquire Program, but she never discussed specifics with me, no.” Flasque let out a sigh. Chills crawled over Will’s scalp at that sigh. Overacted or not, it sounded like an omen of bad things to come. “What I’m about to tell you—given your involvement with Miss Wright—is bound to make you mad, Will. All I ask is that you hear me out. When I’m done, if you don’t believe me, then I urge you to confront her with it. Can I ask you to do that?” “I will listen to what you have to say.” “All right. Fair enough.” He took a deep breath and began. “Fiona Wright did not apply for the instructor position she holds before she had the job.” Will surged forward. “Exactly what—” “Now, Will—you said you’d hear me out!” Flasque held his hands up and waited as Will eased back down onto the couch. “There is a certain GS-14 who governs the Palace Acquire Program. In return for certain…favors, for lack of a better way to put it, Fiona got the internship and started almost immediately. She was in serious financial debt, and needed the job badly. It’s understandable that she might see such favors as a small price to pay to ease that burden and save her home.” Flasque’s voice was an oil slick of fake sympathy.

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Will closed his eyes. A star-lit back porch. Fiona close and warm sitting on a wooden bench. His ears rang with her words…“I would do anything to keep my job…” He opened his eyes and tried to speak. It took a second for his voice to cooperate. “How do you know this?” “I’ve been on this base for over ten years. I have friends who keep me informed of things I need to know—especially when an unqualified employee is shoved down my supervisory throat.” “Is that it, sir?” “I wish it was, Will. I wish it were. The thing I want you to be aware of is that she may be after you now, in order to keep her job. I hate to tell you, but I feel it’s my duty. When she first came here she tried to convince me that she would do anything to pass the employee probationary period. I had to counsel her early on to change her dress and appearance, to dress more suitably for work around impressionable young airmen.” Will had thought her change of attire was a case of common sense prevailing. Flasque continued. “She has tried to…bargain with me…ever since. In fact, not long ago she said I would be—and I quote—‘surprised how grateful’ she could be. I turned her down, of course. She’s been a problem from the very beginning, but your nature wouldn’t let you see that.” Will didn’t believe what Flasque was telling him. He wouldn’t. Something was wrong, it had to be; it wasn’t his Fiona this slime-bucket was talking about. “What do you mean ‘she’ll be after me next’?” A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach and he looked beyond Flasque to the deepening dusk. “Aw hell, Will. I know you’ve got your heart set on the girl. But you’ve known—and so has everybody else in this outfit—that you were the best bet for Instructor Supervisor. It was between you and Sikes. And you know how Sikes acted towards her. As soon as you made Master, you got the seat. If she is afraid of losing her job, especially now, who do you think she’s going to come to for help? Hasn’t she been coming to you for help all along?” “I was her qualifying trainer, Sergeant Flasque, it would be natural for her to come to me for help.” The room spun around in Will’s mind like a sick merry-go-round and he closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to hear anymore, but his head echoed with her desperate pleas; “…I would do anything to keep this job…all I have to do is survive him, and then it will be all right…” “You okay? Hey!” Will opened his eyes. “Yes.” Drawing on the strength of his pride and his willpower, a strength apparently doomed to be tested for the rest of his life, he gathered himself to face this. “Is that all, Sir? Do I need to sign anything?” “Aw, hell no! I just wanted to tell you, to warn you. A man deserves to know when he’s being played—” “Do not—” Will took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. “Please. Don’t talk about this outside this room. Fiona deserves to have her say first, and nobody needs to hear about it, regardless. I will talk to Fiona.” “Of course! Of course! I did have to get her to sign a counseling letter about this morning; you know, the probation thing and all. But maybe if you two can straighten things out, get a professional slant on this, I won’t have to turn it in. I told her that right now it’s going to stay between us three.” “Am I dismissed?”

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“Certainly. I’m sorry, Will, I—” “Good evening, MSgt Flasque.” Will made it as far as the latrine before he threw up. He was vaguely glad the students had gone back to the dorms already, but really didn’t care much. How could this be true? It couldn’t. Flasque had it in for Fiona, had from the start. This slanderous bullshit was just an attempt to come between them. But why? How could it serve him? “It doesn’t matter! It’s not true!” Will’s shout echoed through the empty latrine, bouncing off tiled walls. He looked in the mirror, eyes red and lifeless. He would solve it. Just go to Fiona and ask. He could never have fallen in love with a woman capable of selling herself for a job. It wasn’t something Fiona would do. Asking about it was, in fact, just a formality before they took this mess up the chain for redress with Social Actions. So, he’d talk to her. Tonight. Just to clear things up. They’d probably even have a laugh at Flasque’s paranoid fantasy. ***** Fiona had just gotten the door unlocked when the phone rang. Hurrying inside, she threw her bags down on the kitchen table and grabbed it. “Hello?” “Fiona?” “Yes! Are you okay? What did he do to you? Are you in serious trouble? Oh, I’m sorry, Will!” “Can I come over? I need to talk to you.” “Of course! Please. I was going to make a Fiesta Pie…you want to stay for dinner?” “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Bye.” Fiona stared at the phone in her hand, dial tone buzzing from the receiver. He must have gotten hit pretty badly, to sound so weird. She knew that military punishments could wreck one’s chances for promotion, and she had prayed that Will would somehow come out of this with minimum damage. But with her recent understanding of Flasque and the meeting with Capt. Omant, any such hope was a farce. She took the ground beef out of the fridge and started browning it, chopping up the block of meat with the ends of two spatulas. Captain Omant had indeed been in his office, and Shirley sat in as moral support for what Fiona had to tell him. It seems at some point Flasque had pulled strings to get a woman sent to another base. She’d been preparing a case against him for unprofessional conduct, for the use of his authority to coerce sexual favors. But within a month of filing paperwork, the woman suddenly dropped the charges and disappeared. No one could prove anything, and Flasque escaped with only a slight stain instead of serious legal damage. Not this time. Fiona would keep her job. Flasque was as good as dismissed from the Air Force without retirement pay. She could keep her home—but only if she could prove he was holding her job over her head. She and Shirley had come up with a plan. Capt. Omant didn’t like it, but he’d agreed it might work, if Fiona could pull it off. She could. With pleasure. Tomorrow.

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She’d sweet talk Flasque into staying in for lunch. The way his tongue had hung out this evening, she could probably talk him into walking blindfolded down I-44. With the building mostly empty, she planned to alert Shirley ahead of time, go to Flasque’s office, shut the door, and get him talking. As long as she kept him busy thinking with his little brain, the big brain—a generous euphemism to be sure—had no chance. Then all she had to do was distract him long enough to push the phone receiver off the hook and press an outgoing line. Shirley would pick it up, she and the Captain could listen from the flight commander’s office, and Fiona would have witnesses. Just as she set the ground beef to drain and got ready to stir up a batch of cornbread, the doorbell rang. She answered it, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Hi. Come in. Are you okay? You don’t look well.” “I never have been very good at small talk when something’s on my mind, Fiona, so I’m just going to have to ask you to sit down and talk with me for a minute.” She put her arms around him, but he stiffened and pulled away. What in the world had happened? “Will? You’re scaring me. Come sit down. Do you want a glass of tea?” “Please. I have to ask you something.” She sat next to him on the couch. “Ask me anything, Will.” “Flasque says you slept your way into your job. Is it true?” Oh god. Not this. “I’d say that’s a pretty harsh way of putting it.” How could Flasque have known about Mike? Of course. Good Old Buddy System. “Fiona, for God’s sake, did you, or did you not, sleep with the guy who got you this job?” “Yes. But he told me he was married, and I broke it off and—” She put her hands out to take his, but he pulled away and stood up. “Please, Will. Let me explain?” “No, that’s okay. You’ve told me all I needed to know.” Will closed his eyes and swallowed audibly. Then he opened his eyes and she saw a stranger where her lover had stood split second before. “Flasque said you still have a job as long as you and I behave ‘more professionally’. I don’t think this will be a problem now.” He crossed the room to the door in three strides. “Will!” She ran to him, but he shut the door in her face. He hadn’t let her explain! Why should he? He was an honest, honorable man who’d just found out she’d gotten her job the cheapest way possible. All of a sudden it didn’t matter that she’d been trying to keep her house. How shoddy she must seem to him. She pulled the door open and ran out on porch in time to see the taillights of his blue truck disappear around the curve of University Drive. Night pushed down the day and in the deep purple shadows, she stood with her arms crossed over her chest, and cried his name as tears scalded her face. This is why it had been better not to love. Am I dying? It feels like it. Oh Will, come back to me. Don’t let me die inside. Through the open door she heard the phone ring, but couldn’t bring herself to answer it. The answering machine squawked its message, and then a woman’s voice stated she was from North Plains Care Center. Fiona ran to grab the receiver. “Hello? Hello?” “Miss Fiona Wright?”

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“Yes?” “This is Rachelle Smythe, from North Plains. Your mother’s been taken to United Regional—Eleventh Street Campus. She’s had an aneurism; it’s hemorrhaged in her brain.” “I’ll be right there.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two When Will got home from Fiona’s, the last thing he wanted to do was talk. Olivia had the grace to leave him alone. She did, however, try to comfort him in small ways, puttered around the kitchen making a Frito-Chili-Pie for dinner. Offered him a beer. Bless her heart, he knew she was trying to be quiet and not ask him questions, but her tender ministrations were almost as bad. He dismissed himself curtly and headed out to the shop. She hated it out here. Ozzy probably knew something was up as well, because he lay half-in and half-out of the shop door, head down on his paws, watching Will out from under his wiry brows. The smell of the wood and familiar feel of tools in his hands gave him some start toward calming down. At least he had stopped shaking. Growing up, Will had spent most of his summers with Granddad, his mother’s father, in South Carolina, helping out in the cabinet shop. He sent up a whispered prayer of thanks for those summers. They had probably allowed him to keep his sanity the rest of the year, as he tried to live up to the standards of an ambitious father and a social climbing mother. Granddad had been like a medicine for Will, had taught him patience, humor, and a deep respect for honorable men. Will looked around the shop, along the high, dusty shelf that ran the circumference of the room. Spotting what he wanted, he grabbed a short stepladder and climbed up to get it. He sat on the bar stool next to his worktable, and blew the dust off the small, gray plastic box in his hands. Unlatching the lid, he opened it to find a row of carving tools. Wooden handles glowed deep gold in the rays of the dying sun, the curved old blades gunmetal gray. It had been years since Will had used these. Granddad had given him the set, along with a Buck pocketknife, when he was ten. The hours spent carving fish, bears, even funny-looking people, had been some of the best hours of Will’s life. Time fell away. He would look up, the sun on the other side of the yard, and Granny would be calling him in to wash for dinner. The arbor he had built for Fiona lay on its back on the floor of the shop, finished but for a final sanding and a protective finish. Will grabbed a pencil, pulled up a salvaged cable spool, and sat down between the legs of the bench. Without realizing he had meant to do it, Will traced a weaving grapevine pattern on the unfinished wood. He had to climb over parts of the arbor to continue the drawing. Growing out of a tiny crude jug penciled in at the bottom of the bench’s left front leg, the vine meandered its way up the side posts to cross over the top, branching off to cover the front of the bench, to curve leafy tendrils across the back rest. Turning on the strong overhead halogen work lamp, Will took out the carving tools, sharpened them lovingly with a fine rat-tail file, and began to carve, sheering away paper-thin, curling slivers. What would make Fiona do what she did? Did he have any right to judge her? Why had Flasque’s news upset him like that? He knew of course. He’d known in the pit of his stomach on the way to her house, before he ever spoke to her. It was the same shame, the same gut-deep disgust he had felt thirteen years ago. Stationed at Little Rock, he and Paula had been living poorly on the pay of an Airman Basic, little Olivia a fiery-haired cherub that Will would have died to protect. They had only

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one car, so Will rode a bicycle to work. One evening after they had put Olivia to bed, Paula had approached Will with two glasses of cheap red wine and a suggestion. “Why not let your dad help? Maybe you could get some schooling and go in as an officer after all. He said he cou—” “He said he could what?” Will was furious. His own father had practically disowned him, telling him he had disgraced the family’s name, had broken the long line of McCrae officers. Never even bothered to meet his own granddaughter. Now he suddenly wanted to take Will back into his good graces? “What did he offer you?” “Oh, don’t be mad. We need the money. You know we do. He said he could guarantee you got into that bootstrap program and then give you a boost into officer training school. You know he knows enough people, Will. He could make it happen. You could stop working on the flightline, go to school full time and get your degree, then you could make him proud.” “Has it occurred to you that I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s proud?” “I don’t believe that, but even so, what about me? Do you care if I’m proud? Do you care that I have to buy my clothes at a thrift shop? Do you care that I have no family here, that I watch other people’s screaming kids all day to help pay the bills, and there’s still no money left for fun?” Her voice was screechy and getting louder. “Do you care that I get to smell the damned JP-8 in the car, in the house, on your clothes, on you! I hate that smell! I hate our life! I want out of this, and the way out is right in front of us. You said you planned to go to college anyway—this would just make it happen faster.” “You never said what he offered you for talking me into this.” “A new car, a spending allowance while you’re in school. Come on! You know we need it! Stop thinking with your pride and think of me and Olivia for once!” “Well, that’s a relief. If the great man buys me, you can drive around in a pretty new car.” They had fought long and bitterly. She screamed and cursed, slammed into the kitchen and smashed their dishes, threw a glass ashtray at his face. Through it all, he thought of Olivia, and finally agreed to sleep on it. By the morning, however, he still couldn’t sell himself to his father’s ego. Paula had called her mother, taken Olivia, and moved back to Texas. Had Fiona sold herself? Had she really bargained with Rosco for sex? Yeah, she’d had a funny take on sex, but once they had connected with each other… Will had to put down a carving tool for a minute and close his eyes. Was she only interested in him as job security? It didn’t feel right. She didn’t need him to keep her job…she was good at it. She was still a freak compared to most military people, but she was a good instructor and had earned the respect of the guys at the shop. It didn’t make sense. He picked up the tool, smoothed out the edge of a leaf, and blew a spray of curled splinters onto the floor. But she said it herself! She’d slept with the man who had given her the job! How could she have done that? He couldn’t live with a woman whose honor meant so little that she could sell herself. If he did, he might as well have taken the old man’s deal back then and gotten it over with. If only he had known before. Before he’d fallen in love with her. Before he had imagined a life with her—couldn’t imagine life without her. Maybe before he had torn down the walls it had taken him so much work to build.

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He could see her in his mind, throwing back her head, laughing music into the air. Will knew he still loved her. Always would. It was too late to build new walls, but he would try. Now he would live the life she had worked so hard to protect herself from living, only worse. His sweet, joyous lover was dead, and he had been sentenced to work with her murderer every day. ***** Fiona sat on a black vinyl chair in a tiny consultation room. She was numb with shock, her mind as nerveless and alien as her knee had once been when deadened for stitches. Apparently she wasn’t too numb to feel cold. She was frozen from the inside out. A nurse brought her a beige cotton hospital blanket and wrapped it around her like a cape, but still Fiona shuddered and shook with a violent palsy. Her teeth clicked like bone castanets. Dr. Davis stood between her and the large light panel on the wall. He was absurdly tall—easily seven feet—and almost completely bald. His lips were large and blubbery, but he had the kindest, biggest brown eyes she had ever seen. His voice was a deep rumble, and the overall effect of it was like sitting in a therapeutic vibrating chair. She wished she could stop shaking, close her eyes and escape into sleep. She could not. “Miss Wright, your mother has suffered an aneurism almost squarely in the center of her brain. I won’t give you false hope. If the vessel had burst on the periphery,” he moved his silver retractable pointer to circle the outer edge of the brain-shaped cross cut image on the Xray, “then perhaps only one area of the brain would be impaired—speech, motor control, or a part of her memory. “But with this,” he pointed to a light gray, spidery mass in the center slightly to the left, “it has effectively shut down the brain as a useful nerve control. I’m sorry to be so clear about it, but a hemorrhage of this size and in this location is like pouring a glass of water into an electrical system. ” “C-can she come out of it?” “I’d have to say there is zero chance she will regain consciousness.” “Is this…does this…okay, I don’t know the word. Brain dead?” “She is. There is terminology for it, but that is basically as good a term as any. Her heart and lungs are still functioning because we have her on life support. We will continue with it if that is your wish.” “If you take her off l-life s-s-support?” She closed her eyes and knew the answer before he gave it. “She will die.” Fiona put her hands to her face, trying to stop its shaking, but it did no good. She fisted her hands on her knees, thinking she might scream if she couldn’t stop this horrible shuddering. Momma had been terrified by the idea of ending life as a vegetable, hooked up to machines. The decision was clear. But knowing what her mother would have wanted didn’t relieve Fiona of this responsibility. She had to make the deliberate decision to let her mother die. “Miss Wright, I know this is terribly difficult for you, but I need to know something.”

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“Yes?” “Did your mother ever express interest in being an organ donor?” “Yes. She had it checked on her driver’s license. S-She gave blood every chance she got too.” Dr. Davis put his ridiculously large hand over both of hers. It was warm and almost broke through the numbness. Fiona pulled her hands away with an attempt at an apologetic smile. “As hard as this is, you have to know your mother is, essentially, dead already. You can allow your mother to help someone else, though, if you will sign for her organs to be donated.” “S-She would want that. I will. I want to know if she helped someone, but not who, or how. Bring me whatever it is I have to sign.” He nodded to a nurse in the doorway. “Dr. Davis?” “Yes?” “Can I see her first?” “Of course. Come with me.” She was led down a short hall into the intensive care ward, a large, circular room where patients were separated only by tan canvas curtains, hung from tracks on the ceiling, and beeping monitors. The whoosh-thump of respirators made the room’s purpose too real and she felt panic whistling in her throat. Dr. Davis brought her around the central nurses’ desk to Momma’s bed. Watching her mother age twenty years for the six she’d been in the center, Fiona shouldn’t have been shocked, but to look at Momma now, plastic tubes running out of her face, she was a hundred, not sixty-one. The sudden realization of what Fiona was doing pushed down on her with crushing force. Her fine, sweet Momma. Practical. Dependable. Tough. Yes. But generous, too. Loving. Protective and nurturing in her careful way. If only she could tell her she’d been right to be careful. Love is dangerous. Now she knew first hand what Momma had been guarding against all these years. “I should have learned better, Momma. I wish you could hear me.” Fiona reached a trembling hand to smooth the wispy white hair from her mother’s forehead. Momma’s skin was strangely warm. Her bony hands lay in frozen convulsion; fingers straight but wrists bent, pulled into stiff inward curves. Twin swan puppets facing each other on Momma’s sunken chest. “I love you. Kiss my father for me when you see him. Be happy with him. Check on me sometimes? I’ll always need you. Goodbye, Momma.” ***** Fiona left the hospital around eight-thirty that evening. Once at home, she called in to the answering machine at work and said she wouldn’t be in, to dock her a week’s sick leave. Then she went into the spare bedroom, climbed into Momma’s bed, and curled into a ball.

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Knowing she would have to make funeral arrangements in the morning, she fell asleep. She dreamed of a three-masted ship, sailing far away on a sun-blinded horizon.

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Chapter Twenty-Three Dave “TB” Tyler was late for work. He had never been late to work before, and today was, technically, not an exception. Today he was deliberately late. It didn’t count if you planned to be late. Then you were just rearranging your schedule. He had rearranged his. He had a good reason. A great reason. The shop had a longstanding tradition for people late to work. It was based on the philosophy that if you’re already going to be a little bit late to work, you might as well stop and get donuts and be a little later. Old Mr. Vanter had bought many dozen in his tenure at Fuels, and Tubbs brought so many Dave suspected he just made himself late for an excuse to eat them. The donuts sat on the seat beside Dave. Their nauseating, sweet bakery smell permeated the car. He rolled down the window. He hated donuts almost as much as he hated root beer. He not only had a good reason for being late, he had a plan. MSgt Flasque would enjoy his donut particularly well this morning; Dave had heard the stuff was sweet, and sprinkled on a pastry, would look just like sugar. When he got to work, the parking lot was full. He imagined everyone wondering about prompt Timid Boy’s remarkable tardiness. No. They hadn’t wondered about him. They probably hadn’t even noticed he was late. They wouldn’t forget him after today. Today, he would become a legend. When he opened the door of the building, he passed Capt. Omant coming out of the flight office door. “I’m sorry I’m late, sir. Would you like a donut?” “No thanks, SrA Tyler. I never touch ‘em,” he said, and crossed the hall to the Course Developers’ offices. Miss Shirley called out from her cubbyhole through the open door, “Save one for me, I’ll be down later!” Dave almost smiled. He was having so much fun with this! “Yes Ma’am.” Heading down the hall, he turned right, into the student break area, instead of left into the instructor’s office. He hid the box in a cabinet in the break room kitchen. He pulled a key out of his pants pocket and went down to the cell-test lab. Jonas taught across the hall, with the Block IV students pulling cells out of the KC-135 center-wing trainers. They would be in that section for the remainder of the block. Dave turned the key in the padlock on an olive green metal locker. A wide black and yellow striped sticker ran around the top and bottom of it. The words “Caution—Hazardous Materials” stenciled, in white spray paint across the front, almost made him smile again. The Occupational Hazards of Wearing MSgt Flasque’s Boots. Like a short story title. He took out the jar of Phenolphthalein. Unscrewed the lid. Dumped some into a Styrofoam cup he’d brought with him. Then he carefully put everything back the way he’d found it. Taking the cup, he returned to the break room. Once there, he took the box of donuts down out of the cabinet and took a brown paper napkin from the dispenser on the wall. He

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looked around. There. A black fine-tip media marker on the tray of the break room’s message board. With the marker he wrote across the bottom edge of the napkin: “MSgt Flasque—thank you very much for all your help. Dave.” Then he took a donut out of the box, laid it in the center of the napkin. Digging around in the lower cupboards, he found some picnic napkins, a stack of paper plates, and a large plastic tray Miss Shirley used when they had holiday potlucks. He arranged the box of donuts on the tray, shifting it around for a more artful effect. A pile of napkins and a paper plate with MSgt Flasque’s donut in the center filled up the rest of the tray. With a white plastic spoon he sprinkled a liberal amount of the crystals from the Styrofoam cup over the donut. Some drifted onto the napkin and looked to Dave like a wonderful Christmas confection. This time he did smile. Dave dumped the remaining crystals down the sink. Rinsed the spoon and cup carefully and buried them in the bottom of the trash bin. It wouldn’t do for an airman to use them. Trembling with anticipation, he took the tray and headed for the instructor’s office. Empty. He’d known Jonas was down the hall, but surely somebody else was out of class? Late for the first time in two years and nobody even noticed. Then he looked into MSgt Flasque’s office. Empty. He had desperately wanted to watch the man enjoy his donut. Swallowing the slow rage that had begun to pound at his temples, he laid the tray on the mail and phone table in the center of the room. As he took the paper plate with its treasure to Flasque’s office and put it in the center of the desk, the instructor’s office door banged open. Tubbs, Sikes, Rick and Bingham, arguing, as always. “Ho-ho! Donuts!” Tubbs took a napkin and helped himself. The others forgot their debate for the time being and dug into the box. Dave came out of Flasque’s office and stood near the desk, so they would realize he had been responsible. “Tyler, you’re late.” Sikes said as he took a monstrous bite. “I’d better not see it happen again. You know what time we start. Be here when we start. No excuses. If your car goes out, then you call somebody, you get a ride, and you get here on time. Dave looked at him. “Yes sir.” Didn’t this giant sap know how stupid he sounded, dressing down a subordinate with a mouthful of donut? He had to smother another rare smile. Maybe I should give him a special one, too. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” “Get to class. Jonas is down there with students in the 135 lab.” “Yes, sir.” As Dave pulled on his whites and fastened the Velcro strip up the front to close them, he was surprised by a mild curiosity as to what would happen to him. Only a mild curiosity. In an hour or two, the sweet sound of an ambulance would signal a change for Dave “Timid Boy/Total Brain” Tyler. If there were any justice in the world, Dave would get a medal. ***** Rosco slammed the phone down so hard he made a hairline crack in the casing of the receiver. Either she had the phone off the hook, or she had one hell of a conversation

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underway. The bitch thought she could avoid him by calling in sick? How stupid did she think he was? After she’d sexy-talked to him yesterday—he’d almost thrown her down right then and jumped her—he’d reconsidered firing her. Hell, if she was gonna be that grateful to keep her job, he might just have to let her keep it until he retired. Then she would be McCrae’s problem. But not now. His gut churned in a nasty rumble, and he shoved the goddamned donut out of his way to the corner of the desk. Stupid little kiss-ass, bringing him treats…didn’t the kid have the slightest clue there was no promotion in the works? If he was that dense, Rosco had done the Air Force a favor by throwing that package in the trash. He whirled his chair around and put his feet on the sill, fingers drumming against the arms of his chair. He stared out the window. If Miss Wright, Miss “I’m So Grateful” thought she could put this off by calling in sick, she could just keep dreaming…right up until she has to march her happy ass back to work. Here was another little bit of Civil Service Personnel policy she didn’t know: an employer could request a doctor’s verification of illness for more than two days in a row of sick leave taken. To calm himself down, he thought about how he would enjoy working off his frustrations later. His reverie was interrupted by a not-so-feminine voice in the instructor’s office. “Hello?” Shirley. Aw hell. “Whatcha need Shirley?” He yelled through his open door without turning around. She came in and stood between his office door and the mail table with the donut tray. “Actually, I don’t need anything. I was just trying to sneak a donut, but I guess I was too late.” Rosco squeaked his chair around and shoved the paper plate on his desk toward her. “Here. Take mine.” “Oh no. I really don’t need one…I’ve got too much padding on me as it is.” She patted her flabby bottom, and Rosco rolled his eyes. “Shirley, I really don’t want it. My gut’s all messed up right now. If you don’t have it I’m just going to throw it away.” She looked at him and shrugged. “Okay, if you don’t want it. Thanks. Ooh, a note.” She read it. “Wow. SrA Tyler wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ to a ghost! What’d you do to deserve such an honor?” When Rosco didn’t answer, she shrugged again and turned to go. Shirley intercepted Will on his way down from the flight office. He tried to pass her without speaking but she stepped in front of him and said, “Good morning to you, too. You know, you’ve been like a bear with a toothache all morning. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? You might as well. I got you beat for stubborn.” Will’s first impulse was to tell her no thanks, he had work to do. He opened his mouth to do just that, and then to his surprise he said, “Okay. Let’s go out on the patio while there’s nobody there.” Seated at the picnic table across from her, Will found the words too hard to say. Since last night he had managed to pack everything down and put a professional lid on it. Now he was scared to open the lid. He watched sugar crystals blow off the napkin on Shirley’s plate.

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How could he say that the woman he loved, that he had wanted to marry, had turned into a stranger in a four-sentence conversation? He hadn’t slept but an hour or so that night, and fatigue was pulling at him. “C’mon, Will. I’ve never seen you so upset. Is it Fiona? She finally put a smile on your face; I imagine she’s the only one who could make you so miserable.” “Yes. It’s Fiona, but I don’t know where to start.” “How about the beginning? If anybody comes out here, I’ll send ‘em packing, don’t worry. Consider this our private counseling office.” She squared her shoulders, cocked one eyebrow, assumed a ‘She Who Is In Charge’ face. He laughed, because he knew she would never wear the look except to tease him—everybody Shirley ran the show from behind the scenes. She reached her bony hand out to pat his arm, and was just Shirley again. Then she picked up her donut and took a bite. After chewing for a few seconds, she made a face and spit a pasty lump of chewed donut onto the plate. “Oh, what is that? Oh, God, it’s awful!” She leaned over the end of the table to spit on the concrete. “What is it? Shirley? Let me see.” He turned the napkin around to read what was written there. “Are you okay?” “I don’t know what is on that donut, but it is not food. It tastes, ugh, I don’t know…chemical.” She spit another mouthful of saliva on the patio. Will sat for a frozen moment. All of a sudden it hit him what somebody would put on a donut, trying to pass it off as sugar. “Shirley, I want you to go down to your office, call Poison Control. Tell them you have possibly ingested Phenolphthalein and do whatever it is they tell you after that. Then get Capt. Omant or anybody you can find—Tubbs is down there—he can drive you, and get to the emergency room.” “What is it, Will? Phenolpht—oh god, I got poison meant for Flasque? Dave Tyler was trying to poison Flasque?” She looked pale and shaky, but she got up and started into the building. As she crossed into the breezeway with him, she shook a finger up in his face, shooting him a no-nonsense stare over her steel rim glasses. “You know, you’re still going to have to tell me what’s wrong. You’re not getting off the hook just because I’m about to have a shit-fit.”

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Chapter Twenty Four Thursday night after work, Will went to the Sheppard Hospital. Shirley’s room was quiet. That was probably what freaked him out most about hospitals. That manufactured hush. He sat on a vinyl love seat under the window; positive this kind of furniture was designed for discomfort so people wouldn’t stay long. A ceramic pot of ivy sat on a table by his elbow, boasting a jaunty red bow and a card on a plastic fork: “Get Well Soon—From the Guys at Fuels.” A Mylar balloon with a similar message from the 361st floated on a curly ribbon, tied to a galvanized bucket full of gladiolas from the Captain. After a couple of days in intensive care, Shirley was able to have visitors. Vernon, her elderly husband, sat on a chair by her head, repeatedly stroking her veined, spotted hand. Intravenous tubes, taped in a knotty mass on the back of Shirley’s other hand, snaked up to fat bags of clear liquid hanging from a rack in the corner. She had aged years since Monday; pasty and colorless as the sheets she lay on. Her short gray hair stuck out in all directions and she looked helpless without her steel rim glasses. Tuesday morning, after she’d gone to the hospital, security police had come to the Bldg 980 and arrested Tyler. The kid didn’t bat an eye. He was more upset over missing his target than the fact that he was going to jail. Flasque had been strangely quiet through the whole thing, allowing Will to talk to the agents from the Office of Special Investigation, regroup the instructors, and send the airmen back to business. According to Rick, the bastard didn’t even go to the hospital. Just closed his door, locked it and screamed, “I’m busy!” when anyone knocked. Will hated hospitals, but he wanted Shirley to know he gave a damn. The nurse had said Shirley was finally out of danger, but that she shouldn’t be too active for a while. They didn’t know Shirley. She was asleep when he tiptoed in, but the second she opened her eyes, she glared at him and demanded in a hoarse whisper that he tell her what was wrong between him and Fiona. He tried to put her off, but she seemed agitated by his refusal, so he sketched the basics of his meeting with Flasque. “You let Flasque tell you such trash about Fiona and you believed him?” she croaked. “I gave you credit for more brains than that, Will.” “I went to her house, I asked her if it was true, and she said yes.” “A crossed wire somewhere. You know in your heart the picture Flasque painted can’t be real. The minute she got out of his office Monday, she marched down to the Captain for a meeting.” She stopped, her voice rasping, and Vernon held up a cup of water, bending the straw to her mouth. Lying back exhausted, she continued. “Flasque offered her the chance to keep her job; in return for the “favors” he accused her of granting the other guy. He didn’t say it in so many words, the cowardly bastard, so she played him along, saying how ‘grateful’ she would be, stalling for time. She wants him to make his intentions clear enough he can’t weasel out. Does that sound like somebody who would sleep with the boss to keep her job? She’s trying to send him to jail!” “Grateful? Flasque quoted her as saying that. Shirley, Fiona hasn’t been to work all week. She called in sick the night I talked to her. That doesn’t sound to me like she’s ready to

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bust Flasque for anything; it sounds like she’s hiding at home, embarrassed at being found out. Why would she tell me she had slept her way into the job if she hadn’t?” “Do you love her Will?” “You know I do. But I can’t…I can’t accept—” “What? That she’s not perfect? That she might have screwed up out of desperation? I am truly blessed to be in your presence if you’re so perfect you can judge. You are one of my favorite people on this earth, Will McCrae. But right now, you break my heart.” She turned her face to the wall, abruptly shutting him out. He got up, nodded toward Vernon, and walked out of the room, touching one of Shirley’s bony, blanket-covered feet as he passed. As the door shut on its pneumatic hinges behind him, he heard it whoosh open again. He turned to see Vernon, staring up at him, all rheumy eyes and liver spots. The old man’s hand shook as he reached up and clamped Will’s wrist in a surprising grip. He stood; old back hunched and old eyes peering up at Will’s face. “Young man. I don’t know you; so forgive me talking out of turn. Hearin’ you in there, whining about a mistake your lady made. Makes me mad. If my Shirley b’lieves in this girl, then I say you’re a fool not to.” Vernon’s voice wobbled and he looked around at the hall, the nurses’ station, and then back up at Will. “These have been long days. I didn’t know if my b’loved Shirley was goin’ to die. If she’d a died, I’d a gone too. Won’t live without her. I put forty-three years of love in m’prayers, and God gave Shirley back to me.” He closed his eyes, fumbled a giant paisley handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. His eyes were shiny when he looked up. “But even so, we’re old. Only got so many years. Love your woman. No matter what she done, love her. Don’t waste time.” ***** At Fiona’s closest estimate, the phone rang sixty times in three days. Thank God for answering machines. Kevin had been her lifesaver. He had gone to the funeral with her, helped her bring Momma’s things home from the center, and helped her keep her sanity through an endless procession of well-wishers dropping by with casseroles and condolences. Now that most of it was over, she was drained. Shoes. Belts. Purses. Coats. She sighed at the impersonal labels on her mother’s things. She had struggled with the idea all morning, but it didn’t matter. Other than a shoebox of photographs, letters, and small treasures, the rest would have to go. Fiona sat in the floor of the spare room, surrounded by the horribly labeled boxes, trying to remember what she was going to do with them. Am-Vets, something like that. Momma had always given to charities, no reason to stop now. Not AmVets. Good Will. Faith Mission? Oh well. She’d called. Somebody would be by Tuesday to pick everything up. The phone rang again. Flasque. It was now Friday, eight thirty a.m. Fiona had been up over four hours already. All the calls this morning—this one made six—had been no-message hang-ups, but she knew it was Flasque. At first she had listened to the messages, hoping. But the voice on the machine was never Will’s. By noon Wednesday, she’d given up.

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Apparently Flasque had not given up. On her Monday night call, she hadn’t said anything about Momma, just requested sick leave and hung up. Since then she’d had neither the time nor energy to wonder why she had done it that way. In fact, she barely remembered calling in at all. But after a day or two it dawned on her. She didn’t tell Flasque about Momma dying because she just didn’t want Will coming to see her out of pity. He might have called; come over, maybe even attended the funeral. Then, when it was decent to do so, he would freeze communication, just as he did Monday night, slamming the door shut on them, their love, and their future. She had called in “sick” because Flasque would have told the whole shop. Momma’s death was none of their business. Will had no part in it. Unfortunately, she still had some business to take care of in Building 980, and ignoring Flasque’s calls wasn’t going to make it go away. The phone rang again as she labeled the last box. Might as well get it over with. She ran to answer, snatching up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Hello?” “Fiona! You’re there! MSgt Flasque here.” “Yes.” “You must be one sick puppy indeed if you can’t answer your phone.” “MSgt Flasque, I have had good reason for not being there. Can you just take my word for it?” Silence on the other end…and then, “You aren’t avoiding me because of our little talk the other day, are you?” “No. In fact, I’m really anxious to get that…taken care of.” “Oh, good.” A chuckle. “Well, you know, I really hope you’re feeling better, but I’m going to have to insist that you bring a doctor’s letter to verify your condition. By the way, what is your condition? You seemed fine Monday evening after work.” If he chuckled again, she would scream. “Sir, I am terribly sorry to have handled things this way, but I don’t have a doctor’s letter.” Her voice caught on the words, and she silently cursed her weakness. What she needed was Iron Man’s cool approach, but she would settle for not crying. “Then you’ll need to get one, or come to work today.” “Will a copy of my mother’s obituary suffice? It came out in Tuesday’s paper. Maybe you already have a copy. Her name was Margery Wright.” “Oh lord, kiddo, I’m sorry! You should have said! No! You just finish up the week. Oh this is Friday. If you don’t feel like coming in Monday, you just take another day or two.” He questioned, clucked and consoled a few more minutes before she could finally hang up. She had expected it to feel more satisfying, shocking him like that, but she was wrung out. Maybe next week would be more satisfying. She would go back to work Monday, for two reasons. First, to help Captain Omant spring a trap to catch a pig. Second, to resign. She could manage—now that she didn’t have medical bills—to keep the house. She would have to work two jobs again, and her fledgling plan for a teacher’s magazine would remain a distant dream, but she would keep the house. If she kept that job at Fuels, she would lose her mind. Deciding she wasn’t up to any more packing at the moment, she filled the bathtub, lit a rainbow of candles, put borage oil in the smelly-pot, and some in the tub for good measure.

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Sinking into the steaming, fragrant water with a cup of tea, she tried to soak away her fatigue. She had to meet with Momma’s executor today at three. Then maybe she could be finished. The doorbell rang. Okay, maybe it would take a while longer to be finished. She was touched that so many people had been affected by Momma’s life, but at the moment, she really could not bring herself to smile at one more lady from Rider High, accept one more casserole, or find table space for one more vase of flowers. She was in mourning, but if felt more like hiding. If only… No. Don’t even think it. It’s not him. She thought she had shed all her tears. The last few days had left her parched, bruised and weary. But there was a grief she hadn’t faced yet, dreaded facing, and she was helpless in the face of its approach. As if the steaming bath water had soaked loose the binding she’d wrapped around that grief, she felt it rising in a hot, salty flood. Fiona put her face in her soapy hands and wept for the loss of her love.

Will listened to the fading ring of the doorbell, barely discernable amid the thunder of an impending early summer storm. The worst of tornado season, according to the locals, ran through the spring, but there was always a chance for a game of twister in Tornado Alley. He looked up at the mass of ominous gray, rolling in from the southwest. Funny how proud these people were of their tornadoes. Will didn’t mind. He liked the dramatic weather, too. What he didn’t like was standing here ringing a doorbell and getting no answer. He knew she was home. The Toyota sat twenty feet from him, and the house gave off a feeling like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to go away. After he’d left the hospital last night, Will had taken Ozzy for a run. They ran so long that Ozzy finally pulled back on the leash, looked at Will and sat down on the sidewalk. But it was a good run, helped clear his mind, gave him time to think about what a jackass he’d been. All these years, what was the one thing he had wanted from his family? Unconditional love. It didn’t matter if Fiona made a mistake. His instincts told him she was genuine, and he had let Flasque twist him around with half-lies and innuendo. Never even gave her a chance to tell her side. Talking to her on the phone seemed a chicken-shit way to fix things with her, but the image of ringing her doorbell with nothing but an apology struck him as pretty lame, too. He owed her so much—an apology to start with, but more than that. All his life he’d had to choose between duty and love… This morning, an hour into the Block IV lesson—the “bleeding baby whale” lesson—it occurred to him what to do. Jonas took his class and Will had gone home, loaded up the arbor and here he was. He pushed the doorbell one more time and listened to the ring die away. Well, sooner or later, she had to come out. He went to the truck and unloaded the mover’s dolly, slid the heavy bench down to the end of the truck bed. A blaze of lightening shattered the sky, and suddenly there were fat, splatting raindrops hissing down everywhere. Dramatic weather was fine, from indoors. Tipping the bench slowly down to the driveway, he stood it upright. Made of sturdy cedar and protected under several coats of varnish, it was meant to be outdoor furniture, but Will wanted it on the porch out of the rain for now. Dumb, but that’s what he wanted. He

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grinned at himself; maybe he was turning into a flake too. Wheeling the giant, tipping load up the small step to the porch, Will parked the thing not a foot from the door. She’d have to see it. On the back of a gas station receipt scrounged from the trash bag in his truck, he scribbled a note and tucked it under the wiper blade of her windshield. No, the rain would ruin it. It wasn’t much of a note, but if this was something he had to do in person, he sure wasn’t going to be able to do it on a three-inch piece of paper. He removed the wet note, and looked around. There. Picking up a soup-can sized rock from the flowerbed, he weighted the note on the bench seat. He took the Wellington Road route back to work, because she once told him she loved that drive. He loved it too. ***** “Kevin? It’s me. Apparently the phone works, but for how long in this weather is anybody’s guess. Just wanted to tell you that I’m here, the place is fine, and thank you. I needed this. I fed Farnsworth today, and plan to go home Sunday afternoon, but if you’ll feed him Saturday, and take him for a walk, and give him a bath, and sweet talk—yeah. Really funny. Thanks Kevin. I wish there were words to tell you how much you’ve helped me. Bye.” She hung up before she started crying again. Funny, just about the time she thought she was out of tears, something set her off again. It was pretty disgusting, the way she had blubbered for almost a week straight, but at least now she was alone, and nobody knew where to find her. The storm was in full fury now, and she could feel the trailer rocking a little with the force of the wind. It would have been one of the dumbest moves she’d ever made—staying in a mobile home with tornado weather overhead. Except Kevin’s mom had been deathly afraid of storms and had insisted on two cellars: one at their home in Burkburnett, and another one out behind this ancient tin can. Situated on a narrow lot southeast of Lake Arrowhead’s yacht club, the homely little trailer made the perfect hideaway. If things got too scary, she would be safe in the cellar. A beat-up little radio on the counter sent out grainy AM country music. For now, she just needed to think. The attorney had given her shocking news. Momma had put thirty thousand dollars of Father’s insurance money in an account after putting a down payment on the house. The thirty had grown under the administration of an investment manager. Now there was a hundred thousand in the account. She would have enough to pay off the house, five year’s worth of taxes, her car, and insurance. If she was very careful, she could live on part of it, and invest the remainder—did she even dare to think it?—in the magazine. Shaking water from her duffle bag, she unzipped it and took out the letter. The attorney had given her a key—so much like the one in her long-ago dream—to a safe-deposit box. In the box was a letter from Momma. She hadn’t wanted to read it there, with Garrison, his partner, two assistants, six secretaries and a UPS delivery guy standing around, so she’d put it away and finished her meeting. Then she went home, called Kevin, and got the keys for the trailer.

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Unfolding the letter as if it might fall apart in her hands, Fiona felt her heart squeeze at the sight of Momma’s slanted, lady-like script. “Dear Fiona. If you are reading this, you have attended my funeral. I made Garrison promise he wouldn’t tell you about the money or give you this letter until things had calmed down. I buried my own mother, and it is a hard thing to do.” Fiona’s eyes blurred with tears. Yes, Momma, it is. “As I write this, on my fifty-ninth birthday, Dr. Metcalf is hovering over, studiously attending me. Of course, I have suffered the Alzheimer’s long enough now that should my will be contested, it might not be worth the ink, but Dr. Metcalf said he could attest to my being ‘of sound mind’ long enough for me to sign this and put my affairs in order. I am not dying, but I feel as if I need to be ready. My greatest grief in this is that I will forget you, my darling daughter. I will forget your wild love of life and the joy you’ve brought me all these years. Forgive me for that? It is a fresh shock every time I ‘come back’ to realize that I’ve treated you like a stranger. Know that I love you, even when I am sick. Please, always know that. When your father died, we were renting a house, always on the idea that we would buy. Somehow we never got around to it. He was careful about insurance, however, and left me with enough to pay bills, get a good car, and put a down payment on a home. Actually, as you know now, there was more than that, but I had my job at Rider. I loved what I did there. The job was not glamorous, and I know you suffered teenage traumas about having your mother at your high school. But it is rare when one finds work he or she loves to do, and I enjoyed such a privilege for thirty-three years. I’m off the subject. Metcalf is looking at me with his horsey face, as if I’m on a timer, so I will finish. The point is I had to make a choice. We had a tough time making ends meet, you and I, but we never lacked. You will finish your college; of this I have no doubt. Paying your own way through school is good experience—another lesson I learned first hand—so I chose to let you do it yourself rather than pay it for you. With no way of knowing what you will do with your education, I can say only this: if you are not happy with whatever employment you have as you read this, then stop. Quit today! Use this money to find what you love to do. If you need to run off to a third world country and eat mush out of a gourd with natives, I don’t care. Do what you love. You always thought my life was so dreary. It wasn’t. I had your father, and then I had you. I was richly blessed.” The signature was a carefully scribed full name—Margery Elaine McIntire Wright—as if Momma had wanted even the personal letter to bear witness to her sound mind. Well then. Fiona wiped tears off her chin, carefully put the letter away and headed for the kitchen. Cup of tea, now. Momma had loved her job. The people she worked with loved her too…she was practically a legend for magically reforming half the juvenile delinquents at Rider High. But how could she have known Fiona would someday need this? She’d told her mother about the idea for a magazine, but the money had been quietly growing for twenty-one years by then. Oh Momma, if only I could have thanked you. I’ve said so many “if only’s” in the past week. They don’t change a thing, do they?

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She hoped that in heaven, her father was appreciating what a fine woman he had married. A sudden crash of lightening rattled the windows, and she looked up with a smile. I guess that means you know. She grabbed a questionable tea towel and wiped her nose. Her face was a soggy, snotty mess. Apparently she was never going to quit crying. Just as well she was going to quit her job; it’s deucedly hard to take notes when the instructor blubbers and cries through the lecture. She would be fine. All she had to do was get her act together long enough to go to work Monday, and nail Flasque to the wall. Preferably by his pecker. Then goodbye Aircraft Fuel Systems Maintenance. She didn’t let herself think whom else that goodbye was for. The note had said enough. This afternoon, coming out of the house on the way to meet Garrison, she had run smack into the most beautiful bench and arbor she had ever seen. It was huge…heavy wood, solid and sturdy. Rose and golden cedar glowed richly in the stormy light. Grape vines grew in carved profusion up and around and over, but the overall impression was one of dignified grace and gentility. Had he done this? Why? A rock held a note down in the center of the bench. She moved the rock and took the paper. Crumbs of mulch and potting soil stuck to it. She turned and sat, facing her open front door—she’d have to go around back to get out of the house— and unfolded it. Though wet, with ink running, it was still legible. “I owe you. Will” I OWE you? So this was just duty, paid in full? She closed her eyes. Deal with it Fiona. Don’t be a wimp and don’t start crying again. Get off your ass and go to the lawyer’s office before you are late. She had wadded the note and thrown it in the trash on her way through the house to the back door. The tea was ready. She took a cup to the bedroom, curled up on the bed by the window, and watched the storm over the lake. Maybe it was good that it worked out this way. She had made a beautiful dress for Olivia—even had a picture of the girl proudly modeling it—and now Will had paid the debt by bringing a beautiful arbor. She could not afford to see it as anything more. What is it people say about things like this? Oh yes. Closure. That’s what this was. Closure. The guys from Am-Vets would just have something else to haul away next week. After Monday, she would never have to think of Will McCrae again.

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Chapter Twenty Five Rosco had decided a fishing trip would cheer him up, after the hell he had been through this week. First, the bitch goes and seduces one of his top men and makes a fool out of him. Then she comes on like a professional whore during the counseling. He almost banged her right then, with people everywhere. Oh, and let’s not forget the fact a stupid little faggot tried to poison me with a donut. Just goes to show you never know what people are capable of. Anybody could be a psycho these days. Well, maybe he’d had some notion about Tyler. The kid had always been a little off in the head. The flight secretary out of commission had made a mess of the shop; phone calls, messages, mail, everything was screwed up. He’d gone to see Shirley, but she’d been asleep, thank god. He could at least say he went. Three insane days trying to call the Princess-Bitch at her house when all she had to do was tell him mommy dearest bought the farm. After her performance Monday night, he had been more than ready to let her make good on her promises the next day after work, maybe at lunch, even. It had been all he could think of, and when she didn’t show that day, he just about lost his mind. Then when she finally answered her goddamned phone, she had acted all prissy and entitled; was he was supposed to know her mom had kicked over? That’s all right though. He would get what was coming to him. She wasn’t going to cheat him out of his due. He had worked too damned hard for this. Pulling away from the dock, he had to swerve to miss some kids trying to get a jet ski under control. “Watch where the hell you’re going!” Damned kids. It was much better out on the open water. Rosco had several favorite spots on Arrowhead, one just south of Hobie-Cat Beach. Another, south east of the yacht club. There were some cabins along there, but a little north of them was a cove where the monster catfish lived. He had been trying to get that fish ever since he first saw it, five years ago. He’d been in the cove in this same boat when it rolled to the surface to catch a beetle, the fish’s huge graygreen side glistening suddenly a foot from the boat, scaring him so bad he’d broken out in gooseflesh. He could do with a little monster-fishing today. The motor revved and Rosco aimed the bow for the yacht club side of the lake. ***** Will tried to concentrate on staining the set of shelves in front of him, but he couldn’t. When he’d built the shop, he’d a phone line run out here so he wouldn’t miss a call from Olivia. The phone was originally white, but not anymore. There were tan, brown and dark red prints all over it from picking it up with stain on his hands. He glared at the phone now, but it remained stubbornly mute. He looked at the Budweiser clock over the door. Ten-thirty. With a disgusted sigh, he quickly finished the job at hand, knowing he would have to sand and re-stain it tomorrow. Granddad would be ashamed. “Sorry, Granddad, but if you

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knew the lady I’m all twisted up about, you’d understand. I wish you could have met her. You’d have wished you could see out of your glass eye.” Olivia once came out to the shop when Will was talking to his dead Granddad. She asked whom he was talking to. He told her, and God bless her, she acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. Said she used to talk to him when she was little, imagining her daddy working on planes and taking her to Six Flags. Sometimes it seemed that Olivia was more like Fiona than Paula. He’d always been too glad the girl didn’t take after her mother to wonder why. Well, hell. He was the one talking to empty air, maybe now he knew where Olivia got it from. Yep, he was a flake all right. All this time he’d thought it was opposites who attracted. Come on, Fiona. Call me. After one last brush-full of stain, and a handful of paper towels to wipe it off with, Will gave up the job and closed the shop. He had to go over there. He just couldn’t wait for her to call. If she’d missed his note, or misunderstood it, she might stay holed up in her house until Monday, when Flasque had said she was due back, and that was too late. Will would go insane by then. Lowering the tailgate, he whistled for Ozzie, who nosed his way out of the front screen door and loped across the yard to stand close, his head pushing sideways against Will’s hip. “Okay bud, we’re going to go see your pal Farnsworth. Up.” The dog leapt up and in, toenails scratching on the corrugated metal of the bed. It was littered with leaves and tree branches from last night’s storm. No tornadoes at least, but today’s air was oppressive, a smothering humid vapor on the skin. ***** Pulling up to Fiona’s house, Will’s mental alarm blared a warning. Her car was nowhere to be seen, and a ridiculous, green Chevy Luv pickup sat in its place. Where was she? He got out, and stepped to the back. “Oz, you need to stay here until I figure this out. Stay.” Ozzy lay down in a series of bony thumps with his head on the wheel well. On the porch, Will saw that the bench had been moved over in front of the windows, and there were boxes stacked all around it. The label on the top one, scrawled across in Fiona’s handwriting said; Shoes/Belts/Purses/Coats. Was she cleaning house? Moving? What was going on? He rang the doorbell. The door opened to reveal a tall, skinny blond man, maybe thirty years old, with aristocratic features and a cold look in his eye. “Is Fiona home?” Will asked. “No. Are you Will McCrae?” “Yes. I need to talk to Fiona. It’s important. Do you know where she is?” “Yes. But why now?” “What do you mean, ‘why now’?” “She’s been through hell this week, and you never even called to give your condolences. That was important, but you apparently have different priorities.”

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“What? Condolen…oh god. Her mother?” Will ran a hand through his hair and turned a panicked full circle. “Oh, I’m sorry. Tell me where she is…I have to find her…oh poor Fiona. Is she okay? Oh, stupid, I’m sorry. Where is she?” The man’s face lost some of its coldness. “Come in.” he said, and stepped back to allow Will to enter. “I have to talk to her. Why didn’t she tell Flasque? Oh, goddamn him, I bet she did, and he didn’t say…she must have thought I didn’t…oh God. What have I done?” Will closed his eyes and did one of Fiona’s hokey breathing things. When he opened his eyes, the panic was still there, but he felt more in control. “Okay. Let me start over. I’m Will McCrae.” He stuck out his hand. Too late he noticed the wood stain all over it, but the guy shook it anyway. “I’m Kevin Dooley. Fiona’s old roommate.” “Good to finally meet you.” Will did his best at a smile. Impatience flapped around in his heart, making it hard to be civil. “Likewise. Although I have to say, I’ve really wanted to beat the shit out of you for the last week.” “Knowing what I do now, I want to beat the shit out of me too.” For a long minute, Kevin said nothing. Will found himself under appraisal. He clamped down on the impatience and looked Fiona’s friend in the eye. Kevin nodded and said, “I’m here feeding Farnsworth. You want something to drink?” “No, thank you. I really want to find Fiona and straighten things out with her. I don’t know how much she told you, but I have recently made one of the biggest mistakes of my life, and I am in a big hurry to fix it. Please tell me where she is.” “You know Lake Arrowhead?” “I’ve been out there a time or two. It's about forty-five minutes south of here. Down 281, east on Hwy 1954, right?” He shifted his weight from one foot to another. Look, you’re a great guy, but can we hurry this up? “Yep. My folks have a lake cabin out there, and I gave her the keys so she could get away from all this for a while. C’mon. I’ll draw you a map so you can find the cabin. That thing is so rusted and covered with mom’s vines, you could probably drive right by and never see it.” Kevin grabbed pencil and paper and sketched a quick map of the state park entrance, the lake in general, and the road that led around the many coves and inlets to the trailer. He made a little X on the end of a small peninsula. “Here. She said she wanted to stay ‘til Sunday afternoon, so she’ll still be there. The phone number’s here on the bottom.” “No, I don’t want to do this over the phone.” He took the map and studied it. “Um, Will?” Will looked up to find the man’s eyes cool and appraising again, but not entirely unfriendly. “Yeah?” “You should know I think of Fiona as a little sister. She is unique in this world. Just about my best friend. As stupid and cliché as this might sound, if you hurt her, I will do my very best to kick your ass.” Will probably outweighed the man by fifty pounds, he had no doubt the words were sincere. “I’m glad you’re Fiona’s friend. I appreciate that you’ve been here. You have a right

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to be protective. I’ve already hurt her, so badly I can only pray she forgives me. But I do love her. I will do everything in my power to make this right.” He took a deep breath. “She said her father died when she was little. If I were to ask for her hand in marriage, I guess you’d qualify as next of kin, right?” Kevin’s eyes widened and a slow smile crept over his narrow features. “I am a sort of honorary big brother. Yes. You may court my sister. But marriage? You’ll have to take that up with her. Good luck.” Will took the map, said goodbye to Fiona’s ex roommate and ran out to the truck. For the first time in a week, he felt optimistic. He was going to get her back, no matter what. He reached over and scrubbed the fur on the dog’s shoulder blades. “Sorry Ozzy, no lizard chasing today. Although there are probably rabbits out at the lake. You up for that?” The dog let loose a volley of deep barks. Evidently Ozzy was up for a rabbit chase. ***** It was hot, muggy, and still on the lake. Rosco had rigged himself a golf-umbrella shade over his seat, but sweat rolled down his back, soaked his shirt, and stuck his jeans to his thighs. Even an ice-chest full of beer hadn’t helped, and it was already almost noon. For the first time in his life, he could not enjoy fishing. There was no justice in the world. When the one thing he loved failed to make him feel better, what was he supposed to do? He kicked at the empty cans in the floor of the boat. He reeled in the lure he’d cast, just this side of a fallen log, and started the motor. A flash of movement on the shoreline to the south caught his eye. The trailers and cabins in this little cove were all shoved together on quarter-acre lots. But the one on the end, on the peninsula, stood out by itself. A rusted out trailer, covered with flowering vines. Even from here he could see bright red dots. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. It was the girl sunbathing on the end of the pier. She had turned over, and lay now on her stomach on a chaise lounge, facing out toward him. Looked like she could use some sun—she was pale as a fish-belly. Rosco smiled to himself. Maybe she wanted help with her sunscreen. He eased the boat out of the tree stumps and shallows of the cove, and headed that way. As he got nearer, his jaw dropped open in amazement. It couldn’t be. Too much Princess-Bitch on the brain, that’s all. Now he pasted her face on every skinny white girl he saw. But drawing closer, within ten yards of the end of the pier, he grew certain. It was Fiona Wright, practically naked on a boat dock, like a gift from God. Rosco smiled and closed his eyes. This was better than any orange couch fantasy he had ever dreamed.

The buzz and bubble of a boat motor brought Fiona out of her thoughts. She had been planning who all she could contact to get the magazine off the ground, who would be helpful, and who would be helped. The sound of a boat wasn’t unusual, but the fact that it was slowing down, maybe even coming closer, was.

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She raised her head off the towel pillowed beneath her, and shaded her eyes trying to see in the glare. There was a boat, and it was headed straight toward her. A short burly man, face shaded by the bill of a cap, sweat-soaked faded plaid shirt. The sun glared too brightly to see much else. Until he got closer. No. It couldn’t be. Yes, it was. Rosco Flasque. She scrambled off the chaise lounge, threw her towel around her, snatched her glasses, and headed for the trailer, tripping once when her flip flop twisted under foot. No way could she handle him right now. It just wasn’t fair. She would pretend she didn’t see him. Maybe she could get to the trailer and slip in. Maybe he had just been heading for a place to tie up, and didn’t recognize her. Maybe it wasn’t even him. ***** Will didn’t mind the drive to Lake Arrowhead. It gave him time to think. The optimism he had started out with, fueled by Kevin’s blessings and his own determination to find her, make it up to her, was smothering in remorse. Her mother had died. She hadn’t called him. Hadn’t felt she could. He had stripped her dignity away, insinuated filthy things about her, and slammed the door in her face. As bad as that was, it’s done. You can’t change it. He had to move forward. What did she need now? How could he help her? Was she going to come back to work? Shirley had said Fiona had a plan to take care of Flasque. Take care of him how? How could she prove he’d held her job over her head in coercion for sex? Did she plan to put herself in danger just to send this guy to jail? Knowing her, that was exactly what she planned to do. He thought of everything she’d overcome, months of training to teach a job she’d never done. Practical jokes. Harassment. Sabotage. Looking at it from that angle, it didn’t make sense that she would have traded sex for that kind of misery. Somebody willing to screw for a job would take the easy way, quit, or at least try to coast on the surety of a bargain struck. If she had slept her way into the job, then why would Flasque need to threaten her? Wouldn’t it have been easy? He had gone to a lot of trouble, trying to make her seem inept, unprofessional, and possibly dangerous to the students. Of course, our kissing in the equipment room just played right in there didn’t it? Good job, Will. Way to look out for your woman. The thing was, he loved her. Even if she had made a desperate mistake to get a job, what they had together was real. Now to get to her and tell her just that. Please God, let her forgive me? Kevin’s map said to turn left immediately before the state park gate. Turn right onto a gravel road, several miles over the dam, past the yacht club, and then in and out of a million little coves. The lake on the map looked like an amoeba. He began to get impatient again. ***** Flasque’s cheery voice called out, “Fiona! Whoa! Hey girl! Whatchoo up to on this fine day?” Looping a nylon rope around the dock cleat, he stepped up out of the boat, climbed the

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short ladder and was on the dock before she knew it. “You oughtta be careful, you’ll catch a sun burn out here, bein’ so pale. Be a shame to ruin that beautiful complexion. Then you’ll look as weathered and leathery as me!” Rosco let out a hearty laugh. She froze. What to do? Two choices. Choice number one, run and scream, make a big noise and hope to get help. That would probably keep him away and she would be safe. It would simplify Monday by a long way—she could just turn in resignation papers and leave. He sure as hell wouldn’t believe a seduction ruse after that. But if she ran, this slimy bastard would get away with what he’d done to her, what he’d done to that other woman. Choice two; play him along, make him think she had to leave but was oh-sodisappointed about it, and then get out quick as possible. Just keep his hopes up long enough that she could still maneuver him Monday. “Is that you? Rosco! How are you?” Rosco caught up with her at the end of the dock, headed up a gravel path to the cabin. The path was lined on either side with fist-sized rocks. Kevin’s mother had planted flowerbeds and ugly yard-art on almost every square foot of ground around the trailer. While she would never do this to her yard, she liked the overdone, granny-tended look. She’d intended to enjoy the shade on the small covered deck at the end of the day, drink tea and watch the sun set over the water. Maybe she could still do that. But first she had to get rid of Flasque. “You know, you don’t look so bad in that little what’s-it, bikini?” “It’s called a tankini, because this part’s a tank top. Come on in and have a glass of tea.” They stepped up on the deck. He’d had a few beers, by the smell of him. She opened the door, just enough so she could peek in and see the clock. Then she slammed it shut and started exclaiming loudly in what she hoped would pass for flustered alarm, “Oh my gosh! It’s after twelve! Oh no. It takes forty-five minutes to get back to town. I’ll be late! I’m sorry, Rosco, but I have to go right this minute. I’m supposed to meet with a…philanthropic group. Momma left money for charities.” Rosco was standing beside her on the shaded porch. He looked at her coolly for a long minute, and said, “You know what, I need a glass of water before I pass clean out, then you can get on the road and I’ll get out of your hair. You can’t keep a bunch of blue-haired old ladies waiting, can you?” Big rowdy har-har from Flasque. She didn’t want him in the trailer, but it sounded like her plan was working. “Sure!” she said brightly. “Just a minute though, I’m really late.” Fiona clutched her towel around her and opened the door to the trailer. ***** Apparently the residents of Lake Arrowhead did not believe in road signs. The Yacht Club had a sign; a blank, peeling, once-white board, wired to the gate. He only knew it was the Yacht Club because he could see the masts of fifteen or so sailboats poking up on the other side of a small lodge a hundred yards down the dirt drive. After cruising along at a frustrating twenty miles an hour—the road was too rough to go any faster—and finding nothing but fishing coves, two or three cabins and what appeared to be a defunct bait store, Will finally gave up and stopped to ask if he was on the right road.

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He pulled into a short gravel driveway with a living-room size yard and knocked. Maybe somebody along here would know the Dooley’s. A middle-aged lady with her hair in a scarf and freckles on her brown chest answered the door. She was obviously drunk, slinging orange-juice-and-something all over the place. Drunk and friendly. She propositioned him right there on the deck. Maybe her husband should spend less time fishing. Unfortunately she didn’t know Mr. and Mrs. Dooley, and almost fell over the railing when she leaned out, pointing to several other small juts of land with trailers on them. Will thanked her for her time, left her standing on the deck talking to herself. Headed for his truck, he wiped juice-and-something off his arm. He must have given it too much gas pulling out, because the tires shot gravel out from under them and hit the windows of her car. Will cursed the air blue in the cab of his truck and pushed in the clutch, letting the truck idle. “Hey!” She might be drunk but she was fast. Screeching about police and lawsuits and juvenile delinquents, she sort of lurched around to stand by his window. “I’m calling the cops! You can’t break windows and then peel out. Lookit!” She waved a hand at the beat-up Chrysler sedan. Of course Ozzy chose that moment to stand up and growl. Of course the woman went off like a fire alarm. Will sighed, cut the engine and got out. In the military, it doesn’t matter if it’s an accident—a police call is a bad thing to have on your file. If you break a window, you have to settle it. In this case, he hadn’t broken a window, but he still had to settle it. “Ma’am, it’s okay. It’s okay. He won’t bite. Ozzy—down. Now, let’s go see if that window is broken, ma’am. I’ll pay for it if it is, I promise.” ***** Rosco had seen the lie in her eyes. Stupid bitch thought she could fool him. This whole thing was a game for her. So why play along like this? So she could rob him of everything. The Captain had hated him even back when they worked at Hurlburt together. He’d love to watch Rosco get shoved out of the Air Force without retirement. Miss Grateful’s porn queen act last Monday made sense when he looked at it like that. She thought she’d set a little trap? Suddenly his blood pounded in his head and he felt sick. She stood there half naked and treated him like a fool. Well, she couldn’t set a trap out here, could she? McCrae believed she propositioned Rosco to keep her job, he had seen it in the man’s eyes the other night. Nobody would believe her now if she hollered rape. He got hard at the thought. Stepping from the brightness of the day to the darkness of the trailer, he was blinded for a moment. The stupid little twist went to the kitchen sink, got a plastic Big-Gulp cup from the strainer, and poured water from the tap. He didn’t even rate ice in his lake-water? Didn’t matter. He eased the fishing knife on his belt out of its sheath. When she approached, he took the water with his left hand, and kept the right hand behind his back. Pretending to drink, he walked around behind her. It was easy. Dropping the cup on the floor, he reached his arm around her waist and laid the knife blade to her throat. She didn’t even scream. He could feel her trembling like that goddamn ankle-biter dog his ex-wife used to have.

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“You know what? You’re gonna pay for insulting me. Miss Princess, Miss I’m Too Good For You. You come into my shop, mince around like a princess, flashing your tight little ass around as if we should just all drop to our knees and kiss your feet. You never intended to honor your side of the bargain, did you? Lying bitch. I gave you so many chances. Could have had you fired a long time ago. “Now you can pay for those chances.” With his arm around her waist, he squeezed as he said the words, enjoying how she gasped out helplessly each time. “You will pay for every time you teased and pranced around my goddamned office, you will pay for every time you put me off, you teasing bitch.” He stuck his nose into the dark mass of hair down her back, and breathed deeply. He would enjoy making her pay. He moved his mouth over her shoulder to her ear, keeping the knife steady, and whispered, “Well, Miss Fiona Wright, it looks like you’re Miss Wrong. Heheh. I kill me sometimes. What we are going to do now is head for the bedroom. That will be so much nicer than a little bitty couch, won’t it?” ***** With Drunk Lady mollified and back on her porch, Will finally got back on the road. Ozzy had kept up a low-grade growl deep in his chest that had made things more difficult than they already were, but once Will had gotten her away from the truck and walked her around the car, she settled down. He’d taken care to pull out of the yard without moving so much as a leaf. Now he bounced along the rutted road at a speed too fast to do the suspension of his truck much good. Too bad. Something twisted in his gut and told him to hurry. ***** Fiona shook with terror, but she tried to focus. Wouldn’t do to lose her head. Rosco squeezed her hard, his sweating belly pushed into her back; she could barely breathe, let alone walk. But he shoved her along, stumbling. The knife blade lay cold and lethal against her throat, angled up under her jaw. Had to find a way to get loose. What could she use? What could she hit him with? The trailer was small; it didn’t take long, even at their stumbling pace, to get to the bedroom on the end. A few more steps to the bed. On the nightstand. A flashlight. He lifted the pressure off her ribs, and breathed words in her ear “I’m going to turn you around. You’re gonna sit on the bed. You think you’re going to hit me with that flashlight? Think again. I have a knife to your throat. It don’t take long to bleed out from the jug’ler. I've hunted deer plenty of times, Miss Fiona. You’ll bleed out faster than a deer ‘cause your heart’ll still be beatin’. Just pumpin’ blood out. It’ll be a shameful waste of pussy, killin’ you, but I don’t think I’ll mind too much.” With the knife blade still firm under her jaw, she did as he said, turned around and sat facing him. He’d cut into her a little, when he said ‘pumpin’. A quick, cold slice, and then a trickle of blood running warm down her throat. Would he kill her? Was this how the whole mess was going to play out? Not even his greed for retirement and easy living was going to

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save her now. At some point, Rosco Flasque had gone over the edge. He smelled like fish and beer and insanity. He squinted jovial blue eyes at her and reached down to kiss her. It took everything she had not to scream. With one hand holding the knife, he unbuttoned his pants with the other and fiddled around trying to get himself free of his shorts. Fiona closed her eyes against a hysterical urge to laugh. Oh please, Momma, if you can hear me, tell God to send the police? And help me not laugh in this man’s face. I don’t want to die this way. “You teased me for months, Fiona. You knew what you were doin’.” Flasque apparently had a problem; he was not going to rape her with that, anyway. Working frantically with left hand, he tried to get things to work. “You’re a cock-tease. Worse since you’ll do it for money. At least an honest whore renders a service for what she’s paid. There’s only one way to treat a teasin’, lyin’, cheap little twist like you.” She closed her eyes, but he screamed, “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” The urge to laugh disappeared as reality sank in. She would die here with the stink of this filth on her. Tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. For some reason the image of Will’s face filled her vision. She had only one weekend with him. She’d known what it is to be loved. He loved her no matter how angry he was. Given time to tell him, she could have won him back. But now she would die, never having the chance. Salty tears stung when they reached the cut. Flasque must have liked her tears. He suddenly had no erection problem and it was at this point he said, “Lay down on your back. Now, let’s get those bikini bottoms off, Miss Wright. It’s time for a little pay-back.” When she resisted, he shoved her down flat on the bed and held her down with a hand on her throat. He cut the side-ties of her bathing suit, yanked the fabric down, and climbed over her, the knife under her chin again. The rest happened so fast; she never was sure how it all transpired. The curtains over the open window swung out, brushing her face and blinding her with sunlight as a vacuum pulled air through the trailer. She heard “Fiona?” and had time to scream “Will!” before a giant, growling, wheat-colored blur flew through the air. Flasque fell hard on top of her but he couldn’t hold the knife to her throat anymore: Ozzy slung him back and forth like a terrier shakes a rat. Blood began to rain down all around the room as Will called off the dog. Flasque lay on the bed, half on her, half off, blood all over his face and the back of his neck. His eyes were open, and he was breathing, but he was in shock. Will rolled the man off of her, letting him thump to the floor at the foot of the bed. Ozzy growled and stood over his body. Then she was in Will’s arms, safe, trembling, and crying like a baby. How could one person make so many tears in a week?

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Chapter Twenty Six Will and Fiona sat together on the new bench on her porch, surrounded by boxes of Momma’s things. In the west, the sun disappeared and left the sky full of peach and purple and deep blue. She had thought to see that sky from the dock at the lake cabin. She didn’t know what to say to Will. He had charged to her rescue inexplicably, like a white knight in a fairy tale. Helped her through the ordeal with the police. Followed her home to be sure she got here safely—he hadn’t wanted her to drive her car, but she didn’t give him any choice. He made her take a shower then eat a bowl of cereal. Doctored the shallow cut on her throat. Through the whole thing, he acted like they’d been together for years. Didn’t make any grand declarations, never once mentioned the events of the last week. He moved around her and touched her sympathetically enough. It was as if they were an old married couple, too accustomed to one another for scorching passion, connected by the innate bond of a life together. She used to envy people who had that. Now she sat on the bench with him, and didn’t know what to say. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I love you, Fiona.” “What?” He reached for her hand. “Maybe I should give you more time—you’ve been through so much now. I can tell you the rest later. But before anything else happens to keep you from hearing me; I love you.” Purple shadows had begun to settle around them on the porch. Ozzy lay at their feet, sprawled on his side, and Fiona propped her feet on the great barrel of his ribs. Not looking at Will she said, “You told me you loved me last Saturday, too. Is this just a weekend thing, then?” “Oh, please.” The pain in his voice made her look up at him. “Just kidding. Sorry. So. You love me? Is that why you came to the cabin? You were the last person in the universe I expected to see right then.” “I know. I tried to tell you—at least start it off—with the note on the bench, but I’m not much of a note-writer. When you didn’t call me, I thought you must have misunderstood it, and I couldn’t wait until Monday.” “I’m glad you didn’t wait.” Curiously, she felt that she had reached the end of her tears. She summoned an image of Flasque’s face. Nope. Nothing. Momma’s death? Still hard to accept, but she kept seeing that peacefully sailing ship on its shiny horizon. She felt warm, boneless, and heavy. Not a tear left in her. How odd. “I’m glad, too. Oh, God help me, when I saw…” Will felt her head drop against his shoulder and looked down. Fiona was hard asleep, like Olivia when she was little. “Just can’t get enough of my sparkling wit and riveting conversation, is that it?” He eased out from under her, and scooped her up in his arms. The trick was to get her over the boxes—she was skinny, not weightless—but he managed to lug her to the door and get it open without whacking her head on the doorjamb. Her head flopped back, mouth hanging open. He never loved her more than right then. “I don’t think you’ll count this as

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carrying the bride over the threshold, Fiona, but you should know I’m not going anywhere after this.” Will took his sleeping beauty to her bed, tucked her in, and spent the night on the couch.

When Fiona woke, it was dark outside. The clock on the nightstand said nine-thirty. She must have taken a nap, but wow. Given how refreshed she felt, she must have slept hard. A little stiff, and starving, but fresh, alert, revitalized. Where was Will? As if he heard her thought, he appeared at the door to her room, bearing a cup of Earl Gray in her favorite pottery cup, tea bag still in, just the way she liked it. He sat on the edge of the bed, in a gym shorts and t-shirt, looking at her curiously. “So how are you, sleeping beauty?” “I feel great. Perfect. I haven’t felt this rested in…I really don’t remember. Years.” “Well, you should. You’ve been asleep twenty six hours.” “What?” She flopped back against the headboard, stunned. “Don’t sound so shocked. You needed it. It’s Sunday night, though, and I have to go to work in the morning.” She’d just gotten him back! “Are you leaving?” “Not unless you make me. Olivia brought over my uniform—Paula was probably dying to know where you live anyway. I figured I’d sleep on the couch again, but thought maybe we could talk a while first. We have a lot to catch up on.” He settled on the bed next to her and leaned back against the headboard. “Yes.” She looked at his fine face and leaned down to smush her nose against his shoulder. He smelled like everything she’d ever need. Her feelings were a jumble of gratitude and passion, but overriding all of it was a hunger to be close to him. “Will, please sleep in here with me.” “I hoped you’d say that. After your little Rip Van Winkle episode, you’re probably not sleepy in the least, are you?” He caught her hand between both of his and began rubbing the knuckles with his thumbs. “Not really. I’ll read, though. Maybe I’ll sleep later tonight. Let’s talk for now. I heard you mention something to the police about a poisoning at work? Tyler? What has gone on there?” Turning her hand over to rub the palm and fingers, Will began with Tuesday morning, told her about Shirley, about Tyler, and about Flasque’s bizarre behavior all week. Fiona sat, astounded, as he finished. She stretched out on the bed, and Will stretched out beside her. He laced her fingers between his and rolled over to kiss her nose. Looking across her pillow at him she asked, “Does that make you the Instructor Supervisor in Flasque’s place?” “He’ll most likely get busted down to Airman Basic, spend three to five in jail, and then be out with a dishonorable discharge. So, yes, I guess I’m the new supervisor. I’m not sure what to do about you, though. In the military, you can’t just say ‘No thanks, I’ll pass’ when you’re given a job. I’ll be your boss. I think you know the complications involved with that.”

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She nodded. “No fraternization with students and bosses. Got it. I guess that’s okay. It won’t be a problem now.” “I don’t think it’ll be a problem either, but something tells me our grounds for thinking so are different. Why is it okay for you?” “Because…I quit. You’re the boss, so I guess this is me—turning in my resignation.” She leaned up and kissed his lips lightly. “What?” Will leaned up on his elbow and looked down at her. “What about your house? You need this job!” “Now I don’t. Momma left me enough money to pay off the house, the car, put some in the bank, and start the magazine I told you about. I never knew what I wanted to do with my journalism degree. It seemed impossible that I would ever find work without leaving here. Mike kept saying I should come to Dallas, that I could find work there. But I wouldn’t move.” “Mike?” Fiona felt him tense against her. “The married guy I dated before I came to Fuels. The one who made a deal with somebody on base to get me that job—who knows what Good Ol’ Boy favor Mike paid him back with. I didn’t know he was married until he told me. Apparently he was afraid I’d tell his wife, so he tossed me the instructor job as a consolation prize to keep me quiet.” Will would have loved Fiona for the rest of his life, taking old Vernon’s advice—would have loved her unconditionally. But hearing the real story of her job rolled a boulder off his chest he hadn’t known was there. “Forgive me.” “For what?” He reached down and traced a thumb over her bottom lip. “I believed something about you that Flasque had twisted around…partly because our talk fed into a misunderstanding, but mostly because I’m an idiot.” “Hey…Pobody’s Nerfect, right? All is forgiven. I was ashamed of taking a job that way, but I should have told you. If I had, this whole thing would never have happened. The thing is, for the first time in my life, I know what I want to do. Momma said it is a rare privilege to do what you love for a living. I think we can both have that now.” He lay down and propped his head on his hand, still looking into her eyes. “I’m glad you found what you want. You’ll be perfect at it. The students are going to miss you, though. The guys say their airmen are asking why they don’t get to play with Play-doh in their classes like Miss Wright’s did. “Jonas brought checkers and chess games in for the airmen on break. Tubbs has taken to—get this—using aromatherapy. You might tutor him there…his classroom smells like a science experiment involving dead rats and fresh flowers. Rick caught one of his airmen with a watch in the lab and made the kid write a letter to the parents of all the students he would have killed in an explosion. A little grim, but I bet that airman never wears a watch in the lab again. Rick said you gave him the idea. “You’ve really left your mark there. As the instructor supervisor, I need to learn all about this educational stuff; can I subscribe to your magazine?” “You can read my copy, before it even goes to press. So…what was your reason?” She felt a wobbly giddiness begin to stir in her belly, and tried to ignore it. She didn’t want to imagine something…

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“Reason for what?” “For it being okay if you were my boss.” Will grinned and said. “Well, your way is better, given the stiff-necked way those government types stick to the rules,” he flapped his hand, “but I know how we could have avoided the scandal of fraternization.” His eyes grew dark and serious. “Marry me, Fiona.” Time ticked out seconds, and then she said, “Tomorrow, if you want.” He leaned down and kissed her hard. She returned it, and the heat blossoming through her body replaced the giddiness with lust. She hoped Will had taken a nap today, because he wasn’t going to get any sleep for quite a while. Pulling him down with her to the pillows, she put her face against his warm throat, and said, “You know, it’s a good thing my reason is better. I’d hate to think you wanted to marry me just for the convenience of an office romance.” Will didn’t get to sleep until long after midnight. ***** “Good Gawd, Fiona, would you hold still?” Shirley stood on a footstool and struggled to pin Fiona’s hair up. “It won’t be my fault if you look like a drunk going down the isle with your hair hanging in your face.” “I missed you, Shirley. Your warmth and sweet words.” Fiona laughed and tried to hold still. “You should really try to toughen up a little, all your sappy sentiment is going to make my dress soggy.” “Smartass. There. Perfect.” She smacked Fiona on the rear and then stepped back to look. “Well, you look more like you’re going to Woodstock than a wedding, but you’re beautiful. Will McCrae is a lucky man.” She looked at Fiona over her glasses. “And, I must say, you’re a lucky woman.” “I know. Believe me, I know. It’s still scary; we never really do know what’s going to happen, do we? But I love him so much I can’t breathe sometimes. I have to be with him, for as long as we have.” She took a deep breath and looked at the clock. “I guess it’s time.” “It sure is, hon. Let me go in and tell them we’re ready. When you hear the music, just do your thing.” She winked and shut the door behind her. Fiona and Will had chosen to marry in September in the small chapel at Lucy Park. The music started—Bonnie Raitt and John Prine in a low-key folk duet. Not exactly wedding music, but it expressed what Will meant to her. With Will’s blessing, she’d rewritten the traditional wedding ceremony, changing the tone of Brother Lester’s script. Love and honor were a universal given, but the whole “obey” thing was just too much. She stepped out the door, took Kevin’s arm. Will stood up at the front in jeans, boots, and a silk shirt. The love on his face made her eyes fill. But these were fine, welcome tears, and they made the chapel look sparkly with all the candlelight. As the music played, she and Kevin began the slow walk up the isle. Shirley was the maid of honor, Olivia and Tina bridesmaids. Ozzy, as best man (best dog? Best man’s best friend?), stood by Jonas, Tubbs, and Rick, the groomsmen. Ozzy had a fancy collar for the wedding; it bore a tiny satin pillow, the rings tied on with ribbons and tiny bells.

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Brother Lester, round and jolly and very Baptist, stood next to Will, a roll of red flesh pouching over the tight collar of his suit. She and Kevin stopped at the predestined spot on the carpet. Kevin squeezed her hand and when she looked over at him, he winked and whispered, “Here you go, kid.” Her stomach was fluttery, but with butterflies finally—beautiful ones. Brother Lester broke through her thoughts with “who gives this woman in marriage?” Kevin said, “I do.” He squeezed her hand again, handed her up to Will, and sat on the nearest pew. She and Will stood side by side, not touching. Brother Lester’s chins wobbled over his collar as he began. “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony. For Marriage is a sacred contract, consecrated by the willing devotion to God’s laws…” Huh? Fiona listened as the preacher ground out a sermon on the dire consequences to be visited upon spiritual lawbreakers. This was not the version they had rehearsed last night. What’s up? She tried to catch Brother Lester’s eye, but he looked down at his bible, and then beamed out to the people behind her. “Marriage is a leap of faith these days” he said to a scattering of laughter. “We have to believe that even when things don’t go as we plan, there is a reason. If we will only persevere in the way that we should go, God will show us the direction for our lives.” He was ad-libbing? This was not what he’d said last night. Maybe he’d shortened it last night to keep the rehearsal time down. “Fiona Wright is a dear child, known to me since she was born. Her dear mother, Margery—God rest her soul—was a faithful member of our church for almost forty years. At Faith Way Baptist church, we welcomed her, along with her daughter, hoping that Margery’s consistent, loyal, and enduring presence in our church would prove a blessing and example for everyone.” On the ‘everyone’ he looked at Fiona and—she would have sworn it—glared! Okay, this had gotten weird. First a shameless plug for Faith Way, which always sounded like a merger between a church and a grocery store, and now this stuff about how Momma went to church all the time? Brother Lester, you’re a great guy, for a windbag, but now is not the time to lecture me on my church attendance. He continued, and finally got back to the matter at hand. “We are here to witness the marriage of Will and Fiona, and to attest that in marrying in the sight of God, they will strive to keep to His Precepts and attend His House,” he looked at Fiona again, “as faithful servants.” Momma, I picked Brother Lester because you loved him. But if he makes one more crack about me going to his church, I will not be responsible for my actions. She’d hired a rogue preacher. The sermon wedding went on for another five minutes, while she grew more and more pissed off. Will looked at her several times in a not-so-telepathic signal to be patient. But this was their wedding! Finally he reached over and took her hand. His touch was warm and rough, and Fiona calmed instantly. The familiar sense of rightness washed through her, and she looked up at him. The smile on his face threatened to make her eyes fill again, but she couldn’t stop looking at him. Until Brother Lester spoke up again. “Fiona, do you take Will to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to honor and obey, to—” That did it.

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This roly-poly preacher man might have been Momma’s favorite on the pulpit, but he’d ridden roughshod over every single thing Fiona had told him. “No!” The collective intake of fifty breaths sounded behind her, followed by ringing silence. Will’s hand went instantly hot in hers. She looked up at him and tried to smile reassuringly. He didn’t appear reassured. “Brother Lester, I hate to do this, but you are so fired!” No way was she going to let this clown ruin her wedding day. Said clown was now turning a fascinating shade of puce and sputtering. “Fiona, my dear, what are you…” “I respectfully request that you go sit down. If you want to lecture me on my church attendance, fine. If you think women should obey men, fine. But save it for the pulpit. You’re on our time, now.” Brother Lester’s eyes flew open. He drew in a deep breath—as much as he could, given the confines of that tight coat—and huffed it out in her face. He smelled like Tums. “You are ruining your wedding, young lady, and your life too, if you don’t get back to church!” “I appreciate your concern. But while your intentions are great, Brother, but your method sucks.” Brother Lester turned a shade of red to rival Bingham at his best. With great dignity, the round little preacher stalked down off the stage, down the isle, and out into the front hall of the chapel. Fiona felt a surge of relief. Will apparently didn’t. He stood still as a rock. “So you don’t want to marry me?” he asked quietly. She looked up at him and put a hand to his face. “Of course I want to marry you. So much so, I couldn’t stand him ruining our day. This is too important. Do you trust me? We can do the legal stuff later.” The corners of his mouth twitched, and he said, “For some reason, none of this really surprises me. I should probably see a doctor. Promise me we’ll take care of the ‘legal stuff’ before the marriage license runs out, and I’ll go along with whatever you come up with.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I promise.” She turned around to the congregation and geared up her instructor voice. “Friends, there’s been a change of plans. It won’t take but a minute, so if you’ll all stay seated, we’ll straighten this out very soon. Thank you for your patience.” Will watched as Fiona stepped up on the dais and whispered in Shirley’s ear. Shirley shook her head so hard her glasses almost flew off, and glared at Fiona, but it did no good. Fiona Wright was irresistible when she really wanted something—he’d known that for a while. With a huge sigh, Shirley nodded, whispered a few things back and forth with Fiona, and then the two of them turned to face the congregation. Shirley didn’t look happy. Fiona addressed the crowd again. “For those of you who don’t know her, this is my dear friend, Shirley Kominsky. She has agreed to conduct the ceremony. If you’re worried about legalities, stop. We have much more enjoyable things to think about.” Will marveled at this insane woman he was about to marry. Six months ago she couldn’t speak in front of five people without throwing up. Now she was a Vegas lounge act. He grinned and waited for the show.

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Fiona bounced down the steps back to him and took his hand. They both looked up at Shirley, who cleared her throat, threw one more glare at Fiona, and began. “I’ve been hijacked into this, ya’ll, so if I make a mess of it, don’t blame me.” The crowd chuckled in sympathy behind them, and Will blessed Shirley for her game face. She walked over on the dais and untied the rings from Ozzy’s collar-pillow, and came back. Holding one ring out to Fiona, she asked, “Fiona, do you take Will to be your husband?” “I do.” “Then tell him.” Will watched as Fiona turned to him, and held out his hand so she could slip the ring on his finger. She took both his hands in hers, and he could feel a minute tremble, telegraphing her nerves and excitement. He had no idea what was coming, and didn’t care. Those green eyes mesmerized him. “Will, I promise, from this day forward, that you are part of me. I will follow you wherever you go, love you as if we might die tomorrow. There is no life I want to live but the one we’ll make together. You have my heart, and always will.” The tears standing in her eyes created green prisms. It was his turn. “Fiona, you have my heart, and always will. From the first moment I saw you, I didn’t have any choice in the matter.” He kept talking over the soft rumble of laughter from the crowd. “All my life I’ve wondered why I had to choose between duty and love. You made me understand that I can’t have one without the other. I will never leave you, I will always cherish you, and we will be together long after this life is over.” Shirley cleared her throat, and Will looked over to see his old friend wiping tears. “Will, Fiona, by powers nobody has vested in me and never will again because I will hurt them, I now pronounce you, husband and wife. Go on and kiss your bride, Will.” He did. The reception followed at the Lucy Park duck pond, where they had blueberry muffins, beer, and loud music. Jonas and Kevin became instant friends. Rick introduced his fiancée, SSgt Michelle Lewis, to everyone present, while her two kids and Tubbs’ five ran in laughing circles and fed muffins to the ducks. Fiona sat on a blanket, with Ozzy beside her. She idly scratched the fur behind his ear, glad for the privilege of his doggy-friendship. A little way off, Will leaned against a park bench near Shirley and Vernon, comically obvious as he kept a wary eye on Olivia, who had hit it off exceedingly well with Shirley’s handsome grandson, Luke. What would Olivia think about a baby brother or sister? Fiona had never been regular, so she hadn’t thought anything of being three weeks late. But when Ozzy suddenly began to stick like a burr, never leaving her side—even trying to follow her to the bathroom—she got a home kit. She had known for a whole twenty-four hours now that she carried Will’s baby. What would he think about being a father? Guess we’ll find out tonight, my love. I hope you like your wedding present from me. It occurred to her that none of this would have happened if she hadn’t been so desperate to keep her house, if she hadn’t taken that impossible job. She sent a wish up into the sky that Mike the Jerk is happy wherever he was, and said a prayer of thanks for such a lucky break.