The Top Gun's Return. Kathleen Creighton
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am I crying? Jessie wondered. Why now, of all times?
Not for Granny Calhoun, although there hadn’t been a day in the years since her grandmother had passed on that Jessie didn’t miss her. Granny had gone the way most everybody would like to, suddenly and peacefully at an advanced age, in her own home surrounded by her loved ones. Thinking about her brought Jessie only a warm and gentle sadness.
But this… Oh Lord, this grief had come up in her like a geyser, hot, violent, wrenching. This pain was searing…shocking, the pain of a loss so unjust, so unspeakable, it felt as though her entire body was turning itself inside out trying to reject it. These tears were unstoppable; like the grief and the pain, they’d been held back too long, buried beneath the serene, accepting surface of her everyday existence. They were Tristan’s tears, she realized. The ones she’d never shed for him, not then, when she’d lost him, nor in all the years since.
Why hadn’t she cried for him? Because she’d had to be strong, she’d told herself. For Sammi June, for Momma and the rest of her family and friends who were so worried about her. For Tristan’s family and especially his military friends and colleagues, who’d expected her to keep a stiff upper lip, be brave. And for herself. Especially for herself.
“There was a memorial service,” she said, pulling back from him to mop at her streaming nose with her sleeve. She didn’t mean Granny Calhoun, but she was sure, somehow, he’d know that. “They gave me a flag….” She closed her eyes, once more helpless to stop the tears flooding down her cheeks.
She felt her husband’s arms fold around her. She felt his bony, rock-hard chest deflate with a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as if he didn’t know what else to say. He kept saying it, standing there in the growing chill of evening. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad I got that out of my system, aren’t you?” Jessie said. But her laugh sounded phony, even to her own ears.
When Tristan didn’t answer right away, she gathered her courage and looked up at him. But his face was a shadow against the pale sky, and his profile seemed stark and closed.
They were walking back toward the residence, more slowly now than when they’d left it, close together but not touching. It seemed to her that Tristan was leaning more heavily on his cane, and even without touching him she was aware of the tremors that seized him from time to time. She felt a squeezing sensation around her heart.
“I don’t know where that came from,” she said, rushed and breathless with guilt, “I really don’t. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t—” His voice sounded almost angry. Softening it took an effort even she could see. “God—don’t apologize. For anything. Ever.” He drew a breath, then said stiffly, “I know this must be difficult for you.”
The understatement left her at a loss for a reply. She looked up at him, lips parted but speechless. He looked back at her, and after a long moment she saw his face relax with his smile. The new, wry smile that was half irony, half apology. “Sorry, that was—”
She touched two fingers to his lips, stopping him there. “Don’t apologize,” she said, mimicking him in a voice that quavered. “About anything. Ever.” And he laughed and lightly touched her fingertips to his lips before wrapping them in his hand. “I didn’t…know how I was going to handle this,” she went on, haltingly. “I haven’t known what to do. What to say.”
“There’s too much to say,” he agreed, nodding as they walked on. “Makes it hard to know how to start. It’s like what the doctors have been telling me, I guess. Be patient. Take it slow. One step at a time.”
“Well,” Jessie said with a breathy laugh, “we’ve made it through the first step. That’s the hard part, right? From here on it should get easier.”
He gave her hand a squeeze before he released it to open the guest house door for her. She waited for him to say what they both knew to be true, which was that the hardest parts were almost certainly still to come. He didn’t say it, but even in the warm and welcoming lobby, she felt him shiver.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” Jess said.
Tristan looked up at her with a guilty start. It occurred to him that he’d been staring down at his plate for a good bit longer than was polite. Not that there was anything wrong with the food. She’d made a point of ordering some of his favorites—fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy and fresh green beans, peach cobbler with thick cream for dessert—and the house staff had gone out of their way to oblige, even serving them dinner privately in their room. It was just that it still came as a shock to him to see so much food in one place, all at one time. More food than he could possibly eat, even after several days of such bounty.
“It looks…fantastic,” he said, meaning it. It seemed as if he was always hungry; sometimes he even dreamed about food. Right now he felt light-headed from hunger; he just wished his stomach didn’t always feel so queasy.
He picked up a piece of chicken—the drumstick; she’d even remembered he liked them best—and bit into it. The juice exploded in his mouth, and the rich, greasy flavors nearly made him lose the tenuous hold he’d been keeping on his self-control.
“Tris? Are you okay?”
He heard alarm in her voice and managed to smile for her as he nodded, swallowed, then said softly, “Culture shock. Things hit me every once in a while.”
He wiped his mouth with the napkin he’d been given without realizing at first what he was doing. Then he caught himself and looked down at it, almost in wonder. “This, for example. You have no idea how strange this feels…” His voice trailed off while he watched his fingertips rubbing and stroking the crisp, clean white linen.
After a moment he laughed, quietly and painfully. “When I got to the carrier, they gave me some things…a little bag of toiletries—you know, a toothbrush and tooth-paste…a razor…some other stuff. It felt…sort of, I don’t know, overwhelming, to have so much stuff. I didn’t want to let go of it. I carried that damn bag around with me for three days.” He stopped and stared hard at his plateful of food. Those admissions, like the tears he’d shed in prison, embarrassed him.
“So,” she said, when he’d been silent too long, “what’s going to happen next?”
He looked up and saw that she was wearing her bright, brave smile, not the one he loved, the one that made her nose wrinkle and her eyes dance and a little fan of lines spray out from their corners. Right now her eyes, that amazing amber brown with thick sable lashes that made so striking a contrast with her blond hair, were wide-open and luminous. They looked fragile as blown glass, as if they’d shatter if she blinked.
His own eyes felt hot, and he looked quickly down at his plate again and concentrated on the task of picking up his fork and loading it with mashed potatoes and gravy. Looking at her was like trying to look at a bright light after being in darkness. It had been like that the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her, he remembered, that day on the beach in Florida. With her golden hair and tawny eyes, she’d seemed to him like a broken-off piece of the sun.
“What happens next?” His hand went reflexively to the little album of photographs lying on the table beside his plate; like that bag of toiletries, he couldn’t bring himself to let it out of his reach.
It had occurred to him that Jess would probably like to go through it with him, sitting beside him and telling him the story behind each picture. He’d barely glanced at it, but that had been enough to tell him he wouldn’t be able to handle doing that—not now, not yet. He was going to have to do this by slow degrees and in a very private place. It was going to take time to absorb this new reality into who he was now. Time and some emotions he’d rather not have anyone see and wasn’t strong enough, yet, to control. He shifted the album slightly, nudging it furtively back under his forearm as he took another bite of mashed potatoes.
“For the next few days I expect there’s going to be some