LITMIR.BIZ

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with anguish. Trying her best to smile though there were tears in her eyes, she said, “It’s okay, I promise.”

      Drained and shell-shocked, still trembling, Jessie lifted the phone to her ear. “Momma? What is it? What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing’s wrong, honey.” But Momma’s voice sounded way too calm, the way it only did when she was about to deliver some painful news. It had sounded like that, Jessie remembered, when she’d told Sammi June and J.J. the old hounddog, General, had been bitten by a copperhead and had to be put to sleep. “But…this is gonna be hard to hear.”

      Jessie’s heart was beating so fast she wondered if there was something seriously wrong with it. She pressed a hand against her chest to hold it still and whispered, “Okay.”

      “Jessie…honey.” There was a single high musical note of laughter or perhaps a sob. “Honey, it’s Tristan. They found him. In Baghdad. Oh, sweet child. He’s alive.”

      April, Landstuhl, Germany

      Jessica Ann Starr couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved Tristan Bauer, so it always came as something of a shock to her to realize he’d actually been present in her life for so few of her thirty-six years. Now, sitting in the back seat of a car speeding sedately along a German autobahn, memories of those few, those golden moments…hours…days, seemed to fill her whole existence. Her mind flipped through them like the photographs in the album she’d assembled to share with Joy Lynn and now held in her lap, clutched in nerveless fingers.

      She’d been in high school when they’d met, vacationing on a Florida beach with friends, spring break her senior year. Almost exactly eighteen years ago—half her life—though it shamed her to admit she couldn’t recall the exact date. He’d seemed to her unattainable as a movie star, impossibly handsome, wonderfully tall—always a plus for a girl who’d hit her current height of five feet ten inches in seventh grade. His thick black hair, brown eyes and olive skin had seemed thrillingly exotic to her, since she was sunshine-blond and wholesome as grits.

      There on the beach that morning she’d listened to the lies that came floating out of her own mouth, effortlessly as blowing smoke from a forbidden cigarette, tacking on a couple of years to her age and some mythical college experience to get past his grown man’s scruples about dating a high school girl, and hadn’t even cared if she went to Hell because of them.

      That night he’d kissed her, and she knew it had all been worth the risk. He’d kissed her outside her motel room door, pressing her up against the hard stucco wall so that she’d felt the whole sinewy length of him all up and down her front, and everywhere he’d touched her she’d felt her body tingle and burn as if a million stars were exploding inside her. Or as if millions and millions of cells in her body had waited for that moment to wake up and burst into exuberant life. That was the way it had seemed to her, as if she’d only been partly alive until Tristan, and after that night she’d known she would never again be completely alive without him.

      She’d told him the truth about her age before she’d left him to go back home, though, because by that time she’d known she was going to marry him one day. She hadn’t known, then, that less than three weeks after her high school graduation she’d be Mrs. Tristan Bauer, wife of a naval aviator, and already well on her way to being someone’s mother.

      “Ma’am?” The gray-haired, bespectacled naval officer in the front passenger seat broke his respectful silence, turning his head and leaning slightly in order to make eye contact. “We’ll be taking you directly to the residence, which is adjacent to the medical center where your husband is receiving treatment. After you’ve checked in, I can take you to see him there, or you can wait for him in the residence, if you like. Lieutenant Bauer should be cleared to join you shortly. Whichever you prefer.”

      His manner was deferential to the point of awe, which Jessie found disconcerting. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander—” She searched her befuddled memory for her casualty assistance officer’s name and came up empty. Exhausted by the effort, she was about to fall gratefully back into the cocoon of her own musings when the expectant look on the officer’s face registered on her consciousness. He was waiting for her decision. Her forehead tightened as she struggled with it; any logical, reasoning thought was hard work for her today. And this—whether to meet her husband, returned from the dead after eight years, for the first time in the cold antiseptic environment of a hospital room with doctors and nurses all around, or confront him alone in privacy, this man she’d loved and given up for lost long, long ago, now a stranger to her—seemed utterly impossible. Which was better? Or worse?

      For better or worse…in sickness and in health.

      She tried to smile for Lieutenant Commander—Rees, she remembered now. Rees-with-two-es, he’d told her. “How are these things usually handled?” She thought of the return of the captives taken during Desert Storm, of television pictures of gaunt men in flight suits engulfed in loved ones’ embraces while flags waved and bands played “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Old Oak Tree.” She’d been active in the wives’ support group on the base at the time and had worn a bracelet with a POW’s name engraved on it.

      The Lieutenant Commander’s military bearing melted into a smile of pure irony. “Ma’am, there isn’t any precedent for what happened to your husband. As far as the Navy’s concerned, you can have this just about anyway you want it.”

      Jessie nodded, too distracted to return the smile. The representative of the Defense Department who’d taken charge of her in New York had said much the same thing: There was no protocol for resurrection. There’d been no yellow ribbons or POW bracelets for Tristan. No support groups or letter-writing campaigns petitioning for his release. For all intents and purposes he’d been abandoned, forgotten, given up for dead, and the country he’d served and sacrificed eight years of his life for now seemed eager—almost desperate—to make amends.

      Which was no doubt why Tristan’s somewhat unusual request to stay in Germany for part of his treatment and recovery period rather than being sent home to the States as soon as he was deemed fit to travel had immediately been granted. So had his request that his wife be allowed to join him, rather than wait at home for his return. Jessie had been given the choice of waiting in New York for Tristan’s phone call or taking the next flight to Germany. She’d chosen the flight, and had been whisked off to the airport by her DOD assistance officer, one jump ahead of the media stampede.

      It had been decided that Sammi June would stay and wait with her grandma Betty and the rest of the family back home in Georgia. Jessie wasn’t sure who had made that decision, but she knew it was the right one. She’d been told Tristan was still very weak and sick, and she knew he wouldn’t want Sammi June to see him like that. Not to mention that she was mightily glad not to have Sammi June’s emotional baggage to deal with right now. Her own was burden enough.

      Morning was only beginning to thin the darkness when Sammi June slipped out of bed. She made little effort to be silent; her roommate slept like the dead and was snoring peacefully, as always, an arm’s reach away in the tiny University of Georgia dorm room they’d shared since last September. Sammi June hadn’t slept at all, peacefully or otherwise, since Gramma Betty’s phone call yesterday afternoon.

      Baby girl, your daddy’s alive.

      Baby girl. Nobody had called her that in years, not since her dad had gone away to fly F-16’s over Iraqi deserts, eight years ago. Daddy had still called her his “baby girl,” then, even though she’d been ten years old at the time. Would he still call her that now, she wondered, even though she was no baby, hardly even a girl? She was eighteen, an adult in the eyes of the law, old enough to vote and get married without permission and be responsible for her own choices. A grown woman.

      Although she didn’t feel the least bit like one at the moment.

      Uncaring of the morning chill, wearing only the boxer shorts and tank top that served her as pajamas in all seasons, she slumped into the hard-backed chair at her study desk beside the window and fingered apart the blinds. Out there on the still-slumbering campus the other buildings were dark shapes, street

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