"Well, no," she hastened to add, "but he was strong and brave and loyal, too. He wouldn't hesitate to risk his life for somebody, even a stranger. And he was about as softhearted as they come. I don't know if anybody knew it, but he was really sentimental. And gentle. And-" her voice choked and she finished in a whisper "-he really, really adored his little girl."

"And her mother, too, certainly."

"That I'm not so sure about," Jessie said with a bleak little smile.

"Oh, come on." But for once Mirabella wasn't going to have a chance to argue, because Tristan was coming toward them across the lawn. Max was with him, and the two men were talking and laughing and grinning like little boys who'd just done something incredibly foolhardy and gotten away without a scratch.

The sight should have warmed her heart…shouldn't it? Here it was, a beautiful day, much like when she'd stood on this very porch and watched those two officers in dress blues come across the lawn with the news that had blown her world apart. The climbing rosebush was in full bloom, the lawn was yellow-polka-dotted with dandelions, just as they'd been then. From the other side of the house she could hear somebody hollering that the ribs were 'bout done and for Momma to send somebody out with a platter. A screen door slammed, and laughter and conversation rippled and floated on the warm, humid air.

Home. This is my home…my family. And here in the midst of it all was Tristan…alive, laughing, grinning his old familiar Tristan grin. It was a miracle…beyond anything she could possibly have dreamed of. She should be overflowing with happiness. Giddy with it.


* * *

Later that evening Jessie stood before the antique oak chest of drawers that had belonged to Granny Calhoun, and gazed at the gold wedding band in the palm of her hand. Outside, the brief Southern dusk had deepened into its soft and velvety darkness, and somewhere out in the woods a whippoorwill had begun its frantic song. The food leftovers had been packed up and distributed, and one by one the families had drifted away-Troy and Charly were on their way back to Atlanta, and Tracy and Al to Augusta, and C.J. and Caitlyn to their little house down the road. Summer and Riley were staying overnight with Mirabella and Jimmy Joe; it was a long drive back to Charleston. Tris and Max and Sammi June were still out in the backyard, dismantling the tables and putting away the barbecue.

Jessie had finished helping with the last of the kitchen clean-up and had come upstairs to the room that had been hers alone for eight and a half years, and which, for the past two days, and for the first time in her life, she'd been sharing-sort of-with Tristan. With my husband. She'd been putting lotion on her hands when she remembered her wedding ring, still in its little velvet box where she'd put it years ago, in the old rosewood humidor that had served as her jewelry box ever since she was a teenager. In the hectic time since they'd been home, with all the demands of family and television interviews and tapings, neither she nor Tristan had thought of it.

Now she was remembering the terrible day she'd taken it off…the day of Tristan's memorial service. It had been hot, she remembered, and humid, with rain threatening and thunder grumbling in the distance. She remembered Sammi June's small, sticky hand in hers, and both of them jerking when the rifles fired their salute…and then the white-gloved hands holding out to her the folded three-corner flag. She barely remembered taking it and murmuring thank you. Later, she'd placed the flag in a drawer in this very dresser-the top one-and had taken off her wedding ring and put it in its box and put it in the drawer with the flag. Later that night, unable to sleep, she'd opened the drawer with trembling hands and taken the ring out of its box and put it back on her finger. Sometime after that, during a spring cleaning-she couldn't remember exactly when-she'd moved the flag to the cedar chest. The ring had stayed on her finger until she'd started working in the NICU. She'd started taking it off when she left for her shift, and then one day she came home and didn't put it back on. Tristan's gone, she remembered telling herself half defiantly, as if she were about to commit a sin. He's not coming back. It's time to move on.

Now, gazing at the ring, her eyes shimmered and filled with tears. Tris is alive! I should be so happy, she thought. I am happy, dammit.

So why do I feel this aching sadness that won't go away?

Behind her the door opened. She heard Tristan come quietly into the room and close the door. She didn't turn but watched his reflection come to join hers in the murky, oak-framed oval mirror above the dresser. He was smiling, and when he put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head to kiss the side of her neck, she smelled beer on his breath.

"Hmm," he murmured, nuzzling her with his chin, "wha'cha doin'? Ah-" Noticing the ring in her hand, he took it from her, and with both arms encircling her from behind, slipped it onto her finger. "There," he said thickly, "back where it belongs."

He nudged aside her hair and kissed the back of her neck, and she shivered. In response he chuckled and opened his mouth on her damp nape, at the same time wrapping her in his arms and covering her breasts with his hands. She felt a hot, drawing pressure on her neck, and nerves sang through her skin and hardened her nipples, and arousal pooled between her thighs.

"Are you making a hicky?" she mumbled, already half-incoherent.

"Mmm…so what? Nobody'll see it. Unless you put your hair up…oops, damn. You made me lose my place. Oh, well…guess I'll just have to start over…"

"Tris…" But his hands were under her shirt, cupping her breasts and plucking impatiently between them at the closing of her bra. She released it for him, then gasped when he brushed the bra aside and took each sensitized tip between a thumb and forefinger. The heat between her thighs coiled and writhed, and her legs turned to jelly. This time she whimpered it: "Tris…"

He lifted his head and watched her in the mirror while one hand found her zipper and ripped it down, then slipped inside her panties. His palm was warm, and his fingers splayed over her belly, gently kneading. The other arm, tight across her breasts, held her close against him while he continued to torment one taut nipple. "I enjoyed today," he said softly. "More than I thought I would." His eyes gleamed like dark pools in moonlight.

"Did you?" She could barely talk, now…barely stand.

"Umm-hmm…more than you'll ever know." The unfathomable pools that were his eyes darkened…deepened. His lips tightened briefly and then quirked sideways, as if he'd felt a spasm of pain and was determined to hide it.

More than you'll ever know… How will I know if you won't tell me? she thought. But her mind and body were in different places. Her heart was bumping against his arm, and lower down, his fingers measured the frantic thrumming of her pulse.

She wanted to close her eyes but somehow knew he wouldn't want her to, so she fiercely ordered them to stay open and watched herself…watched him…as he slipped his fingers into her. Not gently-suddenly and deeply, and holding her tightly so that the thrust of his hand made her feel his hardness pressed against her buttocks. But she was ready for him, and the gasp that burst from her wasn't pain. Her body liquefied. Her palms and the soles of her feet felt scorched. In the murky glass of the old mirror, her eyes looked wild, and her cheeks glowed as if with a fever.

"I can't-"

"Yes-you can. You can."

But her body was already spiraling out of her control-if it had ever been in it-and she was breaking up in a thousand tiny explosions, all cold fire and flooding warmth. She gave a soft, desperate cry and let the kindly darkness come, and as she closed her eyes she felt his mouth, hot and open on her neck, and his fingers inside her, playing her body's sensations like quivering guitar strings, making them last and last and last…

And then he was laying her down on the bed and taking off her clothes…guiding her thighs apart and entering her still-throbbing body. Gently now, he moved within her, braced above her on taut and trembling arms, eyes closed, neck muscles corded. Dazed, Jessie drew her hands down his back, stroking rigid muscles and sliding over the ropy ribbons of scar tissue, rocking with his thrusts, arching her body into his, remembering what it had been like, remembering this…remembering.

His climax was restrained, almost…polite, Jessie thought. Afterward, he kissed her, used his discarded T-shirt for a towel, then gathered her against him-her back to his front-and fell asleep, breathing softly…snoring gently into her hair.

It was early, nowhere near Jessie's customary bedtime, and she lay awake for a long time, afraid to move or get up and go to the bathroom or turn off the lights Tris had left burning.

It's going to be all right, she told herself, staring at the familiar room…the wallpaper, the furniture, the curtains she knew so well. We've come so far already. Haven't we?

It'll be better once we have a place of our own.

Chapter 13

Gradually the days returned to more normal rhythms. On Monday Max left to go back to his home in Florida, and Sammi June drove off to school in Athens in the little red Chevy pickup truck Jimmy Joe had fixed up for her to use. Her professors were being understanding about giving her make-up exams and extensions on overdue papers. The last of the media people had left; their interest in Tristan's story had waned rapidly when they discovered he wasn't going to share with their audiences any of the gory details about his POW experience.