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“You had a crisis in the desert, Soldier.” Adamson’s tone was stern, firmer than he’d known her to be, her gaze as direct as any commander under which he’d ever served. “You were forced to turn your back on what mattered most to you personally—your love for your wife—in order to serve your country.”
He bristled. Did not need her telling him what he already knew.
“My wife doesn’t come first.”
“Yes, she does. For you personally, yes, she does. And that’s the entire basis of the crisis you’re in and have been in since you made your choice in that desert.”
He wasn’t in crisis. He was in reality.
“You want to know what I think?” she continued.
“Not really.”
“I think that changing identities with Danny like you did—a young man with no wife, no Emily, no soul mate—was what allowed you to do what had to be done. Somehow, in some place in your psyche, you became Danny. Because it’s what you had to do to survive. To help others survive. You’re one of the strongest men I’ve ever known, Winston, and I’m not speaking about physical strength here. You’ve got a mind that’s as strong as you are. The things you did, your ability to get out with your sanity intact... I’d go to battle with you anytime.”
What the hell? Sitting still, about as uncomfortable as he’d ever been in a professional situation, he stared at her. Was she building him up for some big piece of bad news?
“It’s time to let Danny go.”
* * *
Emily was staring at her belly in the mirror Saturday morning, one day short of two weeks since she’d seen Winston. She was really starting to show. Not enough to require new clothes, but enough that she couldn’t wear her tightest outfits anymore. Or button the top of her jeans. Hard to believe the change was suddenly happening.
Running her hand over her belly, she tried to imagine what Tristan was going to look like. Couldn’t wait to meet him. She might not be the happiest wife in the world, but she was most definitely one of the happiest mamas. In spite of everything, maybe even because of everything, she wanted her baby more than anything.
Her mom called, wanting to come up to go baby shopping, and she put her off. No one knew Winston had moved out yet and she wasn’t ready to tell them.
He’d been calling pretty much every day. Just to check in. The calls were short. Mostly impersonal, if daily calls could be considered that. One of these days the call was going to include talk of lawyers. Settlements.
Every time he hung up without mentioning any of that, she was thankful—and then angry with herself for being thankful. It had to come. She wasn’t stupid enough to think otherwise. Wasn’t even sure she’d want otherwise.
Their life had been based on childhood farce. At least on her part—she couldn’t speak for him. They didn’t talk of such intimate things.
But maybe they should.
Picking up the phone she’d just set on the counter after her mother’s call, she dialed Winston. Asked him if he had time to get together that day. Any place of his choice.
And so two hours later found her pulling into a parking spot by the Navy Pier in downtown San Diego. He’d suggested lunch at the pier—Top of the Market. More linen tablecloths. Excellent seafood. And views of the bay. Way too nice a place for the conversation she’d envisioned, so she ate too much, talked about the view and assured him she felt perfectly normal and fine. It was good just to see him. If he noticed her thickening stomach in the leggings and long gray T-shirt she’d worn with flip-flops, he didn’t say.
But then, she didn’t say anything about the black jeans and white button-down shirt he had on, and she definitely noticed them. It had been a long time since she’d seen Winston’s backside in black jeans. A long, long time. Understandable that she’d have the urge to walk slightly behind him to prolong the pleasure.
Even knowing they were divorcing, that she’d never have sex with him again, that sight turned her on. Of course, she’d never made a point of allowing her gaze to settle on another man’s ass. Might be that any of them would do the trick. Like a guy looking at breasts.
To test the theory, she checked out several butts on their way out of the restaurant and then as they walked along the pier.
Nothing really struck her.
It could be that there just weren’t a lot of great butts walking around that Saturday afternoon. Or any other black jeans.
“I need to ask you something,” she said as they walked toward the docks.
Winston pointed to a white bench set off in the grass, under a tree. “You want to sit?”
“Why don’t we walk down and look at some of the boats?” she suggested instead.
“I think we should sit. I need to speak with you, too.”
She shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have pushed this. He’d hired an attorney, she just knew it. And she wasn’t ready. But she went with him to the bench, facing the ocean, its back to the tourists mingling around. A place for quiet meditation in the midst of activity.
