Night Flight (8 page)

Holt’s hand slipped off her shoulder. His eyes went wide as he assimilated the anguish behind her words. Suddenly, it all made sense. No wonder she was wary of pilots, she was still grieving for his loss. Roberts had been a very famous Air Force test pilot who had augered into the Mojave a year ago. “Damn…I’m sorry…”

Megan couldn’t stand his pity and moved away. “Don’t be.”

Her tone was hard. Unforgiving. “You must have still been at school when you got the news?”

She fumbled with her papers and jammed them into her briefcase. Megan said, “Yes, I was in my junior year at Ohio State. This young Air Force lieutenant was at the door of my dorm at five in the morning, and he looked awful. He’d been assigned from the Columbus, Ohio, recruiting office to come and tell me my father was dead.” She snapped the briefcase closed with finality. “I don’t know who was whiter—him or me.”

Silence filtered into the room. Sam watched the shadows move across her face. “That’s why you’re afraid of a man in uniform.”

Barely turning her head, she met and held his sad blue eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Something wasn’t making sense. “Fear of the uniform, fear of losing someone you love to a plane? Isn’t that it?”

“You’d never understand.”

“Try me.”

Stubbornly, Megan shook her head. “Sam, I don’t hold anything against you as a man. But I can’t—won’t—ever have a relationship with a man in the military. The Air Force has taken everything I ever loved away from me.”

“Your father, yes, but what about your mother?”

Tears burned in Megan’s eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. “The Air Force killed her, too.” She defiantly stared across the room at him. “What no one really ever knew was my mother turned to alcoholism to numb her fear of losing my father when he started testing jets. As she got worse, my father started running around on her. He didn’t care if my mother knew he was partying over at the O Club and going home with the groupies. Seven years ago, she committed suicide because he refused to give up flying. She just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Jesus,” he spluttered, “I didn’t know…”

Megan tore her gaze from Sam, unable to stand the agony mirrored in his eyes.

It hurt to breathe for a moment. Sam gently held her accusing glare. Everything made sense now. “You ran away at the balloon race after I told you I was in the Air Force.”

“Yes.” Megan didn’t understand why she felt so much pain in her chest. Holt was Air Force. He was a thirty-year man. There was nothing between them. Or was there? His face was readable. None of the arrogance that he’d walked in with was there now. She couldn’t handle the compassion reflected in his features.

“Hell of a note, isn’t it?”

Crossing her arm against her chest, Megan asked, “What is?”

“Us.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam held her mutinous look. “I can’t help it, lady, I like the hell out of you, and I’m not giving up because I wear a uniform.” He took a couple of steps toward her and watched the panic mount in her eyes as he closed the distance between them. Lowering his voice, Sam admitted, “The moment I saw you, something happened to me, Red. I’m sorry about your past. Maybe with time, that can be overcome.”

“Give it up, Captain,” she blurted, backing away from him. Megan allowed her arms to drop to her side. “This is no chase and I’m not the quarry! You can play those games over at the O Club every night after you fly, not with me. So forget it!”

“I’m not going to give up,” he informed her softly. “And I don’t see myself as a hunter or you as the bait.”

Megan shook her head. “You forget, I grew up on bases. I saw what you guys do to the girls, the women, the families.”

There was such deep, vibrating anger coming from her that Sam knew he’d pushed her enough. Holding up his hand in a sign of peace, he managed a strained smile. “You’re hurting, Megan, and you’ve got reason. I’d like to try and be a friend to you, an ear to listen, if you want. You’re new here to Edwards, and probably don’t have very many friends.”

Holt’s unexpected departure from the routine the jocks played threw her. All her anger over her father’s callousness toward her and her mother’s suicide seethed just beneath the surface. Yet, Megan didn’t want to unleash it at him. And it was true: she was lonely, the process of making friends took time. Groping for words, she uttered, “Friend?”

“Sure.” The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I have four kid sisters and—” he patted his broad shoulder “—I’ve got lots of practice holding them, listening to them, and letting them cry.”

Defensively, Megan said, “I’ve never seen a jet jock be a friend to any female.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

“Try me.”

“What?”

“I said, try me. Test me out.”

Warily, she sized him up. Holt was up to something, running a new game on her. “What do you mean?”

“Let me be your friend. I’m not such a bad guy, Megan. My friends will tell you I’m eccentric as hell, but I’m not a jerk. I don’t have too many bad habits…well, I do have a tendency to drop my clothes where I undress and not put them in the clothes hamper.”

Sam was impossible! The terrible tension between them suddenly dissolved when she laughed. It felt wonderful to take a deep breath because the past was hurting her so badly. The laughter absorbed her pain and neutralized it.

Grinning, Holt threw his hands on his hips. “See? I’m good for you.”

The laughter died on her lips. There was such panic within her that it made her feel shaky. “No, Sam.”

“No to what?

“No jet jock can be a friend to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“Because you’ve never tried it before, that’s why.”

She turned away, wanting more distance between them because if she didn’t, Megan knew she’d run into his arms just to be held. No one had held her at two of the most terrible times in her life, and with Sam standing there, strong and capable when she presently was not, it was too much for her to deal with.

“Megan?”

Whirling around, she said, “I’m too scared, don’t you understand that? Please, leave me alone, Sam! I—I’m still too hurt, too….” She pressed the palm of her hand against her aching brow. “Don’t do this to me. Just let me alone! I’ve got enough to work through here at Edwards without you adding to it!”

Her cry serrated him and made him visibly wince. More than anything in that moment, Sam wanted to take her into his arms. It was obvious that she carried pain around with her daily by being here at this base. Colonel Roberts had augered in a year ago at Edwards. Megan had come back. Why? To rectify her past? Work through her grief and loss of her father? Mother? Holt had a lot of questions and few answers.

“Take it easy,” he coaxed huskily. “I’ll leave.” He didn’t want to address the other issues. Megan was in enough pain. A large part of him was extremely protective of her, but something cautioned him to leave her alone. Give her room. Throwing her a mock salute, he said, “I’ll be seeing you around, Red.”

Megan stared after him. Holt’s walk was cocky, brazen.

She liked the way he squared his broad shoulders. So why did she feel disappointed when he left? Hadn’t she expected Holt to ask her out, or give her another line? Jet jockeys never quit once they had drawn a bead on their target. Wearily, she called it a day. Right now, her small Victorian apartment was all she wanted. There, she could hide and lick her oozing wounds that Holt had torn open by asking questions.

Her hands shook as she locked the desk drawer. So why had she leveled with Sam? What was so different about him that her heart trusted him, even if her wary head didn’t? With a mutter of disgust, Megan put the keys in her purse and headed to the door. There were more important issues to address than that of Sam Holt muddying up her life.

Curt took off his sunglasses as he entered his home. The bright October sunlight poured in through the screen door when he opened, it. It was five o’clock, and he expected to find Becky in the kitchen cooking their dinner. Sniffing, there was no hint of food in the air like there usually was. Frowning, he hooked the sunglasses into the breast pocket of his green flight uniform.

In the past month since Patty’s problems began in school, something had gone wrong, and he couldn’t identify what it was. Becky was withdrawing from him, and it left him worrying constantly about her. About them. He found Patty playing in the kitchen, pots and pans scattered around her on the floor. Scowling, he looked around.

“Where’s Mommy!” he asked her, crouching down.

Patty shrugged. “Don’t know.”

What the hell was going on? “Put those away, Patty. You know you’re not supposed to play with them. The floor’s dirty.”

“Daddy…”

“Do it!” He straightened, glaring at his daughter, and watched as she stuck her lower lip out in a pout.

“Becky!” he called loudly, his voice carrying. “Becky!”

No answer. She would never leave Patty alone like this. Was she taking a bath? Agitated, Curt strode through the living room and down the hall. As he neared the master bedroom, the distinct smell of whiskey assailed his nostrils. Heart starting a hard pound, Merrill froze, stymied.

The door was locked. Cursing, he pounded on it. “Becky! Dammit, open up this door!” His voice carried down the hall. Breathing hard, Curt tried to capture his escaping feelings. “Becky!” Doubling his fist, he beat heavily on the wood.

Patty came running, poised at the end of the hall, her eyes large. Curt snapped his head to the right. “Get back in the kitchen!” he roared at her.

Tears formed and fell from Patty’s huge brown eyes, and she turned with a sob, disappearing.

Anxiety paralleled his anger. No answer. What had Becky done? Drank whiskey because he’d flown today? Fear avalanched over him. He put his shoulder to the door and slammed all his weight into it.

The door gave way after the third try. Wood splintered. Merrill fell into the room and reclaimed his balance. The place was dark, reeking of whiskey.

“Becky?” His voice was wobbly. Squinting, Curt could barely make out her still form on the tangled covers of the unmade bed. Turning, he flipped on the switch, the sudden light hurting his eyes.

“Jesus…” Curt choked, hurrying to the bed. Becky lay in her bathrobe, unmoving. Beside her on the dresser was a bottle of half-consumed whiskey. Anxiously, Curt leaned over his wife and gripped her by the shoulders.

“Becky? Becky? Wake up!” Frantically, Merrill realized she had either passed out or had fainted. Sitting down, he brought his limp wife into his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. Placing his hand near her small, fine nostrils, he waited. There! He could feel the moisture of her breath.

“Sparrow?” Oh, God, why was she doing this to him? He gently shook her and started to rub her cheek. “Wake up!”

With a moan, Becky raised her hand, and then it fell limply back to her side. Barely lifting her lashes, she saw Curt’s frozen features. “H-honey?”

Relief cascaded through him. He held her tightly against him. “Jesus Christ, Becky, you scared the hell out of me….” Curt buried his face in her hair. She felt so small and helpless in his arms. He kissed her hair, damp brow and cheek, which was now flushed with returning color. Looking into her half-closed eyes, he realized she was drunker than hell. Swallowing his anger, grateful that she had only passed out from the liquor, Curt simply held and rocked her.

“What a scare,” he muttered. “I came home and Patty had all your pots and pans on the kitchen floor. I didn’t know where you were….” Shakily, he threaded her uncombed hair through his fingers. The strands were so incredibly fine, almost gossamer, once again reminding him of her frailness.

“Why—I don’t even recall Patty coming home. Oh, dear…”

“Sshhh, it’s okay,” Curt murmured, kissing her.

Struggling, Becky sat up. Her head ached intolerably, and she rested it between her hands. “Ohh, dear…”

Afraid to lose contact with her for fear she would disappear like fog before sunlight, Curt kept his hand on her small shoulder and rubbed it absently. “Don’t try and talk, Sparrow. You’ve got to have an awful hangover. Let me fix you a bath, and you can start sweating it out. I’ll make you some coffee later.”

“Y-yes, that would be nice,” she whispered faintly, keeping her eyes closed because every time she opened them, the room started spinning. “Patty?”

Merrill lifted his head and looked toward the entrance to the bedroom. For the first time, he saw the condition of the door. It was hanging by one hinge, the wood splintered and broken near the doorknob. “She’s out in the kitchen.”

Sliding her hand to his, Becky gripped it. “I—I don’t want her to see me like this, Curt. P-please keep her out of here until I can get cleaned up.”

That was why Becky had locked the door. Curt compressed his lips, but said nothing. “Okay, Sparrow. Just sit there until I get your bathwater ready. I’ll take care of Patty.”

Miserably, Becky whispered, “Okay…” The small, functioning part of her mind felt nothing but relief over his reaction. Curt was home. He was safe. Knowing he had a flight scheduled for late this afternoon, she’d started drinking early this morning. Whiskey was the only thing that dulled her pain and worry over the fact that he might crash and be killed. Before, when she drank, she was careful not to let Curt know about it. Today, her fear had been overwhelming, and she had consumed far too much. Becky barely raised her head and watched Curt move to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. She shivered, a chill racking her. The presence of the flight suit he wore made her nauseous. If only…no, he’d never do that. Later, after she got sober, she’d talk to Curt. She had to.

Patty watched television, her tiny chin resting in her small hands. Merrill had changed into civilian attire—a pair of dark green slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. He’d opened a couple cans of pork and beans, thrown in some hot dogs and heated them in the microwave for himself and Patty. Worry haunted him. Ever since he’d yelled at her, Patty had withdrawn. She hadn’t eaten much of her dinner, either.

Rubbing his face, Curt realized he ought to be studying the flight manual for the next test he’d fly two days from now. But who the hell could study? Becky was slowly coming out of her drunk, and Patty had retreated into a shell of hurt silence. What should he do?

“Come here, Punkin.” He scooped his daughter up. Pulling her arms tightly against her body as he positioned her in his lap, Patty shut her eyes. Curt embraced her and kissed her wrinkled brow. “I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier,” he whispered. “But Mommy was sick, and I got scared.”

Patty tensed, stubbornly refusing to open her eyes.

Merrill sighed, leaned back on the couch and stroked her pigtailed hair. “Sometimes Daddy doesn’t have time for you, does he? I wish I did, but I don’t.” He kissed her again, feeling her beginning to finally relax in his arms. That pout of hers was disappearing, too. Smiling gently, Curt squeezed her. “Daddy loves you, Punkin.”

“Mommy doesn’t.”

Frowning, Curt studied his daughter. Her huge brown eyes opened, staring up at him mutinously. “Of course she does.”

“Uh-uh.”

Cupping her chin, he forced Patty to look at him. “Mommy hasn’t been feeling well lately. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

“Door was locked. Why’d she lock it, Daddy?”

Forcing a partial smile, Curt whispered, “Mommy didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Next time you come home from school, she’ll meet you at the gate.” He looked up. Becky stood in the hall, bedraggled-looking in her blue jeans and pink tank top. Her hair had been washed and combed, and hung limply around her shoulders.

Becky moved slowly to the couch, all her attention on her daughter. She sat down and slid her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Gently, she stroked Patty’s head.

“Mommy’s sorry she didn’t meet you this afternoon.”

“You locked the door, Mommy.”

“I know, honey. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.” She leaned over, kissing her daughter. “I love you.”

Curt watched his daughter blossom beneath Becky’s care. In moments, Patty wiggled out of his arms and into hers. Relief surrounded him. The crisis had passed. Just the way Becky cuddled Patty, and loved her with unabashed affection, brought tears to his eyes. That was one of the many things he loved about Becky: her openness, her ability to love fiercely.

“When do you fly again?” Becky asked in a hushed voice, holding Patty in her arms.

“Friday.”

“More landing tests?”

“Yes.” And then he added when he saw darkness in Becky’s eyes, “Same old thing as before. It’s not dangerous, it’s simple.”

Mouth quirking, Becky stared sadly at the television. “Nothing about testing or flying is safe, Curt.”

Running his fingers through his hair, he got up. “Don’t start,” he warned her tightly.

“Where are you going?” She needed time with him, to heal herself.

“To the office. I’ve got to study.”

“But—”

Curt turned. “Listen, I’ve got to put in a couple hours every night or I’ll fall behind, Becky! You know that.” When he saw her face become sad, he added, “Will you be okay now? Can I fix some pork and beans for you before I go study?”

“No…you go ahead, go.” She closed her eyes and rested her brow against Patty’s hair. She heard the door shut quietly down at the end of the hall. Pain jagged through her, and Becky drew in a deep, uneven breath. When would all this anguish she carried daily in her heart go away? When? Did the other Air Force wives go through this kind of a hell?

Becky had been afraid to talk about her fears to anyone because it might get around. And she knew gossip could ruin Curt’s career. Desperately needing to talk to someone, her sluggish mind ranged over whom she could confide in. Curt didn’t want to hear about her fears. He’d heard about them for seven years. Who to call? Who would understand? She stared at the phone, chewing on her lower lip. Of all the officers’ wives, Becky had always admired beautiful, poised Melody Stang. Curt had warned her never to get chummy with her, but hadn’t said why.

Transferring Patty to her other arm, she picked up the phone, punching in the numbers that would connect her with Melody, who lived three doors down on Sharon Drive.

“Captain Stang’s residence,” Melody answered.

“Hi…Melody, this is Becky. Becky Merrill.”

Melody raised her eyebrows and sat down. “Yes, Becky.” This was the first time she’d ever called. Something was up because Melody sensed the hesitancy in the woman’s voice. Sweetly, she said, “How wonderful to hear from you.”

“Th-thank you, Melody. I—uh, called to ask you something.”

Melody watched as her husband sauntered into the living room, test manuals in hand. Jack gave her an interested look, as if asking her who was on the phone. “Of course, Becky. How may I be of help?”

“I know this sounds silly, but I had to ask someone this question. A wife, I mean. Your husband flies. Do you ever get afraid before he goes up? I mean, bad dreams or a terrible fear that stalks you, and it won’t go away ‘til you know he’s safe?”

“Is that how you feel?” Melody asked gently, delighted with this newfound information. Becky had always kept to herself, and rarely could be drawn out to make even polite, social conversation at the fetes and club meetings.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I do. I—I just needed a friendly ear, Melody. Every time Curt goes up, it gets worse for me.

“It’s like that for all of us,” Melody said sympathetically. Of course, it wasn’t, but she wanted Becky to trust her enough to tell her everything. She had ultimate confidence in Jack’s flight skills and never worried about him flying or testing jets.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” she sighed, a quiver in her voice.

Leaning back on the couch, Melody smiled triumphantly at Jack and gave him a thumbs-up sign. “Listen, I have all the time in the world, Becky. Why don’t you tell me everything, dear. After all, we’re Air Force wives. If we don’t stick together and help each other, who will?”

Curt stopped studying at midnight, too torn up about Becky’s drinking. He left the office, shutting the door quietly. Patty was already in bed, asleep. He walked to the master bedroom. Becky was in bed, but she wasn’t asleep. Girding himself, he went and sat down, his arm across her.

“How are you feeling, Sparrow?”

“Better,” she murmured, absorbing his touch as he caressed her hair. “Did you get your studying done?”

With a grimace, Curt shrugged. “What I could of it, I did.” He leaned over, pressing a kiss to her waxen cheek. “We have to talk, honey. What you did tonight scared the hell out of me.”

Becky avoided his gaze. She held his hand against her stomach, needing his continued touch. “I didn’t mean to, Curt.”

“How long has this been going on?” he asked hoarsely.

“N-not long.”

“What’s that mean?”

She squirmed. “It means I take a drink or two when I know you’re going to test fly. That’s all.”

A heavy sigh came from Curt. He cupped her face. Becky’s eyes were so huge and dark with fear. “You can’t do that. You can’t use alcohol to escape into, Becky.”

“Well,” she whispered, choking on a sob, “it’s easy for you to say! You’re not the one left behind. You don’t have to worry if you’re coming back. I do!” She sat up, moved away from him and pulled the blankets about herself. “Don’t you know how scared I get? Every time a jet flies overhead, I get this tightness in my belly. And Lordy, when that Klaxon goes off that means there’s been a crash. I die inside until you can call me.”

Curt hung his head. “Sparrow, I’m sorry, I truly am. But you’ve got to get ahold of yourself. You can’t drink this way. It’s bad for you. For us.” He reached out, gripping her hand and gently pulling her into his arms. “Dammit,” he said against her thin blond hair, “I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Patty. You’re my life, Sparrow. My life.”

Miserably, she shook her head, her fingers digging into his shirt front. Tears soaked her tightly shut lashes. “No,” she sobbed, “flying’s your first love, Curt Merrill. I’ve always known that. You love your flying more than you do Patty and I.”