The Ocean Between Us (7 page)

“Riddled with revved-up Navy guys who have only one thing on their minds,” Emma chimed in, coming down the stairs.

“Yeah, Dad,” Katie said, “what’s with all the revved-up Navy guys? Aren’t you senior officers supposed to keep discipline?”

“No,” he said, “we’re supposed to throw our unfledged daugh
ters in their paths as virgin sacrifices. Go ahead. Ride your bikes. It’ll appease the gods.”

Her face fell and her cheeks ignited. Too late, Steve realized his sarcasm had been too harsh. Lately, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to make his smart daughter feel stupid.

“I’ll take her,” Emma said as Katie studied the floor.

“Take her where?” Brian demanded, clumping downstairs. In a rugby shirt, khaki shorts and Top-Siders, he looked more J. Crew than United States Navy. But Steve didn’t say anything.

“You’re going to take me to Brooke’s, and then you’re giving both of us a ride to the movies.” Katie recovered quickly and addressed her brother in a bossy tone.

“And when it’s over, you’re bringing them home,” Grace added. “Please.” It was the system they had worked out over the summer. The twins were responsible for their sister. It was the price they paid for car privileges. Katie took full advantage of her power over them, particularly Brian. In front of her friends, she liked to sit in the back seat and direct him with a regal “Drive on, James.”

The customary rush to the door ensued. Whereabouts were verified, curfews set, cell phones confirmed operational. As soon as they departed, Steve headed into the study to check his e-mail—the bane of his command these days. On the desk he found a stack of notes in Grace’s handwriting. He recognized the names of shipping companies and local agencies and clubs, along with women’s names and numbers. She belonged on the Navy’s payroll, considering all she did for its families. That was Grace—helping, always helping. Sometimes she was so busy helping other families that the Bennetts were on autopilot.

At dinner she had seemed quieter than usual. Sometimes Grace reminded him of the calm, clear water above a reef. Placid on the surface, a lot going on underneath, invisible yet very real. But he was a flyer, not a diver. And he sure as hell wasn’t a mind reader.

In the wake of the kids’ departure, the house had a hollow air, as though waiting to take a breath. It was funny how houses each had their own personalities, thought Grace. This one was self-consciously cute, with Bavarian-style windows and halfhearted gingerbread trim. It was her least-favorite type of house—a meandering floor plan, boxy rooms, open hallways that amplified noise. The Navy’s idea of officers’ housing was that size matters.

She wandered out onto the porch to watch the kids drive away. Whidbey Island lay so far north that in summer the sun lingered late, painting the sky with deep shades of pink and gold she’d never seen anywhere else. The sight filled her with wistfulness, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason.

The tread of a footstep startled her briefly, and she turned to see Steve there. “Hey, sailor,” she said, instantly getting over the brief moment of surprise. Every once in a while, she forgot he was around. A Navy wife either had all of her husband or none of him. There was no in-between time.

The Bronco’s taillights glowed at the intersection, then disappeared around the corner. A bittersweet feeling swept over her as she watched them go. They looked so independent, heading out
into the evening by themselves. She turned to Steve with a heart full of need. “I hate watching them go.”

“Brian’s a good driver.”

“It’s not that. I hate the idea that they’re leaving.”

“Summer’s not quite over yet,” Steve pointed out, clueless.

“I don’t mean school,” she said. “I mean for good.”

“What, do you want them to stay?”

God. He didn’t get it. She turned to the porch rail, planted her elbows on it and stared out across the yard, a cramped rectangle of beaten-down grass trampled by countless families that had lived here before. Far in the distance rose the mountains in a glittering robe of gold, unreachable.

“Don’t get all pissed off at me, Gracie. I didn’t make the rules. The point of raising kids is to prepare them to be independent, so they can leave and find their own lives.”

Logic wasn’t what she needed right now. She needed…she didn’t know how to put it into words. “I’m not mad at you,” she said.

“Then what’s this?” he asked, touching her forehead with his finger, then with his lips. And just like that, her annoyance melted. “You’re frowning.”

She smiled up at him. “Not anymore.”

“Good.”

They stood on the porch together and silence lingered, punctuated by the cry of a gull and the shouts of children playing down the block.

The neighborhood was an uninspired cluster of plain but neat houses designed for wayfaring Navy families. This section was known as officers’ country, housing squadron skippers, executive officers, captains and commanders, lining streets named after aircraft or astronauts. Some of the places had million-dollar views of the mountains to the west, but the Bennetts’ place faced another house that looked just like it.

As they walked back inside, a few lights came on in the windows across the way. The strange wistfulness that had weighted her chest all day pressed harder now, and she felt as though she
might burst. Discontent had crept up on her, entered through a side door. Everything around her was changing, and she felt compelled to change, too.

She wanted to talk to Steve, really talk, the way they never did anymore. She wished he would notice her mood, ask her what was on her mind. That would be the day, she thought. She cleared her throat. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“When I was out shopping for school clothes with the girls, I looked in the mirror and realized that I’ve turned into a fat lady.” She just blurted it out. It sounded so stupid, spoken aloud.

“What?” he asked.

“Fat and forty.”

“Aw, Gracie,” he said. “You’re not fat and you’re—” He paused, and she could see him doing the math in his head. “Not forty.”

“Okay, a stout thirty-nine, then.”

He chuckled and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair and inhaling as though he’d forgotten the scent of her. And maybe he did forget, she thought, slipping her arms around the familiar muscular torso. Maybe, when he was six months at sea, he forgot the way she smelled, the texture of her hair and the way she tasted. Funny, she had never asked him.

Though she’d known him half her life, there were facets to him that remained a mystery. She pictured the carrier as an alien spacecraft that sucked up five thousand earthlings and took them away for long periods of time, doing experiments on them in the guise of training exercises. Then the earthlings were returned to their home planet, altered in subtle ways.

When he returned from a cruise, his hair was often different. He might have a faint scar from a healed-over cut. Sometimes he grew a mustache. During the first Gulf War, when he returned from a cruise that had run three months longer than scheduled, she even had the strange sense that his whole body chemistry had changed. She remembered running her fingers through his hair so thoroughly that he asked what she was doing.

“Looking for the alien probes,” she had replied.

And even though she might momentarily forget he was in the house, she never, ever forgot how he smelled and tasted, what the beating of his heart sounded like when she leaned her cheek against his chest.

“Where did that come from?” he whispered, rubbing her back.

“What?”

“This forty-and-fat self-flagellation.”

He made her sound so silly. She shouldn’t have spoken up. He couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t fix what he didn’t know was broken. For that matter, she didn’t know exactly what was broken.

“I told you,” she said, taking another stab at explaining. “A three-way mirror in the dressing room. The kind where you see yourself from behind—and you realize you’re turning into a dump truck. And I’m not flagellating myself. Although if it were a means of fat reduction, I suppose I’d give it a try.” She studied his face by the dying light of the evening. He had the square-jawed, all-American look of a career officer on his way up. The lean body of a warrior. And the kind of smile that made women pause in whatever they were doing and find some reason to sidle up for a closer look.

“I don’t think you can understand this,” she said. “You still fit into the same size Levi’s you did twenty years ago.”

He cupped the palm of his hand and skimmed it down her side, as though mapping the imperfect topography of her body. “I don’t understand how you can look in a mirror and not like what you see.”

For the first time in their marriage, she flinched at his touch. “I’m not fishing for compliments. I swear I’m not.”

“And I’m not doling out compliments. This is the truth. You’re the mother of my children, Gracie,” he said, bending down to kiss her. “You’re beautiful to me.”

And just like that, she let her troubles dissolve. He had, in addition to the physique of a deity, a certain boyish sincerity and fortunate sense of timing that made him irresistible to her. She pressed herself against him, welcoming the growing heat of
intimacy. Her eyes drifted shut. She became absorbed in his embrace and in the dreamy promise created by his gently probing tongue. She knew they would make love tonight and that it would be wonderful. It was one of the things she could depend on in her marriage.

“Better?” he whispered.

She nodded, because it was easier than trying to make him understand.

He kissed the top of her head and stepped back.

“You always do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“You’re always the first to let go in an embrace.” He looked completely baffled, so she went on. “The first to leave the bed after we make love.”

He smiled. “Let’s go work on that. I had no idea you had a problem with this, Grace. I’ll stay as long as you like.”

He reached for her, but she moved away. “I don’t have a problem,” she said, wondering how she could possibly make him understand. It wasn’t something obvious, but an aspect of their relationship that, over the years, had slowly and inexorably crept into her awareness. He wasn’t rude about it. He probably didn’t even realize he did it. He was a busy man with important duties.

“It’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m one of the things on your mental list of things to do: tell the wife to get the silly fat notion out of her head, give the kids a pep talk before thrusting them into yet another new school, take command of a carrier air wing, make the world safe for democracy—”

“Jesus, Grace, what’s got you so cynical all of a sudden?”

“It’s not all of a sudden.” She studied his face, that all-American handsome face, and saw genuine confusion in his eyes. He was the sort of man who fixed things—but if he couldn’t see it, he couldn’t fix it. “Never mind. I’m just stressed out. Want to rent a movie?”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He put some music on the CD player, soft, fluttery jazz by Authentic Rhinestone. Then he slipped his
arms around her, holding her so close that she disappeared, and drew her into a sexy dance.

“Yeah?” She shut her eyes as desire simmered through her. Even after so many years, he could still make her foolish with wanting him.

“Yeah.” He pressed his thighs to hers. Steve was a fine dancer. He’d been advised to learn at officer training school. He was good at anything and everything that would help him advance his career, she thought, and then felt disloyal. He was a good husband and father, two things the Navy didn’t require of him.

They danced all the way to the bedroom. As Grace drew the curtains shut, he came up behind her and slipped his hands along the buttons of her top, undoing them one by one and sliding the shirt down her arms. Just for a moment, she flashed on that image of herself she’d seen in the dressing room. With a will, she remembered what Steve had said—“You’re beautiful to me.” And he made her feel that way, with his hands and mouth as he finished undressing her and laid her down on the bed. By the time he shed his clothes and joined her, she wasn’t thinking at all.

This was a different sort of dance, one of their own invention, the moves practiced and perfected over the course of years. The intimacy was deep and genuine. It was a haven for Grace, a place where she felt complete and…yes, beautiful. She lost track of the time, and was startled to see, through gaps in the curtains, that the last light of day had finally faded. Steve lay atop her, breathing slowly with contentment.

“I should ask you to dance more often,” he whispered.

She smiled and held him close, their bodies still joined. Even in moments like this, she could never get close enough, could never know him completely, a dilemma that both frustrated and excited her. He was a complicated man who had overcome a brutal childhood, and no matter how much Grace loved him or how well she knew him, there was always a part of him that was a mystery to her.

It wasn’t just his other life on the carrier. The same strength
that had allowed him to survive his youth had made him a warrior. When she held him like this, it was hard to believe that, at his very essence, he was a machine trained to kill. The Navy had every possible term for it, but the bald fact was, that was his job. To kill and to train and lead others to kill. That was his secret side, the shadow Steve. He could hold her with the tenderness of a bridegroom. Yet if ordered to do so, he could send men and women to drop bombs on people.

He shuddered one more time, then parted from her, sliding the cool bedsheets up over them both. “You know,” he said, “I think I’ve figured out why kids leave home.”

“Hmm?” Grace sank back against the pillows. “Why is that?”

He folded his hands behind his head. “So their parents can have sex whenever they want.”

“Dream on.” She laughed and moved closer to him, laying her head on his chest. A pleasant sleepiness crept over her, and she could feel his muscles relax.

“I love it here,” she said, her thoughts drifting to the house she’d seen.

The CD changed to an old Rolling Stones collection, and strains of “Ruby Tuesday” drifted through the house.

He slipped his hand under the cool sheet and caressed her. “I love it here, too.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to miss you, Grace.”

She knew that tone in his voice. “You’re leaving?”

“I, uh— I’m going to Washington on Tuesday. Briefing at the Pentagon. I’ll be gone a week.”

She tamped down a familiar welling of resentment. Of course he was leaving. That was nothing new, and a week’s absence was minor. But maybe what she resented was that he’d waited until she was drowsy with sex before springing it on her. All right, she thought, that was his dream. Maybe it was time to try out hers on him.

“Well,” she said, “that’s your project. Here’s mine.”

“Where?”

She grabbed her robe and slipped it on. Despite his romantic words earlier, she felt no need to put her middle-aged body on parade. She switched on the light and found the real estate brochure on the bedside table.

“The girls and I went to an open house,” she said, handing him the sheet and putting on her reading glasses. Steve didn’t need glasses yet. Of course he didn’t.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he scooted up in bed and scowled at the flyer. “Yeah?” he said. “So?”

She realized she was holding her breath. The brochure showed a reasonably flattering picture of Marcia’s home basking in the sun, clear sky and blue water in the distance. But she wanted him to see what she saw, a house on a bluff, surrounded by towering trees, an apron of emerald grass and a view of the sea. She wanted him to see a place that would become theirs, a place where they might sit on the deck and hold hands, watching the stars come out at night. She bit her lip, feeling foolishly sentimental. It was just a damned house. A plain-looking house owned by a widow who had spent her entire marriage there.

He scanned the information quickly and efficiently, with total absorption. That was the pilot in him, able to suck up multiple facts in moments. In a squadron ready room before a flight, he’d be handed charts and knee-board cards. A pilot had mere seconds to memorize the code words of the day and mission specifics on a color-coded briefing card.