The Ocean Between Us

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 kneeboard cards. A pilot had mere seconds to memorize the code words of the day and mission specifics on a color-coded briefing card.

Yet when he lifted his gaze to her, his expression was one of total incomprehension. Clearly he needed remedial work.

Grace took the flyer from him and set it aside. She’d never understood how he could frustrate her and turn her on all at once. “Well?” she whispered, turning to nibble at his ear. “Do you like it?”

“I get the idea there’s only one right answer to that question.” He slipped his hand inside her robe.

“I want it,” she said.

“Me, too,” he agreed.

She pushed his hand away. “Really, Steve. I want to buy this house.”

He fell still. “Gracie, we’re only going to be here a couple of years. Three, max. Then we’ll be stuck with a house here.”

“You don’t get stuck with a house. You own it. You live in it. It’s where you go at the end of the day—”

“Not if you’re transferred to the Pentagon.”

His career again. She used to find it so exciting, used to look forward to each new assignment. But lately her thinking had shifted. She wanted permanence. She wanted a home. “It’s time, Steve. I need something of my own for when the kids are gone. A place we can always come back to, an anchor.”

“What if we have to sell it and it doesn’t sell? How can we take that kind of risk?”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. “A risk-averse Navy pilot. Who knew?”

“When I’m on the job, I put myself at risk. But this could affect the whole family. The kids are going to college. Sure, Brian is headed for the Naval Academy, so there won’t be any tuition for him, but…”

Grace figured it was the wrong time to set him straight about Brian and the Academy, so she bit her tongue.

“But what about the girls?” he asked. “Even with what we’ve set aside, it’s going to be tough enough paying tuition. This isn’t the time to be taking on a big mortgage.”

“No, it’s not the time. We should have done it years ago. The down payment can come from my grandmother’s estate, and we can easily qualify for a VA loan.”

He blew out a long-suffering sigh. “If you absolutely need a house, let’s find something in our price range. This is waterfront property. It’s twice what we can afford.”

“We’ve been saving for years.”

“Look, we had a plan, Grace. We were going to wait.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I want this house, Steve. That’s what people use their money for. It’s what they save for.” She held back from pointing out that everyone else their age seemed to be homeowners, many of them on their second or third home.

He scowled at the list price. “I know you’re a genius with the budget, Grace. But a house—” he pushed the flyer away from him “—was something we always said we’d talk about…later. And this one is completely beyond our means.”

“What if I found a way to afford it?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“I could work.” The idea had been simmering inside her even before her encounter with Marcia. Now a new sort of energy heated up. This was a possibility, not a daydream. Maybe she should have approached Steve differently, eased into the topic with him, but like he said, he was leaving. At the moment, he was glaring at her as though she was the enemy.

“I’m not a traitor,” she said. “This is not some wacko idea I’ve had. And I’m not talking about a part-time clerical job on base somewhere. It finally hit me today. There’s something I’m good at, and I could actually make a career out of it. I’m going to be an executive relocator.”

“A what?”

“Executive relocator—someone who helps people move. In the civilian world that’s worth something.”

“It sounds sketchy to me.”

“Don’t you dare be condescending.”

“I’m being practical. Setting yourself up for business is a long-term proposition.”

“These days a business can be run almost entirely from the Web.” She sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her knees up to her chest. “I don’t need a physical location, just a virtual presence on the Web, a voice on the phone. I’ve been doing it for years as an ombudsman, anyway.”

“I know that, Grace. You have incredible talent. Hell, I’ve seen you juggle schedules and plan a move like an air traffic controller. I’ve seen you find schools for kids with special needs, boarding kennels for dogs and parrots and drug rehab for more personnel than I care to remember. The families of the air wing need you. You’re too damned busy for a regular job.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” she said, incredulous.

“Grace, honey, I don’t want you to have to work for a living. That’s my job. I want you to be here for the kids.”

“While you were out they grew up, Steve. They don’t need me home twenty-four hours a day anymore.”

“Maybe I need you there, Grace. Did you ever think of that?”

“My God, no. I can honestly say I never did. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and paced the room. He always got restless when something was bugging him.

She found herself staring at his chest. Between his perfectly sculpted pecs nestled a St. Christopher medal he never took off. She’d once asked him where it came from. He said someone gave it to him just before he went to sea for the first time. Now the dark hair on his chest was sprigged in gray, which she found unaccountably sexy. Why was it that he seemed to become more attractive as he aged, while she just seemed to turn soft and faded? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t need his looks. He had everything else.

“It’s not that we can’t afford it,” he said. “We can, if we’re careful. But years ago, we agreed that owning a house doesn’t fit our lifestyle. When I retire, we’ll go anywhere you want. That was always the plan.”

“Plans can change.” Once upon a time, she had agreed with him about the burden of a house, given their way of life. But once upon a time was long ago.

“When did you change the rules on us?” She tried to answer, but he cut her off. “A house is a burden. A financial hemorrhage. What’s the point of buying a place when we’re moving in a few years?”

“What’s the point? How about our future? How about doing something for us instead of the Navy for a change?”

“I thought you were on board with our long-term plans. You’ve raised the three best kids in the world. I’m riding high in the Navy. What can a career for you add to that?”

“I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

“I can’t believe what you’re asking of me.” He opened a dresser drawer and started rummaging around. “Why now? Why this house?”

“There’s something about it, Steve. It’s special. At least come and see it with me.”

“It’s pointless, Grace. A waste of time.”

“I don’t need your permission to buy a house,” she said.

His back stiffened. “You wouldn’t do that.”

She had no idea whether she would or not. He seemed a lot more sure of her than she herself was.

“We both agreed that we wouldn’t get a permanent house of our own until I retire,” he repeated.

“So retire, and we’ll buy the house.”

“Very funny, Grace.”

“Maybe I wasn’t joking.”

He yanked a T-shirt over his head. “Yes,” he said. “You were.”

CHAPTER 8

“It’s the last official night of summer,” Emma said after they dropped off Katie and Brooke at the theater.

“How’s that?” Brian asked, jiggling his knee as he signaled to pull out into the road. Even while driving, he never sat still. He was always drumming, tapping or somehow moving around. It drove his teachers nuts, but his coaches appreciated all that excess energy.

“Dipshit,” she said. “School Monday.”

“Yippee.”

“So not only is it the last night of summer, it’s the last Saturday night before senior year.” The last time she’d go school shopping with her mom and Katie, the last time she and Brian would head out into a clear, cool night, looking for a fitting way to mark the end of summer before they went their separate ways.

He eased out onto the road. “Yeah, so?”

“So nothing,” said Emma, tucking away an old feeling of exasperation. “It was just an observation.” Sometimes she wished her twin had been a girl. Brian was such a guy. So dense and literal.

“We should make the most of it, then,” he said a moment later, surprising her. “Where’s the party?”

“Mueller’s Point,” she said, “as usual.” They knew all the common rendezvous points, because they’d had the entire summer to figure out the social scene. Both twins were adept at making friends quickly and easily, wherever they went. It wasn’t a gift, exactly. It was a survival skill. Moving every couple of years, you either learned to adapt and settle in fast, or you died the slow, excruciating, life-scarring death of the social outcast.

The life of a Navy brat was not for wimps. By the age of six, she and Brian had learned to reconnoiter a place, move in and make their mark in just a short time. The system wasn’t flawless, but it worked pretty well. To this day, she still kept in touch with a handful of kids all over the globe, kids she’d met and brought into her heart, shared a warm but temporary bond of friendship with before moving on. It was frustrating sometimes, because every once in a while, she really clicked with someone, only to have to leave just when it felt comfortable to share her life with that person. Each time she moved away, the goodbyes were filled with heartfelt promises: I’ll never forget you. I’ll write every day. I’ll come back to visit each year. Even though delivered with absolute sincerity, the pledges were never fulfilled. Not even once. Emma figured that was life for you, an unending strain of farewells and false promises.

“I guess it is pretty weird,” Brian said as he drove toward the waterfront county park. It had a boat ramp, a dock and a fire pit on the beach. Over the summer they’d learned it was the favored hangout for a sizable group of kids. “The thought of no more school, ever.”

“Except college,” she reminded him.

“Right. College.” His voice sounded flat and glum.

“Quit pouting,” she said. “You’ll be playing baseball and running track. How bad can that be?”

“Dad wants me to go to the Naval Academy.”

Her brother would be offered an appointment, of course. He was a shoo-in. But getting the appointment was only the first hurdle. Getting through was the harder task. Unlike Brian, Emma had always been fascinated by the process. It took everything you had, and more. It took a willingness to give up your whole life, to surrender everything that made you unique. You had to make yourself over in the image of the Navy. A warrior with a spine of steel. And a degree in engineering.

“It’s not such a bad idea, Brian.”

“Geez, not you, too.”

“It’s a hell of a deal. You get an education and a job, guaranteed. An awesome job, by the way.”

“And Dad gets his son in the Naval Academy,” Brian said. “That’s what it’s all about, and don’t pretend it isn’t.”

“Well, sure it is, but so what?”

“He wants it for him, not for me. He never got to go to the Academy, and he thinks sending me there will fix it.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I could run off and join the circus.”

“Right. You could call your act World’s Dumbest Brother.”

“Well, hell, Emma. I’m eighteen years old—”

“Really? I never would have guessed.”

“Very funny. What I’m saying is, when does it get to be my life? When do I get to do all that Goethe shit about going confidently in the direction of my dreams?”

Although she had the urge to laugh at him, Emma was caught by what he said. “You should be doing that now.”

He was quiet for a while as he drove. The night swished by, a streak of stars above the treetops. Finally Brian said, “I am.”

“You are what?”

“Going for what I want, not what Dad wants.”

“Art school, you mean.” Emma felt a grudging admiration for him. He’d wanted that forever.

“I need to take my shot.”

“I know. But Dad will say it’s not practical, that you’ll never make a living doing art. And maybe he’s not so wrong, Brian.” She thought about her brother’s magical drawings. He created new worlds, whole universes with such clarity of vision that sometimes she believed they were real places. “But then again,” she added, “maybe he just doesn’t want you to be a starving artist.”

“It’s my choice to make it work or fail, not Dad’s. Being a starving artist is a lot more appealing to me than the Navy.”

Emma said nothing, but she knew one thing for sure. Brian would never go to the Naval Academy. His hero was Robert Crumb, not John Paul Jones.

“So have you told Dad yet?” she asked.

“Idiot. Of course not.”

“Are you going to tell him before he goes on deployment?”

“Hey, how about worrying about your own plans for a change?” Brian asked, parking the truck.

“I don’t have any plans, so I’m not worried.”

He shook his head. “You’d better start playing the lottery, then.” He grabbed a jumbo bag of Chee-tos—his contribution to what was loosely termed a “party”—and took off without waiting for Emma. That was fine with her. Brothers and sisters didn’t go to parties together.