Can I tell you a funny story?” Gina asked. She didn’t wait for him to say yes or no. “It’s about, well . . . You know the whole age-issue thing?”
“The age-issue thing,” Max repeated. “Are you sure this is a funny story?”
“Does it still bother you?” she asked. “Being a little bit older than me? And it’s more funny weird than funny ha-ha.”
“Twenty years isn’t exactly ‘a little bit,’” he said.
“Tell that to a paleontologist,” she countered.
Okay, he’d give her that one. “Just tell me the story.”
“Once upon a time, when Jones first came to Kenya,” Gina said, “I didn’t know who he was. Molly didn’t tell me, and he came to our tent for tea, and . . . Maybe this isn’t even a funny weird story. Maybe it’s more of an ‘I’m an asshole’ story, because I immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was there because he was all hot for me. It never occurred to me—it never even crossed my narrow little mind—that he might’ve been crushing on Molly. And she’s only maybe ten years older than he is. I remember sitting there after I figured it out, and thinking, shoot. People do make assumptions based on age. Max wasn’t just being crazy.” She smiled at him. “Or at least not crazier than usual. I guess . . . I just wanted to apologize for mocking you all those times.”
“It’s okay,” Max said. “I just keep reminding myself that love doesn’t always stop to do the math.” He looked at her. “I’m trying to talk myself into that. How’d I sound? Convincing?”
“That was pretty good.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Gina spoke again. “Maybe I could get a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m not his daughter, I’m his wife.’”
Max nodded as he laughed. “Yet still you mock me.
But now Max wanted Gina to look out the window.
“The cavalry had arrived,” he told her.
Someone was standing directly in front of the tank. Whoever he was—a boy, dressed like a surfer, on crutches—was holding one hand out in front of him like a traffic cop signaling halt.
The tank, of course, had rolled to a stop.
And Gina realized this was no ordinary surfer, this was Jules Cassidy.
Jules was alive!
And here she’d thought she was all cried out.
Max laughed as he peered out through the slit that passed as a windshield for the tank. “He has no idea that we’re in here,” he said.
Damn, Jules looked like he’d been hit by a bus.
“Jesus, he has some balls.” Jules turned to the interpreter, who still didn’t quite believe that they weren’t going to kill him. “Open the hatch.”
“Yes, sir.” He poked his head out.
“Do you speak English?” Max could hear Jules through the opening.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell your commanding officer to back up. In fact, tell him to leave the area. I’m in charge of this situation now. My name is Jules Cassidy and I’m an American, with the FBI. There are Marine gunships on their way, they’ll be here any minute. They have armor-penetrating artillery—they’ll blow you to hell, so back off.”
“Tell him Jones wants to know if the gunships are really coming, or if that’s just something he learned in FBI Bullshitting 101.”
The interpreter passed the message along.
As Max watched, surprise and relief crossed Jules’s face.
“Is Max in there, too?” Jules asked.
“Yes, sir,” the interpreter said.
“Well, shit.” Jules grinned. “I should’ve stayed in the hospital.”
“I hear helicopters!” Gina’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “I can see them, too! They’re definitely American!”
Max took a deep breath, keyed the talk button. And sang. “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go . . .
Knock-knock.” Gina poked her head in the door.
“Come on in,” Jones said. “We’ve got all our clothes on for a change. Oh, wait, it’s you who gets it on in the—”
“Okay,” Gina said. “Am I ever going to live this down?”
“Eventually,” Molly said. “But Max singing you old Elvis songs over the walkie-talkie? Honey, that’s going to be impossible to kill.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Jones told her.
“The singing or the kitchen tabling?” she asked.
“Both,” he said. “Seriously, Gina. He’s all right.
Thanks again, sir.” Jules shook his hand again.
“You’re welcome again,” the captain said, his smile warm. “I’ll be back aboard the ship myself at around nineteen hundred. If it’s okay with you, I’ll, uh, stop in, see how you’re doing.”
Son of a bitch. Was Jules getting hit on? Max looked at Webster again. He looked like a Marine. Muscles, meticulous uniform, well-groomed hair. That didn’t make him gay. And he’d smiled warmly at Max, too. The man was friendly, personable. And yet . . .
Jules was flustered.
“Thanks,” he said. “That would be . . . That’d be nice. Would you excuse me, though, for a sec? I’ve got to speak to Max, before I, uh . . . But I’ll head over to the ship right away.”
Webster shook Max’s hand. “It was an honor meeting you, sir.” He smiled again at Jules.
Okay, he hadn’t smiled at Max like that.
Max waited until the captain and the medic both were out of earshot. “Is he—”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Jules said. “But, oh my God.”
“He seems nice,” Max said.
“Yes,” Jules said. “Yes, he does.”
“So. The White House?”
“Yeah. About that . . .” Jules took a deep breath. “I need to let you know that you might be getting a call from President Bryant.”
“Might be,” Max repeated.
“Yes,” Jules said. “In a very definite way.” He spoke quickly, trying to run his words together: “I had a very interesting conversation with him in which I kind of let slip that you’d resigned again and he was unhappy about that so I told him I might be able to persuade you to come back to work if he’d order three choppers filled with Marines to Meda Island as soon as possible.”
“You called the President of the United States,” Max said. “During a time of international crisis, and basically blackmailed him into sending Marines.”
Jules thought about that. “Yeah. Yup. Although it was a pretty weird phone call, because I was talking via radio to some grunt in the CIA office. I had him put the call to the President for me, and we did this kind of relay thing.”
“You called the President,” Max repeated. “And you got through . . .?”
“Yeah, see, I had your cell phone. I’d accidently switched them, and . . . The President’s direct line was in your address book, so . . .”
Max nodded. “Okay,” he said.
“That’s it?” Jules said. “Just, okay, you’ll come back? Can I call Alan to tell him? We’re on a first-name basis now, me and the Pres.”
“No,” Max said. “There’s more. When you call your pal Alan, tell him I’m interested, but I’m looking to make a deal for a former Special Forces NCO.”
“Grady Morant,” Jules said.
“He’s got info on Heru Nusantra that the president will find interesting. In return, we want a full pardon and a new identity.”
Jules nodded. “I think I could set that up.” He started for the helicopter, but then turned back. “What’s Webster’s first name? Do you know?”
“Ben,” Max told him. “Have a nice vacation.”
“Recovering from a gunshot wound is not a vacation. You need to write that, like, on your hand or something. Jeez.”
Max laughed. “Hey, Jules?”
He turned back again. “Yes, sir?”
“Thanks for being such a good friend.”
Jules’s smile was beautiful. “You’re welcome, Max.” But that smile faded far too quickly. “Uh-oh, heads up—crying girlfriend on your six.”
Ah, God, no . . . Max turned to see Gina, running toward him.
Please God, let those be tears of joy.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked her.
Gina said the word he’d been praying for. “Benign.”
Max took her in his arms, this woman who was the love of his life, and kissed her.
Right in front of the Marines.
That much hope had brought Max to his knees.
Apparently if he didn’t let himself weep like a little girl to relieve this emotional pressure building inside of him, he was in danger of hitting the ground in a dead faint.
Jules crouched beside him, checking for his pulse. “Are you okay? You’re not, like, having a heart attack or a stroke, are you?”
“Fuck you,” Max managed, swatting his hand away. “I’m not that old.”
“If you really think heart disease is about age, then you definitely need to make an appointment with a cardiologist, like tomorrow—”
“I just . . . tripped,” Max said, but when he tried to get up, he found he still hadn’t regained his equilibrium. Shit.
“Or maybe you needed to get on your knees to pray,” Jules said as Max put his head down and waited for the dizziness to pass. “That excuse sounds a little more believable, if you want to know the truth. ‘Hello God? It’s me, Max. I know I’ve been lax in my attention to You over the past forty-mmph years, but if You give me a second chance, I’ll make absolutely certain this time around I’ll tell Gina just how much I love her. Because withholding that information sure as hell didn’t do either of us one bit of good, now did it?’”
“I did what I—“ Max stopped himself. To hell with that. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“That’s right, you don’t.” Jules ignored Max’s attempt to push him away, and helped him to his feet. “But you might want to work up some kind of Forgive-Me-For-Being-a-Butthead speech for when you come face to face with Gina. Although, I’ve got to admit that the falling to the knees thing might make an impact. You’ll definitely get big points for drama.
I wanted to fall in love with you -- a number ten kind of love -- and I pretty much convinced myself that I had. But that was stupid, because love doesn't work that way. You've got to be really lucky to get a ten at first sight. but that's what I wanted with you. - Ken to Savannah.
Suzanne BrockmannShe was going to let him in, going to give him everything he so desperately wanted, and take more form him than he'd probably dreamed he was capable of giving. - Molly to 'Jones'/Grady
Suzanne BrockmannI love you a ten. - Savannah to Ken
Suzanne BrockmannYou're guilty of making the same mistake most people make. You say 'I love you' but what you really mean is 'I want you.' You think it's the same thing, but it's not. You don't fall in love with someone just because they fuck you like there's no tomorrow." Alyssa purposely used his words, "I don't doubt that you wanted me, Sam. That you still do. Because on that really primitive, physical level, yeah, I still want you, too. But that's not love. That's about possessing, about being possessed. It's not real --it can't possibly last. Love is something you give. It's not about taking, or possessing.
Suzanne Brockmann/When/ the piano falls, not /if/. Oh, Alyssa. What a way to live. With potential pain and heartbreak lurking around every corner.
And the only way to effectively counter it was to prepare for the worst to happen.
Or maybe even to run away from the good things -- like love. If you didn't let yourself love someone, you couldn't lose them.
No wonder Alyssa had fought so hard for so long to keep Sam out of her life.
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