Title: A Mother Knows NC-17 Version
Author: MSHDV, MSHDV@aol.com
Summary: Harm's family intervenes to insure he finds his destiny. But is it enough.
Disclaimer: JAG characters portrayed belong to JAG, CBS and Paramount Television. "I Hope you Dance" belongs to LeAnn Rimes. No copyright infringement intended. All other characters depicted are purely fictional and any similarities to actual people are purely coincidental.

WARNING: This story is rated NC-17. If that sort of thing bothers you, reading further is a bad idea.


A Mother Knows NC-17 Version


HARM'S APARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, D.C.


It had been a rough night and he just wanted to sleep in especially this morning, but the minute the sun rose he found himself jolted back into the reality he had created for himself. Now he found himself sitting at the kitchen counter with his third cup of coffee and the vision of red still swirling in his mind. He could still feel the incredible sensations. He could still feel the ache when their eyes locked, questioning all that was happening around them. He could still smell her perfume and he could still remember the last words of that damn song!


SURFACE WARFARE BALL
The Night Before . . .


He had waited all night to ask her to dance and it was late now. Brumby was back and somehow he suddenly knew time was quickly running out, to night, tomorrow and forever. The moment of holding her in his arms tonight, if but once, his only focus now, as he extended his hand to her.

"Mac?"

"Mic, excuse me?"

"I guess Rabb can have one dance with you luv, since I'll have all the time with you I need and want now that I'm back for good."

"Thanks, Brumby, that's very generous of you."

Taking her hand hesitantly in his, trying to forget the implication in the Aussie's words, he guided her to the far end of the dance floor, away from their table, away from Brumby, away if just for one intensely charged moment, from reality.

"Did I tell you that you . . . look . . ."

"Nice, surprised, content, what Harm?"

". . . beautiful tonight. You look beautiful tonight, Mac."

"No, but thank you. You know, I think this is only the second time you've ever passed me a compliment about my appearance, Flyboy."

She was right, he could only remember one other time. It was in Colombia, when she almost . . . Did she remember everything he had forgotten? Comfortably, yet uncomfortably, he took her in his arms moving her even further away, totally out of the Australian's steady gaze. Pulling her too close subconsciously, he felt her tense and he moved back slightly to look at her.

"You OK?"

"Fine, why wouldn't I be?"

"You've been quieter than usual tonight."

"Just a bit overwhelmed."

"Not comfortable with the return?"

"What would you know what I'm comfortable with?"

"Mac, this is me."

"Yea, Harm I know and that's the problem."

Silenced immediately by the tone in her voice, not wanting to ruin this moment when he had her all to himself, he silenced the words and just pulled her to him again listening to the song drifting around them. Mesmerized by the feel of her in his arms. . . for this intensely charged moment in time.

  If I'm not in love with you
What is this I'm going through, tonight
And if my heart is lying, then
What should I believe in
Why do I go crazy
Every time I think about you baby
Why else do I want you like I do
If I'm not in love with you

Feeling her relax against him, the words between them forgotten for the moment, he pulled her closer. Closer than he should have, losing himself in the sheer pressure of her warmth and softness . . . wondering if his heart was suddenly lying to him in this intensely charged moment in time.

  And if I don't need your touch
Why do I miss you so much, tonight
If it's just infatuation, then
Why is my heart aching
To hold you forever
Give a part of me I thought I'd never
Give again to someone I could lose
If I'm not in love with you

Feeling her hand slip to the base of his neck, her fingertips light and soft against his skin, he leaned his head down slightly. Catching his breath at his action and when he breathed the enticing scent of her perfume . . . wondering why his heart suddenly ached so in this intensely charged moment in time.

  Oh why in every fantasy
Do I feel your arms embracing me
Lovers lost in sweet desire
Oh why in dreams do I surrender
Lying in a maybe
Someone help explain this feeling
Someone tell me

Feeling her gently pull away from him as the song ended, his feelings were in turmoil while the sensations of her closeness still spun around him. He heard her suddenly excuse herself, saw her faint smile and watched her walk away from him towards the ballroom exit . . . wondering if his fantasies would always have him lying in a world of maybes.

"Damn it! If I'm not in love with you, Sarah Mackenzie. Then what the hell is this I'm going through tonight." The words were spoken whispers to no one but himself, unrecognized emotions washed over him and left him cold, as he watched the vision in red disappear through the ballroom doors.


HARM'S APARTMENT
Back to the present . . .


He didn't know how long he had been lost in the memories of last night before he heard the insistent knocking at the door.

"Hang, on a minute." Shaking the sensations that had quickly overtaken his body he made his way to the door. "Mom? Frank?"

"Hello, darling. I hope we didn't wake you. I know it's early."

"No, no it's fine. I've been up for awhile." Harm gave his mother a tight hug, more than surprise written on his smiling face. "Frank, it's good to see you."

"And you, Harm." Frank Burnett returned the offered handshake with the same strength and warmth.

"What are you doing in Washington? You didn't mention you were coming the last time we talked."

"No, it was a sudden trip. Frank, had some business to take care of on the Hill, so I decided to come along, check out some of the local artists for the gallery and visit with my son."

"That's great, Mom. How long are you planning on staying . . ." He caught the blur of beige out of the corner of his eye, he heard the sleep dazed voice and as the blush started to creep up his face his only wish was that this was all just a dream . . . a very bad dream.

"Harm, what's with the incessant banging? God, I'm going to be so puffy, without my 8 hours. Who in their right mind would visit this early on a Saturday? Honestly!"

Trish Burnett watched as Renee Peterson, wrapped only in a bed sheet stumbled down the stairs from her son's bedroom. She had to remind herself she had seen plenty of things in her fifty some odd years raising a son, that she was a lady, that she had an open mind, that she could . . .

"Mom, Frank, this is Renee Peterson. Renee is . . . a . . . my . . ."

" . . . his girlfriend. Mrs. Rabb!" Tangled and tumbling, looking as bedraggled as a pigeon caught in a badminton game, Renee walked towards Trish with her hand extended slowly, appearing to be losing her fight with the sheet that covered her precariously.

"It's Mrs. Burnett, Renee." Harm smiled apologetically at Frank, while sub-consciously pinching himself trying to wake up from what now was turning into more than just a dream . . . it was turning into a living nightmare.

"Of course . . . it's just that Harm speaks so little of his family." Entangled still in her cover, she moved to stand by Harm slipping her arm through his possessively.

"It's an understandable mistake, dear . . ."

"Oh, great coffee! Just want I need after last night." Winking seductively at Harm, she turned her attention back to their guests. "Would anyone like a cup?"

"Renee, why don't you go and . . . put . . . go . . . get . . ."

"Oh, yea. I must look a fright. Now everyone stay put, I'll be right back."

Harm tensed visibly as Renee kissed his check and as he felt his mother's heated gaze, suddenly remembering another time when she had that same look in her eye. He was a babbling idiot then too. Was it Joanne Carlson or Carol Withers? Was it in Bellville or La Jolla? The last time she had caught him with his hand in . . .

"Harmon!"

"Coffee?"

"Thank you." Trish Burnett graciously composed herself and offered a weak smile to her son all the while trying to comprehend what had just happened. What had possessed him to end up with . . . Temporary insanity induced by over active male hormones was the only reason that could justify . . . her.


Harm tried to listen attentively to his mother and Frank as they talked about their sudden trip to Washington, but he couldn't concentrate. His thoughts were fully anticipating with apprehension, Renee Peterson's next entrance.

"So, how's Mac?"

"Engaged."

"Really? You never mentioned it."

"No, not really, not exactly. Look Mom it's a long story and one I'd rather not get into right now."

"Oh. Well, I was hoping we could all get together for dinner on this trip since we missed her on your last trip to California."

"I don't know if that is such a good idea . . . her fiancee . . .her friend, well, he's just returned from Australia, I'm sure they are busy . . ."

"That's a great idea! How about dinner tonight? I know this great little French Restaurant that just opened and it's just the in place in Washington now. I'm sure that Mac and Mic can tear themselves out of their lover's embrace long enough to join us for dinner. Even lovers have to eat, don't they Harm?"

Was it her pouting voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention? Was it her sexual inferences that made him wince inwardly? Was it her appearance again wrapping her arms around his waist tightly that made him flinch outwardly? Or was it the vision she had painted in his mind of Mac in Mic's embrace that grated his nerves like fingernails scrapping down a blackboard. This was not just a living nightmare . . . it was the worst of all possible living nightmares.


Dinner plans were made, Trish calling and extending the invitation personally to Mac. Thrilled at her acceptance, Trish set the time and they all agreed to meet at the restaurant 30 minutes earlier than their reservations for drinks.

As the limousine made its way through the early morning traffic back towards the Capitol, Frank Burnett knew he could no longer ignore his wife's solemn mood.

"Trish, he's a grown man and he certainly knows his own mind. Going over there unannounced just made for a very difficult situation." He took her hand when she turned and he saw the look in her eyes.

"My son is unhappy, Frank."

"Trish, you met the woman under not the best circumstances. Just give yourself time to get to know . . ."

"He's unhappy, with who he is and who he has become."

"Trish how do you . . ."

"A mother knows. A mother just knows, Frank."


SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
0930HRS (EST)


"Dinner with Rabb's mother and stepfather? Now there's a reason to have flown 10,000 miles."

"Mic."

"Sorry, luv, but I had just assumed we would spend my first full night in DC alone. A nice warm meal, a nice a warm bed, a nice warm . . ."

"Didn't I once tell you not to assume, Mic and besides you'll like Trish and Frank."

"Trish and Frank is it? What are they like?"

"The perfect couple . . . the perfect parents . . ."

"Just like you and I will be, eh, luv?" Mic took her in his arms forcefully and settled them both on the sofa.

"Yes, just like I've always wanted to be." Mac tensed at his sudden assault, not wanting to go where Mic so obviously wanted to take her, but . . .


She felt his wet needful kiss and felt his hands roam over her body heatedly. His need for her more than evident in all his forceful movements. Mic Brumby was a good man and she knew he loved her. He had left his home, his family, and his career for her. Swept up in the moment she allowed herself to satisfy his needs and some of her own pent-up suppressed desires.

She lay in the arms of her lover, wondering about honesty, about integrity, about truth and about love, especially about love. As she turned away from him she allowed a single tear to slip silently down her cheek, cursing her weaknesses, her insecurities and her inability to forget the vision of dress whites and gold wings that would forever be part of her heart.

She didn't have to wonder however, how she had gotten to this point in her life . . . a ferry ride on a warm summer night across Sydney Harbor had been the single impetus that had propelled Sarah Mackenzie away from who she was and into the reality that was now her world.


HARM'S APARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, DC
1000HRS (EST)


"You didn't mention they were loaded."

"What?"

"Your parents. I know my fashion and I'd say her entire ensemble, less the jewelry, must have cost about what you net a month. With the jewelry, about what you net a year."

"Renee, if you mean my 'mother', Frank makes a very good living and they live comfortably. He's been very good to her . . . to us both."

"I'll bet. Her engagement ring is quite an eye full. I wouldn't mind having something like that on my finger, Sailor. It certainly makes the ring Brumby gave Mac, look like, well, a 'pop top'."

"I'm sure you'll never end up with a 'pop top', Renee."

"Is that a promise, Harm?" Renee was pleased with the sudden prospective windfall sauntering seductively over to where Harm stood.

"Nobody would ever dare give you less then you deserve." Harm tensed at her touch, not wanting to go where she so obviously wanted to take him, but . . .


He felt the pressure of her body against his, her hands expertly undoing the buttons of his shirt, her lips hungrily following the path her fingertips blazed. His initial reaction was to stop her. But Renee Peterson was an experienced lover and though completely self absorbed, she was sometimes fun, definitely uninhibited and stroked his ego when it seemed he needed it the most. He wanted to get away from her, but his own sexual needs pushed him to take what he thought he needed and give what he knew she wanted.

Laying with her pressed firmly against him, he closed his eyes and wondered about honor, about integrity, about truth and about love, especially about love. He cursed himself for his weakness, for his insecurities and for his inability to forget the vision in red that was starting to try and untie the knot that had somewhere along the way become his heart.

He didn't have to wonder however, how he had gotten to this point in his life . . . a ferry ride on a warm summer night across Sydney Harbor had been the single impetus that had propelled Harmon Rabb away from who he was and into the world that now was his reality.


THE DELMONICO SUITE
HYATT REGENCY
WASHINGTON DC
1830HRS (EST)


Trish Burnett clasped the pearl necklace around her neck and stood straightening the jacket of the pale gray silk suit. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, noting with satisfaction that the years had been good to her, even the bad ones. She signed at the loving memories that suddenly appeared to her, like welcomed old friends from the past. Memories of the man that had been her first love, memories of the man that had been her life, memories of the man that had given her a son.

"Ready, Trish. The car is waiting downstairs."

"As ready, as I'll ever be."

"Trish, promise me you'll just give her a chance tonight."

"Frank, my concerns are not for her. I am concerned only for my son. Something is wrong with Harm. I can see it in his eyes and as his mother I can feel it in my heart. And besides, Frank Burnett, when have you ever known me not to give anyone the benefit of the doubt."

"Never, my love. You've always shown everyone compassion with strength and dignity . . . . or at least given them enough rope to hang themselves only after showing them the error of their ways in the most diplomatic fashion possible."

"Frank, really!" She tried to feign irritation, but when she felt him kiss her cheek she couldn't suppress the small smile that crossed her face.

They walked from the suite arm in arm, Trish safe and comfortable in the arms of her present. The man who had helped her through her most darkest hours with his love, the man who had made a home for her with his love, the man who had loved her son as if he was his own.


SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
1845HRS (EST)


"Mic, we're going to be late. Let's go!"

Mac clasped the single strand of pearls around her neck, signing at the memory of Dalton Lowne that suddenly mixed for a fleeting second with her reflection in the mirror. She let the smooth strand slip through her fingers, remembering the life that had slipped away that night in the cold darkened alley. Shaking the memories of yet another man who had loved her, but couldn't be loved by her, she returned to the present, a slight shiver the only remnant left by the memories of the past.

"Mic . . .Oh there you are. Ready?"

"You're beautiful, Sarah."

"Thank you. This isn't too . . . "

"It's perfect. You could wear a potato sack and you'd still be the most beautiful woman in the restaurant. I'll have to keep an eye on Rabb tonight, once he catches sight of you."

"Please, Mic, stop it. Harm has Renee and I have you."

"But Renee isn't you, Sarah. She isn't you."

As Mic handed her the shawl and they quietly left the apartment, she wondered for a fleeting moment, if he knew what she was trying so desperately to bury in her heart, if she was that transparent. Slipping her hand through his arm, she promised herself that she would try to do better. She would try to love him, she would try to make a life with him . . . . and give herself the life she had always dreamed of in the arms of a man that truly loved her.


HARM'S APARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, DC
1830HRS (EST)


"Let's go, Renee. It's getting late!" Harm slipped his jacket on, shaking his head at how one woman could take two hours to dress for a simple dinner.

"You know I hate to be rushed when I'll getting ready. What?"

"You're not going to wear that tonight?"

"What's wrong with this?"

"There's just not very much of it."

"Harm, you've seen this before. I've worn it out a couple of times."

"Not with my mother and step-father, you haven't."

"Would a Nun's Habit be more appropriate? What's wrong with you anyway lately?"

"Nothing. Forget it. You look fine. Let's just go, we're going to be late."

He grabbed his keys, not wanting another last minute shrill confrontation with Renee Peterson and headed to the door. Everything would be fine. Frank would be the perfect host and his mother would be the commensurate hostess. They would have drinks, they would have dinner, they would make small talk over coffee and then they would all go home. Frank would take his mother back to the hotel. He would bring Renee back to his apartment and Sarah . . . Sarah . . .would go home in the arms of Mic Brumby.

As he slammed the passenger side door of the SUV the vision in red swept through his mind again surrounded by the last strains of that song . . . and he wondered . . . wondered once again what the hell was happening to him.


LE MAISON
WASHINGTON DC
1915HRS (EST)


Frank Burnett escorted his wife to a table in the restaurant lounge, the restaurant much more crowded then one would have thought for a perfect summer night. After ordering their drinks, he made his way to the maitre d' to confirm their reservations, while Trish seated herself in the small alcove.

Left alone for a moment, she scanned with a perceptive eye her surroundings. The restaurant was tastefully decorated in muted tones of brown and sand, the walls only adorned with impeccable prints of some of the great masters in unobtrusive frames. Frames that only served to enhance the painted subjects without over-shadowing their beauty.

As she watched her husband return to their table, she noticed with relief that even though the bar was a press of bodies, with soft classical music drifting down from the ceiling, it still appeared quiet enough to allow its patrons to carry on a conversation without shouting themselves hoarse. A small smile played across her lips. Other than the apparent air of wealth that hung around her, this just didn't strike her as the type of establishment that the 'princess of the sheets' would frequent often. Perhaps, there was more to the beige bedraggled bundle she had encountered at her son's apartment earlier that day, then she thought.

"That's what I like to see. . . your beautiful smile." But as fast as her smile appeared, Frank Burnett watched it dissipate, replaced with a thin mask of veiled confusion.

"Trish, honey, what is it?"

Trish Burnett tried to focus and refocus on the sudden explosion of fake fur that entered the restaurant hanging possessively on the arm of her son.

"It's just . . . I . . .I just can't decide whether she's on the inside of that outfit trying to get out, or if she's on the outside trying to get in."

Frank followed his wife's dazed expression, noticing Harm and Renee approaching them from across the crowded lounge. He shook his head sadly understanding the hungry stares of the lounge male clientele that followed Renee Peterson's entrance. He had been young once and he remembered when what a woman was on the outside was much more important than who she was on the inside. He had been young once and he remembered watching a woman's neckline go down and her hem line go up and he remembered hanging around hoping to be there when both ends met. He was young once and as he glanced back at his wife, he was ever thankful that he had been lucky enough to find the best of both in Trisha Rabb.

"Mom, I'm sorry we're late."

"Nonsense, darling you're right on time."

Frank watched the veil of confusion lift from his wife, only to be replaced by the perfect shield of propriety she wore so well in difficult situations. He participated in the greetings they all exchanged. And when he watched, Harmon Rabb hold Renee Peterson's chair, he swore he saw a perfect shield of propriety mask his step-son like the shield that now protected his wife. And Frank Burnett, thought maybe just maybe Trish was right . . . maybe just maybe . . .A Mother Knows.


LE MAISON
WASHINGTON DC
1930HRS (EST)


Trish watched as Harm settled into the booth, Renee attached to him like a second skin. She kept reminding herself, that he was a grown man, that he was a decorated naval officer and that he was an accomplished attorney. But he was also her son and her son had totally lost his mind! Temporary insanity induced by a male hormonal imbalance was the only explanation why her son was involved with a woman who had no more on her body than she had on her mind!

Frank Burnett saw the look in his wife's eyes, read her body language and knew that as Harm's mother she was poised to give Renee Peterson and anyone else enough rope to hang herself.

"So, tell me Renee, what is it exactly that you do? You're certainly not the military type."

"Oh, God no. Hardly, nor would I ever want to be. I'm a Director."

"Oh, really. A Director of what exactly?"

"Rock videos, limited documentaries, commercials. In fact, Harm and I met when I directed him in the commercial I did for the Navy. I'm sure you've seen it."

"No, I can't say that I have, dear. So, Harm, are you my son the star now?"

"Hardly, Mom. It was just a recruiting commercial for the Navy, in which I had no choice participating."

"Listen to him, he is being much too modest! The camera loved him and other than him being a bit too stiff, till of course I loosened him up, he was fantastic!"

"Renee, it was a damned commercial for a branch of the Military Services, not some Demented Dead Soul's video. Stiff is what we do best!"

"Demented what . . ." Trish carefully watched the exchange tuned immediately to the intonation in her son's voice.

". . . Dead Souls. It's a rock group I sometimes direct and you're right Harm 'stiff' is what you do best, Sailor."

The innuendoes in her words were crystal clear and not lost on Trish Burnett who grimaced inwardly as she watched Renee Peterson lean closer to her son. As clear as the director's inferences appeared to be, her son's reaction seemed muddled in a maze of defeatist indecision. There was no fire, no conviction, no purpose, and no spirit in her son's normally brilliant eyes.

"Renee, cut it out." Harm flinched wanting to know how he was ever going to survive a night of this, when he hadn't even been able to survive 15 minutes without his temper flaring. But as he saw his mother rise, heard her call her name, he knew the nightmare was just about to truly begin.

"Mac!"

"Trish, Frank it's so good to see you. Trish and Frank Burnett this is Mic Brumby . . . . my . . . friend."

Mac felt Mic tense, for a moment, at her introduction and she silently cursed herself for not being able to call him anything more than a friend. She took his hand openly in hers and squeezed it relieved to see the tension slowly dissipate with her action and seeing him return the pressure with a smile.

But Mic Brumby's tension paled in comparison to that of the handsome naval aviator. Harm stood watching the introductions, watching the warm embraces like a stranger. Like a stranger who arrives in a foreign city alone, only to deplane and walk through the arrival gate of a distant airport and watch all the other lonely passengers being met by people who they love and who love them. Passengers no longer lonely, their journey complete, safe in the arms of their loved ones. He tried to shake off his bout of self-pity, only to see the touch, the squeeze and the returning smile of love, forcing him to acknowledge again that the vision in red was and would be Mic Brumby's.

And Trish Burnett just watched . . .

They exchanged civilized greetings, Mac and Harm never looking directly at the other, even when Harm extended his hand to Mic Brumby. It was as if they thought that if they didn't look at each other, they wouldn't be forced to see, they wouldn't be forced to feel and they wouldn't be forced to care.

"Darling, you look just wonderful! Doesn't she Frank? Here sit by me. How long has it been?"

"At least a year if not more. I believe it was the Hobbs Investigation at Miramar the last time Harm and I visited together."

"Yes, when he brought you to the Gallery for the first time. That's right. And since then I understand you've been promoted to Lt. Colonel. Congratulations, Mac I know how important your military career is to you."

"Thank you, Trish. It has been my life."

"Until, now luv."

"Yes, now it is a part of something much more, Mic."

"Well, I must say Mic, may I call you Mic?" Accepting the Aussie's nod of confirmation she continued. "I've never seen Mac look better something certainly does agree with her."

"Thank you, Ma'am. I take that as a compliment hoping that I'm that something."

Trish Burnett was not being the least bit insincere with her compliments or her remarks towards Mic Brumby, but perhaps she pushed a little further then she should have so early. Mac had never looked better to her outwardly, but like her son, there was no fire in the Marine's eyes, there was no spirit in her voice . . . there was just the same maze of defeatist indecision behind her words.

As the conversation continued around her, she discretely glanced towards Harm and caught his look of stifling discomfort because of the direction the conversation was taking. She couldn't stand the look of pained discomfort in his eyes, so she expertly guided the table chatter to a more neutral topic.

A shudder of conviction and understanding passed through Trish Burnett when she recognized the charged undercurrent that ran between her son and his partner. She recognized it was more than professional . . . that it went much deeper . . . and that whatever was passing between them was quickly extinguishing the fire of a rare friendship between two perfectly paired souls . . . a friendship she had always known could be so much more.


Once they were escorted to their table away from the confines of the small alcove, the oppressive atmosphere seemed to lift and they shared a meal with impersonal conversation. Mic clinging possessively to Mac. Renee clinging possessively to Harm.

And Trish Burnett just watched . . .

She caught the body language of the small group and she saw the discreet fleeting glances between her son and Mac, glances that went unnoticed, except she was sure by her. She studied Harm's demeanor each time Renee Peterson leaned towards him, slipped her hand under the table in his direction or placed her arm through his. She studied Harm's demeanor each time Mic Brumby leaned towards Mac, kissed her gently or took her hand in his openly.

The meal finished, the party waited for the coffee, dessert and the after dinner drinks that some had ordered. Noticing the heavy silence that now hung over the table, Trish remembered all she had covertly witnessed and decided it was time to start to uncover the fool . . . . Was it the stubborn Commander or was it the pig headed Marine?

"So Mic, have you lined up any interviews?"

"Actually, I have Ma'am. One in Alexandria and two in Washington."

"Mic, your plans are to go into private practice? Good for you!"

"I'm certainly going to try, Renee."

"You know, Harm and I have discussed the benefits of him going into civilian law."

"Renee . . ."

"Really? Harm, you're thinking of leaving the Navy? When on earth did all this come about?"

"Mom, Renee and I just discussed it in passing one night."

And Trish Burnett just watched . . .

"Harm, you're not seriously thinking of leaving JAG again?"

"Mac, no. Renee and I were just discussing the future . . . . my future and the discussion came up."

"There are other opportunities with real benefits out there, Mac, other than just playing dress-up."

"Dress-up, is that what you think we do? Tell me Renee, what exactly are the real benefits of a non-military career?"

"Mac, look I certainly wouldn't expect you of all people to understand."

"Try me."

"All right, for a real career, for real connections, for real prestige and certainly for real money. For God's sake, some of my set people make more than you and Harm and they barely have a high school diploma!"

"Renee, I don't think this is the time to discuss any of this . . . ."

"Harm, darling, Renee certainly has the right to her opinions and I'm sure Mac is open enough to hear them."

And Trish Burnett just watched . . .

"Yes, let her talk, Harm. I'd like to hear what she has to say. And exactly why do you feel I wouldn't understand?"

"Why would you care about those things? You've got your man hooked. Besides you've always struck me as the domestic type. The way you always carry on about babies and such . . . the way you always 'ooh' and 'aah' over . . . over . . . you know . . .what's his name."

"Our godson, A.J.?"

"Yes, Harm, him."

"Now I like the sound of that . . . the baby part that is. Sarah, I wouldn't mind coming home to you, luv, and a house full of kids."

"I would imagine that you wouldn't Brumby, but I know that Mac wants all those things AND a good career."

"Well, you may be right mate, but with me she wouldn't have to work and personally if the truth be known, I would prefer she didn't."

"Mic, perhaps this is something we should discuss privately?" Mac was struggling with her temper, but when she felt the slight pressure of Trish Burnett's hand, for a reason she couldn't explain she fell silent.

"That's a very unique perspective nowadays, Mic, I take it you would prefer that Mac then resign her commission after you are married."

And Trish Burnett just watched . . .

"Not immediately, but yes, Trish, once I have established myself and we start having kids, I would prefer she didn't work. There would be no reason for her to work. She would have me and the kids to fill her life. She wouldn't need anything else. My mum was a great lady in her own right and it was good enough for her, so I can't see why it wouldn't be enough for Sarah."

"That's crap, Brumby. Don't you think that should be a decision you make together?

"I'm sure, Sarah would want to do what ever makes me happy, Rabb."

"But what about what makes her happy, Brumby? What about what she wants?"

"Being with me is what makes her happy and what she wants, Rabb, or haven't you figured that out yet, mate."

Trish watched as Harm and Mic stopped suddenly and just glared at each other. She was amazed at how they had kept the dripping stinging sarcasm at a normal conversation level . . . there was no shouting . . . there was just two very highly agitated sailors now glaring at each other . . . over the needs and wants of one woman.

And Trish Burnett decided it was time to just move it along . . .

" So, tell me Renee, how do you feel about having children and a career, dear?"

"Oh, God. I'd rather have my fingernails pulled out 1 by 1. The idea of having kids is just not something I would ever consider. Pregnancy, stretch marks, diapers, screaming, labor, delivery, cravings, weight gain . . . I don't think so. Not me. No. No. No. That's just not me."

"You find the thought of having kids that offensive?"

"No, Mac. For some people it's fine, but not for me. No thank you. Never. No way."

"Well, what if . . . if . . . the man you marry wants a family and a home. You found a man who loves you, a man who knows you and respects you. If you know children are important to him and what is important to him is important to you, wouldn't you do what you could to give him the happiness he deserves? What if you love him more than anything and want to share a child, only his child . . . more than anything. You want to feel a life you've both created together grow inside of you, a life that is a part of both of you, a life to love and a life to share together. What if you found someone you loved more then . . . then . . . the world. You could have a great career, a good man . . ."

"And lots and lots of comfortable shoes . . ."

And Trish Burnett just watched the spark of life, the spark of love, the spark of need, and the spark of understanding that suddenly surfaced in their eyes, focused only on each other, only needing each other, their world only one another.

And Trish Burnett knew . . .like any mother knows . . . that she would do anything . . . anything on God's earth to make her child happy . . . happy in the arms of his Marine.


VIETNAM WAR MEMORIAL
WASHINGTON DC
1600HRS (EST)


He watched silently with his tortured thoughts, obscured by the growing afternoon shadows and his ability to blend into any surroundings like a chameleon, the interaction of the small group standing just beyond. He stood silently as he witnessed their good byes and watched her turn back to the wall, left alone with her thoughts. He turned and watched as she moved back down the path towards the parking area, and he knew the time was finally approaching. The time when Harmon Rabb Jr. would be left alone, alone only with his tortured thoughts of what had been, of what was, and of what would never be.


The late afternoon sun sent shards of light cascading down, bouncing off the Memorial like sparkling tiny diamonds of light as Trish Burnett followed the wall to the exact spot, almost as if she had been there yesterday. It had been a long time since she had visited Washington . . . it had been a long since she had taken this walk along the path that for her represented the loss she once thought she would never survive and for the losses of so many others.

"Hello, Sailor, it's been a long time." Laying the two while roses at the base of the smooth granite structure, she stood and slowly traced the letters of his name cut in the smooth surface, letting the memories of love and loss flood her. The distant memories of their time together were brief, too brief, but they had shared the love of a lifetime. They had shared a love that had given them a son, a son she would love for a lifetime and beyond.

"Ma'am . . . Ma'am . . . can ya lift me? I kinda can't reach . . . Please."

Trish Burnett shifted her gaze when she felt the tug on her pant leg and found herself looking into the deep blue eyes of the most amazing little boy. "I think I can do that." Smiling, she gently lifted him into her arms and moved him in the direction he was pointing excitedly.

"Thanks! That's my granpy. You here to visit granpy too?" His innocent eyes focused on her for a moment, before his attention shifted back to the charcoal granite wall.

"No, I'm here visiting my husband, but I'll visit with your granpy, too, if you'd like?"

"OK. See right there. Just like me, John Jesse Rodell. See? Just like me!"

"Yes, I see. My name is Trish, John. You're not here alone are you . . . " Before she was able to finish her sentence or hear the young boy's reply, she heard the deep voice and turned to see a tall Naval Officer quickly approaching, his arm securely guiding the very pregnant woman at his side.

"John, you scared us to death, son. Oh, Ma'am, I'm so sorry." Smiling apologetically, he extended his arms to his son who immediately lunged for the safety of his father's embrace.

"Daddy, this is Trish. She's visiting, too, and she said hello to granpy!"

"Captain. He seems like quite a handful."

"He is, Ma'am, quite a handful. Captain John Rodell, and this is my wife, Adrian."

"Trish Burnett. Very nice to meet you, Captain. Mrs. Rodell."

"Trish . . . which one is yours. Show me . . . Show me . . ." John Jr. squirmed against his father, trying to get Trish's attention.

"Right, here. See John . . . Lt. Harmon Rabb Sr. Right here, see dear." She took the little hand in hers and traced the letters slowly, the memories of love sparking, if only for a moment, again.

"Yea, I got it. I've got him and I'll put him, right here!"

Trish glanced in confusion at John's parents as she heard the small boy's laugh and watched him place his tight little fist against his chest.

"It's something that he's done since we first brought him to the Memorial, Ma'am. He likes to think that he takes a piece of his grandfather with him each time we visit, and places it in his heart. This way he thinks he always has him with him. It might seem a little strange . . . "

"Not at all, Mrs. Rodell, not at all."

Left alone again with her memories, Trish Burnett watched as the couple made their way slowly away from her along the path, their arms around each other, their son firmly held between them. She sighed and turned back to the name on the wall.

"You know, Harm, sometimes I think all that our son is going through now is somehow my fault. I sometimes wonder if I did too much, or just didn't do enough. If I said too much or . . . I didn't say enough. I want him to have what we had and more. I don't want time to be his enemy like it was ours."

She lovingly traced the name, again, slowly with her fingertips and then placed her trembling hand on her heart and whispered, "You're always in my heart, Sailor. Our memories will always be an important part of my life. And I promise you, Harm, I promise you that one day there will be the small hand of your grandchild tracing your name and keeping your memory in their heart forever. I promise you, my love."


HARM'S APARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, DC
1700HRS (EST)


He violently threw his keys on the counter and collapsed on the sofa, trying to get his breath, trying to regulate his breathing. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew better than to take his run during the heat of the day, but he just had to get out, get away from the incessant ringing of the phone . . . get away from her.

Relaxing and closing his eyes, he drifted . . .

The night before . . .

Their intimate moment slipped away, carried on the wings of reality, as he watched Mic Brumby wrap his arm around Mac and pull her towards him . . . away from the moment . . . away from him . . . back into the reality of what was and what was destined to be.

They had said their stilted good byes, parted ways, and he had found himself once again alone, like on so many other nights, alone with Renee Peterson. And when the valet had brought their car, he looked back, again, and all be saw was the vision in red walk off in the arms of the Australian . . . He had looked back, and once again he was reminded that all the joys of looking forward were left somewhere on that ferry ride across Sydney Harbor one warm summer night.

The confines of the SUV suddenly became suffocating as he cringed outwardly when he felt her hand slid longingly up his thigh. Suddenly all that washed over him was the intense look of understanding in his mother's eyes and the truth that spilled from his heart. Truths about the woman who didn't want his children, truths about the woman who didn't want what was important to him, truths about the woman who had helped take him to where he was today, and truths about the woman who had helped him become someone he didn't recognize.

He gave lame excuses why he couldn't. He gave lame excuses why he wouldn't. And as he watched her pull away from his apartment with the screeching of tires splitting the night, he knew the time for the truth had come. It didn't matter anymore if he couldn't have what he had always wanted. It didn't matter anymore if he couldn't have what he had always needed. If he had to, now, he would find a way to move on without the love of Sarah Mackenzie, and he resigned himself to the fact that he no longer wanted it to be in the self-absorbed arms of Renee Peterson.


Back to the present . . .


Back into the world he had created for himself, Harm reached for the phone and dialed Renee's number. It was time. It was the time to move forward. It was time to find Harmon Rabb once again.


SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
1730HRS (EST)


The incessant ringing of the phone woke her again out of the depression-soaked sleep she had left herself wallow in all day. She heard the thick Australian accent in the distance leave more words on her machine, but she didn't move, burying herself again under the shield of pillows scattered over her bed.

Not wanting to deal with him, she found herself drifting . . .

The night before . . .

Their intimate moment slipped away, carried on the wings of reality, as she felt Mic wrap his arm around her and pull her towards him . . . away from the moment . . . away from him . . . back into the reality of what was and what was destined to be.

They had said their stilted good byes, parted ways, and she had found herself once again alone, like on so many other nights, alone with Mic Brumby. And when the valet had brought Harm's car, she surreptitiously glanced at the passing vehicle, as it pulled into the late night traffic. Noticing their intimate closeness in the dimly lit vehicle, all she saw was the vision of dress white and gold wings drive off with Renee Peterson into the night. She tried not to think back and once again remember that all the joy she had of looking forward was left somewhere on that ferry ride across Sydney Harbor one warm summer night.

They had returned to the apartment in an uneasy silence, she neither wanting to ask him why nor wanting to hear again the opinions he had voiced so openly in the restaurant. But he sensed her discomfort and continued to probe until she couldn't stand it anymore, until she wanted to scream. And when she finally heard him answer her questions with questions of his own, she knew that the love of his man would suffocate what was left of the her spirit, her will, and mold her into someone she wasn't . . . someone she couldn't be.

She gave excuses why she couldn't. She gave excuses why she wouldn't. And as she felt his light kiss on her cheek, and as she closed the apartment door, she knew the time for the truth had come. It didn't matter anymore if she couldn't have what she had always wanted. It didn't matter anymore if she couldn't have what she had always needed. If she had to, now, she would find a way to move on without the love of Harmon Rabb, and she resigned herself to the fact that she no longer wanted it to be in the self-absorbed chauvinistic arms of Mic Brumby.


Back to the present . . .


Back into the world she had created for herself, Mac reached for the phone and dialed Mic's number. It was time. It was time to move forward. It was time to find Sarah Mackenzie once again.


JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VA
1130HRS (EST)


Both relieved that the Monday case briefings had been postponed due to the Admiral's impromptu visit with the SECNAV, they had successfully avoided each other all morning. Sequestered in their respective offices with the doors closed, they tried to bury themselves in the lives of others. They tried to bury themselves in the problems of their clients. Their professional lives now destined to fill the void the truth had left once again in their personal lives. The special friendship they had once shared still also absent because of their stubbornness, their insecurities, and the reminders of the individual rejection they blindly believed they had each inflicted on the other in the past.


"May I help you, Ma'am?"

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant, I'm here to see Commander Harmon Rabb."

"Does he expect you, Ma'am?"

"No, I'm sure he doesn't. But could you please just tell him Trish Burnett is here to see him."

"Certainly, Ma'am. If you could wait right here, I'll see if the Commander is available."

"Thank you."

Trish Burnett looked around at the immaculate offices, wistfully remembering that in the six years that Harm had been assigned to the Judge Advocate General's Office, this was the first time she had visited her son at his duty station. Hearing his voice she turned and for a moment she was transported back to another place in time. Back to another handsome naval aviator who had stolen her heart. He looked so much like his father . . . he looked so much like Harm Sr.

"Mom! What are you doing here? I thought you left for LA last night." Harm hugged his mother and with her hand securely in his, guided her to his office.

"No, I decided to stay the week . . . visit a starving artist fair in Pennsylvania and spend some additional time with my son."

He settled her in the chair in front of his desk, glad she was there and very glad he would have some additional time with her. "And Frank?"

"I sent Frank home. He had to finish the project that brought us to Washington, and, besides, I didn't want to force him to tramp through the Pennsylvania countryside with me in search of the next Norman Rockwell."

"You know he never minds."

"I know that, darling. He's always been wonderful when it comes to the gallery or things that I find important."

"He wants you to be happy."

"Yes, he does. I guess when you love someone you have to put up with their little obsessions. So, what do you say your mother takes you and Mac out to lunch?" She noticed the sudden spark in his eyes, only to see something else she didn't quite recognize extinguish it.

Before she could gauge the tone in his response, they were interrupted by a voice over the intercom.

"Commander, I have the Admiral on line one for you."

"Thank you, Tiner. Mom, I have to take this call, and then I'm due in court at 1300. I'm afraid I'll have to skip lunch, but why don't I make it up to you and cook you dinner tonight?"

"I understand, and dinner sounds wonderful. Do you think Mac is free to join me for lunch?"

"I'm not sure, but why don't I have the Gunny show you to her office."

"Thank you, dear. Then I'll see you tonight. Say seven?"

"Seven it is."

After kissing his mother lightly on the cheek, he watched the Gunny escort her to Mac's office. He saw them embrace warmly, always so obviously comfortable in each other's presence. Slamming his door with a little more force than was necessary, he sat back at his desk, a headache with the strength of a jackhammer starting to pound in his head along with the memories of the weekend.

"Damn it, Rabb, your life is a mess." His words echoed in the silent space that now spun around him.

"Commander?"

"What is it, Tiner?"

"Sir, the Admiral is still holding on line one."

"Oh, God. I'm a dead man."


THE BROOKS CAFE
FALLS CHURCH, VA
1215HRS (EST)


They were shown to a table in the small patio area that surrounded the restaurant, and after ordering they sat quietly in a comfortable silence. Trish Burnett watched Mac ordering and though her smiles were genuine, but there was something in her eyes that she did not recognize. No more than she had recognized the fleeting look in her son's eyes less than an hour ago.

Their food arrived and they talked about JAG, about the Gallery, about Frank, and about the weather, but neither mentioned Harm, Mic or Renee Peterson. It was as though they were forbidden topics, until Trish noticed the missing ring . . . both ring fingers now bare. She had seen the glances between them, she had felt the raw tension around them and she had witnessed the electricity that passed between them, and when the conversation turned to family, to children, to love. Something had gone very wrong between her son and the woman who sat across from her, but Trish Burnett was sure it was no more than the folly of two fools.

"Mac, where is your ring, dear?"

"Oh . . . I must have . . . Trish, the truth is . . . that Mic is reconsidering his . . . that we both have decided to . . . well, to put some distance between us for a while." Mac was uncomfortable with discussing the events that had finally pushed her to remove the ring. Even though she trusted Trish Burnett implicitly, she was still Harm's mother, and she did not want to discuss her relationship with Mic with the mother of the man she couldn't forget.

"I'm sorry, Mac. Give yourself some time, I'm sure things will work out."

"I hope so, though . . . I just wish . . . Sometimes I think I will never find that one . . . that someone who will, well, love me unconditionally."

"Sarah Mackenzie, that is absolutely ridiculous! You are a beautiful, intelligent, strong, and caring woman. Any man would be proud to have you. Any man would be lucky to share your love."

"Sometimes, I just wish that . . ."

"What, Mac?" Trish noticed that Mac's thoughts seemed to have left the crowded restaurant, and she was drifting, wrapped in a shroud of a past, painful memory . . . More and more, Trish Burnett was becoming convinced it had something to do with her son.

"That I could stop loving to love. Sometimes, I wish I could just 'let go.'"

"Sarah, you should let go of what you're unsure of, but you should never let go of what you know, in your heart, is the truth. You should never let go of what you want, of what you need. Have you talked to Harm about any of this? You're very special to him, and I know my son would want to help."

"Thank you, Trish, but this is not something I'd feel comfortable discussing with Harm."

"Why? After all you two have been through together? You were there beside him through Russia, a time that helped him finally come to terms with the pain that had been in his heart for most of his life, and you don't feel comfortable with discussing a life changing decision of yours with him? Darling, what's happened?"

"Believe me, I've asked myself that same question." Mac passed Trish a weak smile, knowing that she was saying too much, but knowing she was not saying enough. She trusted Trish Burnett, and she had longed for a mother's shoulder for as long as she could remember, so she continued cautiously. "Harm has never cared for Mic, and well, our choices in personal partners seems to have caused us to grow apart since his return."

"I see. So then, you have reservations about Harm's relationship with Irene?"

"You mean Renee?" Mac had to smile at Trish Burnett's use of the wrong name when referring to Renee Peterson, wondering if perhaps the trait was genetic. How many times in the past had she caught Harm use the incorrect name when addressing or discussing Mic Brumby or Dalton Lowne?

"Yes, yes, of course, Renee." Trish refocused on Mac with a slight shudder, trying to push the vision of the woman who wore clothes like an unmade bed out of her mind. The woman who appeared to be looking for a generous man . . . a man Renee Peterson could take to and take from. And Trish Burnett swore she would be damned if she was going to allow it to be her son!

"Renee, well, she's just Renee."


As the limousine pulled out from the restaurant parking lot, Trish Burnett still noticed the longing in Sarah Mackenzie's eyes, a longing that was fueled by the needs in her heart. She tenderly took the strong Marine's hand in hers and turned toward her.

"Don't ever let go of the love that's in your heart. Love rooted in a special friendship is the strongest and rarest of all love. You don't need to stop loving to love. Just don't 'let go' . . ."

Mac stiffened when she heard the words. She appreciated Trish's concern, she appreciated having her shoulder to lean on, and she admired the strong, elegant woman that sat next to her. But she also knew she might have somehow just said too much . . .


HARM'S APARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
1915HRS (EST)


"Right on time, Mom."

"Did you have any doubt I would be, darling?"

"No, but I know how preoccupied you can become with your starving artists. Can I get you something?"

"Wine would be nice, dear. Actually, Mac and I had a long, leisurely lunch and after that I just did some shopping. She really is an amazing woman."

"Here you go. Relax, I'm just going to check on dinner." After handing his mother her drink, he quickly turned his back afraid, that she would see in his eyes how amazing he thought his Marine really was. Afraid for his mother to see and understand what he didn't and what was tearing him apart.

"Thank you." Trish noticed the lack of the expected response and decided to drop the subject for the moment . . . just for the moment.

As she had done at JAG, she wandered around the apartment, taking inventory of what was around her. She sighed inwardly, as she noticed the picture of Harm, Sr., remembering the day it had been taken, holding it in her hands, and bringing back to her only the best of times. Setting it back on the bookcase, she carefully noticed the other pictures scattered and partially hidden discretely behind the others. Pictures of two smiling faces obviously placed so they wouldn't be noticed unless one was looking, and Trish Burnett was looking. Mac and Harm . . . at a christening. Mac and Harm . . . at a wedding. Mac and Harm . . . at an airfield. Mac and Harm . . . at a formal. Mac and Harm . . . at a softball game. Mac and Harm . . .

"Mom?"

"You have quite a collection here."

"Yeah, I do. Some very good memories. Dinner's ready. Hope you're hungry."

"Famished."

Trish Burnett watched as her son took the wedding picture from her hand and placed it back in it's place, but not before he paused a moment and traced the outline of the smiling woman with his fingertips. She shuddered when she saw again the fleeting spark in his eyes and she knew, without a doubt she knew. Like his office his home contained loving memories of a woman he had shared but had not shared the last five years of his life with. Like his office, and his home, her office contained loving memories of a man she had shared but had not shared the last five years of her life with. And she bet that if she visited Mac at home, she would find what was significantly lacking in both their homes, in both their offices . . . one single picture of each of their supposed significant others.


Over dinner they talked about JAG, about the Gallery, about Frank, about her trip to Pennsylvania the next day and his departure for Denver first thing in the morning, but neither mentioned Mac, Mic or Renee Peterson. It was as though they were forbidden topics, until Trish noticed him glance again over her shoulder at the picture he had held with visible emotion, less than an hour ago. She had seen the glances between them, she had felt the raw tension around them and she had witnessed the electricity that passed between them, when the conversation turned to family, to children, to love. Something had gone very wrong between Mac and the son who sat across from her, but Trish Burnett was sure it was no more than the folly of two fools.

"OK, Harm. What's going on?"

"What?"

"With you and Mac?"

"Mom, don't start."

"Harmon Rabb."

"There's nothing going on."

"Obviously and there hasn't been for quite sometime."

"There never was anything more than . . . well . . . a friendship between us. Nothing more."

"A very special one."

"Yea, Mom . . . a very . . . special one."

"Well, then?"

"'Well, then' what?"

Trish watched Harm as he suddenly caught the domesticity virus and started clearing the table, removing everything quickly, including himself, from his mother's steady gaze.

"Harmon Rabb, that's enough! Stop answering my questions with questions, and stop avoiding my questions like . . ."

"Who, Mom?"

" . . . like you were ten!" Trish had no intention of relaying any part of her conversation with Mac. She wasn't going to give either one of them an edge over the other. She was simply going to help them see the right road before they both ended up drinking from the wrong water fountain.

"Mac and I have drifted apart. We've both changed, and now . . ."

" . . . and now you don't care for one another? Don't want to be in each other's lives? What?"

"She now has Mic Brumby . . . she's made her choice."

"Did she have a choice?"

"I thought she understood she did."

"But did you tell her she did?"

"Not exactly. Look, Mom, it isn't as easy as right or wrong, black or white. There were things we had to deal with, there were things that had to be settled, before . . . before we could 'let go'."

"You mean before you could 'let go'."

"Yeah, before I could 'let go'."

"Son, I won't pretend to know what's brought you to this point in your life. But I can only tell you where you are now. My son, who once knew his own mind, knew what he wanted out of life, even against the darkest of moments, has now retreated into a self-spun cocoon of indecision. A cocoon of indecision that has broken his will, that has made him a man even his mother can't recognize."

"Mom . . .I . . . "

"Listen to me, Harmon Rabb, if you don't acknowledge what's in your heart and 'let go' of your insecurities, fear, and whatever else you've convinced yourself prevents you from going after what you want . . . she will . . . she will be the one to finally 'let go'."


Trish Burnett's head was pounding as the limousine left her son's apartment and turned down the darkened street. Her mind let the conversations of the day wind over and over again in her head. She had planted seeds, just seeds. But she knew, like a mother knows, that it would take a cataclysmic, explosive event to catapult those two stubborn and pigheaded children into each other's waiting arms.


JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VA
1130HRS (EST)


Mac entered the JAG Bullpen from court, only to be greeted by his darkened office. Why hadn't she told him her decision before he left for Denver? What was she so afraid of? Would he have been happy . . . would he have . . . or would he have just taken the news with him into the arms of the video princess? She shuddered as she made her way to her office, reminding herself once again, that she didn't do this for him. She had returned the ring for her. She had returned the ring so she could find Sarah Mackenzie, again.

"Ma'am, some flowers were delivered for you, along with a package. I've put them in your office."

"Thanks, Gunny."

She entered her office and closed the door, the two dozen white roses and the gaily colored package taunting her from the center of her desk. Mic had told her he wouldn't let her go that easily . . . told her that she would always belong to him . . . told her that she didn't know her own mind . . . told her that Rabb would never want her . . . told her that Rabb would never love someone like her. It had been an ugly scene of shouted incriminations . . . it was almost as if the Mic Brumby she had known . . . was replaced by someone she didn't recognize . . . an enraged stranger . . . who shouted words from her past . . . who had shouted all the words her father had once used to destroy her will.

Absently, Mac grabbed the card that was attached to the brightly colored package, her heart telling her to trash both gifts, but her mind telling her to open the package. For some reason she couldn't explain, she found herself unwrapping the package with urgency. And when the contents of the package spilled on her desk . . . and when she read the words of chilling, menacing hate she collapsed in her chair, the blackness of her world now spinning uncontrollably around her accompanied by a heart wrenching fear.

Her gasped words echoed around her. "Oh my God . . .NO!"


Housekeeping had gotten him out. Housekeeping had gotten him in. And the friendly exchanges with a lonely limousine driver, paid to wait, had gotten him what he ultimately needed. What he ultimately needed to shatter the life of Harmon Rabb Jr. The naval aviator would be finally left alone. Alone only with his tortured thoughts of what had been, alone with his tortured thoughts of what was, and alone with his tortured thoughts of what would never be.


The ropes were tied in neat tight knots of readiness. The mirrors were placed in strategic positions of deception. Everything was ready . . . ready for the taking of the life and the soul of another. And this time, just this time, just when this life was taken, it would not be the hidden work of a forensic artist. This time, just this time, the pain would be obvious, the fear would be obvious, and the victim's last tortured hours would be obvious. Because this time Harmon Rabb Jr. would suffer by the taking of one of the things that meant the most to him . . . this time he would suffer like he had never suffered before. All he would be left with would be the distant past, the empty present and the desolate wondering about the future that would never be.


JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VA
1215HRS (EST)


Sergeant Victor Galindez caught the blur of Marine Green that suddenly seemed to catapult through the JAG Bullpen towards the Admiral's Office. He stepped aside quickly, realizing he was in the immediate line of fire, but not before the Marine Colonel leveled her icy stare on him.

"Gunny, get Lt. Roberts and then find me the Commander!"

"Ma'am, the Lt. is at lunch, and the Commander is in Denver." Watching her stop abruptly and turn menacingly towards him, he found himself coming to attention almost subconsciously.

"Gunny, I am fully aware the Commander is in Denver, but I need you to locate him and get him back! As far as Lt. Roberts is concerned, I suggest you find him now! Do I make myself clear, Gunnery Sergeant?"

"Crystal clear, Ma'am." Noticing her stiffening significantly, if that was possible, as she exchanged brief words with Tiner, he watched her slip quickly into the Admiral's office. He had always known she was tough, tougher than any woman he had ever known, even his mother, but something was really wrong . . . something was very, very wrong.


"What is it, Colonel?"

"Sir, I . . . I . . . received these."

All military propriety a mere memory, Mac met the Admiral's perplexed stare, her eyes filled with an uneasy, fear-ridden apprehension. She let the scarf and the pin slip into the Admiral's open hands, and she was afraid. Afraid that if she let them go, she would be gone from them forever . . . afraid that if she let them go . . . she would be admitting that what was happening was real . . . afraid that if she didn't hang on to them tightly in her grasp . . . Trish Burnett wouldn't hang on . . . they would lose her forever to the self-absorbed fanatical ravings of a lunatic.

"Colonel, I'm not clear?"

"He's got her, Sir. He's got . . ."

The Admiral stared at the diamond-initialed brooch, first understanding, then disbelief, and finally anger distorting his normally stoic features. "Tiner, get me, Webb now!" Standing, he crossed to the window, still holding the items in his hand.

"Sir, we should have told him. We should have told the . . ."

"Told him what, Colonel?"

"Told him that Clark Palmer was out. We should have told the Commander that Palmer had escaped."


DELTA FLIGHT 1835
1125HRS (PST)


. . . The fog was dense and all consuming, swirling around him in thick, suffocating patterns, as he tried again to reach for her, to pull her to him. But the closer he got to her, the further she slipped into the whipped marshmallow-like fog, away from his reach. The fog, like an impenetrable wall, kept her from him . . . kept her from him, from all he was, from all she was and from all they would be together.

The harder he tried to reach her, the further she moved from him, the fog growing thicker and thicker between them. Why was she moving away? Why wouldn't she let him get close to her? He watched the fog lift around them for just a moment, and he realized he was the one that was moving away, he was the one moving away from her . . . he was the one moving back into the menacing blackness that was now surrounding them. He extended his hand for her one last time, but he lost sight of her . . . he lost sight of her in the swirling blackness and the suffocating whipped marshmallow-like fog. He had lost the vision in red . . .

"Sir. Sir. We're about to land in Denver, please fasten your seat belt. Sir?"

"Sorry." He watched as the stewardess moved on to another passenger, trying to prepare the cabin for landing.

Harmon Rabb tried to shake the fog from his sleep-laden mind and focus on the landscape that now spun towards him. His mind only allowed him fleeting memories of the dream that he had been aroused from. As the pilot started their final descent, Jeppesen Terminal came into view. . . and it looked like a mound of whipped marshmallows . . . like the whipped marshmallow-like fog in his dream . . . and he remembered . . . remembered how he had moved away from the vision in red . . . how he had lost sight of the vision in red in his whipped marshmallow-like fog.


JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VA
1415HRS (EST)


The word from Webb was that they had simply lost him. Clark Palmer had once again eluded Webb's men, vanishing like the spook he was trained so well to be . . . and he was still out there somewhere . . . out there somewhere with Trish Burnett. Sarah Mackenzie had no doubts that he had her, she had no doubts that they would find her. Her only doubts were about when, about how and about what Clark Palmer had in store to further torment the man that she loved at the expense of his mother.


"Enter"

"Ma'am, there's been no further word from Mr. Webb, and the Admiral has gone to Langley to, well, make his presence known and move things along as only he can."

"That'll definitely send Webb scurrying for cover. She's out there somewhere, alone and frightened. He's out there somewhere, alone and helpless."

"Ma'am?"

"Sorry, Bud."

"You were also thinking about the Commander. Weren't you?"

"Damn it, why didn't we just tell him the truth? Damn it!"

"With all due respect, Ma'am, it wouldn't have made a difference. Palmer would have still gotten her."

"Yeah, I guess you're right . . . but at least they both wouldn't be alone. What have you got for me, Bud?"

"Well, we checked with Conneley's Bed and Breakfast and Mrs. Burnett hasn't checked in or called as of yet. She was due at 1000, and Mrs. Conneley is quite concerned. Apparently, she spoke to her earlier this morning, and Mrs. Burnett confirmed she would be arriving no later than 1000. They had planned to have lunch and then visit some prospective artists for the gallery."

As the hours passed with no word, time started to pull at Mac's detached objectivity, and now as she noticed Bud's obvious hesitation, her ball of control started to unravel.

"What else?"

"Well . . . the . . ."

"Just spill it, Bud!"

"The State Police found Mrs. Burnett's car abandoned on a desolate strip just off Route 34, east of Carlisle Springs."

"I see . . . and?"

"There were no visible signs of them, of any type of a struggle and no personal belongings, other than the luggage in the trunk, of course. It is like they, just well . . . vanished. The car is being towed to the Police Garage at Harrisburg. And well, you know the drill, Colonel. No . . .

. . . no formal search for 48 hours. Don't they consider an abandoned limousine in the middle of nowhere suspicious enough to forego protocol?"

"Obviously not, Colonel. Apparently . . . the car had simply run out of gas and . . ."

"Out of gas, right . . . A professional limo driver just happens to forget to fill up before he takes a 250-mile road trip with a client? Give me a break, Bud!"

"Ma'am I'm just telling you what I . . ."

"Sorry. I stand corrected. Is there anything else?"

"No, Ma'am."

"And the Commander?"

"His plane should be landing anytime now in Denver. I've talked to the Airport Police, and they plan on meeting him at the gate on arrival with urgent word for him call the office. I've also booked him on an immediate return flight through Atlanta."

"Thanks, Bud. If you don't hear from him, keep trying his cell."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Keep me informed. Thanks, Bud."

"We'll find her, Ma'am."

"I know Bud. That will be all."

"Colonel?"

"What is it, Bud?"

"I know how close you've . . . well, become to . . . Mrs. Burnett and I hope . . . well . . . I know she'll be all right. We'll find her and bring her back."

"I hope so, Bud. God, I hope so."

Mac let her head fall back trying, desperately to block out the nightmare of the last two hours. Time seemed to be standing still yet speeding ahead uncontrollably. Thoughts were thrashing around in her head as she tried to stop her spinning world and clear her mind that was quickly being consumed by insurmountable dread. She needed to have a clear head. She needed to keep it together for Trish's sake . . . she needed to keep it together for Harm.

She wasn't thinking of clients or cases or the man who had given up everything for her when she loved and would always love another. Her only thoughts were for Trish Burnett and how they would keep her safe and get her back at any cost. She had to concentrate, she had to stay focused, she had to stay sharp, and when the ringing of the phone interrupted her she answered it, hoping to temporarily quell her continued growing dread that was tearing at her reason and resolve.

"Colonel Mackenzie."

"So, did you like my little gifts, Colonel? They were very special, don't you think?"

"Palmer, you bastard!"

"You didn't answer me, Sarah. I went to a lot of trouble to send you a little something, and I thought you would appreciate it."

"I swear, Palmer, if you have even . . . "

"Now, now, Sarah . . . give me more credit than that. I would never hurt Momma Rabb at least not yet. Perhaps you should come and see for yourself. I'll make a trade . . . you for her."

"What?"

"Would you like to see her for yourself?"

"I'm not playing your games, Palmer. Let me talk to Trish."

"I don't think so . . . but would you like to see her for yourself? You for her."

"How do I know you even really have her? How do I know you haven't hurt her already?"

"You wound me, Sarah Mackenzie. Have I not proven in the past that I am a man of my word? My buddy Harm wouldn't doubt me. Harm knows I am a man of my word. He knows what an artist I am."

"Palmer . . . "

"So tell me Colonel, do you want to see her alive . . . or do you want to see her dead? It's your choice, and the clock of her mortality is ticking. Tick . . . toc . . . tick . . . toc . . ."

"All right! What do you want me to do?"

"Perfect, my lady. I want you to come to 18856 Pierside Road in exactly two hours and 38 minutes. And Sarah, remember who you are dealing with. You come alone . . . don't think you can play me for a fool by having the cavalry tail you or by wearing a wire or any of the other antiquated tracking devices Webb might provide. Because if you do, I'll find out before you even reach the door . . . and Momma Rabb will be just a memory."

"You're crazy if you think . . ."

"Crazy, hardly. Oh, you'll come, and you will do exactly as I say. Because if you don't, you will single-handedly be responsible for sending Momma Rabb to the great beyond to join Pappa Rabb for eternity. You will single-handedly be responsible for getting my buddy Harm's mother killed. . .so I suggest your visit here be our little secret . . . or do you want her blood on your hands . . . forever . . . his grief a constant reminder of what you took from him? Tell me Sarah, what's your choice?"

"All right, Palmer. I'll be there."


Sarah Mackenzie knew what she was about to do was sheer insanity. All her Marine instincts told her it was the folly of a fool to trust Palmer, to think that he would let Trish go once he had her. But she knew Trish had a better chance with her there, and if he did let Trish go . . . she would have a better chance against Palmer.

Her internal clock told her she had enough time to get to her apartment and prepare. As she grabbed her cover and headed towards the elevators, she immediately ran into Bud.

"Ma'am, the weather in Pennsylvania has . . ."

"Not now, Bud!"

"Where are you going, Colonel? Colonel!"

"I'm going to find Palmer. I'm going to get Trish back."

"Ma'am, you can't be serious. You can't do this alone!"

"Stand down, Lieutenant."

"But Colonel . . ."

"Stand down!"

As the elevator doors closed, Bud stood in the deserted hallway alone, gripped with fear. He thought of another time, another place, when one angry Commander had left without help, without backup . . . a Navy Commander who had done the exact same thing as the angry Marine Colonel. The Admiral was at CIA Headquarters, the Gunny had gone to the Pentagon, the Commander was somewhere on his way back and Bud Roberts knew, he knew he was alone.


DELTA FLIGHT 799
SOMEWHERE OVER TEXAS
1530HRS (EST)


His shock had turned to disbelief. His disbelief had turned to fear. His fear had turned to dread. His dread had turned to panic, and now his panic had turned to a burning all-consuming hatred.

As he paced incessantly through the cabin, he could neither still his heart nor stop his mind from racing through the past, the present and the precarious future. A precarious future without the woman who gave birth to him, raised him . . . and who loved him like no other woman ever would. She was his mother, his friend, his confidant and the woman who had always loved him unconditionally . . . the woman who had given him what no other human being could give . . . a mother's love.

He was on the verge of losing the timeless love of a mother, just as he had permitted himself to push the woman he loved with all his heart into the arms of another man . . . because of his stupidity and his insurmountable fear of loving and being loved. He was on the verge of losing it all.


18856 PIERSIDE ROAD
WASHIHGTON, DC
1738HRS (EST)


Sarah Mackenzie arrived before the appointed time and drove around the deserted Warehouse, trying to get her bearings and familiarize herself with any potential avenues of escape. The windows were too high, the doors were all boarded securely and the loading dock bay doors were chained tightly.

Like all of the buildings in the area, 18856 Pierside Road stood like a behemoth of a forgotten time ready to engulf her and Trish Burnett. Ready to bury them in a tomb of the unexpected for now and forever if she didn't find a way to defeat the man who held them so precariously in his hands.

Noticing the one door that appeared to have been freed, she parked her vehicle and exited, releasing the safety on her weapon. She checked the other clips that she had secured in her jacket and cautiously approached the door, climbing the three garbage-covered steps apprehensively. Knowing Palmer's propensity for surprise, Mac checked the door frame for obvious booby-traps before gingerly turning the dirt-covered door knob. Regulating her breathing, she opened the door far enough to further check for any sudden surprises. Finding no evidence that he had intentions of ending her life right there and then, she entered the deserted dust-laden structure, the door jolting shut behind her.

Quickly she surveyed the darkened interior, even the sun unable to shed much light through the ceiling-high windows. The main warehouse area was dark, damp, dusty and vacant, except for the splintered pallets that lay scattered across the concrete floor. And then of course there were the rats that scurried in all directions at her intrusion. She flinched visibly as one she swore was the size of a small cat grazed the toe of her boot. God, she hated rats!

"I see you've met my army of soldiers, Colonel." Clark Palmer's voice suddenly reverberated through the still, empty, warehouse surrounding her with its sickening intonation as it came through the antiquated PA system.

"I've done what you asked and I'm here now. Let me see Trish!"

"Ah, not quite yet. We're going play a little game first. I know Harm's told you how much I love to play games. Find the real Clark Palmer and you win Colonel, you win the greatest prize of all. Find only the illusions and you will pay, you will pay with your life and the life of Momma Rabb."

"Palmer, cut the crap. Trish now or I walk!"

Just as she hissed the last words, the dim warehouse interior was bathed in an eerie light, as four images of Clark Palmer appeared . . . one real, the others just apparent illusions . . . but all eerie reminders of what she had to face at any cost to get Trish Burnett home and safe in the arms of her friends and family.

"You'll go nowhere, not until you play my little game . . . not until you know."

Mac tried to focus on the images before her, scanning one and then the other . . . remembering the last time he had used a rouse such as this. Trish Burnett could be positioned behind any one of the illusions shielding her and she was petrified, until she heard the shot, dropped to the cold concrete floor, rolled behind a pile of pallets, and felt the warm liquid flow from the bullet that grazed her right shoulder. Recovering and stepping from behind her cover, she fired at the direction her mind told her the shot had come from, gasping when she saw the mirror shatter into a million pieces, exposing nothing but the back of the dim warehouse.

"Atta, girl. I knew you wanted to play . . . only three more to go, Colonel, till you get your prize."

Her head was spinning as she tried to gauge her position, catalogue her surroundings, think of her next move and stop the bleeding flesh wound that throbbed in her shoulder.

"Come on, Sarah, make another move. It will get you closer to your prize. What elation Harm will feel knowing you saved his mom."

She stepped out of her cover, again, and aimed high shattering yet another illusion, just as Palmer's second bullet whipped past her left shoulder.

"Good shot, Sarah, but once again the wrong choice . . . two more to go. To kill or not to kill, that is the question. You have a fifty percent chance. What do you think Harm would feel if you shot his mother, remorse, anger, hate . . . certainly not love?"

"You bastard!"

Again aiming high without hesitation, she shattered the third mirror, and again the illusion broke into a million pieces, and scattered across the warehouse floor in a cloud of dust. And again another of Palmer's bullets grazed her leg. . . as blood started to seep and soak her jeans.

Suddenly, the realization of Palmer's game hit her with the blind fury of total understanding, as she stood and fired her weapon at the center of the last mirror, again shattering the glass into a million pieces and again revealing nothing. This time there was no return fire. There was no mocking laugh, no taunting words, only the immeasurable pain and fear she felt as the cold steel pipe connected with her rib cage when she turned, and when she watched her weapon go spiraling across the concrete floor, disappearing into the floor grate.

"You lost the game, Marine. You get no prize . . . and I win it all. It's not my normal style, all this gore and messy violence, but it will certainly remain in the mind of another for a lifetime. I get to watch the slow emotional death of one Harmon Rabb when he finds your bloodied, beaten body and realizes you gave your life for his mother . . . you gave it all for him."

Mac's stare met that of Clark Palmer as he loomed over her with a crazed look of mocking hate and satisfaction written all over his face. She saw the pipe descending towards her, she heard the gunshots as if in the distance and then there was nothing but the blackness, the pain, and the warm flood of blood that covered her . . . and her thoughts were only of one . . . as the blackness enveloped her finally . . . her thoughts were only of her sailor.


HARM'S APARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, DC
1945HRS (EST)


Entering his darkened apartment he was incensed with the lack of information he had gotten since he had arrived at Dulles. Nothing new, nothing known, no information yet available, meet them at Langley at 2100 was all that the Admiral had said, and the words now seemed to echo repeatedly in his head. And where the hell was Mac through all this? His supposed friend? His supposed partner? The woman he . . . Why hadn't she called, why wasn't she trying to help, if not for him why not then his mother . . . her friend? Or didn't she care about anything anymore except Mic Brumby and her life with him? Where the hell was Mac through all this?

He showered and dressed quickly, thoughts of Palmer pounding in his head . . . thoughts of Mac's presumed disinterest in a life and death situation cutting through his heart like a knife . . . thoughts of his mother's condition choking him with fear.


Harm stood paralyzed for a moment as he heard the key turn in the lock, heard the door open and heard the exasperated tone in the more than familiar distant voice.

"I can manage from here Louie and thank you, you've done quite enough for one day. I said I can manage, thank you!"

Somehow, he willed himself to move towards what his mind had convinced him was just an apparition created by the need to believe she wasn't lost to him.

" . . . Mom?"

"Last time I checked I was your mother, though after today I feel more like a drowned rat. What are you doing here, darling? I thought you were in . . ."

"Oh, my God. It is you! Thank, God!"

Before Trish Burnett could utter another word she found herself in her son's crushing embrace. Pulling back breathless and confused, she noticed the tears threatening to spill from his brilliant eyes, eyes that were misted with overwhelming emotion.

"Darling, what is it? Harm, what's wrong?"

"We thought . . . that . . . well we didn't . . . you didn't . . . we thought Palmer had you."

"Palmer, who's Palmer? I was with Louie all day, sorry to say I might add. Well, actually I was with Louie and the nicest farm family who happened to come along and . . . "

"Mom, slow down. Let me look at you." Harm stood back to take a look at his mother who was disheveled and filthy, but nonetheless a gift from God. He hugged her again, silent prayers escaping his lips for her safe re-appearance.

Pulling out of his embrace, she looked at him quizzically. "All these hugs and kisses from one's son are wonderful, and the welcome is much appreciated, but would you mind terribly if I showered and changed before we continue this conversation. I promise to tell you all that happened to me today if you promise to tell me who this Palmer character is and why on earth you would think I was with him. You should know me well enough to know that I don't go anywhere I don't want to . . . no matter how enticing the offer is."

"Sure, Mom. Clean up, and we can talk later."

"Just let me try to put myself back together and I'll be right back, dear."

As Harm watched his mother disappear from sight into the bedroom area, he collapsed on the couch, the events of the day suddenly finally taking their toll on his heart and his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to clear the jumble of emotions that sped through his consciousness. His mother was with him, and she was safe. Palmer was still out there somewhere and, therefore he was still caught in the wilderness of mirrors created by his nemesis. And Mac. What about Mac? Could she be so void of feeling for him not to call, not to care, not to wonder when they had thought his mother's life was hanging by a thin thread. Where the hell was Mac?

Focusing his attention on the void of emotions he now thought to be a part of Sarah Mackenzie, his bout of doubts was interrupted by the ringing of his cell.

"Rabb."

"Harm, we have some news."

"Admiral, I was just about to call you. Mom's safe, she's here with me now. Palmer never apparently had her, Sir. It was just a game . . ."

"We know that, but it was far from a game. We need you at 18856 Pierside Road."

"Sir, I'd like to get my mother settled and . . . "

"Harm! It's about the Colonel."

"What about the Co . . ."

"Just get here, son."

"I'm on my . . ."

He tried to say more . . . he tried to ask more, but before he had the opportunity, the line went dead. What about Mac? What was the Admiral talking about? As he grabbed his keys, he tried to explain as much as he could to his mother and left the apartment, the emotions that had turned from fear to elation now turned to sick apprehension, afraid of where he was going and afraid of what he would find once he got there.


18856 PIERSIDE ROAD
WASHIHGTON, DC
2130HRS (EST)


Emotions continued to wreak havoc with Harmon Rabb's mind as he raced through the late evening traffic to the address the Admiral had given him. But when he turned into the normally old, deserted Warehouse Complex and was greeted by a tangle of police, fire, government and medical vehicles, it took all his resolve to steady himself enough to maneuver the SUV to a safe stop without wiping out half of emergency vehicles that blocked his way.

Spotting the Admiral standing with Webb, he headed in their direction but froze when he saw Bud, sitting on a stack of pallets, his head in his hands . . . his uniform covered with blood.

"Bud are you . . ."

"I'm fine, Sir."

"Mac?"

"She's over there, Sir. She's . . ."

He couldn't wait for Bud to finish his sentence, he didn't stop when the Admiral and Webb shouted his name, he only ran like hell where Bud had indicated, towards the fire vehicle . . . that sheltered the Coroner's Wagon from sight. He stopped abruptly when he saw the gurney, when he saw the cold black body bag, and suddenly he wasn't able to move. His mind screamed at him to turn and go back, but his heart forced him to go forward.

He motioned for the coroner's team to stop, and with shaking hands and a breaking heart, he slowly tugged at the zipper, freeing it and causing the black shroud to open slowly. Suddenly, he found himself releasing the breathe he had been holding subconsciously as he stared into the cold face of Clark Palmer, and the wilderness of mirrors he had been living in for years shattered around him.

Just as suddenly all the years of torment and torture at the hands of the man that now lay dead in front of him exploded within him causing him to grab the lifeless body and shake it violently with an unrecognized strength, a frightening fury, as his own words of pent-up hatred rose to the surface. "You bastard! You got what you finally deserved, but you robbed me of the satisfaction of killing you myself. You sorry son-of-a-bitch! I should have been the one to kill you!"

It seemed that even two of Webb's men and the stunned Coroner's team would not be able to dislodge the vise-like grip Harmon Rabb had on Clark Palmer, until suddenly he just let go . . . suddenly he just let go when he heard her voice raised in feisty indignation. "Hey, take it easy would you! Remember I'm not one of your cadavers that you're practicing on."

His heart was in his throat as he heard the familiar voice admonish the poor paramedic who was trying to administer to her injuries. Rounding the Coroner's vehicle, he thought his heart was going to burst at the sight of her . . . covered with blood, dirt and dust . . . bruises, scrapes and cuts . . . and two obvious bullet wounds . . . and still, to Harmon Rabb she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Shaking, he watched the exchange from a distance until he was no longer able to stand it. All he wanted to do was touch her . . . all he wanted to do was hold her.

"Hey. Easy, Florence Nightingale."

"Look lady, you have two bullet wounds that need treatment. You may have a concussion from that gash on your head, and you most likely have a couple of cracked or broken ribs from the impact from the pipe. You have more scrapes, bruises and cuts than I have antiseptic or bandages in my rig, so I suggest you sit still, let us connect the IV, and get you ready for transport to DC General."

Harmon Rabb knelt, gently took Mac's hand in his and tenderly traced the fresh cuts and scrapes on her beautiful face with his fingertips, his eyes betraying the pain that was in his heart. "Still don't know when to duck, huh, Marine."

His sudden presence and his touches softly caressing her face was the exact drug that Sarah Mackenzie needed to ease some of the pain that was starting to throb through her body. She saw the anguish in his incredible eyes and her heart ached to hold him. Hoping in each other's arms they could forget all the pain . . . forget the pain of the present . . . forget the pain of the past and forget the pain they seemed somehow to lately inflict on each other. Covering his hand with hers, the IV dangling precariously, she held his gaze. "I told you, Marines don't duck, we take cover. Ouch, hey easy!"

Harm watched as the paramedic tugged her hand back, with total exasperation, finally securing the IV in Mac's arm. He knew she needed to get to the hospital, but the strength of her hold on him when she pulled away from the paramedic indicated she needed some time . . . they needed some time. "Buddy, can you give us a minute?"

"Sure, why not. You seem to have a calming effect on Xena Warrior Princess, and to tell you the truth, I could use a break from her abuse."

"Well, maybe . . ." She didn't get a chance to finish the biting retort, as she felt Harm's fingers lightly on her lips, his eyes locked on hers.

"Hey, take it easy, Marine, he's just doing his job. Well, from the looks of you, you didn't duck or take cover very well. You know going after Palmer alone was probably the single most stupid thing you've . . ."

"That's what you think? That I was stupid . . ." Mac pulled away from him the flash of anger in her eyes and the shooting pain from her sudden movement making her grimace.

"Yeah, it was incredibly stupid . . . and one of the most incredibly brave things you've ever done." He leaned towards her to kiss her cheek, but his feelings overwhelmed him and he lightly brushed his lips against hers, lingering longer than he should have, the feelings of almost losing her too intense.

The sensation of his lips on hers and the need to draw on his strength pushed her suddenly into his arms, her hands clutching the collar of his shirt tightly, ignoring the pain, as the strong Marine finally just let the tears fall uncontrollably. All her emotions in turmoil, she sobbed against him. "I guess you're right . . . I was stupid . . . if it wasn't for Bud . . . if he hadn't disobeyed . . . if Palmer hadn't been distracted . . . oh, God . . . he wanted to kill me . . . me . . . and . . . if Bud hadn't come . . . I was so afraid for Trish . . . for you . . . I'm so sorry . . . I'm so sorry . . . I would have never had the chance . . . the chance to tell you . . . Oh, God I'm so sorry."

He held her tenuously, not wanting to hurt her but not wanting to let her go, as her wet, hot tears spilled on his neck, and his own eyes filled, his own heart breaking with every heart-wrenching sob that he felt come from her. He had almost lost her . . . they had almost lost each other . . . and he swore he would find some way to admit to her how he felt . . . what he wanted . . . what he needed. And if it was Brumby that she truly loved and if it was Brumby that truly made her happy . . . he would be happy for her . . . and he would spend the rest of his life loving the strong Marine and cursing his weaknesses, his insecurities and his inability to truly love and to be truly loved.


DC GENERAL
WASHINGTON, DC
0050HRS (EST)


"Rabb, sit down will you. You're making my head spin with your incessant pacing." Webb eyed Harm warily, realizing that he was a time bomb about ready to explode.

"How long do x-rays take? They've been in there for hours!"

"Give it a rest, it's only been a little over an hour. Here drink this."

"What the hell is it?"

"Coffee, I think though my bet would be that it's some sort of toxic waste the way the spoon disappeared in it."

With a raised eyebrow, Harm sat in the hard plastic chair next to Webb, resting his head against the cold green tiles and wanting to know it all. Wanting to know why he was now sitting in the sterile antiseptic surroundings of DC General worried sick about his Marine. Why she had risked her life, why she had gotten hurt and why nobody had told him. "Talk to me, Webb. No half-truths and no spook babble. Tell me how we got to this point."

"Palmer was the model prisoner, which afforded him certain, shall we say 'privileges'. Those privileges provided him the access needed, and he managed to disappear along with the dirty laundry a few days ago. Langley, was notified and because of Palmer's past obsessions with you I called the Admiral, who apparently found it necessary to tell the Colonel."

"But nobody found it necessary to tell me?"

"It wasn't my call, Rabb. We were closing in on him and then . . ."

"You lost him. You lost the bastard!"

"Yeah, we lost him . . . we never thought he would try for you so soon . . . not without a thorough plan where he could work his artistry, his magic. We never imagined that his obsession for revenge would turn to blind vengeful violence. It wasn't his profile . . . but he knew he didn't have much time, that he had to move quickly if he was going to complete his objective."

"And Mac?"

"He made friends with your mother's limo driver, maneuvered himself among the hotel housekeeping staff, got access to her suite and took some of her personal belongings . . . which he sent to Mac."

"I can't believe . . ."

"Harm, he was a master. We trained him well . . . He nicked the fuel line in the limo, to get them far enough away so they would be out of the picture, stranded in some remote area of Pennsylvania. . . and then he could finish his game. He never intended to go after your mother, he never intended to hurt her to get to you. His only target always was one Sarah Mackenzie."

"Mac?"

"He called her and offered a trade. Her life for your mother's. . . and she went . . . she went alone . . . she did what she thought was her only option to save . . . "

"How could she be so careless! How could she be so stupid as to think she had a chance against Palmer alone! How could she think she could trust him!"

"She thought she had no other option, and her only thought was for your mother's safety. Palmer's plan was to take your future from you. His plan was to make her death as painful and violent as he could. His plan was to let her die a slow and horrible death at his hands . . . and then his plan was for you to find her."

"I can't believe she went in there alone . . . I can't believe she was going to give her . . . "

"If it hadn't been for Bud following her he would have succeeded. But Palmer was so immersed in his prey, he got careless, never heard Mr. Roberts approaching . . . and that's how we got to where we are today."

Harm rested his arms on his knees, his head in his hands, trying to comprehend what his partner, his friend and the woman he loved had almost sacrificed for him . . . for the man who couldn't commit to her, for the man who couldn't give her what she most needed. For the man who couldn't give her his love. The man who had turned away from her on that ferry ride across Sydney Harbor that one warm summer night. He moaned inwardly at what he ultimately almost lost tonight in that dreary and darkened warehouse, what was almost taken from him forever without her ever knowing how much he did love her. How much he had always loved her.

"What the hell would I have done. . . " Before he could finish his sentence of despair he saw the cocky Australian barrel through the Emergency Room doors, pure venom dripping from his voice.

"What the hell are you doing here, Rabb? Haven't you done enough to her! You have no business being here! You almost got her killed AGAIN!"

"Brumby, I came in with her and I'm staying till I know she's okay!"

Both men now stood inches from each other, the hatred for one another pouring from their souls as they glared at each other, their raised voices causing all in the corridor to stop and listen to the heated exchange.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, you bastard! I'll take care of her, she's not your concern nor will she ever be again!"

"Brumby, I don't really give a rat's ass what you have to say!"

Clayton Webb tried to slip between them, a fleeting memory of the wired jaw of another who had stood between these two crossing his mind for a moment, just as Mic Brumby lashed out, catching Webb off balance and sending him backwards into the row of plastic chairs.

"She'll always be my woman and I want you nowhere near her. Do I make myself clear!"

"I think we'll leave that for Mac to decide!"

"She already made that decision when she accepted my ring! She walked away from you, Rabb, and chose me. She's in MY arms when she wakes up satisfied each morning. She's in MY arms when she goes to sleep satisfied each night, and I'm the one who makes love to her, not you! She wants me not you, so get that through your thick skull and leave us the hell alone!"

It took all his control to stand down as Brumby's seething words tore into his heart and their truth shattered his soul . . . Mac had made her choice and she had chosen the Australian. All the life seemed to drain from him as he heard in the distance the caustic reproach of the head nurse who was heading in their heated direction. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but his mind only replayed the truth in Brumby's words.

"Gentlemen, please! This is neither the place nor the time for this childish display of temper! Ms. Mackenzie has requested to be released, against the doctor's advice, and I suggest you both get a grip of your emotions for her sake. Now, which one of you is family?"

"I . . . "

"I am her fiance."

"And you, sir?"

"I'm just a . . .a . . . friend."

"If you give me a moment, Mr. . . "

"Brumby. Mic Brumby."

". . . Mr. Brumby, I'll be back and take you to Sarah.

"Thank you, nurse."

"I think that's clear, Rabb. You're neither needed . . . nor wanted here."

Harm fought the desire to wipe the smug smile of victory off Mic Brumby's face, but as he turned and started to walk towards the emergency exit, he knew there was nothing left to say . . . there was nothing left to do . . . there was only the immeasurable ache that coursed through his body as he walked away from Sarah Mackenzie. As he walked away from his only chance at love. Sarah Mackenzie had made her choice and it wasn't him . . . it would never be him.

As Brumby watched Harmon Rabb leave, his body language soaked in self-satisfaction, he noticed Clayton Webb still tangled in the plastic chairs that now lay scattered across the small corridor.

"Sorry, mate. Are you all right?" Mic extended his hand and Clayton took it helping himself to his feet.

"To tell you the truth Brumby, I'm not at all all right." Without warning, Clayton Webb reared back and connected a vicious right hook to Mic Brumby's jaw, sending the shocked Australian reeling into his own bank of plastic cushions. "Now I'm all right. Now I'm more than all right, mate."


"I thought you forgot about me, sailor . . ."

"Never, luv. I'm right here for you always, Sarah."

Mac tensed at his touch and when she felt his lips on her cheek, she died a little more inside knowing her flyboy had walked away from her again . . . her flyboy had left her again, alone with Mic Brumby.


HARM'S APARTMENT
WASHNGTON, DC
0230HRS (EST)


Silence and the stinging truth were Harmon Rabb's only company on his drive through the desolate streets of Washington to his apartment. The events of the day kept rewinding through his mind as he tried to focus his attention on the road ahead of him through the blur of the sudden wash of tears that threatened to fall.

All he saw was the vision in red waking up satisfied in Mic Brumby's arms. All he saw was the vision in red going to sleep satisfied in Mic Brumby's arms. All he saw, as he tried to dismiss the picture, was the cocky Australian making passionate love to the vision in red. Parking and exiting his vehicle, he shuddered as his tired mind taunted him with the vision of the woman he loved naked and sexually satisfied in the suffocating embrace of Mic Brumby.


Expecting to find his mother asleep from her exhausting day's adventures, and wanting to deal with his bout of self-pity alone, he tried to enter the apartment undetected. But as he opened the apartment door, he heard the quiet muffled voices and was greeted by his mother and the Admiral in quiet conversation on the sofa.

"Sir? Mom?"

"I came to fill your mother in, not wanting her to worry and knowing you were otherwise occupied."

"Thank you, Sir. Mom, I'm sorry I should have called . . . I . . ."

"Nonsense, darling . . . nonsense. How is Mac?" Trish Burnett embraced her son, only to find him stiff and clammy to the touch, a slight gasp leaving her lips as he pulled away abruptly.

"She'll be OK, Mom . . . I guess."

"You guess? What kind of an answer is that?"

"Well, I think I'll be going Trish, now that the Commander is back."

"Thank you so much for everything, AJ. It was very kind of you to think of me."

"Get some rest, Rabb. You'll resume with the Jenkin's Court Marshall first thing in the morning."

"And Denver, Sir?"

"I'm sure Imes will welcome the brief break from the courtroom."

"Yes, Sir. Goodnight."

Harm grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator as his mother walked the Admiral to the door, oblivious to the silent thank you his mother passed to the AJ before she closed the door. But he knew that, even tonight, especially tonight, Trish Burnett would show him no mercy. He knew his mother and that she would press him until he was drained of every truth.

"So tell me, why do you have to 'guess' how Mac is?"

"Mom, don't start. Not tonight."

"Harmon Rabb! This nonsense has gone on long enough! Were you not at the hospital all this time?"

"I was."

"And?"

"So was Brumby. She refused to stay the night, signed herself out, and only family could see her and that would be her fiancÈ . . . that would be Mic Brumby."

"So you just turned tail and left?"

"YES! I just turned tail and left!"

"You may be 36 years old, but don't you ever use that tone of voice with me mister!"

"Look, Sarah Mackenzie made her choice. She chose Mic Brumby, and I would prefer we no longer belabor the point. I'm going to bed."

"Fine! Go hide in your dreams, Harmon Rabb, if you can."

As Harm made his way to the bathroom to change, he saw his mother grab her overnight bag and start to pack her belonging, shaking with an anger he hadn't seen since he had returned from Laos . . . to her anger and her understanding.

"Mom, I'm sorry . . . don't go back to the hotel. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. Mom, please."

"I'm leaving, but I have no intentions of going back to the hotel. I'm going to Mac's . . . I'm going to take care of her, of the woman who was going to trade her life for mine!"

"Mom, you can't be serious . . . she has Brumby . . . she'll be fine."

"That is precisely why I am going. To keep Mic Brumby away from her . . . and to keep you away from her. Until she can heal her body, settle her mind and admit to the feelings you've forced her to bury so deep in her heart!"

"What?"

"Look. She thought she was giving her life for mine. She was willing to sacrifice everything for me . . . for you! She may be a Marine, she may be tough, but she's also a woman who has been traumatized by love and the lack of love. Right now she needs to get her strength back, her will back and her own mind back. She needs a woman's love . . . a mother's love."

"Mom . . ."

"I have no intention of allowing that Australian to help her heal her body while he plays with her mind and manipulates her heart . . . and I have no intentions of allowing my son to help her heal her body and play with her heart until he's ready to admit openly what's in his heart for her."

"Please . . . don't get in the middle of something you don't understand."

"Oh, I understand more than you think. Let me ask you something, son. Do you love her?"

"Mom . . ."

"DO YOU LOVE HER, HARMON RABB!"

"YES, damn it! I don't remember when I haven't loved her! Is that what you want to hear! I love her . . . I love her!"

"Then what is the problem?"

"Brumby is the problem. Her choice is the problem. My inability to love is the problem."

"What?"

"I'm afraid to love her . . ."

Trish Burnett dropped her bags by the door at the sight of the anguish in her son's eyes and at the defeatist tone in his voice. This wasn't who her son had been, who he was, or who she would let him become. He needed to find himself again, and she knew that would be with the love of one brave tough Marine.

"You listen to me Harmon Rabb. You are your father's son. You have his strength, his courage, his tenacity, his integrity, his abilities and you have the greatest part of him, though you may not know it, . . . you have his ability to love and be loved unconditionally. I was the catalyst that released that ability in your father, and I know that Sarah Mackenzie is your catalyst. The catalyst that will release all that you are alone and all that you can be together. Don't be twice the fool my son . . . Don't be afraid to love and be loved, and don't be afraid to share the depth of your love."


SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
0345HRS (EST)


She was on the verge of screaming and checking herself back into the hospital so that anyone but Mic Brumby could be her care taker. She was suffocating in her own home because of his incessant attention . . . as if she hadn't made her choice . . . as if she still wore his ring . . . as if she was everything he wanted her to be . . . as if he could make her everything he wanted, everything she wasn't.

Sarah Mackenzie was a pragmatist, however, and lying exhausted on the sofa, her pain throbbing without mercy through her body, the pain medication trying to lull her into a drug induced sleep, she knew she needed someone. Someone to get her through the next few days of physical and emotional pain . . . and her only option appeared to be Mic Brumby.

"Come on, luv. I've got our bed ready. We'll have plenty of time to get you well and settle all this nonsense between us." Before Mic could lift her in his arms, he heard the faint knocking at the door. Eyeing Jingo circling around Mac protectively he shoved him discretely from his path.

"Mic, who . . . could that be at this hour?"

"Can't imagine, luv. But I'll go check." Mic Brumby thought of only one person who would have the gall to visit at this time of night, and for that reason he opened the door a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

"Mrs. Burnett."

"Hello, Mic. May I come in."

"Actually, it's not a good time. I appreciate you stopping by, but it's late, and Sarah has been through quite a time today. Perhaps this isn't the best time. Sarah needs . . ."

"Trish?"

"I'm fully aware of what Sarah has been through today Mic, and that is precisely why I am here. I know exactly what Sarah needs." Trish ignored Mic Brumby's protests and managed to gracefully navigate around his lurking form that openly tried to block her entrance to the apartment. "Trish? Oh, Trish. I'm so glad you're here, and I thank God you're safe."

"Oh darling, what did he do to you? Oh, dear God." Trish had difficulty suppressing the gasp that escaped as Clark Palmer's visible handiwork attacked her heart and when she noticed the utter despair in the strong Marine's eyes. She sat on the sofa and carefully took her in her arms, just as Mac's tears of exhaustion, confusion and relief started to fall. Trish Burnett just held her silently and securely . . . she just held her as a friend, as a woman and as a mother.

Mic Brumby watched the scene uncomfortably, a growing anger starting to chip at his external faÁade of self-effacing concern. He tensed as he watched Mac accept the comfort Harmon Rabb's mother offered. Driven by his own ulterior motives, to use her recuperative time to win her back, he ignored Mac's comfort in the arms of the older woman as he once again attempted to rid themselves of Trish Burnett.

"Trish, we thank you for taking the time to stop by, however, Mac needs her rest, so I suggest that you leave us tonight and perhaps return tomorrow when Sarah is feeling a bit stronger."

"Mic!"

"Trust me, luv. I know what's best, and I'm sure Trish understands."

Trish bristled at the Australian's obvious lack of concern for what Mac needed. She settled her back against the pillows of the sofa. but not before she noticed the pleading in Mac's eyes. Patting her hand in silent acknowledgment, she stood and faced Mic Brumby.

"I understand more than you know, Mr. Brumby, and for that reason, I have come prepared to stay and help Sarah regain her strength . . . for as long as it takes."

"That will not be necessary. I am the one who can give Sarah all that she needs. I am more than capable of nursing her back to health. After all, I'm all the family she has . . . after all, I'm her fiancÈ."

"I'm sure you believe you know what you think is best, but I know Sarah needs more than just a masculine hand, and she needs to heal more than just her body. I believe I am much more capable as a woman, as a friend and as a mother to help her heal all that ails her."

"And your son, where does he fit into her 'healing' process?"

"Mic, please!"

"That's all right, dear. Mr. Brumby, my son is an officer and a gentlemen and would never presume his intentions on someone whose condition is as fragile as Sarah's is at this time, no more than I'm sure you would. Am I correct?

"Of course."

"Mic, perhaps it would be best if Trish did stay with me. At least for awhile. You're in the midst of job interviews, and I don't want you to be distracted by any of . . . of . . . what's happened."

"Then it's settled. I assure you she will be just fine. May I show you to the door? I'd like to get Sarah settled." Trish Burnett walked Mic Brumby to the door, his seething glare never leaving her person and her own personal demeanor never wavering under his heated stare. "Oh and Mic, since I intend that Sarah get all the rest she can, please give us the courtesy of a call before you come over, if you plan on visiting her."


ROBERTS RESIDENCE
ROSSLYN, VA
2330HRS (EST)


Bud Roberts stood by his son's crib and watched the small boy peacefully and contentedly sleep without a care in the world . . . a scene in direct contrast to the horror he had participated in earlier that day. As he adjusted the coverlet that covered his son, he sighed as he heard the quiet sobs of his wife that had continued since his return home...after she had found out what had happened . . . what he had done.

In the bedroom he found Harriet curled in a tight ball on the bed, trying to control the sobs that seemed never ending.

"Harriet?"

"What?"

"We need to talk about this . . . honey, please."

"What is there to talk about, Bud!"

"About what happened . . . "

"About you going after Palmer! About you forgetting about baby AJ, about me, about the new baby . . . about you forgetting about a family that needs you!"

"Harriet, I never forgot about you . . . you're all that went through my mind when I was following the Colonel. But . . ."

"But what Bud! You jeopardized what we have with . . . you . . . forgot the welfare of your family!"

"Harriet, I'm sorry if I scared you, and to tell you the truth, I scared the hell out of myself, too. I thought about you, about baby AJ, about the new baby . . . but I also thought about the Colonel and the Commander. I thought about all they have done for us in the past and what a great part they play in our lives. I couldn't imagine what it would be like not to have the Colonel or the Commander in our future. As an officer and as a friend, I couldn't have turned my back on her when she needed me, and if I had I would have never been able to live with myself. I did think about family . . . and our family has always included the Commander and the Colonel."

"Oh Bud, I'm so sorry! I was just so scared!"

"I know Harriet, so was I. So was I."


JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VA
0930HRS (EST)


He finally found shelter in his office, closing the door and the blinds. What he had done still left him shaking, and the night had been filled with nightmares. But he knew if he had to do it all over again, he would not hesitate. It was about duty, it was about honor, it was about courage and it was about friendship. All the notoriety he was receiving from the JAG Staff was overwhelming and had him feeling a bit self-conscious. He shook his head in disbelief as he realized that he was more comfortable with criticism than he was with praise. Trying to engross himself in the case files that lay strewn in front of him, he barely heard the knock on his office door. He grimaced at the thought of another "Atta Boy".

"Enter." Bud distractedly continued to stare at the papers littered on his desk, unable to concentrate, and it wasn't until Harm's shadow fell over the clutter that he realized his breach of protocol and jumped to his feet. "Sorry, Sir!"

"Relax, Bud. I just wanted to . . . Are you okay, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Sir . . . no, Sir. Actually, Sir . . . it's just I . . . "

" . . . have never killed a man before."

"No, Sir. . . I mean yes, Sir."

"Easy, Bud. Look, it's not something that gets easier, nor do you ever forget the first time, but as members of the military it's something that we are trained to do . . . and something we, in a way, hope we never have to do."

"I know, Sir. But I'm a lawyer. I just guess I was naÔve to think I was immune to, well . . . having to do something like . . . what I did yesterday."

"Bud, you did what you had to do. Palmer gave you no choice. If you hadn't used your instincts, if you hadn't pulled that trigger . . . Mac would be dead and probably you would be too. Palmer was not the type to yield to a persuasive closing argument."

"I know Sir, and I would have never let him hurt the Colonel. Never. I just feel . . ."

"You'll find it in yourself with time to deal with it, Bud . . . and . . . I . . . well, won't ever be able to repay you for being there for her, for keeping her safe . . . for giving her back to . . ."

" . . . you. Permission to speak freely, Sir? Bud continued when he saw Harm's nod of acknowledgment. "I've given you another chance, please don't waste this one . . . . Sir."

"I won't Bud . . . this time I won't."


2 DAYS LATER
THE PLAZA
WASHINGTON, DC
1245HRS (EST)


"Harriet, are you sure? You have to be absolutely sure."

"I'm sure. They are perfect . . . just perfect."

" . . . because if there is any doubt . . ."

"Trust me, they are perfect!"


SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
1430HRS (EST)


Trish Burnett stood in the doorway of Mac's bedroom and watched her sleep, still trying to quell the anger that continued to resurface every time she looked at all the bruises, scrapes and cuts that screamed at her through the thin material of the young woman's nightgown. What kind of a sick, perverted animal could have done something so vile to her . . . what kind of person could hate her son so much that he would want to torture another person to devastate him . . . what kind of a person?

Seeing the small fountain and the gardenias floating serenely in the calming water on the night stand, a small smile managed to push the distressing thoughts from her mind for the moment, as she remembered Mac's insistence that the arrangement be placed by her bed. She had received dozens of bouquets over the last two days, but it was Harm's that she had wanted close to her. Wanted close to her when she went to sleep . . . close to her when she woke from her nightmares . . . close to her when she woke to a new day.

As Trish made her way to the kitchen, she noticed the flowers from Mic Brumby that, in no uncertain terms, could have been used as a funeral arrangement or graced the neck of the winner of the Kentucky Derby. It was large, crass, and over-bearing and because of its size darkened rather than brought life to the apartment. Checking the flowers for water, she was content that if she continued not to water them, they would be dead by morning. She tried to remind herself that in his own way Mic Brumby loved Sarah Mackenzie, but there was no longer a question in Trish Burnett's mind that his love was not what the Marine wanted.

Against her better judgment, Trish had acquiesced to Mic Brumby's visit the night before and it had exhausted Mac, left her on edge, depressed her and caused her for the first time since her release from the hospital to take the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed. She sighed and shook her head . . . maybe it was Brumby's visit that had left Mac so on edge, or maybe it was the fact that Harm hadn't made an effort to visit that had Mac so on edge? What the hell had gotten into her son?


SARAH MACKENZIE'S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
1630HRS (EST)


"Mackenzie residence. Trish Burnett speaking."

"How's my favorite girl?"

"That depends . . . are you talking about me or Mac."

"Mom . . ."

"Well?"

"Both . . . both of you."

"I'm fine and your Marine is healing nicely."

"She's not . . . Is she awake?"

"No, darling she's napping. She had, well, an exhausting night."

"I'll bet she did with Brumby there."

"Harm . . . How did you know Mr. Brumby was here?"

"You must have mentioned it when I called yesterday . . . "

"I did no such thing. When you called, I didn't even know he was planning to visit. Harm?"

"All right, all right. I drove by on my way home and saw Brumby's car."

"You just happened to drive cross town to get back across town?"

"Mom . . . you're making this really painful."

"Why shouldn't I? Didn't I tell you once that it is more painful to do nothing than to do something? And besides, pains are the seeds of pleasure."

"And you're doing a little gardening, right? He was exasperated with his mother, but for once he loved her interference, even at his expense, so he forged on. "Um, is Brumby coming by tonight?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"He's gone out of town for a few days. Why? Plan on taking the long way home again?"

"Yes, only this time I thought I would stop by and bring my favorite girl . . . girls . . . dinner. If it's okay . . . if she's up to it after last night . . . I don't want to intrude . . ." "Harm . . ."

"I know that she should probably rest . . . so if it isn't . . ."

"Harm . . . "

" . . . convenient. We could do . . ."

"Harm! That would be very nice, dear. I know Mac will be very glad to see you. Say seven?"

"Seven is fine . . . and Mom."

"Yes, darling?"

"Thanks, I love you."

"I love you too, dear. Till later."


Trish Burnett stood in the kitchen with the phone in hand even after the line went dead. It was a start, and she was going to make damn sure that tonight was the beginning of a beginning for both of them. She knew that love didn't just consist of them gazing at each other, it consisted in looking outward together in the same direction for now and forever . . . that is what she wanted for her handsome son the aviator and her friend the beautiful Marine.


. . . They were sitting in the middle of the rose garden, and all she felt was the beauty and serenity of the familiar surroundings, the racing of her heart, and his husky voice, filled with admiration, relief, and love engulfing her.

"Yeah, it was incredibly stupid . . . and one of the most incredibly brave things you've ever done." His words floated around her, caressing and soothing the hurt, her burning need for his touch driving her towards him and into the safety of his arms. The only arms that could ever make her whole, the only arms that could heal the pain of her body, clear the confusion in her mind and still the ache in her heart.

She trembled as his lips brushed with an overwhelming tenderness her visible injuries, their soothing warmth numbing and drawing the pain from her body. He lightly brushed his lips against hers, lingering longer than he should have, the desire of so many lost moments spurring them to revel in what they so needed. As their kiss deepened, their raw passion and need for each other coursing through their bodies, they laid back on the softness of the grass carpet. With an overwhelming love, she exposed all her pain to his hunger as he continued to soothe all her injuries and the incessant ache she held for him in her heart . . .

Sarah Mackenzie felt him slip away from her as the sound of the distant doorbell transported her back from the soft grass carpet, from his gentle and loving touches and the healing warmth of his lips on her over-sensitized and aching body. She was brought back to the present of her empty bed the soft sounds of the gardenia waterfall the only soothing sound surrounding her.



"Sarah? You're up sleepy head. How are you feeling, dear?"

"Much better, thank you. At least I don't feel like I was put in a blender and spun on high anymore. What's that?"

"Oh, this was just delivered for you." Trish Burnett handed Mac the huge box and sat on the edge of the bed. "Well, at least we know it's not another funeral arrangement."

Mac shook the huge box, but it didn't give her any clue as to the contents. There was no return address, no recognizable handwriting and it was delivered, according to Trish, by an independent delivery service.

Trish noticed Mac's hesitation. "It's OK; I don't think it is ticking."

With a slight smile, Mac tore the beautifully-wrapped package like a child on Christmas morning, and removed the lid, only to find eight individual velvet pouches on the inside. She removed one of the pouches, and when its contents slipped onto the bed, her smile grew in intensity, and for the first time in three days, her smile reached her eyes.
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