June 2001

Laura remembered what the real estate agent had told her when she bought her vacation duplex. 'The owner of the other side is in the Navy. He's at sea for most of the year. You'll be lucky to see or hear him when you're in residence.'

The owner of the other side was definitely not at sea now. She might not be able to see him, but she could most definitely hear him.

Laura rolled over and checked the time; just after six. She hadn't left last night's party until nearly one in the morning, finally crawling into bed some time around two.

She did not function on barely four hours' sleep.

Just as she was thinking about bashing on the wall, the noise stopped. Thanking God, she snuggled back down beneath the covers.

Thump!

No, no, no, Laura thought. He'd started again! She squeezed her eyes open to check the time once more: 6:30 am. He'd left her in peace for twenty minutes.

She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head. The noise, though muffled now, continued. It matched the pounding of her head somewhat, she thought without mirth. What was he doing?...

Laura threw back the covers and tumbled out of bed, dragging on her bathrobe. She stomped down the stairs to the kitchen and, once there, snapped on the coffee maker and listened intently.

He wasn't hammering. The sound was more like a muted slapping. It reminded her of the time she went on a road trip to Los Angeles over spring break. Sally Merchant had lost her virginity to Danny Watson in the room next to her. The thin walls had not muffled their efforts at all; the headboard thumping against their shared wall suggested that Danny needed to practice his rhythm. She had never been able to look at them the same way again. Was her neighbor…?

'In the navy? I'm not sure I want to live next door to some sailor who celebrates being back on dry land with parties and booze and some woman he's paid. Or with one that shows him a good time just because he's wearing a uniform .' The real estate agent had laughed and shaken her head vigorously. 'No, no. Captain Adama is definitely not the parties and fast women type. He's an old man!'

Laura poured her coffee, glancing at the clock above the stove. If he was having sex, he had great stamina for an old man. He'd now been going at it for another fifteen minutes.

Sipping her coffee, Laura opened the front door to retrieve the newspaper she'd arranged to have delivered. She only found an empty porch.

She stepped out onto the landing and peered around the front garden, crouching down to check beneath the trees' branches. She righted herself and automatically glanced across the small fence that bisected the duplex. There was a newspaper sitting on Captain Adama's porch.

There was the possibility that he also had arranged for the newspaper to be delivered.

Laura scanned the front garden again until she was positive there was no other newspaper. The agent could have gotten the dates wrong for her subscription - or perhaps the address was wrong, and the one on his porch was hers.

She bit her lip, then resolutely strode across the grass, still cold with the morning dew. She stepped over the ridiculous little fence that wouldn't even keep a Chihuahua enclosed, and climbed the one step to stand on his porch which mirrored hers.

She heard the tapping again. At least she knew he was awake, and wasn't going to be roused out of bed by his nosy neighbor.

She pressed purposefully on the doorbell.

The tapping stopped. She resisted the urge to lean over and place her ear against the door. Finally, just as she was going to give the bell another press for luck, the door swung open to reveal her neighbor.

"Oh!" She involuntarily gasped and took a step back when she took in his appearance.

Captain Adama stood in the entrance using his teeth to un-strap a set of boxing gloves. He was wearing a faded gray t-shirt with Eisenhower printed across the front of it. The arms of his shirt were cut off, turning it into a tank top. Her gaze lingered on a droplet of sweat slowly rolling off one glistening shoulder.

"Captain Adama?" she said uncertainly. The real estate agent had said Adama was an old man. But she wouldn't describe the man in the doorway as old; mid- to late-forties at most, she guessed.

He peered out at her through the screen.

Removing one of the gloves completely, he opened the screen door and stepped out to join her on the landing.

He'd been working out; the thumping noise had been him sparring with a boxing bag - obviously. She could smell his exertion: sweat, some kind of menthol rub, a woodsy-scented antiperspirant, man. What? How does one smell of man, Laura, she berated herself.

"Ms Roslin?"

His eyes, an unusually bright blue, wandered down the length of her body. She followed their path, realizing for the first time that all she had underneath her lilac silken robe was a pair of panties.

"What can I do for you?"

She resisted the urge to pull the belt of her robe tight, and instead pointed to the rolled up object on the ground. "Is this your paper?"

"Excuse me?"

"This newspaper. Do you have one delivered?"

"What day is it?" he asked.

Laura frowned, starting to lose her patience.

"Sunday," he said, answering his own question. "Nope. I only get Saturday's delivered."

She picked up the paper, clutching it to her chest like it was some priceless treasure. Turning abruptly, she started to stride off to her half of the property.

At the small fence, she paused and marched back to where he still stood on the landing.

"It's early."

Laura watched him lean back, craning his neck to see the clock hanging on the wall inside his house; she couldn't help noticing the way his muscles flexed when he moved. "It's just about 0-700 hours," he said with a frown.

"Seven—" she broke off with an irritated shake of her head.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, it's almost seven o'clock in the morning. And I don't say 0-700 hours because I'm not in the army. And as I'm not in the army, I'm not used to waking up at ridiculous hours of the morning. I had a late night last night, and I'd looked forward to sleeping in. Instead I woke up to you—" she broke off, her hand gesturing ineffectually as she struggled to calm her rising temper, "— woke up to you pounding on some innocent bag."

"Pounding on some innocent bag?" he repeated, making her realize just how silly her choice of words had been. "And I'm not in the army either; it's the navy."

Laura's mouth twisted. "Army, navy; similar wake-up times, I would think."

"Probably," he conceded.

Her hands found her hips. "Same thing then."

"Telling me the army is the same as the navy is like telling a Brown student she's the same as a Harvard one."

She frowned. "That's a strange analogy, Mr Adama."

"Not really." He shrugged. "I just chose something I thought you'd understand."

"Why would you think I'd understand that one? How did you know I went to Brown?"

"I didn't. You just look like you went to some Ivy League college."

"How on earth would you get that impression?" She wasn't dressed, and she hadn't bothered to run a comb through her hair before leaving the house. She had made a halfhearted effort to remove her makeup before going to bed, but she would probably find traces of mascara smudged here and there if she checked her reflection in the mirror.

"I got that impression last night, when I saw you at the Adar party."

Laura glanced up at him, startled. "You were there?"

"Yeah."

She looked him over again. His eyes, the impressive breadth of his chest, the dusky shadow of growth grazing his chin, his dark thick hair that never had one streak of gray showing at all; she would have remembered seeing him last night.

His voice too, was very distinctive. She definitely would have remembered if she'd spoken with him, unless the husky tone of his voice this morning was caused by exercise.

"I don't recall seeing you."

"I stood at the bar; had a couple of drinks on Adar. Then slipped out the back door before all the back-slapping made me ill."

She hadn't been allowed that luxury. Richard had made his demands very clear: "No wallflower act, Laura."

She raised an eyebrow. "If you dislike Richard so much, why were you at his party?"

"I've lived in this town off and on for fifteen years. People know me." He shrugged. "I get invited to things. Richard Adar's arrival has sparked interest with the locals, and the tourist organizations are all in a flutter over someone they're trying to sell as a hero."

"He is a hero," Laura injected.

"Depends on your definition of hero."

"He'll most likely be the next President of the United States. That makes him a hero in my eyes."

"Getting elected is the easy part. Doing something worthwhile with that power is a lot more difficult."

"You like Ike?" she asked, pointing to his t-shirt.

He looked down, and then grinned. "USS Dwight D Eisenhower. The name of my ship. An aircraft carrier." He looked back up at her, studying her profile thoughtfully for a moment. "How long are you in town?"

She blinked at his sudden change of topic. "Excuse me?"

"This is your vacation, right? How long do I have to creep around the house so as not to interrupt your beauty sleep?"

Laura bit her bottom lip. "I'm here for another three weeks."

"Three weeks. Okay."

Resisting the urge to use the newspaper as a weapon, she swung around and flounced back to her own house, taking extra care when negotiating the small fence.