This chapter is for Tel Nok Shock—a very faithful reader! Wishing you a very Happy (belated) Birthday! Thanks for all the encouragement!
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Jack wakes with the sun in his face. He squints his eyes and peers upward. Skylights are great—except when they're blinding you! And if the sun is that high, then it must be pretty late. He stretches stiffly; sleeping on the couch may not have been his best idea ever, not enough room...
Oh—Carter is gone, he realizes suddenly. How'd she manage to climb over him without waking him up? And is that coffee he can smell? Did she really tackle the old percolator!?
Slowly he hauls himself upright. His back gives a twinge. Crap! No more nights on the couch! He puts his feet on the floor.
"Hey, sleepyhead," Sam says from the door onto the deck.
He twists around to look at her. She is leaning against the edge of the door, dressed in shorts and tank top, her hair a golden halo in the light behind her. There is a coffee mug in her hand.
"Hey, yourself," he replies. "What time is it? How long have you been up?"
"Ten forty-five, and about an hour and a half, in that order." She pushes off from the door and comes over in front of the couch so he is able to untwist. "Want some coffee?"
"I think I need a shower first." He presses the heels of his hands to his temples and closes his eyes.
"Headache?" she asks sympathetically.
"Not as much as I probably deserve," he admits. "But my back is killing me. What the hell possessed us to spend the night on this couch?"
"Huh!" she says, with an O'Neill-like smirk. "I don't know—what could possibly have gotten into us?"
He raises an eyebrow at her, and she laughs, sets her cup down and sits on his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He buries his face in her neck, and breathes in her scent of soap and lemon shampoo. "God, you smell good, woman." He kisses her shoulder and nuzzles her neck, and then straightens. "But I'll bet I don't. So, let me shower, and we can go from there."
"Okay." She kisses him, and then stands.
He tries not to wince as he gets to his feet, hating to admit that the only thing he really wants right now is the hot water beating on his back. "The coffee smells good. I knew you could conquer the percolator."
"This is the second pot," she admits. "The first was a disaster. How does Daniel manage it over a campfire?"
"Getting it right in only two tries is very good. And Daniel's craving for coffee is a powerful motivator." He takes a step away from the couch and grunts as his knee announces its discomfort.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing," he assures her quickly. "Goin' to the shower now." He heads down the hall, forcing himself to walk normally, hoping she does not notice.
Of course she does notice, since normally he would want coffee before anything else, and she promises herself that she will not allow them to sleep on the couch again. "Shall I make you some oatmeal, or start some eggs?" she calls after him.
"Not yet. It can wait until I get done in the shower," he answers, planning to stay there for a while. He stands under the hot water until the temperature starts to cool a bit, and then reluctantly washes quickly and gets out; he doesn't want to run the hot water completely down, it will take the heater too long to recover. He stares at his face in the mirror as he shaves, thinking he looks every day of his forty-eight years, plus a few. He can blame some of that on the hangover—even if he does not feel all that bad, his body knows and reacts to the excessive amount of alcohol he consumed. His face is drawn and his eyes don't look so great. Dehydration, he thinks, and drinks about a quart of water by dipping his palm under the faucet. At least his back feels better and his knee has loosened up. He brushes his teeth, and heads into the bedroom to find clothes.
Sam is in the kitchen, mixing something vigorously, when Jack emerges in gray Air Force T-shirt and running shorts. There is a fresh pot of coffee perking happily on the stove. He pours himself a cup and takes a swallow. "What'cha making?"
"Pancakes. I had an overwhelming hunger for them a little while ago."
"Ever made 'em before?" he asks with a grin.
"Uh... no. I found a recipe in your cookbook. These are my first."
"I figured." He can't hold back a chuckle. "Stop beating the batter. You want the lumps in there. Makes 'em lighter."
"Oh." She stops immediately. "I hope I haven't ruined them!"
"They'll be fine." He puts his cup down, then takes the mixing bowl from her hands and sets it on the counter. Pulling her into his arms, he kisses her thoroughly. "Looks like I'll have to be the cook in the house," he says into her hair.
The pancakes come out a little flat, but butter and maple syrup can make almost anything taste good. "Sorry," she pulls a face. "I'll know better next time."
"Don't sweat the small stuff," he says. He's not about to get picky about something as minor as her cooking! Especially when there are pizza parlors and Asian take-out restaurants on every corner—even in Minnesota! "Coffee outside?" he suggests.
They find a shady spot level enough to set up the lawn chairs on the bank of the lake. They watch the water; even without fish, there is activity—water striders glide across the surface on long legs, dragonflies and crane flies zip in and out of the weeds on the far side, a bullfrog bellows his two-part call, although they can't locate him among the tall grasses.
A male wood duck, its iridescent green crest and variegated plumage reflecting the sunlight, is floating placidly in the water near the forested side of the lake; his mate, her duller coloring making her less obvious to predators, is browsing the bank beyond him. After a while a half dozen more woodys emerge from the brush, two drakes and four hens; the family, presumably—young, but all fully feathered.
"Looks like this year's youngsters are all grown up." Jack explains that the wooden box about six feet up on a pole near the edge of the lake is a nest box. "The Wood Duck Society gives classes where kids can learn to build them. Stan Garry's grandson made them last year."
"Nice," Sam comments. "What's that umbrella thingy under the box?"
"Predator cone. Keeps critters from climbing up there. Still the survival rate isn't all that good. This hatch probably started out with 12 or 14 ducklings."
The rest of the woodys have come down into the water, and are dipping for food. Sam and Jack watch them silently.
After a while Sam glances over at Jack and notices that he is wearing much the same abstracted expression he had yesterday before his outburst.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks.
He turns his head to look at her and gives a small smile. "Ducks. Water. Trees." He pauses and eyes her expression. "Not buyin' it, huh?" She shrugs. "Okay," he says. "How about— You. Us. Our future."
Her brows go up. "Our future?"
He blinks. "You sound surprised." Mentally he shies off onto another tack. "You know... what're we gonna do this afternoon! I think I saw a poster in the store yesterday for a balloon festival over in Clearwater State Park this weekend. Whaddya think about a balloon ride?"
Sam silently kicks herself. Stupid! "I don't want to go on a balloon ride, Jack," she says after a moment.
"No?"
"No. I want to hear what you are really thinking. Especially if it's about us."
Across the lake, the ducks are suddenly stirred up by something. They settle slowly, and Jack scans the area, finding nothing disturbing. He turns back toward Sam, and takes a few moments to reposition his chair so he can see her better. "Okay. I'm thinking that there's no way in hell I'm going to give this up—what we have right now, together."
"Jack..."
"I'm serious. I'm not going back to protocol and regulations! Not gonna happen." He pauses a second to see how she is taking this, and is encouraged by the fact that she is looking him straight in the eye, and there may even be a faint smile around her lips. He takes a deep breath. "So, having said that, the only thing left is to decide how to make it happen."