Chapter Four

03:33 ZULU

CARDIAC CARE UNIT

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER

PIMMIT HILLS, VA

When he first saw her there, standing quietly at the foot of his bed, he was afraid he must have broken his promise to Sarah. Somehow, he thought, he must have passed in his sleep without realizing it. It was the only explanation he could think of for why she would have come to him now. Still, years of working in the intelligence business had taught him the value of cautious investigation over quick assumptions, and so he had to ask.

"Am I dead?"

She cocked her head as she considered this, her bright blue eyes studying him with all the intensity of a Robin sizing up a worm. It made him decidedly uncomfortable.

"No," she said at last.

"I'm dreaming," he decided, and wondered why he still didn't feel relieved.

This time, she allowed him a small smile, the one that barely pulled at the corner of her mouth. --The one that revealed nothing of her thoughts. He remembered it well. He'd always thought it one of her more enigmatic expressions.

"In a manner of speaking," she said simply.

"Why you?" He asked softly, feeling the cold tingle of unease slip through him. "Why now?"

"We have a standing appointment," she said practically, rounding the bed to draw closer to his side. "I thought that since you couldn't come to me, I would come to you."

"I didn't forget," he reminded her carefully, his voice taking on a suspicious note. "Not once in eighteen years, not even when I was abroad."

"No," she agreed. "You are a man of your word."

"Then why come to me now? There were plenty of times I couldn't get back here. --I never dreamed of you then." In truth, he'd never dreamed of her at all, not even when she'd been alive. –Not even…after. The only woman who'd starred in his dreams in those days was Sarah. Come to think of it, she still had top billing.

She tilted her head at him again, her bright blue gaze impenetrable as ever. He thought she must have been the only person he had ever known who was as good at hiding her thoughts as he was. "Because it's time," she said at last.

"Time for what?" He asked suspiciously, the trickle of uneasiness growing stronger now.

"It's time for us to talk," she said holding out her hand to him in that cool, prim manner.

Slowly, he took her hand. It didn't feel icy, as he had somehow expected. Instead, it was small and firm with surprising warmth. He allowed her to pull him to his feet, amazed at how easy it was. Well, it was his dream, he thought. He could walk if he wanted to. Still, he couldn't quite believe it, that she was here, that they were having this conversation.

"You want to talk?" He said, studying her curiously. "Now? –Why?"

She raised one eyebrow, as if surprised he didn't already know the answer to that question. "Because it's been eighteen years, Clayton," she said at last, "and you've been wondering."

She led him to the door, pausing only as they reached the threshold. "I've wondered myself," she said, looking up at him inquisitively. "Where were you going to take me that day?"

"You mean if you'd actually shown up?"

She nodded.

He thought about it for a minute, dredging up the half forgotten details from his memory. "The Sea Cliffe," he said, "a little hotel just outside Galway, on the road overlooking the bay."

She studied him for a moment, her blue eyes serious and her dark gold hair swept neatly back from her face and he realized he had forgotten how pretty she had been …and how alone.

"Take me there," she said simply.

"All right," he said. He supposed he owed her that much, at least. Offering her his arm, he stepped across the threshold into the crisp damp chill of an Irish winter night.

They walked quietly along the cobblestone street that wound its way out of town along the bay before climbing the narrow and ancient two lane road that scaled its way up towards the Burren, the Irish Badlands. In the distance they could hear the tolling clang of the buoys and the soft whisper of the waves as they washed upon the shore. Now and then the gentle beam from the light house would streak out across the bay, illuminating the darkened humps of the Arran Islands and breaking through the heavy fog.

They did not look at each other, but he was aware of her hand, clad in soft black kid leather, resting lightly in the crook of his arm and he could feel the heavy wool of her long winter coat swishing against his legs. The flying tresses of her long gold hair blew against his cheek as they walked.

The warm golden lights of the Sea Cliffe beckoned to them, and they climbed the short flight of stone steps to enter the lobby. The lobby, pub and registration desk were all enclosed in one long room that spanned the width of the building. A large marble hearth and ornately carved cherry mantle occupied one end, in which a peat fire burned brightly. A variety of cozy low tables and chairs were scattered about, and he ushered her to one nearest the fire before helping her to remove her coat.

Seated before the fire, he carefully lifted his glass of single malt and took a meditative sip. He studied her carefully schooled expression in the firelight, but he could read nothing from it. For some strange reason, that satisfied him.

"So," he said, setting down his glass, "what was it you were going to tell me that day?"
            "You already know." She said easily.

He smirked at her. "Would it have been the truth?"

She flashed a small smile back at him. "I think you already know that, too" she replied, and took a sip of her tea. "It's what would have come next, that you don't know."

"Neither do you," he returned.

"So tell me," she said, setting down her cup and folding her hands beneath the table. "What would you have said?"

He forced his gaze to meet hers. "I would have wanted to know if you intended to keep it," he said quietly.

"I wondered about that myself," she admitted. "I don't know that I ever really arrived at an answer."

"Would you have given it up for adoption?" he asked.

"I intended to," she said, so quickly that he knew she meant it. "At first I wasn't even going to have it."
            He smiled grimly. "What changed your mind?"

She shrugged. "Second thoughts, I guess. I don't really know."

"I thought you knew everything."

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze completely unreadable. "Not everything, Clayton." She said at last. "Besides, isn't everyone entitled to second thoughts?"

"Not in my line of work," he said brusquely. "They'll only drive you crazy."

She fixed him with a wide, feline smile. "So that explains what happened to you."

He laughed harshly. He'd always liked her vicious sense of humor. "Maybe it does," he agreed.

He took another sip of the whiskey, not really tasting it and set the glass back down, lightly shaking it to rattle the melting ice. "I would have offered to take it."

"I would have let you," she replied, "…for a price."

He fixed her with a hard, business-like stare. "Name it."

She seemed to consider this for a moment. "A hundred thousand dollars," she said at last, "and your personal recommendation and support for any particular job postings that I might apply for."

He raised an eyebrow, impressed by her acumen. "Done," he said simply.

She raised a hand and he smiled. He should have known there would be more. "And visitation rights."

He drained the glass and set it back down. "That part would require further negotiation," he decided. "But I'm sure that you and my overpriced lawyers could have reached some sort of agreement. I wouldn't have kept you away. A child should know both its parents."

She nodded thoughtfully, "It does answer a lot of annoying questions in the long run…" she agreed. She rolled the china tea cup between her hands.

"And what if I had decided to keep it?" she asked, softly.

He stared at her steadily until she finally met his eyes. Only then did he speak.

"I would have seen to it that financial provisions were made. –And I would have wanted visitation rights."

"And if I refused?"

"I would have fought you, Lauren. –And I would have won."

"My, my," she murmured, narrowing her gaze upon him. "Strong words for a man who said he never wanted children."

He shrugged. "Things change."

"Second thoughts?" She asked coyly.

He smiled grimly. "In a manner of speaking."

The silence weighed heavily between them for a moment. Finally, he worked up the nerve to ask:

"Is that why you were thinking of not having it? Because I said I didn't want children?"

She flashed him a tight little smile, and he thought that perhaps it might have been a bit sad. "You weren't the only one, Clayton. I didn't want them, either." She took another sip of her tea, careful, prim and proper. "There just didn't seem to be much point in bringing another child into the world that no one wanted…"

This time, there was sadness in her voice and he studied her sharply, realizing that he'd somehow just been given a key to unlocking the ruthless façade she had presented to the world.

"Just like no one wanted you?"

He saw the flash of pain in her eyes, and knew that he had struck the truth. He was sorry for that, but somehow, it needed to be said.

To her credit, she squared her shoulders, raised her chin and met his gaze unflinchingly. "You should know, Clayton," she said quietly. "You're a perfect example. You offered me a job, you offered me money …an opportunity for advancement, and one night –when we were both a little too tired and drunk and far too lonely—you even offered me your bed." She shrugged. "It's as much as I've ever gotten from any man."

"And if I had offered you a ring?"

She managed to smile at him, but it was brittle. "Neither one of us is very good at pity," she said.

"I suppose not," he agreed.

Time flowed seamlessly into dinner and he stared at her now from across the small table set for two in a quiet bay of one of the Sea Cliffe's tall French windows.  She was picking daintily at her beef, cutting it into small pieces before spearing a slice with her fork and eating it. She made a face.

"This is terrible."

He smiled at her. "This is Ireland. What did you expect? People don't come here for the food."

She raised a disapproving brow. "This is your dream," she reminded him. "Does your imagination always taste this bad?"

He chuckled approvingly.  She'd always given as good as she got. "Try the fish," he suggested.

She looked at him for half a beat, then looked down at her plate and speared her fork into the salmon and tried a bite. She gave a small shrug. "Better," she pronounced.

Rain tapped gently against the wavy panes of hand blown glass, and he tilted his head slightly to look out the windows. The soft glow of the street lights running down the alley were ringed with halos, but they cast a dark wet shine on the chiseled stone walls and the cobblestone walkways that bordered ornate and orderly rose garden. The golden flame of the candles burned brightly on the table between them. The flickering light reflected softly in the darkened window panes and he saw that their own images were mirrored in the black, flawed surface of the glass.

He was forty again. His hair was as dark as it had been in his youth, but the hard lines of disappointment and disillusion had cut their way into his face. The laugh lines that now crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth were barely existent, and he remembered that he'd had little cause to smile in those days. He was thinner, he noted. His suit, always well cut, seemed to hang a bit loosely on him. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he vaguely recalled that brief period of his exile when perhaps a few too many of his meals had come out of a bottle. It might not have been the lowest point of his life, he thought, but it had been damned close.

He stared down into his coffee cup, the inky liquid as black as his thoughts.

"I'm glad," he said finally, "—that you decided to have it."

She gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement. "I was too, I think."

"You both deserved better than that," he said, his words as bitter as the coffee upon his tongue. "You didn't deserve to die that way."

She took a small sip of her wine. "Speaking of which, how is Teddy?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Still writing his appeals from prison, last I heard. Not that it really matters now. He'll be out in two years."

"What, no parole?" she said dryly, "I thought he had connections."

"Not anymore. Not for a long time. He was up for review six years ago, but Chegwidden scuttled it."

She stared at him in surprise. "The Admiral?" She flashed a malicious little grin. "And all this time I thought he didn't like me."

Clay smirked. "He didn't. But he hated Lindsey more. It never did pay to cross AJ."

"Did he ever find out I was the one that leaked Teddy the information for his report?"

"Yes."

Her blue eyes sparkled whimsically. "Perhaps I got off easy, then."

It was so odd, so unexpected, that he actually laughed and he suddenly remembered another one of the reasons why he'd actually admired Lauren Singer. Whether it was with her hands, her mind, or her sense of humor, she never failed to go straight for the jugular.

He took another sip of the coffee and its bitter taste brought him back to the purpose of their conversation. "I don't know if I would go that far," he told her.
            "No?"

He shook his. "No," he said firmly. "You should have had another chance at life. She should have had a chance to live." He met her eyes squarely. "I wish things had been different."

"Do you?" She challenged. Her eyes dropped to his left hand, now bereft of a ring. "Do you really?"

He felt a chill course through him as he understood her meaning. He must have given some small part of himself away, for the blue eyes sparked with black humor. "Relax, Clayton. This isn't some bad rehash of 'It's a Wonderful Life.' You're not Jimmy Stewart, and I'm certainly no angel."

"Just what exactly are you, Lauren?" he whispered.

"Your reality check." She shot him a speculative look. "Have you ever really considered what would have happened if I hadn't died?"

His hazel eyes flickered with annoyance. "I'm not a fool, Lauren. I know it wouldn't have been easy."

"No," she agreed, "it wouldn't have. We were two miserable people, Clayton, caught in a miserable situation. It was hardly the recipe for a happy ending."

"True, but we were both reasonable adults. We had no illusions about the situation –or each other. I'd like to think we could have come to some sort of amenable agreement."

"We probably could have," she said. "We might even have been able to give her a relatively normal, well balanced childhood. It doesn't guarantee it would have been happy."

"There are no guarantees on happiness," he told her.

"No," she said slyly, "there aren't, are there?"

She looked again at his unadorned hand. "Do you think she still would have married you?"

His expression went so flat, so still so quickly that anyone who knew him well could tell how deeply the barb had struck. Apparently, she knew him well enough, for she cocked her head slightly, her blue gaze assessing him.

"Apparently not," she mused.

He hesitated a moment longer. "I don't know," he finally admitted. Hell, if the truth be told, he still wasn't entirely certain as to why Sarah had agreed to marry him in the first place. –And that had been without the encumbering baggage of another woman's child. A woman, if he recalled correctly, that she didn't particularly like. "I couldn't have blamed her if she hadn't."

She nodded her head approvingly and took a small sip of her wine. "Now you are starting to understand. Life is all about the forks in the road. You can only take one or the other. You can't travel both."

"The road not taken…" He let the quote trail off, but she finished it sardonically.

"--Is for fools and romantics. Life has only one road. All the others are irrelevant."

"Are you saying you were irrelevant?"

She raised her blue eyes to his. "Aren't I? It's been eighteen years, Clayton. No one even remembers, except for you." She shook her head, completely mystified. "Why do you keep coming back? It shouldn't matter anymore."

The old stab of guilt came surging back, prompting him to reach across the table and grab her hand. He took her fingers tightly in his own. "It does matter," he said firmly. "It always did."

He sighed heavily. "I'd always said I never wanted children or a family because of what happened to my father. I never wanted to leave a wife and kid high and dry like that. I always figured I'd die alone in some backwater hell-hole, and I was ok with that –or at least I thought I was. –Then I came back to Washington, and I heard what had happened. You'd been gone for three months and no one had missed you. There were barely a dozen people at your funeral, all of them from JAG. It was a lousy way to leave the world, Lauren, and I knew that it was probably going to be the same for me some day. I didn't like the idea very much." He smiled grimly at her. "I guess you were my reality check then, too."

"Is that why you come year after year?" she asked coolly, "Because you feel sorry for me? …Because you feel guilty?"

He nodded slowly. "It was at first," he admitted, meeting her eyes unapologetically. "Everyone should have someone to remember them. I always felt I owed you at least that much."
            "I don't want your sympathy," she snapped.

He scowled at her. "You never had it," he retorted. "You and I know damned well that you are as much to blame for what happened as Lindsey was. If you hadn't been trying to blackmail him, he might have actually called for help when you fell instead of tossing you into the river."

She blinked at his harsh words and he saw in her expression that they were once more on equal footing. "What you had," he said patiently, "was my respect. You've always had that."

He drew a deep breath. "Lauren, when I told you that you should come and work for the Company all those years ago, I meant it as a serious job offer. You were smart, analytical and pragmatic. You could make the hard decisions and get the job done without letting emotions get in the way of the overall goals and objectives. Why in the hell you stayed with the Navy is beyond me. You shouldn't have been so damned stubborn. You'd have gone a lot farther in the CIA."

"Analytical? –Pragmatic?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm flattered. Most people would have described me as a cold heartless bitch."

He smirked. "You were. But that's not always such a bad thing."

"We digress," she said, twirling the cut crystal stem of the wineglass between her fingers. "You said 'at first,'" she reminded him, "is there another reason you maintain these little pilgrimages?"

He was silent a long moment. "You were right," he said finally, "—when you said I've been wondering. The last few years, I have wondered …about her …about how things might have been …what she would have been like." He smiled wistfully. "We got an invitation in the mail the other day for Jimmy Roberts's graduation party and I realized if she'd lived, she'd have graduated high school herself this year. I couldn't let myself think about it. I was standing there in the kitchen arguing with Sarah about which parties and benefits we were going to go to that weekend and who was going to take Penny to her horse show and I didn't dare let myself dwell on it then. That's why I keep coming back," he explained, "it's the only time I allow myself to think about those things."

She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, her sharp blue gaze studying him as if she were trying to come to some penultimate decision.

"Would it help if you met her?" she asked at last.

He felt as if the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. "You can do that?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.

She nodded. "I think it can be arranged. Would you like to meet her?"

            He somehow managed a sharp, vigorous nod. His throat had suddenly tightened to the point that he was no longer capable of speech and he was aware of the racing of his own heart. God, he hoped this was still a dream. It would be a damned inconvenient time for another heart attack.

            He followed her as she rose from the table and in the hazy, indistinct manner of all dreamscapes they left the hotel without ever taking a step. Wordlessly, she took his hand and led him down to the shoreline and onto the wide, rocky beach where the girl waited for them. It was daylight now, and the warm summer sun sparkled brightly on the water, blinding him slightly so that he found it hard to focus on the slim, willowy figure.

            There was something familiar about her, he thought. The mussed dark curls, the tilt of her head …he knew her, he realized, and yet she didn't quite look as he had expected. Lauren called to her then, and she turned and waved and ran to them, her face lighting up with her grandmother's brilliant smile.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed joyfully, and threw herself into his arms.

He held her close to him, his heart clutching tightly in his chest with painful recognition. He did know her. He had known her all her life. This was the infant he'd held in the hospital when she was only minutes old. This was the bubbling toddler who'd greeted him at the breakfast table every morning with sticky kisses. This was the little girl who had taken her first waltz steps on the toes of his polished black wingtips. The one who had perched proudly on the back of the tame old pony he'd led out for her as if it were an Olympic jumper. This was the bright, busy, forgetful teenager who'd forgotten the name of the Swedish Ambassador. This was his daughter. This was Penny.

Pressing his chin tightly into her dark curls, he raised his eyes to look at Lauren. "How can this be?" he asked.

She had thrust her hands into her pockets of her long black coat. The damp ocean wind picked up slightly, stirring the long loose locks of her tarnished gold hair, and there was an air of serenity about her that made her look like some dark goddess newly-risen from the sea. She tilted her head to study them both. "There is only one road," she reminded him. "Traveling it is all about the choices …but sometimes, all the choices are the same."

He still did not understand, and she must have seen it, for she took a step closer to them and reached out to stroke Penny's hair. "A soul can't be lost if it was never born. She was always meant to be your child, Clayton …just not necessarily mine."

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Penny had somehow disappeared between them, and they were standing alone now with her hand upon his breast where Penny's head had been. She tilted her head up to look at him, and he thought he saw a touch of melancholy in her eyes.

"You don't have to come any more …if you don't want to. It's all right to let go."

"Do you want me to stop?"

She shrugged. "What I wanted ceased to matter eighteen years ago."

He smiled at her. "I've always thought it a nice little tradition. If it's all the same to you, I think I'll keep it."

"It is nice to be remembered," she admitted softly.

He took hold of her hand, still resting over his heart and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'll always remember, Lauren." He assured her. "I do try to keep my promises."

"Yes," she murmured. Her expression was unreadable. "You do."

Suddenly, she rose upon her tiptoes and swiftly kissed his cheek. "Thank you for that," she said.

He smiled down at her. "I'll see you later, then" he promised.

The ocean whispered softly, the buoys clanged in the distance and he spared a glance out to the sea. When he looked back, she was gone.

He awoke suddenly, with a sharp, indrawn breath. It took him a full moment to realize where and when he was, and when he did, he was overcome by the immense sense of relief. His throat felt unusually tight and it was hard to breath. For a moment, he wondered if he was having another attack, and then he realized what it must be. Slowly, he brought a not quite steady hand to his face and felt the warm dampness that was running down his cheek. He let out a shuddering breath. God, he was actually crying.

He let his hand drop back to his side and drew several deep breaths, letting the tears run unchecked. He knew it was just a dream but he could still feel her touch, the press of her hand upon his heart. It was not the weight, but the absence of it, he realized. The burden of the old familiar guilt was gone. It was as if she had released him somehow, --or maybe, he had finally released himself. He closed his eyes. Whatever it was, there was a sense of peace there that he had not felt in a very long time. If only the other burdens of his heart could be as easily lifted.

His fatigue had caught up to him again, and he felt his body relaxing of its own accord. But as he slowly drifted off into sleep, he could not help but remember her words and the strange thought occurred to him that perhaps Penny hadn't gotten her stubborn streak from Sarah after all.