Chapter 15

31 MAY, 2021

08:15 ZULU

WEBB RESIDENCE, ALEXANDRIA, VA

MEMORIAL DAY

            The glitter of gold caught his eye as he stepped from the bathroom and headed for the closet in search of something to wear. Preferably, he thought wryly, something that didn't require a tie. He paused in front of the bureau to stare at the two heavy gold rings that gleamed in the faint rays of the morning sun. He had wondered what she had done with them.

            Slowly, he reached out and laid his palm over the rings, drawing them across the polished cherry surface and into his hand. He clenched them tightly in his fist, feeling the familiar warmth of the heavy gold against his skin.

            He had missed them. She hadn't given them back to him when they'd come for him at the hospital and given the mood she'd been in yesterday, he hadn't quite had the nerve to ask her for them.

            He opened his palm and considered the rings for a moment. They posed a strange dichotomy. The ornately carved signet ring and the plain gold band were as different as night and day, yet each was a vital representation of his true self.

            He rolled the Harvard class ring between his fingers and then slipped it onto his right hand. He rarely wore it in the field, but in DC it was as much a part of his image as the three-piece suits that filled his half of the closet. The Harvard ring was his pass key into the inner circles of the Washington elite. It was the unspoken credentials of his wealth, power and intellect, subtly displayed upon his finger. Essentially, it served as a notice to the world that he was not just another asshole in a suit.

            If the Harvard ring was his professional identity, the wedding band was his personal one. It marked him as a husband and a father, as a man who loved and was loved in turn. It might not always be effective in deterring the advances of the vacant blondes and bored socialites he encountered at the obligatory rounds of Washington cocktail parties, but what the ring didn't fend off, Sarah did. However, he valued the simple band not for what it indicated to others, but for what it signified to himself. Of the two, it was always the wedding band that he missed the most. On the days when he had to play the game and make the tough calls –the ones that pricked what was left of his moral sensibilities—the ring served to ground him. It reminded him that what he did was not necessarily who he was. It helped him to remember that he was Penny's father and Sarah's husband. In other words, it served to remind him that he was not just another asshole in a suit, either.

            He slid the band back onto his left hand, aware that there was something in the act that felt…unbalanced. He knew what it was. The rings were a promise, and wherever they were, she always gave them back to him with a kiss that was a promise of something more. She'd never just slipped into the room and left them for him to find. They'd broken with tradition. He stared grimly at his reflection, worn and haggard in the bureau mirror, and wondered what other traditions they'd break before this week was through.

***

            "What is this?" Clay stared down at his breakfast in dismay. Beside him, Tigger paused in the act of washing his face to sniff delicately at the plate. The cat shot Clay a disgusted look, stalked across the counter and jumped to the floor. He was clearly unimpressed.

            "Grape fruit, Daddy," Penny said, adding a saucer with two slices of whole wheat toast, unbuttered. She placed two glasses, one of orange juice and another of skim milk beside the plates.

            "Where's the coffee?"

            "No coffee," Penny chirped, turning back to the refrigerator to pull out what appeared to be yet another disgustingly healthy dish. "You're not supposed to have caffeine."

            "That doctor can go take a short walk off a tall building," Clay groused, picking at the chunks of grapefruit. He shot a pleading glance across the kitchen. "Help me out here, Rosa."

            The housekeeper paused to shake her finger at him as she loaded the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. "Now Mister Webb, don't you try to play me," she said sternly. "Miss Penny is right. You have got to listen to the doctor and eat good food. We want to keep you around for a long, long time."

            "Yeah, and torture me," he muttered, breaking off a piece of the dry toast and chewing it. He'd actually kill for some butter.

            At the other end of the kitchen, Rosa started the dishwasher and turned to pick her purse up off the counter. She reached out to drop a quick kiss on Penny's cheek. "Ok, chica, I have to go now. You tell your mamma I put the tortillas for the party in the glass dish in the refrigerator. –And don't forget, Jorge is coming tomorrow to prune the bushes."

            Penny returned the housekeeper's brisk hug. "Bye Rosa, see you tomorrow."

            "Bye, Rosa," Clay added, his voice not quite so enthusiastic.

            She frowned at him, and then crossed the kitchen to hug him as well. He stiffened, slightly, surprised by the gesture and felt Rosa's chubby cheek press tightly to his. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss, Senor Clay. God has given you a gift, a second chance." She squeezed him again and stepped back, a knowing smile crossing her features. "And I for one am glad you are still with us."

            He stared at her for a moment, his hazel eyes unreadable. "If you really loved me, you'd make me coffee," he deadpanned.

            "Oh, you!" she waved him off with a disgusted gesture, and exited the kitchen, shooing Jack and Tigger out the door ahead of her.

            The noisy exodus made the house too silent all of a sudden and he looked at Penny, who had taken a seat across from him. "Where's your mother at?"
            Penny shrugged. "She left a little while ago. She went to go get Meredith."

            "She took my car?"

            "Did you see another one around here?" Penny said dryly, "The truck is still out at the farm, --remember?"

            The "truck" was actually a four door Lexus SUV that they used in the summer months for taking horses to shows and in the winter when the roads became a bit too treacherous for Sarah's Corvette. They'd left it out at the farm after a show last weekend, but he couldn't help thinking that it would have been handy to have it home. It was roomier and it would have made for a more comfortable ride to drive them all to the Turners.

            "Just as long as she doesn't crack it up," he grumbled, stabbing at another slice of grapefruit. He really hated grapefruit, but he managed to keep from grimacing as he chewed. Penny seemed so proud of her effort.

            Penny sighed. "It was an accident, Daddy. It really wasn't our fault. Some idiot backed into us!" She looked at him worriedly. "You really aren't going to stay mad at Mom about that, are you?"

            He sighed and pushed the plate aside. "No," he said at last. "I don't blame your mother for that. It was just bad timing."

            Penny continued to dissect him with that sharp green-gold gaze.

            "What?" he said at last, no longer able to stand it. Damn, she apparently had inherited her interrogation skills along with her eye color.

            "Are you and Mom fighting?" she asked.

            He scrubbed a hand across his face, wishing again for coffee. "Maybe," he admitted.

            "About what?" Penny pressed.

            He dropped his hand and his eyes, gray and green, narrowed upon his daughter's. "Classified," he said tersely.

            Penny made a face, clearly acknowledging the cop-out. "Are you mad at Mom?" she asked.

            God, she just didn't give up.

            "No," he replied. His answer was firm and direct.

            Penny reached over and snagged a section of his grapefruit. "Mom's mad at you."

            He scowled at her. "How do you know?"

            "She told me."

            Years of practice kept his expression perfectly blank, but inside, he was cringing. She'd actually told Penny? It was worse than he thought.

            "Did she say why?" he asked carefully.

            "Do you know why?" Penny returned, tempting him to reach out across the table and throttle her.

            "Answer the question," he snapped.

            He saw the challenge rising in her eyes, and knew exactly what she was thinking. 'You first,' but she wisely conceded the point.

            "She said it was need-to-know."

            "She's right," he said, and picked up his toast, biting into it with savage vigor.

            "Maybe…" Penny hesitated at his irritated glance.

            "Maybe what?"

            She drew a deep breath and plunged on. "Maybe if you just say that you were wrong and tell her that you're sorry, she'll forgive you."

            He sighed. "It's not quite that simple, Pen."

            "Why not?" Penny said slyly, "That's what you're always telling me to do when I screw up. –Now are you saying it doesn't work?"

            He shot her a reproving look. "It's not about whether or not it works, sweetheart. It's just the right thing to do."

            "And telling her you're sorry isn't the right thing to do?"

            Damn. She was good. He should have sent her to Israel with Galindez. She'd have had the Israelis and the Palestinians signing peace treaties until their pens ran dry.

            "No," he said patiently. "It's still the right thing to do."

            "Then tell her," Penny said.

            First Galindez, then Sarah, now Penny …he was sensing a recurring theme here.

            "I did tell her," he grumbled, thinking back to his argument with Sarah last night.

            "Did you mean it?" Penny pressed.

            Well, yes …and no. Perhaps he had still been smarting a little from her words. Penny read the truth in his body language.

            "Tell her again," she said firmly. "And mean it this time."

            He snorted. "I doubt it will help."

            Penny shrugged. "Maybe she's just not done being mad at you yet. –Tell her, Dad. She'll forgive you."

            If only it really were that easy, he thought. The trouble was, Sarah was pressing him for the truth and truth and what she wanted to hear were going to be very different things. Picking up his empty dishes, he carried them to the sink and rinsed them off.

            "I wouldn't count on it," he said.

***

            "Oh what a lovely house," Meredith murmured as Sarah eased the convertible to a stop beneath the cantilevered car park that extended out over the front entrance. Meredith sat for a moment, taking in the multi-colored masonry, the neatly sculptured shrubs and bushes before finally fixing upon the massive, copper clad front door that time had faded to a soft patina of pale green.

            "Is it yours?"

            Mac smiled wryly. It was the same question Meredith always asked, and the genuine pleasure and wonderment in her voice was one of the reasons she continued to bring her old friend back here on her increasingly rare "good" days. Meredith might not be able to remember where she'd been, but she still knew what she liked and she'd always liked this house. Some of the best times she and Meredith had spent together had been right here, debating rugs and draperies and tile for the bathroom while she oversaw the hellish remodel in Clay's long and frequent absences.

            "Yes," she said, and stepped out of the car. "But I like to think of it as partly yours too. You did help me decorate it."

            "I did?" Meredith's look of wonderment grew.

            Mac nodded. "Want to come in and see?"

            Meredith hesitated, as if consulting that silent unknown voice that only she could hear.

            "Yes," she said at last. "I think…I think I'd like that."

            Moving around to the other side of the car, Mac opened the door and took her by the arm. Leading her up the steps to the front door she paused as she caught the odd expression on Meredith's face.

            "Are you all right?"

            "Yes…. I—" Meredith smiled weakly and squeezed Sarah's arm. "Yes," she said again, her voice more firm.

            Reassured, Mac led her inside and seated her in a leather chair. "Sit right here," she said gently. "I have to go see if Clay and Penny are ready and get the food. I'll just be a minute."

            Turning down the hallway, she called out in a slightly louder voice, "Penny! Would you come into the living room and sit with your Aunt Meredith?"

            Meredith sat for a moment, absorbing the comforting silence of the room. She liked this room, she thought vaguely. There was something warm and familiar about it, almost as if she'd been here before.

            She frowned as she considered it. The rugs, the furnishings, that strange copper front door…

            'Somethin' wrong darlin'?'

            She smiled faintly at the voice but did not answer. It seemed to bother people when she talked to him, and she'd fallen into the habit of thinking back at him. Perhaps it was a bad habit, because now that it was becoming such a chore to speak, she found herself trying to answer everyone the way she answered him: in her head.

            She turned to the window and for a moment, she could almost envision him standing there, but his features seemed faded and indistinct. It was so hard to remember what he looked like when she didn't have the pictures. Odd, she thought, that she could still remember the exact tone and the warmth of his voice. There were some days when she could not even recall exactly who he was, but she always could remember that voice.

            She found her eyes drawn back to the entryway. There was something about that door…

            Hesitantly, she rose from the chair and walked to the massive door, staring at it intently.

            'What is it?' the voice prodded.

            "I remember," she whispered.

            'Remember what?'

            In her mind, the door opened, and a woman stood before her. She had been small and dark, a foreigner, with just the faintest trace of an accent.

            'Oh, Senora! I am so glad to see you! She was in bed when I found her. She's still there…'

            She turned away from the door and stared across the open foyer to the hallway. The memories struck her at the oddest times, but when they came it was with a crystal clarity that the present no longer seemed to possess. In the memories, it all came back: her identity, her awareness, her feelings, all of it. For one brief moment, she wasn't lost anymore.

            Slowly, but decisively, she crossed the room to the hallway as she followed the memory of the woman in her mind.

            'I don't know what to do, Senora. She says she's not sick, but she won't stop crying. I don't want to leave her, but I have to go soon…and someone must look after the child.'

            "It's all right, Rosa." Meredith whispered the words under her breath. "I'll take care of it."

            She glanced at the door way to her right and recalled a child standing there, a small girl with wavy dark hair that clutched a tiny squirming puppy tightly to her chest. Penny, she thought triumphantly as the name fell into place. This was Penny.

            "Hello, sweetheart," she murmured. The child in her memory continued to stare at her with wide, uncertain eyes.

            She turned to the door at her left and stared it for a long time. Her hand itched to grab the handle and throw it open to reveal the next tantalizing clue to this past she had glimpsed. Again she heard the voice, warm and softly teasing at the back of her mind.

            'Oh, for cryin' out loud! Go on. --You know you'll do it anyway.'

            She put her hand on the knob and slowly turned it. It was a bedroom, tastefully furnished with everything in its place. She looked to the bed. It was empty of course, and neatly made, but in her mind's eye she could still see the rumpled covers and the slim, shaking figure that huddled there.

            She had crossed the room in three strides, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress and stroking a wayward lock of mussed dark hair away from the flushed damp face. The brown eyes that met hers were read and swollen with tears.

            'Oh, Sarah –honey, what is it? What's wrong?'

            A heavy sob shook the woman in the bed, and she rolled to her side, exhausted and listless.  'Something's happened,' the voice that answered her was barely recognizable, '--something terrible.'

            'What?' Meredith demanded, her heart clutching in her chest.

            Sarah merely shook her head and buried her face deeper into the pillow.

            'I don't know,' she whispered.

            "Meredith?" She started slightly at the new voice, and felt the memory slide from her tenuous grasp to be replaced once again by the empty bedroom. Half turning, she studied the man who stood behind her with a puzzled expression on his face. Like the house, he seemed somewhat familiar and she knew instinctively that she liked him. She just couldn't remember why.

            She offered him an apologetic smile, intensely embarrassed to find herself standing here in his house with no idea of who he was. "I… I was looking for…Sarah," she said, latching on to the name from her memory.

            He smiled at her gently. It was nice smile, she thought. Maybe that was why she liked him.

            "She's looking for you, too," he said, and offered her his arm.

            She took his arm and walked slowly with him down the hallway, surreptitiously studying him out of the corner of her eye. For some reason, she pictured a younger man, without the silver in his hair or the creases so deep in his face. Tense and driven, she thought, and always wearing dark and immaculate three piece suits. But the eyes were the same, dark and murky and transforming from green-gray to brown and back again with each shift of his emotions. They were always brown when he fought with A.J. but green when he looked at Sarah. Yes, she decided, it was the same man.

            He hesitated just on the threshold of the kitchen and she looked from him to the woman who stood at the counter, packing a picnic basket. –The woman who had brought her here. It was the same woman from her memory, the one who had been crying. She glanced back at him. Was that uncertainty in his eyes?

            "She loves you, you know."

            Something faltered in his expression, but it was quickly replaced by a small smile that quirked at the corner of his mouth. She decided it was not as nice as the one he'd given her before. There was something less than genuine in it.

            "Are you sure about that?" He asked, half under his breath.

            Frankly, she wasn't sure of anything these days, but she still couldn't shake that image from her memory, the image of the woman sobbing uncontrollably into a pillow –his pillow.

            'Oh yeah, she loves him,' the voice at the back of her mind pronounced in tone that was slightly disgusted and not a little bored. It caused her to smile.

            'You never did have much patience with relationships,' she thought back, and squeezed the arm of the man beside her.

            "I'm positive," she said.

            "Here she is," Clay announced, leading Meredith into the kitchen. "Are you two ready?"

            "Almost," Mac replied, as she dropped the last few items into the picnic basket and handed it to Penny. "Why don't you take Meredith on out to the car and get her settled in? Penny and I will be out in a minute."

            He didn't miss the slight stiffening of her shoulders, or the fact that she was careful not to look directly at him as she spoke. Penny didn't miss it either. Her worried eyes traveled from him to Sarah and back again and she cocked one brow in a meaningful gesture. His mouth thinned and he shook his head slightly. Now was not the time.

            He glanced at Meredith and somehow managed to paste a teasing grin across his face. "So tell me pretty lady, when was the last time you got to sit in the back seat of a convertible?"

            To his surprise, the smile she flashed him was brilliant and filled with a spark of her old mischief. "Honestly? I have no idea…"

Thank God for the convertible. Clay slowed the car as he approached the turn to the Turner's long paved driveway and snuck a glance from the corner of his eye at the rigid figure in the seat beside him. It was warm for May, and he'd been able to put the top down. It had been a strategic decision that had had little to do with the beauty of the day. The rushing wind had served to make conversation unnecessary –if not impossible—and it had produced the illusion of blowing away the air of tension that had settled between him and Sarah. But as they slowly approached the neat brick house with the row of cars parked in front of it, he felt the silence rise again. He pulled up behind Tiner's Escalade and switched off the engine. There was no way in hell they were going to pull this off.

            He reached for his door handle, and saw that Sarah was already out of the car and leaning down to help Meredith out of the back. No doubt she was planning on making her escape from him with all due haste. She hadn't spoken to him once during the entire thirty minute drive. He cast a speculative gaze over the vehicles that were already there. Bud and Harriet's mini-van, Tiner's SUV, Victor's Altima –it looked like they were the last ones here. Tiner could be fairly oblivious, but Bud and Harriet weren't and what's worse, they were nosy to boot, albeit in a well-intentioned sort of way. Still, he had no doubt that they'd only have to take one look at the thundercloud that was Sarah's face and he'd she'd be whisked off to the kitchen and he to Sturgis's game room for separate interrogations. Quite frankly, he just wasn't up to that.

            Stepping out of the car, he flipped his seat forward for Penny to exit and depressed the button on his remote to release the trunk.

            "Honey, why don't you help Meredith inside?" he suggested as Penny headed towards the trunk. "Your mother and I will get the rest of this."

            Penny hesitated only briefly, her sharp hazel eyes catching the unspoken order in his and for once, she gave him no argument.

            "Sure," she said quickly, and rounded the car to take Meredith by the arm. "Come on, Aunt Mere. Have you been to Sturgis and Bobbie's before? –It's really cool!"

            Sarah said nothing, but he saw the brief flicker of annoyance cross her face as Penny swept Meredith away and they were suddenly left alone. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. He held the gaze as he closed the car door –perhaps with a little more force than was necessary—and circled slowly to the rear of the car. She met him there, her arms still crossed tightly and her eyes still burning with anger.

            "So," she said coolly, "Now you want to talk."

            He raised the trunk lid, obscuring them from the view of the bay window above and slowly put his keys into his pocket in an effort to control his temper. She was still pissed about last night, and apparently the time she'd had to sleep and think had only made her angrier. He couldn't allow himself to rise to the bait.

            He reached for the picnic basket and hefted it from the trunk. "Not particularly," he admitted, "but if you don't want to spend the rest of the afternoon playing twenty questions with Bud and Harriet, you might want to put on a better game face. Everything your thinking right now shows in your expression."

            "And just what is my expression saying?" She snapped, reaching for the potato salad.

            His eyes swept over her stiff features. There was something flat and unreadable in his gaze. "That you can't stand the sight of me."

            "Well," she said, balancing the bowl on her hip and snapping the trunk closed, "at least it's an accurate account." She shook her head. "I'm so mad at you right now Clay that I can't stand you. Every time I look at you, I keep wondering which one of my strings you're going to jerk on next. If I try to help you, you push me away. And whenever I get too close, you know just what to say and how to play me to get me all wound up and distract me from what's really going on with us."

            He looked down at the basket in his hands, feeling as if the ground were shifting suddenly beneath his feet. One minute she was loving and concerned and the next she was cold and angry. Every time he expected the one, he got the other instead. He didn't know where he stood with her anymore, and he didn't know how to get them back to where they were before.

"What is going on with us?" he asked quietly. This wasn't one of their ordinary disagreements. They both knew it.
            She looked at him steadily. "You tell me," she said and then shook her head. "Oh, wait. I forgot. That's need to know, isn't it? –And you made it pretty clear last night that I don't need to know."

            She advanced upon him, her brown eyes blazing and in spite of himself, he took a step back. "I know that look in your eye, Clayton Webb. It's guilt. You've done something you blame yourself for. Something you're afraid of and you're afraid to tell me about it. Do you know how crazy that makes me?"

            "Sarah," he began, but she shook her head and plunged on.

            "Do you know how many nights I lay awake and ask myself what it is you could have done that is so terrible you can't tell me about it? I know about your job, Clay. I know the awful things you have to do, --I've seen them." She shook her head. "Last night, when I couldn't sleep, I kept thinking about what you said. All I could think of is what could you have possibly done that is worse than the things I already know you're capable of?"

Her brown eyes bored into his, begging him for the truth. "What are you so afraid of, Clay?" she whispered.

            His hand clenched tight around the handle of the basket.

            "Losing you," he said simply. He inhaled sharply and then added, "—losing us."

            She was silent for a moment. "I'm afraid of that, too."

            She circled around him and walked along the car and then stopped. "Is there somebody else?" Her voice was so quiet that he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

            "What?"

            She hugged the glass bowl tighter to herself. "It was the worst thing that I could think of."

            He circled to the passenger side of the car and stared at her in disbelief. "You actually think I'm seeing another woman?"

            "Are you?"

            He held her eyes for a long moment. There was something like disappointment in his gaze. "You know me better than that."

            "Do I, Clay? –Do I really?" She shook her head. "I'm starting to think that I don't know you at all."

            He scowled at her. "I haven't changed, Sarah."

            "No," she agreed slowly, "I don't think you have. I think maybe I just never saw you for who you really were."

            "And just who do you think I am?" he demanded.

            "I don't know," she admitted, "but you certainly aren't the person I thought you were."

            "Just what in the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

            She rounded on him again as her anger rekindled and burned anew. "The man I married swore that he would never lie to me. He trusted me …and I trusted him. –Obviously I've made a mistake."

            He said nothing, and she advanced upon him, her eyes burning with the force of her rage. "If you were that man, you would have at least been honest with me. –Rather than leaving behind all these scattered little scraps of dirty secrets for me to find out from strangers!"

            She felt the tears streaking down her cheeks like molten fire, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. "The man I thought I married wouldn't keep bringing flowers to a woman who's been dead for eighteen years and never tell me about it," she ground the words out harshly. "He wouldn't stonewall a case I've been working on for months and act as if he knew nothing about it! God, he would never allow a stranger to be buried in Harm's grave and let me think…"

            She trailed off as she noted the pasty pallor of his complexion, and realized that in her ranting she must have struck a devastating truth.

            "Oh…God!" the words came out in a soft hiss as her brows drew together in horror. "You did, didn't you? –Bud was right… it wasn't Harm. It was all a cover up…" she shook her head in disbelief as the pieces finally clicked into place: Clay …Harm …Victor …Kershaw …Korea. All the pieces had been there, she had just never allowed herself to see it. At the time, she'd been too worried about Clay –and too shocked at the news of Harm's death to think much of it. And later …she just had not wanted to see the facts that had been staring her in the face all these years.

            "You were there," she whispered, reading the truth in his stricken expression. "You were there when it happened, weren't you?"

            He said nothing, but the color of his eyes shifted ever so slightly and she knew that she was right. "You and Victor were sent to Asia the same time Harm was in Korea. You were working for Kershaw. –Harm had worked for Kershaw. What happened? Did you ask him to do the CIA one more favor for old times sake?"

            Her mind began to race as more long forgotten details floated to the surface of her memory. "God! The civilian on the C-130 that accompanied the casket back to the States, was that you?"

            "No," he said hoarsely, and she sensed that this much at least was true.

            "It was Victor," she guessed. His silence seemed to confirm it, and she felt the growing horror as she began to realize the full extent of the deception he –no, they-- had played upon her. Her hands were shaking as the memories washed over her.

"It was Victor who came to JAG that day and told us," she whispered, her eyes brimming now with tears. "He said he'd heard it at Pearl…"

            She rubbed hard at her cheek with the back of her hand, her pain boiling over into rage. "And when I met your flight at Reagan the next day…" she hissed, "you knew it, too." Her eyes hardened accusingly. "Of course you knew! You were behind it!"

            He took a step toward her. "Sarah—"

            "No!" She spat, and hurled the heavy glass bowl in his direction. In spite of her anger and the force she put into it, the weight wasn't quite enough to carry it all the way across the open car. It struck the inside of the passenger door and cracked, spilling the creamy, oily mass onto the fine leather seats.

            The shocked look that crossed his face was almost comical, but he wasted no time in lamenting over the damage. Instead, he stalked around the front of the car, advancing upon her with grim determination. He had to make her listen. He had to tell her how it really had been.

Unfortunately, she was in no mood to listen. Her only thought was to get away, and she lunged backwards, out of his grasp. The stone ledge came up suddenly behind her thighs and she put her hand out, searching for something –anything—to drive him back.

            "Sarah, I can expl—

            Her hand encountered the heavy terra-cotta rim of one of the potted geraniums and she hefted the pot, flinging it at his head with deadly accuracy.

            "Bastard!" she shrieked, "Get away from me!"

            Only his quick instincts saved him, and he managed to duck in time. He felt the whoosh of air as the pot sailed past his head. It clipped the corner of the windshield and shattered, raining potting soil and broken bits of potsherds down upon the dash and deep pile carpeting.

            The sudden burst of adrenaline unleashed his own temper and he advanced upon her, grabbing her by the wrist as she whirled to snatch up another pot. She was cursing at him now, spitting a stream of foul language that was more appropriate to Marine barracks than a D.C. garden party. She tried to jab him with an elbow, but he blocked the move. She whirled and tried to swing at him with her free hand, but he dodged the blow and deftly snagged her other wrist. She struggled in his grasp, kicking and swearing, and he shook her in a grim effort to bring her to reason.

"Sarah!"

"Let go of me you son of a bitch!"

"Damn it, Sarah! Will you just—"

"Stop! Stop it!" Penny's voice, high pitched with hysteria washed over them like a wave of cold water, freezing them in place.

"Both of you stop!" Penny sobbed, and flung herself down the stairs from the upper balcony to where they stood.

Suddenly aware of just how tightly he was clenching Sarah's wrists and what it must look like, he slowly released her and took a step back. He was shocked at the tell-tale red strips that instantly appeared where his fingers had been. He knew from experience that it would likely bruise.

He forced himself to meet her eyes. She returned his gaze with a stony look and rubbed at her reddening wrist. He took another step back, feeling the bile rise in his throat. God, what had he done?

--She was right, he realized. He wasn't who she thought he was. Hell, he wasn't who he thought he was. Granted, it wasn't the first time she'd taken a swing at him over the years, but even in their most bitter arguments, he'd never laid a hand upon her. He'd never thought himself the kind of man who would resort to such a thing.

Apparently, he'd been wrong.

Sobbing and hysterical, Penny flung herself between the two of them. Clay stepped back even further, feeling like a heel. To his surprise, however, it was not him that she turned upon, but Sarah.

"Leave him alone!" Penny spat, balling her hands into fists as she glared at her mother.

"Excuse me?" Sarah said, her voice still angry and clearly bewildered as she stared at her daughter in disbelief.

Penny shook her head, her eyes glinting green with fury.  "How could you? –You know he's not supposed to get upset! What are you trying to do? Give him another heart attack?"

Penny shoved angrily at her mother, forcing Sarah to take a step back. "It's probably your fault he ended up in the hospital anyway!"

"What?!" Sarah exclaimed, clearly outraged. She fixed her daughter with a menacing glare. "Now you just wait a minute, young lady!"

But Penny was not to be dissuaded.

"You want him to die!" She accused between ragged breaths. "You're mad at him. –You said so. You probably wish he was dead instead of that stupid Captain Rabb you're always moping over!"

The words, so carelessly considered and angrily spoken, caught both Clay and Sarah hard in the pits of their stomachs.

"What?" Mac whispered again, her face going ashen.

Penny wiped the tears from her cheeks as she glared from one parent to another. "I'm not stupid," she said disdainfully. "You always put the flowers on his grave by yourself and you spend lots of time there. –And you hate it when Dad and I go with you, too."

Sarah caught the small flicker of reaction that traveled across Clay's face, and realized that Penny was not alone in this conclusion.

"I heard Bobbie talking to Bud on the phone the other night about the Rabb case, and how you didn't want Dad to know that you took it. –I can see why. Chloe told me all about Captain Rabb and how you were always mooning over him back before you married Dad."

In that instant, Mac could have gladly turned Chloe over her knee and smacked her. –Regardless of the fact that she was now 35 years old and living three states away with her husband and two children. What on earth had she been thinking, telling Penny things like that?

Penny paused for breath, and her eyes hardened, taking on a cynical glint that was all too reminiscent of her father.

"You know, Mom. It's really pathetic when you're so hard up you've got to cheat on Daddy with a dead guy."

Her hand flew of its own accord, landing on Penny's cheek with a stinging report. Penny reeled from the blow, more in surprise than pain. Sarah gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in horror at what she had done.

This time, it was Clay who intervened.

"Enough," he said sharply, stepping between them and pulling Penny away. He wanted to tell her to apologize to her mother, but so many things had been said –and done—that he wasn't exactly sure who should be apologizing to whom. It had all gone too far for simple apologies, he realized. The situation had spun so wildly out of control that he had no idea how to get it back in hand.

He shot a helpless glance to his wife. She was trembling now, her lips bloodless and her face chalky-white. She looked desperately from him to Penny, and began backing slowly away.

"Sarah—"

She said nothing, but shook her head, putting up her hands in a defensive gesture. Then she turned and walked away from them, her steps picking up speed as she went. By the time she reached the end of the driveway, she was running.

Penny was shaking now. He could feel the fine tremors that racked the slim shoulder still resting beneath his hand. He allowed his fingers to squeeze firmly --but not too hard as he remembered the red streaks on Sarah's wrists. He'd already left more marks than he cared to this day.

"You shouldn't have spoken to your mother like that." It was the only thing he could think to say, and he noticed that his voice sounded dull even to his own ears.

"I don't care," Penny sniffed. There was an odd note to her voice. It sounded angry and hurt and desolate all at the same time. "It's all her fault," she said again.

"No," Clay said tiredly. His gaze traveled down the street in the direction his wife had fled. "It's mine."

***