CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Jean Talarski was the Project gossip. Everyone knew that. She had her finger on the pulse of Starbright and knew everything there was to know about its personnel. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing. She was the assistant manager in Human Resources, and her love of tittle-tattle kept her well abreast of the vibe of the people. If you had a problem, nine times out of ten Jean knew about it before your secretary did.
Usually Al hated the idea that someone was out there, waiting to pounce like a predator on the slightest intimation of scandal. Today, however, when she approached him as he chased his salad around his plate with a fork, all he saw were her seductive curves and her sympathetic smile.
"Hey, stranger," she said, sliding into the plastic cafeteria chair across from him. "You look like you could use a friend."
Al looked up from the meal he knew he should, but definitely didn't want to, eat. "And you look like you just stepped off the cover of Vogue."
He had a healthy flirting relationship with most of the women on the Project. It was part of Calavicci's keep-the-staff-happy strategy. Jean's smile broadened and she reached across the table to pat his limp left hand. "How're things with the ex?"
Al snorted a little and took a mouthful of his… medicated coffee. He had discovered that, by keeping his consumption constant but moderate, he didn't need to sink into black moods without warning. Unfortunately, there were some subjects that brought their melancholy regardless. Sharon had had Chester for three days now. Calavicci had had three very rough nights.
He took courage from the heat of the vodka caressing his stomach, and turned on the charm in the form of a wry grin. "Which one?" he asked.
Jean shrugged. "Whichever one looks most like me," she said.
Al laughed. "Baby, if any of them had looked anything like you, they wouldn't be an ex."
Jean giggled, and under the table he could feel her left ankle crooking around his right. "I heard about the dog," she said. "That's too bad."
He reached for his coffee again and affected indifference. "Yeah, well, my attorney's not going to let her get away with it. He's appealing the decision. We'll it reheard."
"I'm glad," Jean said. "It would be a good idea if we rethought the rules about pets on the premises."
Al frowned. He had heard that line before. Something about pets and the rules… where had he heard that before?
"You don't think it's a good idea?" Jean said in mild surprise.
"Oh… no, it's a great idea…" Al said. He was in a bit of a stupor, and all he could really focus on was the way her bosom rose and fell beneath her knotted blouse.
"You see, my vision for Starbright is a sanctuary. Just because we have a top-secret location and all the security precautions that come with the nature of our work doesn't mean this place should have the ambience of a bomb shelter." She leaned forward and plucked a breadstick from his plate, toying provocatively with it while she spoke. "For example, did you know that we have crew quarters adequate to accommodate a staff twice as large as the one we have now, but only twenty-three percent of our personnel are permanent residents?"
She was waiting for a response.
"Uh… no…" Al said. "No, I didn't realize that."
She smiled. "You see? No one does! Aside from the marines and their families, almost no one is taking advantage of our great facilities! Doctor Eleese, Doctor Thorgard, Doctor Gushman, a handful of the others, couple of the folks from Maintenance, most of us in H.R., and that's just about it! And you, of course. I was so glad to hear you'd moved in permanently. It's exactly the kind of thing we need to encourage."
She had slipped her foot out of its pump and was running it along his calf. Al was having more trouble than ever paying attention to what she was saying, but she was obviously expecting some kind of comment.
"You hafta admit," he said; "the quarters aren't exactly spacious."
"Oh, I know that," Jean allowed. "I'm not talking about the people with kids—though we could do some shuffling with the above-ground lodgings if anyone was interested. But seventy percent of our staff is single."
"Makes it hard to meet people," Al pointed out.
Jean's smile grew almost gleeful. "Does it?" she asked, leaning closer.
"So we are," Al said, not really meaning to speak aloud.
"Are?" Jean said.
"On the same wavelength…"
She smiled and leaned right over the table to brush her lips against his cheekbone. "Oh, I think we are," she murmured.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMIn his quarters, they shared a glass of wine—the last of the Chianti Al had brought from the trailer. Wine was too expensive to restock, when whiskey got the job done just as quickly. Then they settled into the serious business of the evening. As she removed his shirt, Jean's eyes boggled at the sight of his scars, but he dragged her into a deep, hungry kiss that made her forget it. Just when he started to forget… just when he thought he could move on…
At least Jean was ready to move on. She couldn't have cared less about the marks on his body. She was only interested in the body itself. They fell asleep in each other's arms just before midnight, thoroughly satiated.
Al awoke drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, gasping against broken ribs. Jean was slumbering next to him, blissfully unaware of the panic settling on is heart. He tried to calm down, but it wasn't working. It just wasn't working! The phantom pain made even the smallest movement agony. It hurt! Oh, God, stop! "STOP!"
"Mmh… stop what…" Jean murmured.
Al groped out into the darkness, frantic and desperate to do anything to stop the pain and bury the memories. His flailing hand lighted on the smooth skin of her shoulder, and he grabbed much harder than he meant to. She sat up with a gasp, and her forehead cracked against his. She fell back on the pillows, and he reeled away, his right arm twisting beneath his back as he tried to keep from falling out of the bed. A hoarse cry at the unexpected attack tore itself from his throat, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. It was a physiological response to the blow to the head, not a psychological response to the dream. His psychological inclination was to curl into a ball to protect what he could of his vitals.
Then all of a sudden deft fingers were stroking his chest, drawing him back towards the middle of the bed. She was kissing him again, firmly and passionately. He gave in, and allowed himself to be completely absorbed in the pleasure.
Where there was pleasure, there could not be Vietnam.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM
As the weeks wore on, his relationship with Jean became the constant around which Al's life revolved. Since they were both employed on the Project they had endless opportunities to see one another. Like two college students making excuses to flirt with one another during tutorials, they found reasons to spend time together during the workday.
The new alliance between Human Resources and Administration filtered down through the ranks of the Project as Al implemented more and more of Jean's suggestions. A rec room was set up on the residential level. Evening activities were planned. The mess hall on Sub-Level Five had its menus overhauled. That last was a move Al found long overdue. While nobody expected the quality of free food to be anything stellar, the concept of smaller batches went a long way to improving matters. As his meals began to take on a slightly less rubbery consistency, Al found himself eating with more relish. Everyone else seemed to appreciate the change, too, with the possible exception of Prysock, who valued the bottom line over everything.
The nightly question of "your place or mine" became a game. Certain activities were reserved for Al's more spacious quarters. There were others that the unusual layout of Jean's room (which was next to the elevator shaft) facilitated. Most importantly, she never asked any questions about scars, nightmares or Vietnam.
A glass full of whiskey on the rocks was the only thing better than making love with Jean.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM
At last the day came for Al's appeal of the court decision leaving Chester in Sharon's care to be heard. He rode into the city early, and conferred with Gavin, who had several excellent strategies. Entering the courtroom was hard. Sharon was already there, sitting where Al had last time. In her lap was his little guy. He looked as perky and as happy as ever, for which Al had to be thankful. It was awful seeing him and being unable to hold him. He had tried to bury the pain of the separation, but seeing Chester again reminded Al how much he missed him.
It was a different judge, and this time Al was careful not to antagonize him. Gavin bobbed and weaved with Sharon's lawyer, but Al was too distracted by the proximity of his dog to pay much attention. He was right there, not ten feet away…
Once or twice he turned to look at Chester only to find Sharon watching him with what seemed to be unbridled avarice. He found that more than a little disconcerting, to say nothing of confusing.
At last came the awful moment of the verdict. Al held his breath, dimly aware that his grip on the arm of his chair was becoming almost painful.
"Having weighed the case carefully," the judge pronounced; "I find both parties to be capable of giving the… er… Chester the care and attention that he needs. Both seem financially able to support him. Neither are involved in lifestyles or activities that would endanger him. Therefore, as he was purchased—er, obtained—by Captain Calavicci prior to the marriage to Ms. Quinn, I see no more just route than to grant custody to the captain. He shall take charge of the… dog… immediately. Case dismissed."
Al had to stop himself from flying across the room to snatch Chester from that woman's clutches. He forced himself to rise with dignity and cross the courtroom.
"I'm sorry to do this, Sharon," he said, though that was a lie. He wanted Chester and she never would have stopped him. He wasn't sorry at all that she'd lost.
"Oh, that's okay," she said sweetly, rising and easing the terrier into his arms. Al felt the warm weight settle against his chest for a moment, until Chester realized who was holding him. His tail began to wag furiously, and he sprung up so that his forepaws rested on Al's shoulder. He immediately started lapping at his master's neck. The familiar sensation sent up a pang of nostalgia and affection that almost brought Al to tears. He had to fight for his dignity. He curled his lip a little. "No hard feelings?" he sneered, hiding behind sarcasm.
"None at all!" Sharon said blithely, slipping her arm into his. "Why don't I buy you a coffee and we can compare notes on the single life?"
She wanted to compare notes on the single life? Al couldn't quite believe that he was hearing that. After he'd lost custody it had been all he could manage to get out of the room without breaking anything.
"I'd rather not," he said. "I have to get this guy back home, where he belongs."
"At least show me to my vehicle?" Sharon asked, rubbing her hip against his. "I just thought maybe we could… you know… get reacquainted."
Al's eyes went wide with enlightenment. She wanted to…
He wondered if he wanted to. After all, this was the woman who had entertained her lover right under his damned nose. On the other hand, she was good at heart. She'd always been nice to Stevie (Stevie! He'd be so glad to see Chester again!). What it came down to in the end was that Al was so happy to have his dog back that he didn't mind sharing that happiness. He let her lead him to her van, where they got in a good hour of passion while Chester stood watch in the driver's seat, innocently oblivious to the antics going on behind him.
When at last they were dressing, Sharon sighed in contentment.
"Thanks," she said. "You're fantastic, you know that?"
Al laughed. "Aren't you even a little mad that you lost?"
She shrugged. "You win some, you lose some. Besides… I hit the jackpot."
She kissed him lasciviously. Al indulged in one last squeeze of her curvaceous waist. Then he tucked in his shirt and opened the sliding side door. "Chester!" he said, whistling sharply. The jingle of the terrier's tags as he sprung off the front seat to obey the summons eased an old ache in Al's heart.
"I guess this is goodbye," Al told Sharon, who was sliding on her stockings again.
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure, sailor," Sharon said, winking lustily. "After all, we're both available."
Al laughed. She had to be kidding!
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWith the return of his beloved dog, Al's life was just about as perfect as it was likely to get. The relationship with Jean petered out—so abruptly that Al almost wondered if she'd had an ulterior motive for getting it on in the first place—and he began to look elsewhere around the project. There was a wealth of female company, and he had to be one of the more eligible bachelors around. He was busy with his work, too. There were funding dinners in November, and he would be flying out to New York for those. At least he didn't need to defend himself. All he would be there to do was schmooze.
It was in the second week of October that the external line rang. "Calavicci," he said, expecting Washington.
"Captain!" a friendly and vaguely familiar voice said. "Hello. How are you?"
"Fine…" Al allowed warily. "Who is this?"
"Doctor Untreigner from Balboa Naval Hospital."
Al wracked his brains for the name. Apparently he did so a little too long, because the man continued.
"You had agreed to have an appointment with me," he said. "I'm one of the staff psychiatrists."
Oh. Damn it to hell, he'd forgot about the shrink. "Oh, right," Al said. "How did you get this number?"
"I called a friend of mine at the Department of Defense. Your residential line doesn't seem to work."
"Oh, no… no, it wouldn't. Since the divorce—"
"Divorce? I'm sorry to hear that."
To give the man credit, he actually did sound sorry.
"Yeah, well, so is my bank account," Al said wryly. "You win some, you lose some."
"Indeed. I've set up an appointment for you next week. Thursday afternoon. Will you be able to make it?"
"Thursday, sure. Sure. What time?"
"Three o'clock."
"Yeah, fine…" Al glanced at the report he had been laboring over, still trying to make his mind shift gears from one subject to the other.
"Good. I look forward to it."
Sure. All shrinks did. They loved to snack on your brain.
"Me too," Al lied.