Three Little Words

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m glad people like Rich are in the military. My dad and yours too, for that matter.” I took a deep breath. “I guess I’ve just spent the last couple of years learning how not to be violent. Or how to control it, at least. I forget that some people only respond to violence. Or you have to use it to get their attention.”

“That’s what Rich does,” she said. “I don’t always like it, especially when he threatens my boyfriend, but I’m glad he’s the way he is. You know he’d never really hurt you, don’t you? Not for real.”

I quirked an eyebrow— the eyebrow—with a healthy dose of irony.

“Oh, you know what I mean. Besides, you can barely see the scar.”

“Rich would hurt me,” I said, “but only if I hurt you.”

“Then you’re safe.” She looked into my eyes. Hers were so clear and beautiful and blue that I wanted to fall into them and never climb out. “I know you’d never hurt me.”

“No.”

She brandished the lipstick-smudged tissue. “Looks like we’re going to

need this again.”

I bent to kiss her. Then I pulled her close and felt her body mold into mine.

“Ah-ah, none of that,” a voice said from the doorway. “Not till you’re married.” Marianne grinned as we sprang apart. “I’m kidding. But your mother sent me to check on you.”

Christy’s cheeks glowed.

“Don’t worry,” Marianne told her, “your secret’s safe with me. But you’d better fix your lipstick. His too,” she added. Then she smirked at me. “Nice to see you, Paul.”

“Nice to see you too.”

“We’re having cocktails in the living room before dinner. Join us?” She glanced pointedly at her watch, so I did the same. “In a few minutes.”

“Got it,” I said. “A few minutes.”

She left with a flutter of fingers and a sparkling grin.

I laughed in relief and looked down at Christy. “Your mom knows everything that goes on around here, doesn’t she?”

“You can say that again.”

We joined the others a few minutes later, as promised. Marianne officially greeted me with a hug, and Harry stood and shook my hand.

“What can I fix you?” he asked with a gesture toward the drinks trolley.

“Whiskey?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Wine okay for you?” he asked Christy.

“Yes, please.”

I scanned the others and realized that the ladies were drinking white wine instead of whiskey. So they’re traditional about drinks as well, I thought.

Then I reminded myself that my family wasn’t any better, just different.

I accepted a glass of whiskey and ice and sat in an armchair. Christy perched beside me and sipped her wine. Harold and his son finished their conversation about squadron politics, so I was ready when they turned their attention to me.

“Have you had a chance to consider what we talked about?” Harold asked.

“Joining the Navy?” I said as a placeholder rather than a genuine question.

“I could take you out to the squadron if you’d like,” Harry offered. “Have

you thought about whether you want to request fighters or attack?”

Christy cleared her throat ever so quietly, and Anne’s eyes tightened a fraction. Marianne deftly covered a smile when she realized that her husband and father-in-law were hopelessly outmatched.

“Thanks,” I said to Harry. “I really appreciate it, but…” I shifted my drink to my left hand and extended my right for Christy to take. She gripped it lightly because of the chill, but her expression never wavered. “I gave it some serious thought,” I said and indicated her with a nod, “and we discussed it.”

Everyone heard the emphasis, and Anne’s lips twitched with a hint of a smile.

“I think I’d make a good pilot—”

“A good officer too,” Harold said.

“Especially with people to help your career,” his son added.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. We appreciate it. But we don’t think the military is right for us, for Christy and me.”

“But what do you want?” Harry insisted.

“A happy Birdy,” I said dryly, and Anne had to cover her mouth to hide a grin. Even Harold couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

“I think he has us there,” he told his son.

“The Navy needs men like you,” Harry persisted earnestly. “It’s not like it was under Carter. Reagan is building up the military, and we’ll need pilots if we square off against the Soviets.”

Anne cocked an ear and said, “That’s the oven. Are we ready for dinner in fifteen minutes?”

Soft power, gentlemen, I thought at them. It’ll win every time, because you can’t fight it head-on.

Harold must have sensed the direction of my thoughts, because he glanced at his wife and then me. Finally his gaze settled on Christy, who pretended not to notice. He eventually looked at me again and smiled. It wasn’t his usual attitude adjustment, but he’d clearly come to a decision.