Like a Sad Song

A musical JAG novel in three movements - Movement I: The New Road

Authors: Siamese Cat and Daenar
              (siamese.cat@sympatico.ca - daenarchurill@yahoo.de)

Disclaimer: JAG is property of Belisarius Productions, CBS and Paramount Pictures. No copyright infringement intended.

Rating: 12+
Classification: Angst, Romance (H/Other, M/Webb, to become H/M in movement II)

Spoilers: Starts out in the middle of Shifting Sands: Picks up when Sturgis asks Harm: "What did you do?" After Harm's conversation with deputy director Kershaw.

Summary: Harm takes on a new road after the Navy's door slams shut in his face. There is no CIA in this, but something completely different.

Notes from SC: An AU that popped into my head, and I didn't know what to do with it, so I gave a shout to Dae, my musically inclined friend, and this is the result. Dae took my basic idea and turned it into this huge, wonderful project.

As usual, I'm the major angst provider of this outfit, so blame your tears on me. I'm responsible for a few laughs too. There is no logical split of chapters: we did this the way it felt best, occasionally sharing in one chapter, or writing two in a row. If you can't figure out who wrote what, then good! Means we've managed to mesh our styles pretty well.

But, I cannot take credit for Harm's "original" writings: those are all Daenar, and I must say, I admire her inspiration greatly.

Notes from Dae: We are well aware that this would never ever happen on the show. And we're well aware, too, that we're moving into a whole new JAG universe. But once the idea had come up it wouldn't be chased...

We have to ask Harm/Mac shippers for their forgiveness because we'll probably be straining their patience quite a bit. But rest assured: we're still shippers down to the very last crumb of our bone marrow!

One more thing: we're trying our hands at creating a whole new genre here. Call it a 'multi-song-fic' if you feel so inclined...

Thank you so much for inviting me along, Cat! I was thrilled by your idea, and combining writing about our heroes and writing about music is a special thing altogether. It's incredible fun working with you, hon, and thanks for being a terrific friend to share virtual bowls of popcorn with on the MSN messenger!

*************Chapter one**************
JUNE 2003
HARM'S APPARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, D. C.

"What did you do? Sturgis asked, narrowing his eyes, eyebrows raised in question.

"Sorry, brother, classified," Harm replied, looking at the floor. He reached for his guitar again and absently picked a bluesy tune as he flopped back to the couch.

"Are you gonna go?"

"No choice."

Harm could tell Sturgis wasn't fooled. His friend leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

"You pumped them for info on Mac, didn't you?" he asked, a bit disbelievingly.

"Sturg, that's classified," Harm warned, looking at him though his lashes.

"And now it's payback time," Sturgis concluded. "You sold your soul to the Company..."

Harm snorted, rolling his eyes. "I did not!" He strummed a few more chords and looked up to his friend. "At least not yet."

Sturgis' gaze turned serious. "Don't do it, buddy. You know how they operate. That's not you."

"I know that. But I have to listen to what they have to say. I owe the DDCI as much," Harm replied, sullen. Images of his career in the Navy kept flashing through his mind, interwoven with memories of Mac. So much of the last eight years, gone in an instant. When Mac had come by earlier, she'd tried to apologise about the Admiral. He'd shot her down, telling her he knew it could happen. He couldn't figure out why he'd agreed to go see Clay with her. Maybe in some perverse way, he'd wanted to see for himself if the kiss had been real, or just a reaction to the incredible events in the Chaco Boreal. Now, there were no more doubts.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his bleak reverie.

"Harm? You all right, man?"

"I'm fine," he replied laconically.

"No, you're not. What happened between you and Mac down there?"

"I thought I said 'classified', already," Harm snapped, slightly annoyed at his friend's insistence.

Sturgis' eyes narrowed. "I didn't ask about *what* you did. I asked what happened *between* the two of you. She looked like her world had ended when you left today."

Harm chuckled mirthlessly. "No, it didn't. Trust me on that. Her world doesn't involve me, Sturgis. That was just residual guilt."

"I ask again," Sturgis said patiently. "What happened between you two?"

Harm sighed and leaned his head back over the sofa. He knew Sturgis wasn't going to let this go until he got an honest answer out of him. He inhaled sharply and spoke up.

"She used the words 'us', 'never' and 'impossible' in the same sentence." Harm knew he couldn't keep the look of hurt from his eyes, so he kept staring at the ceiling.

Sturgis leaned back in his chair, pondering his friend's words. He pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. Never had he seen two people so in love hurt each other so much. Soft guitar filled the room again, melancholic and sad. Sturgis looked back to his friend and was surprised to see moisture in his eyes. He looked so lost, so vulnerable... so unlike the Harmon Rabb he was used to... But yet, so much had happened in the last six months, it was hardly surprising. He had to do something. And suddenly, he knew exactly what.

Sturgis drew himself to his feet and picked up Harm's now-empty beer bottle from the floor and set it on the kitchen island.

"If you want one, feel free," Harm told him quietly, motioning to the fridge with a hand.

"I have a better idea. Get off your six and put some shoes on. We're going out."

Harm tossed his head in dismissal. "Sturgis, I'm not in the mood..."

"Don't give me that. You've been playing the blues in here all day. You need to go out. Clear your head. Besides, you deserve a send-off."

"Sturgis. No," Harm said firmly.

Undeterred, the dark skinned commander put his hands on his hips and quirked his eyebrows. "Do you really want to do this the hard way? Cause I can still remember a few good sermons on self-pity, my friend. Let's see..."

Harm held up a hand and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "All right, all right, already! Jeez, you really know how to kick a guy when he's down, you know? Let me grab a shower and shave." He pushed himself off the couch and headed towards his bedroom.

"Where are we going, anyway?" he called over his shoulder.

"Tritone Connections, and you're bringing your guitar," Sturgis replied, his tone brooking no argument.

Harm stopped dead in his tracks. The Tritone Connections Blues and Jazz club on a Friday night. Open mike night... Sturgis Turner had waaaaay too much memory for his taste.

"No. No way," Harm said firmly. "I haven't sung in public in ages, and... Hell, Sturgis, I'm in a really bad place right now."

Sturgis walked over to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know." He locked his ebony eyes on his long-time friend, his features filled with compassion and understanding. "That's why I'm doing this. Remember at the Academy? That's how you worked through things then. Maybe it'll help now. At least it's worth a shot, isn't it? And I'm not forcing you to get up on stage. Just... leave the door open, all right?"

Harm blew an explosive breath and let his head fall forward. "You're a good friend, buddy."

"I'll make a few phone calls while you're in there."

Harm closed his eyes briefly, let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling and bit his lip to keep from smiling too broadly.

"You're gonna do this whether I want you to or not, right?" he asked, hands set firmly on the small of his back.

Sturgis nodded. "I'm not the only one sorry to see you go, Harm. I hear Coates was, um, how shall I say... "

"Incisive?" Harm supplied, knowing the fiery-tempered petty officer.

"Well put," Sturgis agreed, pointing an approving finger at his friend, "to the admiral. Told him she'd voice her support for you in question form only."

"Ouch," Harm replied, smiling this time.

"Go get cleaned up. Time's a wastin'."

 

0122 ZULU
TRITONE CONNECTIONS BLUES AND JAZZ CLUB
GEORGETOWN, DC.

 

An hour and a half later, Harm pulled his Corvette in the club's parking lot. He killed the engine and looked at his friend.

"You really want me to do this?" he asked, eyeing Sturgis suspiciously.

"Yes. Besides, Tiner, Coates, Harriet and Bud are waiting for us."

Harm arched an eyebrow. After his friend's admission at having trouble dealing with Bud, he was surprised he'd invited him. "Bud?"

"Hey," Sturgis replied defensively, rising his hands, "this is for you, not me."

"Still." Harm heaved a deep sigh. "Ok, let's do this."

Both men stepped out of the car, and Harm carefully withdrew his guitar case from the trunk. As soon as they entered the old red brick structure, they were instantly transported to the Louisiana Bayou: old naïve paintings and faded pictures of famous jazz musicians decorated the brown brick walls, and the low ceiling gave the large room a cozy feel. On the small stage, a young man was blaring away on his trumpet, engrossed in a none-too flattering rendition of "The thrill is gone".

Harm shook his head and smiled: unafraid and unashamed youth... The kid quickly vanished from the stage and returned to his table, where his buddies waited, rolling with laughter. Poor kid, he thought.

"Sir!"

The shout came from Jen Coates, seated at a table in the far corner. Harm waved back, a wan smile on his lips. They made their way through the thick crowd as a tall redhead nodded to the drummer on stage. Soon, she launched into a soft clarinet tune: The Look of Love...

"Thanks for coming Coates," Harm greeted. "But no more 'sir'. It's Harm. Please," he asked, sadness evident in his eyes. "That goes for all of you," he added, as he acknowledged the four people at the table.

Tiner stood to shake his hand, a troubled look on his face. "S... Harm, I never got the chance to thank you for your cover. It means a lot to me."

Harm gave him a crooked smile. "Just don't follow my example too much, Tiner. Look where it got me."

"Hey, guys, this is supposed to be a celebration!" Harriet broke in, trying to dispel the dark mood. "What'll you have, Harm? My treat. "

He hesitated only a fraction of a second. "Double Bourbon, straight up."

When the drinks were delivered, Sturgis stood up. "Now, I know you said no more rank, but allow me, one last time." Sturgis took his glass off the table and raised it.

"To Commander Harmon Rabb. One of the finest officers I've ever served with, despite his utter and complete pigheadedness and insufferable fighter jock attitude. You have the courage of your convictions, and I for one salute you for it. Commander, your pursuit of truth and justice inspired many of us, and it made a difference in a great many lives. You may have left the Navy, but it matters very little to me, and I'm proud to call you my friend. To Commander Rabb!"

"Here, here!" the others cheered. Once the glasses had been brought together in a toast and customary sips taken, Harm lowered his eyes and spoke quietly.

"Thank you for this, guys, I really do appreciate it. I just wish things could be a little different... But let's not dwell on that. I'm really glad to count you all amongst my friends. I'm just..." Harm sighed wearily and ran a hand over his hair. "I'm just a little overwhelmed right now."

"Have you given much thought about the future?" Bud asked gently.

Harm shrugged. "Not much. I guess I'll make the rounds of the DC firms. Some of them might want an experienced trial lawyer... I just don't know yet."

A couple of hours, a few drinks and a lot of war stories later, Harm's mood had improved marginally. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the amicable chatter. He was going to miss this: the friendly gatherings after a tough case, the camaraderie, the sincere wishes of luck on an un-winnable case... He knew neither of those existed in the civilian law world, driven by profit and billable hours. Intellectually, he knew there were good firms out there, specializing in family law or child advocacy, but he didn't see himself there. He would fight for every single child as if it were his own, and to the proverbial death, but he just didn't think he had enough emotional capital to afford that, nor the ability to detach himself enough and keep the emotional distance needed to survive in that kind of practice.

"I didn't know you played, Harm," Bud queried, eyeing the guitar case on the floor.

Harm smiled. "My dad taught me, and I took some classes way back when."

"Yeah, this is an old Academy haunt for us. And he sings too," Sturgis explained, waving his glass at their surroundings. "He hasn't been on that stage in close to fifteen years, though."

"Why not?" Harriet asked.

Harm only rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Harm. One song." Sturgis pushed.

"No."

"What? Lost your nerves of steel?" Sturgis taunted, emboldened by the few drinks he'd had.

Harm snorted. "I have not! I... I just... I don't feel like it!" he retorted, gesturing widely, obviously ill at ease. He was a bit disconcerted by Jen and Harriet's wide, expectant eyes. Damn Sturgis Turner!

"Nah. You just don't have the guts anymore," Sturgis replied, a smug grin on his face.

The rest of the people around the table hooted and laughed, watching Harm huff indignantly.

"I'll show you guts, Turner!" he growled, half angry, half amused. He pushed off his chair, grabbed his guitar, and headed towards the stage. All his friends applauded him warmly.

"Go Harm!" Jen encouraged. He just rolled his eyes again.

He withdrew his guitar from the case and tuned it as best he could in the noisy room, wracking his brain for something to play. The depressing effects of the alcohol he'd consumed were slowly eroding his good spirits, his dark mood returning in full force. His thoughts drifted once more to the brown-eyed Marine who had occupied most of his thoughts of late. And then it came to him. He knew the perfect song. He climbed up the three steps and briefly chatted with the drummer on stage. The man nodded and he stepped up to the mike, hooking the girdle to his guitar.

As he looked over the crowd, he felt a long forgotten thrill. Sturgis was right; it had been way too long since he'd been up here.

He nodded to the drummer and watched as the man counted out the cue. He closed his eyes and let his fingers glide over the strings. After only a few bars, the crowd cheered. So... they knew the song... The place soon grew quiet, as the regulars recognised the quality of his playing.

Harm drew in a deep breath and began to sing.

I thought that you'd be loving me
I thought you were the one who'd stay forever
But now forever's come and gone
And I'm still here alone

'Cause you were only playing
You were only playing with my heart
I was never waiting
I was never waiting for the tears to start

Harm once more closed his eyes; his mind filled with yet a million more images of Sarah Mackenzie, her hard, final words resounding though his head. He poured every bit of his emotions into the song, as if he truly was speaking to her, accusing her, blaming her.

It was you, who put the clouds around me
It was you, who made the tears fall down
It was you, who broke my heart in pieces
It was you, it was you who made my blue eyes blue

I never should've trusted you...

I thought that I'd be all you need
In your eyes I thought I saw my heaven
And now my heaven's gone away
And I'm out in the cold

'Cause you had me believing
You had me believing in a lie
Guess I couldn't see it
Guess I couldn't see it 'til I saw "Good-bye"

It was you who put the clouds around me
It was you who made the tears fall down
It was you who broke my heart in pieces
It was you, it was you, who made my blue eyes blue

I never should've trusted...

Back at the table, Sturgis kept a wary eye on the man on stage. He had to admit, Harm hadn't lost the performing touch. If anything, he'd matured and his rendition of Eric Clapton's Blue Eyes Blue had completely conquered the crowd. They were completely silent, hanging on his every word. His voice rang pure and true, his tone perfect, with just a hint of huskiness. But Sturgis was the only one who knew the strength of the emotions behind his performance. Harm always worked best on emotion, even the negative ones. Still, he had to wonder if his plan wasn't about to backfire... He listened raptly as Harm worked through the guitar solo, his eyes closed, his features set in a mask on concentration.

'Cause you were only playing
You were only playing with my heart
I was never waiting
I was never waiting for the tears to start

It was you who put the clouds around me
It was you...

It was you, who put those clouds around me
It was you, who made the tears fall down
Only you. Only you who broke my heart in pieces
It was you, it was you, who made my blue eyes blue

I never should've trusted...

Oh, oh, I never have should have trusted you...

Harm let the last few strings vibrate and fade out naturally. The silence didn't last long. The entire room burst into applause and whistles, intermixed with calls for an encore. Surprised, he opened his eyes and gave a hard shake of his head to clear his thoughts. He smiled and bowed to the crowd, his eyes locked on Sturgis. He outright laughed when Jen and Harriet jumped to their feet, loudly requesting an encore.

Harm waved them off and climbed down the stage steps. He carefully placed his guitar in its case and made his way back to the table where his friends waited anxiously.

As he neared the table Sturgis stood up, grinning.

Harm gave him a cocky smile and accepted his hand. "So there!" he said triumphantly to his friend.

Sturgis nodded respectfully. "I stand corrected. You didn't mellow with age. You actually matured well. I don't remember your voice being so rich..."

Harm scoffed as he sat. "Thanks, I feel like a bottle of wine."

"Well, Harm, I for one think you were absolutely wonderful!" Harriet gushed.

"Me too," Jen added.

Harm lowered his head and blushed. "Come on, guys. It's just a stupid song... You heard me sing at Christmas before..." he muttered, clearly uncomfortable.

Laughter bubbled around the table as the waitress delivered another round. Harm accepted the glass of Bourbon with a nod and a smile. He reached for his wallet, but the waitress told her it was from an admirer. She pointed towards the back of the room.

His sea-coloured eyes met a pair of deep lavender-violet one, set in a soft, chiselled face. The woman's opalescent skin contrasted sharply with her raven-black hair, falling in thick cascades over her shoulders. She was like a figure out of a romance novel: tall and slender, mysterious. She cocked her head as she caught his eyes on her.

Harm nodded his thanks. The woman smiled back and nodded, rising from her chair.

"Harm? Do you know her?" Sturgis asked, eyeing the mysterious woman. She was chatting with her table companion, her eyes still on Harm.

Harm turned back towards the table, not entirely paying attention. He dragged his eyes from the woman, gazing at his hands instead.

"What?" he asked distractedly as he stared into his drink. In an instant, the brown liquor in the glass morphed into a pair of liquid eyes, boring straight into his soul, wrenching out his heart. He could almost feel Mac's words, their irrevocability and their brutal honesty... He could still see the hard edge in those eyes he loved so much. It all suddenly weighed on his chest, cutting off his air supply. He stood abruptly and slammed the glass on the table, his gaze deeply troubled.

"I need some air," he tossed over his shoulder, as he quickly headed for the door.

"What did I say?" Sturgis asked Coates.

She shook her head slowly. "Nothing, sir. I guess the comm... Harm's just having a hard time of it..."

Sturgis was about to reply when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find the woman who'd offered Harm a drink. She smiled and extended a hand.

"Bonsoir. I was hoping to talk to your friend, who has a wonderful voice, by the way. I'm Jeanne," she said, her voice soft and warm, with only a hint of a French accent.

Sturgis stood and took her hand. "Commander Sturgis Turner. Harm should be back in a couple minutes." He motioned to Harm's now empty chair. "Have a seat, Miss..."

"Leblanc. I'm sorry to be so bold, but as your friend ever thought about singing professionally?"

Sturgis chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Heavens no. He's a lawyer. Don't tell me you're a producer..."

The newcomer pulled a white business card from her purse. "I am. And I think your friend has a tremendous amount of talent. It's surprising he hasn't been put on contract before!"

Sturgis smiled broadly and shook his head. "For a man so bold in front of a judge and jury, he's surprisingly shy about his singing. He used to do it a lot more when we were at the Academy. Pretty much like those..." he mused, motioning to the band of young men and women a few tables over.

"Ah, la jeunesse," Jeanne replied, smiling. "The antics of youth... But where has..."

"Harm," Sturgis supplied helpfully.

"...Harm disappeared to?"

Sturgis shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. "He um, went out for some air. He's just cooling off a bit."

"I'll go and see if I can find him," Jen put in, sharing a knowing look with Sturgis.

*********

And find him she did. After a brief, fruitless look around the front of the club, Jen decided, on a hunch, to go up the alley leading to the back. She quickly spotted his tall frame, leaning against an old, rusty fire escape. She paused a few yards away and studied him, her lips tightly pressed together. The picture in front of her was undoubtedly wrong.

The light drizzle had stopped, but she could still see the droplets of water on Harm's hair shine in the streetlight. He looked every bit the blues musician he'd portrayed on stage a few minutes before, but the rest of the image he offered was completely foreign to the young woman.

The slump in his shoulder was in itself unusual, but it was the utter defeat of his posture that worried her the most. He was the one who was always the optimist, the one who never gave up.

She was far from stupid. She knew to whom the song had been directed. She'd picked up on the tension between him and the colonel from the moment they had walked back into headquarters. They'd done their best to appear as their usual selves, but they weren't fooling anyone. At least not her.

A flash of movement from the object of her thoughts interrupted her musings. She was surprised to see his hand rising to his mouth, followed by a brief orange glow. A second later, he blew out a long breath in a cloud of blue smoke. The distinctive tang of cigar smoke tickled her nostrils soon after.

Jen took the few steps that separated them. "Those aren't good for you, sir," she said, as she took the cigar out of his hand.

His eyes met hers, eyebrows raised, as she took a long drag on the cigar. But the look lasted only a moment. He turned back and once more looked into nothing.

"I thought I said no more 'sir', Jen," he replied, somewhere between gruff and grim.

"I know. I'm sorry. Any other way to address you seems... I don't know; disrespectful somehow."

"I'm not in the military anymore. The only respect and courtesy you owe me are as my friend. And my friends call me Harm. Besides, it's said lack of military protocol that allows you to be doing what you're trying to do, Petty Officer," he stated, his voice dull, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Point taken. Friends... I can live with that," Jen conceded. So, he knew why she was there. But that didn't mean he'd let her help. Harmon Rabb was notoriously independent, except when it came to the colonel. Usually.

"I didn't know you smoked, Harm," she tried, as she took another drag and threw the still- smouldering cigar into a puddle.

Harm chucked mirthlessly. "I don't. Used to, at least. Not anymore; I quit about, oh, four, five years ago. I could say the same about you. That was a Cuban, by the way."

"I used to. When I was young and stupid. And sorry but it's still bad for you."

"You're still young, Jen, and you're definitely not stupid. You shouldn't be walking alone out here at this hour, though. It's not safe."

Jen smiled. "I can take care of myself. Besides, I've been in places much worse than this, and with worse company."

Harm turned, finally meeting her eyes. "Did Turner send you to get me?"

Jen shook her head slowly. "No. I came on my own. I was worried about you." She chewed a bit on her bottom lip before pushing on. "I, um, that song... It was about Colonel Mackenzie, wasn't it?"

Harm drew himself to his full height and glared at her. "What did Sturgis tell you?" he demanded, anger flaring in his eyes.

"Nnnnnothing, sir," Jen replied automatically, involuntarily jumping to attention.

Harm opened his mouth to say more but suddenly snapped it shut and let his head fall forward. He threw a hand in the air and sighed. "Relax, Jen. I'm sorry for snapping at you. Besides, I should have known better than to think Sturgis would share something said in confidence."

Jen relaxed and gave Harm an easy smile. "It's all right. But I'm right, aren't I?"

Harm looked at her through his lashes and crossed his arms. "Did anyone ever tell you you're entirely too perceptive for your own good?" he asked, a note of amusement creeping into his voice.

"Nosy is more what I get..." Jen bit off the 'sir' that came naturally to her lips. Her heart went out to him; he'd helped her as much as he could, gave her hope and believed in her in what she thought was one of the worst times in her life. The least she could do was to try and return the favour, so she dared push a little further. "But I'm still right."

Harm drew in a sharp breath and held it briefly, before letting it out in a huff. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry you two couldn't work things out."

"So am I, Jen. So am I," Harm replied quietly, with just a hint of bitterness. His eyes once again took on a distant air, and he seemed to deflate in front of her eyes.

Jen tentatively put a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, he didn't pull away. Some part of her was a bit disappointed to discover her hero was only human. But most of her found that comforting: it meant that even heroes could have weak moments, and still inspire others. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could still be like him.

"Thanks for being here, Jennifer. It means a lot to me."

Jen smiled. "It's the least I can do for someone I admire and trust, s... Harm."

"Old habits die hard, huh?" he kidded, catching her almost-slip.

Jen blushed. "Yes, sir... Argh!" Jen slapped her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut in annoyance. Old habits indeed.

Harm finally cracked a smile and laughed. "Come on. Let's go back in before they think we're up to no good."

"I doubt they will. Commander Turner is talking with a producer about you."

Harm's eyes went wide. "A what?"

"Producer. That woman with black hair and lavender eyes that offered you a drink..."

Harm was suddenly almost running towards the club entrance. "Let's go, before Turner signs me over to her. And you owe me a cigar, Coates."

********

"... And of course, the Star Search phenomena took some of the work out of it," the stranger was saying to Sturgis.

"I disagree," Harm stated from behind her. "I think it focuses the attention more on the contestant's look and stage performance, rather than true talent."

The woman turned towards him and smiled. "One with such a beautiful voice should know." She extended a hand. "Jeanne Leblanc."

"Harmon Rabb. Thanks for the drink." He took the offered hand and shook it politely.

Jeanne smiled. "My pleasure."

"You friend tells me you're between jobs?" she queried.

Harm glowered at Sturgis. "In a manner of speaking. I have potential offers on the table," he replied carefully, never taking his eyes off his friend.

Jeanne dug into her purse and handed him the same white card she had given to Sturgis. "Then I'll add my own. I happen to agree with you. People with real talent don't need a TV show to promote their careers. Only real talent matters, and you have it. I'm holding some auditions next week. I'd like for you to come."

Harm opened his mouth to decline, but the woman spoke first. "Don't dismiss it out of hand. You really do have a wonderfully rich voice, and you play fantastically," she added, pointing to his guitar.

"Listen, Miss Leblanc," he said, his tone cold, "I'm not a singer, I do this for my own pleasure, and I only went up there because I was pushed," he added, his eyes sending daggers towards Sturgis. "So, no thanks." With a flick of his wrist, he threw the white card back on the table.

Without another word, he grabbed his guitar and headed for the door. He reached the warm night air as a flash of lightening illuminated the sky.

"Harm! Hold up!" Sturgis called, a few feet behind him.

He halted abruptly, only a few feet from his car. Ire flooded his veins as fast as the building storm.

"Not a word from you, Turner," Harm growled. You've pushed enough as it is."

"I'm sorry," Sturgis said quietly.

Harm sighed as his mounting anger deflated. He took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the scent of wet grass and asphalt. "I told you I wasn't in a good mood when you came to my place, Sturgis."

"I know. I'm sorry I pushed you. But you have to admit, it felt good for a while."

Harm slowly turned to his friend. "For a while, yeah. But I need some time alone, buddy."

Sturgis nodded. "I'll call you in a couple of days. You okay to drive?"

Harm nodded. "I'm okay," he replied, as a fat raindrop landed on the hood of his car, soon followed by another, and another.

Sturgis acquiesced and left him. Harm turned away and carefully stored his guitar on the backseat before heading home. He drove mechanically, not really paying attention to the road, despite the flashing lighting and the now driving rain.

Mac.

He had to stop thinking about her. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had his heart broken. So why was he having such a hard time concentrating on anything else?

Maybe it's because she just didn't break your heart. Maybe it's because she cost you nearly everything you had, a small voice whispered inside, as he locked his car, the downpour soaking him to the skin in a matter of seconds.

He wearily climbed the steps up to his floor and unlocked his door. He stood in his open doorway, rainwater running off his clothes onto the doormat. His eyes traveled over his empty loft, picking out every reminder of Mac. After a few minutes of contemplation, he finally shut the door and took off his sodden jacket and shoes.

Once his guitar was safely back in its stand, he flopped down onto the couch, staring at the clock. It was late, but not that late. He ran a hand through his damp hair and pushed himself to his feet. He quickly changed into his old, worn-out jeans and faded Raptors t-shirt, rubbing his hair dry with a thick towel.

In the kitchen, he retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of Wild Turkey Rare Breed he kept for special occasions. If he was going to get thoroughly and completely drunk, he was going to do it in style, and in private.

He poured himself a large glass of the dark liquid, and once again, the liquor's deep, dark oak colour swirled and morphed into a pair of brown eyes.

Harm closed his, and took a long swallow, a familiar warmth flowing though him. The glass landed with a resounding thud onto the coffee table, the sound echoing harshly against the walls.

He reached for the remote and turned on the stereo to mask the emptiness. Soft piano filled the air, and he relaxed, leaning back on the couch and let himself drown into the soft R&B pumping through the speakers.

From time to time, he would refill his glass, his senses slowly dulled by alcohol. Sturgis had been right, in a sense; music always had soothed his soul like nothing else could. That's why he loved playing so much. That way, he could give in to the creative side he hid so well, and let his unspoken emotions flow over the strings of his guitar, unnoticed by others. He was the only one who truly knew what every single note meant, the feeling it carried. So, he lay there, on his couch, drinking good Bourbon, his mind numbed by the plaintive tunes.

I keep on falling
In love
With you

The melodious female voice pierced his muddled consciousness with stunning clarity.

Sometimes I love you
Sometimes you make me blue

Sometimes I feel good
At times I feel used

Loving you darling
Makes me so confused

I keep on falling
In and out of love
With you

Like a siren's song, the voice drew his mind back where he didn't want it to go; back to her. The voice he heard wasn't Alicia Keys', but his own, saying the very words he was hearing to Mac.

I never loved someone
The way that I
Love you

Oh, oh I...
Never felt this way
How can you give me so much pleasure
And cause me so much pain

Just when I think
I've taken more than would a fool
I start falling
Back in love with you

I keep on falling
In and out of love with you

I never loved someone
The way that I love you

The sharp knock on his door startled him enough to make him spill half of his glass of Bourbon onto his jeans.

"Shit!" he swore, slamming the glass on the coffee table. He wiped his pant leg as best he could as he stumbled to the door. It was when he knocked into the bookcase by the door that he realised just how inebriated he was.

He yanked the door open, leaning on the jamb for balance. "What?" he growled, his voice thick.

"Bonsoir, Mr. Rabb. May I come in?"

Harm blinked several times, his brow furrowed in confusion. Despite his drunken state, he was sure he'd given the French producer the brush-off, not his address. While he stood there wondering, the woman pushed past him and into his apartment.

"How the hell did you find me?" Harm asked, finally finding his voice. The woman simply stared at him, as she sat on his couch. She took his glass off the table and took a careful sip, eyes still on him, studying him.

He moved towards her, stumbling over his discarded shoes.

"I think you should sit down, Mr. Rabb. You seem to have had a bit too much to drink. But I must admit, you have good taste in Bourbon."

Too drunk and too puzzled to be annoyed, he flopped into the armchair facing the couch. "Thanks. How did you find me?" he repeated, forcing himself to focus.

"How many Harmon Rabb Jr's. are there in the DC phone book?"

Harm chuckled. "One. And no Seniors either. Only place is at the Wall," he replied. Man, he really was wasted! Not only had he let her in, he was babbling about his father to a complete stranger. He rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to sober up.

"Listen Miss..."

"Leblanc."

"Miss Leblanc, like you said, I'm drunk so now's not the time for an intelligent conversation." He pointed to the door. "Good night."

To his relief, the woman rose off the couch and headed... to the kitchen. He was really beginning to get riled up. He shot off the couch and whirled on his heel, ready to evict her but lost his balance. He sat heavily onto the armrest of the sofa he'd just rose from. He tossed his head, and gave and aggravated grunt, annoyed as much at himself as at her. He was seriously contemplating forcefully removing her from the loft, but his earlier stumble, combined by a light but persistent spinning of the room made him doubt in his abilities to complete the task, so he just sat there, hovering between anger, annoyance, puzzlement and curiosity.

"Seul le temps laisse cuver le vin, Monsieur Rabb," Jeanne Leblanc said, as she filled the coffee pot with water.

"What?"

"Only time will sober you, Mr. Rabb, but a good cup of coffee will undoubtedly help."

"Didn't I tell you to leave already?" Harm snapped, his patience evaporated. She was in HIS home, invading HIS privacy!

"You did, but I'm a persistent woman when I want to be."

"I'll say! What do you want from me? I said I'm not interested in your offer, Miss Leblanc. I asked you to leave."

"I heard you the first time. I don't want to."

He blinked several times, completely blown away by her complete lack of remorse at her invasion. He opened his mouth to speak, but no intelligent words formed in his head, so he closed it. He settled on watching her, as the coffee dripped into the pot. She wasn't very tall, about five foot four. He suspected she was about five to ten years older than him, from the laugh lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth. She had a proud bearing, and she was apparently stubborn as an ox, and as fearless as a tiger. Her purplish-gray, almond shaped eyes contrasted sharply with her pale, smooth skin, but they shone brightly with intelligence. Her raven-black hair, without a hint of gray, reached to the small of her back, somehow enhancing the light swell of her hips. She was slender but strongly built, with square shoulders and her cleavage was generous, but not overly so. Had he been so inclined, he would have found her attractive.

Realising he was staring, he forced his attention back to her face.

She handed him a cup of fresh coffee as she walked back to the living room. He accepted it wordlessly. He somehow suspected the quicker he sobered up, the better.

"You might not be interested, but like you, I'm good at what I do. I don't waste my time pursuing a star wannabe. I have an eye for real talent, and you have it."

"And what makes you such an expert?" Harm asked, dripping with sarcasm.

Unfazed, Jeanne smiled. "Twenty years of finding talent in the most unusual places. I won't give you a list of clients, because I doubt you follow the industry closely, and most are pop artists. But my first love is jazz. I haven't heard a true jazz voice in a long time, and yours is. It has depth and your tone is true and even. Let me ask you this, though. How long ago did you hurt your larynx?"

Harm blinked a few times, reflexively rubbing his throat, where Hodge had injured him. How could she know? "I um... about four or five years ago... Simple fracture with no displacement."

"Still, your singing voice has a bit of unnatural huskiness to it. It adds to the richness, though. You have no formal musical training, but you have a great ear, and a sense of rhythm. You play a lot of improvisation. You only play guitar, no piano, but you can read sheet music. Am I correct?"

Harm could only stare in amazement. "Ah... yeah. Pretty much. And you know all this just by watching me play one song?"

"Yes. You used some unusual harmonies in there, but you knew when and how to do it. That takes skill, and it's not easily learned. You play with a lot of feeling, and my guess is it's how you express yourself a lot. That's why you're so reluctant. You're afraid people will pick up on that, and know what you feel. But let me reassure you; most people aren't that deep. All they care about is hearing a nice voice singing beautiful words. The message doesn't matter so much."

Harm's mind was reeling. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or having most of his psyche explained in five minutes flat, but the woman either had instinct, or a very good informant.

"Am I that transparent?"

"No. I just know how to read you. I know this might be a left turn from your military career, and from your law career, but as I said, you have true talent. You need to learn some stuff on stage performance, but you have a lot of potential. Why not give it a try? What do you have to lose?"

Harm blew out a long breath and sipped his coffee. The thought of private practice appealed very little to him, and he had no idea what to expect from the CIA. But then again, what did he have to lose?

"When?" he asked, not believing he had really said it.

"Tuesday, 10 am, at the LESyncope Studios, on K." She pulled out another white business card and scribbled something on the back before handing it to him. "Here. I'll be waiting for you. Drink at least a litre of water before going to bed. You'll feel better in the morning if you do. Good night."

Harm suddenly found himself alone, contemplating her words. He had a feeling he'd been completely outmaneuvered. His somewhat alcohol-dimmed senses accounted for a part of it, but certainly not all of it. A career in the music industry, at almost 40? No way. Who was she trying to kid? And yet...

"Just what did I just agree to?" he asked his empty loft. He drained the last of his coffee and took his cup, the glass and bottle of Bourbon into the kitchen. After draining three tall glasses of water and swallowing some acetaminophen, he climbed up the steps of his bedroom and without even undressing, fell into bed, and into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

SATURDAY,
1523 ZULU - 1023 EST
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

 

"So, how many people did you kill in Paraguay?" Kershaw asked smoothly, as he walked to the window behind his desk.

"I couldn't say, sir," Harm replied, a bit taken aback.

"From what I hear, it was quite a few. In fact, you and Colonel Mackenzie seem to have left with something of a reputation, not unlike that of the Lone Ranger and Tonto, only taller?"

"I don't kill indiscriminately, Mr. Kershaw," he shot back, slightly offended.

"Oh, good. Cause that's what I've come to expect from most citizens," Kershaw fired back sarcastically.

"Sir, when I came to you and told you I'd left the Navy, you directed me to Edward Hardy. I assumed that meant it was ok to go after Colonel Mackenzie."

"Yes. I didn't say it was ok to steal farmer's planes, I didn't tell you to give up your passport, and force us to sneak you out of there," the CIA man said forcefully.

"Sir, if you feel I operated outside the boundaries-"

"No, Rabb, I feel you operated with no *sense* of the boundaries." Kershaw cut in brusquely.

"I'll admit, there might have been a little improvisation," Harm conceded.

Kershaw gave an annoyed snort. "Robin Williams can admit improvisation. You were playing cowboy."

He sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair. "However, what's done is done. Now let's see what I plan to do about it." He leaned forward, looking intently at Harm, studying him.

"Come work for us," he offered after a brief pause

"What?"

"You need some training; I want you to get some self-discipline, but I think that in time, you'd make an outstanding CIA officer," Kershaw explained enthusiastically.

"What? Suddenly you trust me?" Harm asked, clearly surprised by the offer. He'd expected an earful for the mess in the Chaco Boreal. Not a job offer.

"I know what I need to know." Kershaw replied calmly.

Harm returned his intense stare with raised eyebrows. "Sir, you know me as unpredictable, and uncontrollable. What makes you think I can pull this off? I mean, don't you put your agents through some sort of... character testing?" he asked, a bit puzzled.

"Already done that. Catherine?" he called. "Say hello to your sponsor."

The door behind him opened, and Catherine Gale walked in to stand behind Kershaw, a satisfied smile on her lips.

Harm shook his head in disbelief. Catherine's words, outside the hospital in Pimmit Hills, came back, unbidden.

"She's gone undercover before, but... There's something about this one. I don't know..."

"I do."

One simple sentence. Two little words. I do. She'd known Mac had been in trouble, and she'd known what he'd do about it. He'd been set up. For a moment, he hovered between anger and dismay. He chose neither. He'd been goaded into resigning his commission, and he wasn't about to roll over to the Agency again. He chewed on his bottom lip for a second, composing himself.

He rose and moved towards the door.

"Look, your world is too fluid for me; the role-playing, the secrecy... I'm used to working in a morally consistent environment."

"Harm, you gave that up to chase Colonel Mackenzie around the Chaco Boreal," Catherine pointed out.

"I didn't go to Paraguay to shoot people. I went on a mission. I did what needed to be done to achieve my objective," he corrected.

"And that is a perfect description of an agent's field duties," Kershaw summarised triumphantly.

"Sir, I appreciate your confidence in me. I'm gonna stick to what I know. I'll make the rounds of the law firms, maybe knock on the public defender's door."

"Is there anything I can say to convince you?" Kershaw tried, recognising the firm set of his shoulders.

"No, sir." He turned his eyes to Catherine. "Miss Gale," he said politely, before turning on his heel and making his way back to his car.

As he sat behind the wheel of his Corvette, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He leaned back into the seat, running a hand over his face and hair. He couldn't help but feel completely lost. Despite his words, civilian law held little appeal for him, and corporate law even less. Besides, his resume barely covered a page: US Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland; Flight school, three tours on carriers as an active pilot; Georgetown Law, Naval Justice School, and bar certification for most of the East and West Coast, plus specializations in maritime and international law. Not exactly prestigious.

Granted, he had a lot of trial experience. He just didn't want to put it to use freeing drug dealers and murderers.

He blew a long breath. He knew he was being unduly harsh on himself. He was an excellent attorney, and he'd won his share of high profile cases, and participated in the first military tribunal in half a century. He had plenty of contacts on the Hill, and he could probably find himself a job there without too much effort. But suddenly, public service felt wrong for him. He didn't exactly know when or why he'd changed, but he certainly had. He felt distinctly out of place outside the Navy.

He turned the key in the ignition and headed for home, still lost in thought. He again found himself in his apartment with no clear memory of the drive. He tossed his jacket and tie over a chair and, as had been his habit for the last few days, grabbed his guitar, running his fingers over the taut strings.

Soulful blues soon filled the room, resonating deep into his soul. A rueful smile crept on his lips. That producer had been right. Nothing soothed him like music. His eyes fell on the white card on the coffee table.

He turned the idea in his head for a few more minutes before putting the guitar aside and taking hold of the small rectangle. He flipped it over his knuckles, over and over again.

No, he thought. He wasn't a singer, or a performer.

Maybe. He could hold his own in front of a crowd. He was good in the courtroom. He had theatrical skills. He played the guitar decently. Ok, he played very well.

No. No way.

Well, why not?

Good question.

Only one way to find out for sure.

He angrily tossed the card back on the table and gave a growling sigh. "I hate arguing with myself," he muttered out loud.

He bit his lip and shook his head at the sheer enormity, the sheer unimaginable-ness of what he was about to do.

He picked up the phone.

"Leblanc Productions, how may I help you?"

****************Chapter Two****************

TUESDAY, 1021 EST - 1521 ZULU
LESYNCOPE STUDIOS,
WASHINGTON, D.C.

 

B flat, dammit!!

Harm's mood was slowly nearing its freezing point. For what had to be the twentieth time, two youngsters at the other end of the corridor were trying to copy Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidman, but their rendering of Something Stupid was bound to win them a bus ticket back to wherever some overeager parent had indoctrinated them to feel talented.

The girl just didn't get it. Instead of tossing her long hair about in a way that would have made any model posing for Garnier proud, she should have been listening to what her partner was desperately trying to make her see: that F major required a B flat. Harm's ears were ringing with pain from the shrill dissonance she kept producing over and over again on the final 'I *love* you'. And, of course, not a single thought was spared for the reality that she was supposed to sing the accompanying part only. It seemed as if she were using her impressive volume to make up for what she lacked in intonation. Harm only hoped they would be called in soon. Then his acoustic torment would at least be reduced to the other half dozen low voices interweaving around him, belonging to the remaining candidates of this morning's audition. At least they knew how to stay in key.

What on Earth possessed me to earnestly consider doing this? he asked himself yet again as he let his eyes wander from one contestant to the next, trying to size them up and measure his chances. He was old enough to be the father of any of them. Apparently, Star Search didn't stop at studio doors. Appearances had to make up for lack of talent even where there were no cameras around. Solarium-bronzed faces and gym-shaped biceps, platinum-blond hair and skirts that were no more than girdles, BDU pants and combat boots combined with unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts... I guess this is more or less what a penguin feels like among paradise birds, Harm mused, stifling a grin at seeing his own outfit reflected on the window pane opposite to him that separated the corridor from a dark and empty studio room.

After having confirmed his appointment for today, Harm had felt quite relaxed for some time. Music had appeared just one way among many others for starting out afresh. A few phone calls to former university colleagues had brought up four job offers from private law firms that he had earnestly pondered in his mind. Family law, for instance, or small firms specializing in environmental or anti-discrimination cases that seemed lost from the start and didn't promise the 'big deal'. Firms that the kinds of people turned to who were in need of someone who stood up and fought for them. Strange as the idea of him in a civilian courtroom still appeared to him, Harm had actually begun to look forward to trying it out.

Yet, be it loan problems, a break-up between firm partners or in one case even a major conflict with local law enforcement - upon closer inspection, the opportunities had all proven null and void in the end. As today had approached, one door after the other had closed and Harm had become aware that singing seemed to be the last thing standing between him and a few sophisticated law firms to whom nothing but cash mattered.

All of a sudden, music had become an option to be considered if he didn't want to sell his soul to the Dalton Lownes of this world. However, defiance had driven him to present himself today in every way he knew the producers wouldn't like. Starting from his choice of clothes right to the song he had picked, Harm could be sure of giving the picture of someone who didn't give a damn about whether his audience liked him or not. He knew he was being ungrateful - and extremely careless about closing off his professional escape route. But he couldn't help it. He was enjoying the grim delight of getting back at an industry that had turned the tunes he loved into products of mass fabrication, presented by dressed-up monkeys.

The young people who were waiting together with him were eyeing him with unveiled arrogance, pity even. How could anyone so old and so un-cool even begin to think he'd stand a chance against them? Harm couldn't really blame them. He had chosen a stiff charcoal suit, a white button-down shirt and even a tie - conservatively striped in Bordeaux and gray. He was well aware that this attire would win him no points whatsoever, but his dislike of the business hadn't let him dress loosely. Just because people expected him to show up in jeans and a flattering muscle shirt.

With the song he intended to sing, it was just the same. It would have been so easy to walk in and give them a nice Billy Joel or Garth Brooks. Yet, Harm had chuckled contently when at home, he had come across a piece he hadn't played since his teenage days. Jeanne Leblanc sure was in for a surprise today.

The unlucky couple had been called in, but their moment of fame lasted only six minutes and 23 seconds. Harm had kept an eye on his watch for the whole duration. When the sniffling girl and the scowling boy were stomping out of the audition room, Harm was relieved to note that at least, the committee inside didn't seem to be easily fooled.

"Mr. Rabb?" A twenty-something-ish man with a wild hairstyle and John-Lennon glasses stuck his head out of the audition room and tried not to let his jaw drop when Harm stood up, made a show of buttoning his jacket, took his guitar and with the dignity due an ex-officer walked in his direction.

Harm entered the room and came to some sort of parade rest in front of the committee that consisted of two women and three men. Jeanne was sitting in the middle, apparently unfazed by his rebellion against showbiz customs. She even gave him a hint of a knowing smile, making him wonder just to what extent she was able to read him. The other jurors - Harm couldn't help seeing them as such - reacted far more conspicuously. The two middle-aged men to Jeanne's right exchanged a look of contempt, whereas John Lennon and a young woman that looked like Harriet styled by Renée were apparently having difficulties to refrain from snickering.

"Bonjour, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne greeted him warmly. "I'm delighted to see that you've made up your mind to give it a try. So, we won't bother you with long preliminary talks. Everyone has the important facts about who you are..."

I seriously doubt that, Harm felt inclined to interject, but bit his tongue.

"... so I'd suggest you let us hear what you prepared for today. Take the barstool, please," she motioned to Harm's right where a little stage with a microphone had been set up. Not that anyone would have needed a mike in this room. Harm suspected it was dedicated to recording the contestants' voices for later electronic analysis. He nodded stiffly and took a seat, strumming his guitar.

"So, what are we going to hear from you?" Jeanne inquired sweetly.

Instead of answering, so as not to spoil his show, Harm squared his shoulders and started to pluck the chords of his instrument in an almost insolently simple rhythm. Smiling just a little, he began in a perfect imitation of Johnny Cash:

There's a story in our town
Of the prettiest girl around.
Golden hair and eyes of blue,
How those eyes could flash at you. How those eyes could flash at you.
Boys hung 'round her by the score
But she loved the boy next door who worked at the candy store.
Dream on, dream on, teenage queen, prettiest girl we've ever seen.

Hearing the first lines, the expression of quiet relaxation for a moment left Jeanne's features, as Harm noted with malicious joy. He turned his show up a notch, a touch of easy arrogance creeping into his smile. Just for a fleeting moment, he marveled at how much fun he was having, singing such an idiot song and taking it seriously.

She was tops in all they said,
It never once went to her head.
She had everything it seems,
Not a care, this teenage queen. Not a care, this teenage queen.
Other boys could offer more
But she loved the boy next door who worked at the candy store.
Dream on, dream on, teenage queen, you should be a movie queen.

Jeanne's mouth was twitching violently. As Harm was showing off, underlining the lyrics with face gymnastics worth of a classic silent movie, the producer leant back in her chair, folded her arms in front of her chest and didn't seem annoyed in the least. Quite the contrary. Her fellow committee-members, however, only gaped at him.

He would marry her next spring,
Saved his money, bought a ring.
Then one day a movie scout
Came to town to take her out, came to town to take her out.
Hollywood could offer more
So she left the boy next door working at the candy store.
Dream on, dream on, teenage queen, see you on the movie screen.

Almost without noticing, Harm began to vary the accompaniment. Scales and flowery embellishments followed one another in ever shortening intervals, stressing the absurd simplicity of the song's harmonic structure. And it was just this game of turning country music into a baroque-like concerto, his superb smile never wavering, that finally made Jeanne's calm demeanor break. She cracked up and gave a hearty laugh, pressing her hands to her belly and doubling over in her chair. Harm enjoyed watching the startled looks of the jury when their chairwoman let go of all her decorum and wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

Very soon she was a star,
Pretty house and shiny car,
Swimming pool and a fence around...

"All right, all right, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne gasped, her shoulders still shaking, lifting a hand to signal him to stop singing. "À vous la victoire. You made your point. If you wanted to make us see that you're an alien element in today's music business, you pretty much made that clear."

"Thank you, I was hoping I would," Harm answered smugly, rising from his stool and walking in the direction of the door.

"However," she continued rather sharply, all the merriment suddenly gone from her voice, "I would have thought that an officer and gentleman like you would at least try to show respect for other people's professions."

Harm stopped short in his tracks, taken aback. Embarrassed, he turned back to face the committee and met with five stony faces. "Sorry, Your Honor," he mumbled before he could stop himself.

Jeanne's mouth twitched again. "Apology accepted, Mr. Rabb," she conceded with a benign smile. "Now that we've all enjoyed ourselves, let's try this again, shall we?" Ignoring the aghast stares of her committee colleagues, she expectantly looked at Harm who suddenly didn't find the courage to keep up his rebellion.

"Okay," he said in a small voice.

"I have to compliment you on your acting talent," Jeanne stated, "That was a show worth Jerry Lewis. Just the caliber of self-confidence we need in a singer who plans on doing live stage programs. So," her eyebrows went up, "I have to tell you that your intentions of ridiculing yourself might have backfired a little."

Mentally slapping himself, Harm sighed in defeat. "Clever move, huh?"

"One could say that. To make up for it, you might want to start with taking off your jacket and tie." Jeanne cocked her head in an 'I'm-waiting' attitude.

Mechanically, Harm put down his guitar and ridded himself of jacket and tie, opening the collar button of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

"That's more like it," Jeanne said appraisingly. "Now, let me explain your next task. Although you couldn't quite hide the fact that you're a talented singer, I still owe my team an explanation as to why I invited you today. What I want from you is this..." she sternly pointed her right index finger at him. "I want to hear the voice you used for Eric Clapton last Friday. I want some of your improvising, but not the baroque style you just gave us. Give me some of your instinct for blue notes, Mr. Rabb. And, most important of all, I want emotion. Sing your soul out of your body. As I already know that you can do it when you're covering other artists, give me a generic song of yours instead."

Shocked, Harm at once made a defensive gesture, but before he could object, Jeanne decidedly cut him off.

"I know, you've probably never written a song in your life. All the better. Here's the deal: get it done right here, and you've got yourself a contract. Let's stick with last Friday's topic; sing about losing love. One more show like Blue Eyes Blue and you're no longer in search of a job. As simple as it gets. Take it or chicken out." Her gaze was pure challenge.

Memories of Tritone Connections came to Harm's mind. Sturgis's dare, his anger at himself for accepting it, the feeling of being out on that stage, letting the music sweep him away, the liquor in his glass turning into a pair of soft brown eyes...

Damn. There she was again. And all of a sudden, he knew what he had to do.

"Give me two minutes," he said merely, returning to the barstool. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and prepared himself for the emotional impact as he let images of Mac enter those zones of his consciousness that he had so desperately tried to close off . With the memories came the pain... and with the pain, the words. Without really thinking about what he was doing, his fingers began to pluck a soft, swaying accompaniment, setting the perfect background for his voice:

This look -
Forever burning cruelly on my mind,
Not leaving doubts of what you leave behind.
Flaming,
Blaming,
Killing me for having been so blind.

This word -
Forever ringing cruelly in my ears
And bringing to my eyes remorseful tears.
Never
Ever
Will the time appease my pain, my fears.

You held the key to reach my heart,
But you never came to find me.
You knew the entrance to my soul,
Yet, you passed it, walking blindly,

Waiting that I would invite you,
Tell you what I never said,
Knowing somehow that it was in vain.

But you never asked for reasons,
Never saw the chance we had.
You never even let my heart explain.

This curse -
Forever tearing at my aching soul,
This knowledge that it's you who'd make me whole.
Shattered,
Scattered,
Lies whatever I once called my goal.

This love -
Forever lying rooted in my heart,
Although I know we'll always be apart,
Hopeless,
Scopeless.
To say those words will always be too hard.

You held the key to reach my heart,
But you never came to find me.
You knew the entrance to my soul,
Yet, you passed it, walking blindly,

Waiting that I would invite you,
Tell you what I never said,
Knowing somehow that it was in vain.

But you never asked for reasons,
Never saw the chance we had.
You never even let my heart explain.

Oh, no...
You never even let my heart explain.

Harm repeated the accompaniment to the second half of the chorus, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his chin drop on his chest. Sing your soul out of your body... For the love of God - he had. Now he had to cope with the flames in his heart.

He didn't dampen the vibrations of the chords when he had ended, needing the little time while the sound was dying to prepare for getting back to business. The notes faded into complete silence. Whether it was stunned silence or icy silence or awed silence, Harm had no idea. What did it matter anyway?

It was Jeanne who finally spoke up, "That one came straight from the heart, didn't it?" she asked simply. Her voice was calm and... compassionate? Harm looked up, confused, and despite himself nodded slightly.

Jeanne's eyes were clear but those of John Lennon and the woman beside him seemed just a little misty. The two middle-aged men looked at Harm with a new kind of esteem in their gazes.

"Thank you, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne said warmly. "Would you mind leaving us now so we can hear the rest of the candidates and talk matters through? I can already say as much; don't leave yet. We're definitely going to call you in again. But take a break and get yourself some coffee in the cafeteria. Tell them it's on me."

"Thank you," Harm murmured with a strained smile, glad to be offered the very time and space he felt he needed to get a grip. Taking his jacket, tie and guitar, he stiffly nodded to the group and left the room.

Mechanically, he placed the instrument in its case and stuffed the tie into his pocket, ignoring the grins that some of the other candidates were exchanging. He was sure that judging from the expression on his face, they had to be thinking he was out of the game. Well, so be it. He couldn't care less about setting the picture straight.

Having gotten himself a caffé latte from the cafeteria, Harm finally settled down in a chair in the farthest-off corner of the waiting area, glad to be left alone. One by one the nervous voices in the corridor vanished as the candidates were first called in and after very little time all came out again, looking extremely frustrated. Apparently, besides him, only one young girl had been asked to wait for being called in again.

Resting his head against the wall behind him, eyes closed, Harm eventually found the necessary calm to rethink what had just happened to him in front of the audition jury. Never in his life had he written song lyrics, let alone composed the fitting piece. He hadn't written anything down, and yet, the words were still spinning in his mind.

You never even let my heart explain...

Why, Mac? he silently addressed her. Why didn't you come to find me? How could you not understand that what I did I did for you only? And why the hell do those damned words come to me when I'm singing, but not when I'd really need to just say them aloud?

And now people were expecting him to open up and sing in public what he hadn't even been able to tell the woman he loved, all alone? What was Mac supposed to feel when she heard it? Dammit, Rabb, he instantly scolded himself, Did she bother to think about what you were supposed to feel when she kissed Webb under your eyes? No, this was about him alone.

I could never let my inmost feelings become public property.

Yet, it did feel damned good to let it all out, didn't it?

Music's always been the most personal thing you did besides keeping your thoughts to yourself entirely. It's your diary, sort of. Do you really want to lose this essential piece of privacy?

But music has also enabled me to finally get a few essential things off my chest. It's the only way I could possibly clear my head and alleviate my heart somehow.

He knew he'd never have thrown all those things at Mac, but getting it out in the open, having a valve for his emotions and knowing that the people who listened didn't do it because he paid them for it, had been such a relief. Reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that he didn't feel too negative about using that valve again sometime, to ease the pain.

If it makes me feel better and if people really want to hear my emotional garbage put into music, then why the hell not try it out?'

"Mr. Rabb?" John Lennon had again stuck his head into the corridor. Harm got up and went to face Jeanne and her team again.

"Can I ask you something?" Jeanne leaned a little forward in her chair, looking at him expectantly.

"Sure," Harm said in a low voice, trying to pull himself together and once again cursing Sarah Mackenzie for holding him in such an emotional death-grip.

"When you sang about 'this word', which word did you mean?"

He held Jeanne's gaze. "Never," he replied hoarsely.

In her dark violet eyes shimmered understanding. "You're gonna shoot me, Mr. Rabb," she said, "But whoever it was who threw that word at you: thank her. She's opened the road to fame for an amazing artist. You see, there are so many who manage to write decent lyrics or decent melodies, but the gift of letting words flow and form their own music is a rare one. Add the emotions that you laid into your performance - I'm sure that to you, they must have seemed overwhelming. Your public, however, will see a man who desperately tries to keep them to himself but at the end has to surrender to their impact. Sing like that on stage - and you'll win people's hearts in the wink of an eye. You won mine, to begin with."

Her last remark, combined with the small smile she gave him, eased away part of the pressure in Harm's chest. "Wow," he said with an embarrassed half-smile of his own.

Jeanne turned to her teammates and exchanged a few quick nods with them. Eventually, the man sitting at her right addressed him with a totally new open and friendly attitude. "Mr. Rabb, thank you very much. That was impressive. I shouldn't have doubted Jeanne's judgment. Jerry Emerson," he presented himself. "Ms. Leblanc's business partner and what people would call a talent scout. As I don't hear any objections, I'd like to get down to business immediately. I'm not actually part of our legal department but I do have a law degree, so I usually draw out preliminary contract offers for our potential newcomers.

"So, here's what we'd offer in your case: we'll produce a first solo album, cover songs intermixed with your own compositions. Payment will be based on sales numbers, plus a lump-sum advance payment of, say, twenty thousand. Promo for the album will include minor live appearances. Should we feel people get to like you, we'll throw your hat in the ring for the big shows and maybe think about a second album. All details to be worked out by our company lawyers in the next two weeks and to be negotiated with you and your lawyer afterwards. What do you say?"

"I am a lawyer myself and I think a pretty capable one, too," Harm answered defensively. "Just to get this straight: I'm not agreeing on anything right now, but let me have a printout of the contract draft once it's ready and then tell me when and where," he added, wondering where the words had come from.

"Great," Emerson rubbed his hands with a grin. "Will do. But in order to give our legal department some basics to work on, we still need to talk about a few preliminaries. What kind of background do you have in mind for your personal sound?"

Harm frowned. "None. It's me and my guitar alone, or it's nothing."

"Be reasonable, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne interjected. "Even the greatest artists have some kind of accompaniment besides their own instrument. No one can really do without. So, as you seem to be a soul purist, how about limiting it to a classic combo? No electricity needed, just acoustic instruments and skilled musicians. Double bass, piano, drum-set. A trumpet maybe for occasional instrumental interludes. And your guitar."

Harm tried to imagine the sound of his voice surrounded by the ensemble Jeanne had proposed. He had to admit it was just this kind of half classic, half modern Soul Jazz he had always preferred to most other styles. He hugged his instrument and pursed his lips. "That could work," he finally conceded.

Jeanne's smile widened as did Jerry Emerson's. "Fine." Jeanne folded her hands on the table in front of her and leaned on her elbows.

"But...?" Harm cut in as he heard her take a deep breath. With raised eyebrows, he waited for the second shoe to drop. It did.

"You'll need a stage name," she finally prompted, watching his reaction closely.

"No way." Bits of his previous dislike of the business threatened to resurface. Never would he create an artificial personality to hide behind.

"Mr. Rabb," Emerson cautiously spoke up, "I'm sure you have every reason in the world to be proud of your name but... honestly, 'Harmon Rabb' just doesn't sell. And the 'Jr.' worked well for Sammy Davis only."

"What about Harry Connick Jr.?" he retorted stubbornly.

"Point taken," Emerson answered with a smile. "But accept it: 'Connick' has a far better sound than 'Rabb'."

Darn... he's right about that, Harm had to concede against his own will. "Okay," he sighed, defeated. "Any propositions?"

Jeanne shook her head. "Nope. That's for you to come up with. Remember: that name will be your new life. Everyone will identify your face with it, whether you like it or not. So you better be comfortable with your alias. Means: create it yourself."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?" Harm asked defiantly, throwing his hands up in the air and beginning to regret again that he'd let himself be talked into this whole affair in the first place. I should have trusted my gut feeling... and I should have killed Sturgis when I had the opportunity.

"Start with a last name," Emerson tried to help. "What last names occurred in your family, for example?"

"Uhm..." Harm tried to think hard, "Baker, Heath, Pendleton, Michaels... uh..." Seeing Emerson shake his head with a frown at each, he stopped, unnerved. "How about you help me a little in this if nothing works for you?"

"Try again, I'm sure there's more," Jeanne encouraged him.

Sighing again, Harm mentally wandered along the branches of his family tree as far as he could remember it. "Davis, Smith, Cassano, Rusitzky..."

"Wait," Emerson cut in sharply. "What was that, before this Rusa... Rusolski... or whatever?"

"Cassano?" Harm asked.

"That's it!" the producer called out happily. "What is it? Italian?"

"Yes, my great-granddad Rabb from Pennsylvania married an immigrant. Maria Sara Cassano."

"Bingo. We could promote you as the southern Italian type, you know, dark hair and blue eyes, where the Viking seamen left their traces in Sicily..."

"Oh, yeah," Harm agreed dryly. "That'd be me all over."

"Come on, Harmon," Jeanne scolded amicably. "Try to get your head into the game. Once you're in, you're gonna love it. Honni soit qui mal y pense. Shame on those who think badly about it."

"It's Harm," he replied. "And I guess you get used to everything, right? So, let's do this right: what about my first name?"

"First things first. Do you think you'd have liked your great-grandma?" Jeanne asked.

He shrugged. "No idea. But I'm very close with her daughter, my grandma Sarah. Why?"

"Okay, so the last name's settled. As I told you, feeling at ease with your alias is incredibly important. To the first name then. Is there a musician whose style you like very much?"

"Gee, how many names do you want me to have?" Harm asked with a lopsided grin. "Starting with the real classics, how about Louis, Benny, Nat, Charlie, Glenn, George, Ira..."

"Stop it!" Jeanne cut him off, laughing. "Boy, you do have a way of pushing people's buttons. Star antics before you even signed your contract, hmm? Pick one, as in O-N-E."

Harm allowed himself five seconds to contemplate. And suddenly the decision was easy. "Darius," he said.

"As in Darius Lyon?" Emerson asked. "Well, Harm, you sure know the good stuff. But I'm sorry, that's out of the question. 'Darius' is just too uncommon. Anyone who loves soul music will always expect a dignified black man with a slight Kenyan accent when they come across the name."

"You did ask for an idol," Harm said a little defensively.

"Yeah, we did," Jeanne confirmed. "Is he, for you?"

"There hasn't been a single week in my life without at least once taking a time-out with a Darius-Lyon album," Harm stated animatedly, aware that his voice had taken up a reverent tone. "And I never miss his concerts when he comes to D.C."

"Then how about 'Darren'?" Jeanne proposed. "Darren Cassano, in honor of great-grandma Maria Sara and of Darius Lyon. Sounds okay to me. Jerry?"

"Sure," Emerson agreed, nodding. "Works for me. Matt? Donna? Sam?" He expectantly looked at the other three who had been silent all along but now nodded consent. Then he turned to Harm.

Harm had long since given up on wondering what he was doing. This whole audition had developed an automatism that he was apparently unable to oppose himself to. What the hell. What was left of his life that was worth clinging to and limiting himself to a few predefined career options? Why not use this point of no return to really set off for a whole new horizon altogether? These people seemed to think he could do it. And he could rely on their judgment - after all, it was their money they were ready to invest into the idea. Might be worth the while to try and set a little standard as to how he wanted musicians to perform.

This conclusion drawn, Harmon Rabb, Jr., let go of everything that had defined his former professional life. If he was really trying his luck at a stage career at an age where other men felt their midlife crisis approaching, he was going to do it with all that was in him. Darren Cassano would be a real professional.

"Done," he simply said dryly, without even the hint of a smile.

"Do I hear a slight Californian drawl in your voice, Harm?" the man Emerson had addressed as 'Sam' spoke up.

"I thought you had all important facts about me."

Sam looked onto the papers on the table in front of him. "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry..." His eyes met Harm's again, an adventurous twinkle apparent in his gaze. "You do know that California is the real El Dorado for music, right? How about you moved to California? I'm sure your parents would love that."

Leave D.C. Leave his home of so many years. Leave his friends. All of a sudden, Harm's earlier determination had evaporated again as quickly as it had risen. Leaving JAG had felt like tearing something out of his heart. But at least the evening at Tritone Connections had shown him that he wasn't alone. His friends supported him. But they were right here in D.C. Jen, with her quick understanding and sisterly care; Sturgis, with his way of always knowing the right thing to do; Bud and Harriet, whose amiable, warm family was always open to him; little AJ, the closest thing to a child of his own he had; even Tiner who apparently hadn't given up taking him as a role model. In California, besides his parents, there was no one.

"I'm sure they would but I can't do that," he answered in a low voice.

"Why not?" Sam asked, apparently at a loss.

"Because," Harm snapped angrily. "I just can't. Period."

Jeanne suddenly got up and walked towards him. "Wait a minute, guys," she said in the direction of her astonished team, "We'll be right back." Then she wordlessly took Harm by the arm and guided him outside, using a second door he hadn't noticed before. When Jeanne closed the door and turned on the lights, Harm saw they were standing in yet another deserted studio. Sound insulation guaranteed absolute privacy. Somehow, he felt cornered. "Well?" he asked sharply, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"It's always hard to leave a life behind," Jeanne said calmly, but her gaze was fiery. "There will always be people you loathe parting with. But that's life, Harm. You, of all people, should have learned that by now. And let me be blunt: regardless of how dear others may be to you, your song made it pretty clear that the person you love most pretty much told you to get the hell out of her life. It's as obvious as anything that you can't cope with that. If I were your shrink, I'd chew your... backside until you finally got it into your thick skull that getting over her means getting away from her, too. We're offering you the best possible opportunity to get it done, and a lot more, too. So, before turning the offer down with such apparent lack of consideration, use that damned brain of yours."

Leave Mac...

The thought provoked an instant sting in his heart, but he forced himself to stay focused on the point. Staying in D.C., knowing she was close by and yet so far out of his life - would he be able to bear the situation in the long run? Wouldn't her presence alone block any attempts at really starting out new, just because some idiot hopes deep down in his soul couldn't be stilled?

You were ready to leave everything behind and engage in a new quest - as long as it would take place in your habitual surroundings. Now, just how consistent is that?

He swallowed, his grief making it difficult to face her, but eventually he did. However briefly this woman had gotten to know him, she had nailed the conflict perfectly. So if seen at light, there was but one choice, hard but logical.

He took a deep breath and definitely drew the line. "How about San Diego?"

Four words to close an era and open a new one.

******************Chapter Three****************************

JANUARY 4TH 2004
0812 PST - 1712 ZULU
HARM'S APARTMENT
CITY HEIGHTS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

 

Harm set the coffee mug on the table and leaned back on his couch again, his feet propped up on the armrest and his left arm serving as a cushion for his head. With his right hand, he grabbed the newspaper he had dropped beside him when he had needed his hand to reach for the mug. Now, the headline was again in front of his eyes and he still couldn't believe what he saw.

Darren Cassano: nominee for WMN awards

Jeanne had called him way too early this morning, just to tell him to pick up the New York Times, knowing he still subscribed to the Post. She had given him no hint as to why she had tipped him off to do it. His album had been out for six weeks now; the reviews had been printed weeks ago. He hadn't done any live appearances lately and he wasn't enough of a VIP that reporters found him interesting enough to do a story on him without a clear incentive. True, his premiere CD, titled simply Darren Cassano, was selling surprisingly well, given the fact that a) he was an absolute newbie to the business and b) his style was anything but mainstream. But that still wouldn't have explained a random article about him.

When Harm had started skimming the Times's feuilleton headlines and had arrived at the 'music' page, he had heard himself gasp. An award nomination for his very first album was the last thing he'd ever have expected. Not that WMN was very big business. World Music Network was a mid-sized private TV station, based in New York, that broadcast only in the Northeast. Harm would have bet that two thirds of Californian TV viewers had never heard of it. Still, the network was known among musicians, and artists who won one of its yearly awards had apparently gotten the attention of some people that really mattered in the business. Harm had needed his coffee badly before feeling fit to read the Times's judgment. He hated himself for paying that much attention to what people wrote or said about him, but he couldn't help it; he was proud of his work and about the way he was trying to make a difference in the scene. Every now and then he needed reassurance other than from his friends that he had made the right choice.

Just when he was about to start reading, his telephone rang - his private telephone that only his friends had the number to. The one he responded to using his real name. For a split second Harm was tempted to haul himself up on his feet, but then thought the better of it. Get used to the situation first before talking to your friends and dying from embarrassment right now. He let the machine get the call.

"Hi, this is Harm. Please leave a message and I'll call you back." - Beep.

["Harm? This is Jen. Congratulations on your nomination! We just wanted to call to tell you..."]

Rustling was heard at the other end of the line, then a multitude of happy voices:

["...that we're all very proud of you, sir!!"] Jen, Harriet and Bud yelled into the receiver, stressing the *sir* and apparently smiling broadly. The line went dead before Harm could even get up.

Chuckling, Harm shook his head and again lifted the Times to his eyes. Bless the D.C. bunch. Harm knew that he wouldn't be where he was without their constant support and demonstrations of friendship. Sturgis called him at least once a week, and he was keeping up a vivid email exchange with Harriet, Bud and Jen. Even Mac had sent him a Christmas card, wishing him luck for his album premiere. He had exchanged the gesture, thanking her, but their contact had been limited to that. Jen had - reluctantly, upon constant bugging - told him that Mac was very happily involved with Clay. And Harm found he hadn't yet reached the point where he could wish her every happiness in the world without lying. So he had let it be.

With a decided breath, Harm pushed the thought of her aside and concentrated on the paper in front of his eyes.

Darren Cassano: nominee for WMN awards - Fifth candidate completes list in newcomers category; Goto Hell nominated in grunge classification

by Nyala Lyon

Again, Harm let the newspaper sink for a moment. Lyon? She couldn't be related to Darius Lyon, or could she? How ironic that she would write about someone who'd chosen his alias in honor of Darius. Intrigued, he began to read.

LESyncope Productions have once again proven their secure eye and ear for artistic potential. Not even two months after presenting his brilliant debut album, Darren Cassano received a nomination for this year's WMN awards in the category of Best Newcomer. Last night, World Music Network's spokeswoman for the awards, Leslie Callaghan, announced the completion of the last two nominees' lists in a press conference in New York. The still vacant spot in the Grunge classification, according to Callaghan, goes to Goto Hell whose lead singer Lucifer already accepted WMN's invitation for the awards-giving ceremony on April 24th. "We would be thrilled if Mr. Cassano were to come, too," Callaghan declared, "But we haven't yet spoken to his agent." "Of course Darren will be there," said Jerry Emerson of LESyncope upon inquiry.

"Oh?" Harm said to himself, his eyebrows rising up to his hairline. "Nice of you to let me know."

Darren Cassano could very well turn out the first major discovery of the century in terms of modern Soul Jazz. His unique style, mainly based on the classic Soul of James Brown or Isaac Hayes, achieves the miracle of combining elements of Cool Jazz and Hard Bop with loans of Country and Funk, all merged with ease into a particular sound that still needs to be labeled.

"Wow. Couldn't have described it better myself," Harm mused. This lady did know her stuff. All the more probable that she was indeed a relation of Darius Lyon's.

The songs of Cassano's premiere album...

Again, the phone interrupted him. Frowning, Harm got up and took the call.

"Rabb."

[Salut, mon cher. Get ready, you have a ticket to New York in two hours.]

Harm sighed. "Hi, Jeanne... Slow down. I thought tonight was my day off."

[It would have been,] Jeanne agreed. [But WMN just called: they want you for a live interview. Tonight.]

He let out a low groan. "Is that really necessary? You know I hate testifying on air..."

[Suck it up, you're not in court anymore. You're a celebrity now.] Jeanne's voice was as merry as if she'd just told him he'd won the lottery.

"Yeah, I know." Harm wearily wiped his face with his hand and sat on the edge of his telephone sideboard. "It's just that I'm so damned camera-shy," he added, resigned.

Laughter rang in the receiver. [You may be a lot of things but you're definitely not camera-shy, hon,] she told him. [And you know it.]

Harm felt he was getting annoyed. Yet, he couldn't help grinning. His producer/agent knew him too well. "Okay, sorry, mom."

[Don't you dare,] she threatened. [Anyway, United 497, 11:34 a.m. And think about what you wear for the interview.]

He gave in. "I will. Who'll be asking the questions?"

[I don't know yet. WMN always works on last-minute schedules. My guess would be Rita Coleman.]

"God, no," he groaned. Rita Coleman was a carbon copy of Renée, and although his ex girlfriend had turned into quite a decent woman after some time, Harm wasn't sure he felt inclined to meet with yet another video princess. "Then I don't really know why I should dress up."

[Goes to keeping up appearances, Harm,] Jeanne scolded him. [You've already got the image of being a gentleman, and it sells well, especially with your female fans. Don't do any damage to the picture.]

"I couldn't," Harm replied, "I'm just being myself all the time."

[Great.] The smile was back in Jeanne's voice. [Then I know you'll look just fine tonight. Remember: big sister is watching you. And it might not be Rita after all,] she added, more to herself now. [Nyala did the piece in the New York Times. So maybe it's her you're gonna meet with.]

His curiosity immediately got the better of him. "Nyala Lyon? Is she somehow related to Darius Lyon?"

[His daughter.] Jeanne was obviously pleased with his reaction.

"I didn't know he had a family," Harm stated, wanting to know more.

Jeanne humored him. [His wife died about fifteen years ago, back in Kenya. But his daughters live in the States. Nyala is thirty-one and a music journalist and Amara is nineteen and is training for the Olympics.]

"Wow. What sports?"

[Marathon. Okay, enough questions,] she cut him off in her motherly tone before he could go on. [You have a plane to catch, e-ticket at the counter. Don't be late. See you!]

The line went dead before he could even react. "Bye," he said to the empty room, putting the receiver on the cradle and mentally starting to write his baggage check list. He'd already be grateful if he would be spared talking to Rita Coleman. But if he were to meet Darius Lyon's daughter...

A gentleman.

Harm decided on charcoal slacks and a light-blue button-down shirt.

 

2020 EST - 0120 ZULU
WORLD MUSIC NETWORK
43RD STREET
MANHATTAN, NY

 

The next twenty minutes were supposed to make her evening worthwhile. Nyala hadn't been too enthusiastic when Leslie had left her a message, informing her that she had once again been chosen to skip her evening off and do a last-minute interview on WMN Music News instead. Swallowing her anger, she had canceled her girls' night with Amara and had driven to the studio instead. You couldn't live on freelancing for the Times alone.

Crossing New York in full rush hour, wasting time at the make-up artist's and waiting for Leslie to fill her in on the particulars had worn out Nyala's patience. Once again she understood why she loved the newspaper: despite the hectic moments when printing was about to start, you could take your time to work out your stories. Nyala knew she wasn't made for the hyper-speed of television. And she just hated audiences. While her father had passed his musicality on to her, she felt she absolutely lacked his stage personality. Amara was just the contrary. She loved being filmed when she crossed the finish line - but make her sing and the milk in your fridge would go sour.

Just when Nyala had thought that her mood couldn't have gotten worse, Leslie had come into her dressing room and had told her that Mr. Cassano was waiting to be briefed next door.

"Darren Cassano? I assumed this was about those Goto Hell guys."

"No. Stop assuming, Ny. Journalism is about facts alone. Go meet him whenever you're ready." With that, Leslie had left her to digest the news.

She was ready, speaking in terms of clothes and make-up. But what Nyala needed was a little time to regroup and formulate a catalogue of entirely new questions. It took her a moment to believe that she was about to meet the artist whose album she couldn't stop listening to for the last five weeks. Usually, this would have been a 'must' for Rita. She always did the big issues, leaving her with stories like... well, Goto Hell for instance. Yet, for whatever reason, this time Nyala was about to get to know an artist with whom she could actually talk about music, not just fashion and groupies.

Darren Cassano's music seemed nothing out of the ordinary - at first hearing. She had listened to the songs casually one evening, not paying particular attention. But the last title had suddenly captured her like few pieces ever had. The emotions were so genuine, so real - and yet, his voice was so well guarded. Almost as if he were singing despite himself. You never even let my heart explain... Amara was the only one who knew that Nyala had been close to tears. She had instantly played the whole album again and found that Cassano's voice was drawing her in, that his simple, direct way of performing was richer than any well-directed playback possibly could have been. A true natural - and apparently extremely shy. No one ever saw him in society, and the few live appearances Nyala had dug up videos of were gripping, but distanced somehow. As if his music, public or not, were for him alone.

How were you supposed to interview someone like him? I'll bet he hates being on the screen just as much as I do, Nyala mused while she was giving her make-up one last once-over. Luckily the make-up artist hadn't done anything to further enhance her eyes today - they were dark and huge enough already. Her delicate caffè-latte complexion looked a little more flushed than it usually did. Oh, well. Smoothing the curly dark hair that had been pinned up loosely at the back of her head, Nyala decided she was ready to meet her guest. Ten minutes to airtime. Time to get to know who hid behind the fair façade.

Smoothing her dark-blue dress, Nyala walked to the door of the adjacent dressing room. One last decided intake of breath, and she knocked.

"Enter," came a voice from inside that was unmistakably Darren Cassano's.

"Mr. Cassano?" she tried with a smile. "Pleased to meet you. Nyala Lyon."

The tall dark-haired man sitting in front of the dressing table looked up - and the moment his eyes met hers, Nyala saw him flinch ever so slightly. But his expression changed back to open and friendly again in the fraction of a second, so she decided to just let it pass. He got up and came to meet her, taking her offered hand.

"Darren Cassano," he said with a smile that for a moment made her stomach flutter. "And the pleasure is all mine. I'm a major fan of your father's."

"He'll be pleased to hear that," she answered easily. "Must be the similarity of your first names."

"Actually - but please, keep this off the record - 'Darren' was chosen in honor to your father. 'Darius' would have been too obvious." His smile was disarming.

Nyala was surprised to see that he was being so forthcoming. Not too shy, after all, she noted. "So, what's your real name, Mr. Cassano?" she asked with upraised eyebrows.

He sobered a little. "I'm trying to keep my personal life on another page altogether, Ms. Lyon," he answered very politely but firmly. "No matter what my passport may say, to everyone out there I'm Darren Cassano. Could we leave it at that, please?"

She had read about him impersonating a perfect gentleman, and she had laughed about how the media were making up a label for him so he'd fit into one of their drawers. However, the way he had just asked her to respect his privacy suddenly made her see there was something to the picture. It had been very clear where he had drawn the line. He hadn't left her any openings. And still, he had addressed her in some sort of natural dignity, the tone of his voice firm but asking her to understand, his gaze determined but still just a little vulnerable.

"Of course," she instantly complied, unable to even consider objecting.

Switching back to professional issues, Nyala talked her guest through the proceedings, finding him attentive and very cooperative about supplying hints as to what he would answer to her questions. As airtime approached, she found he was tensing up a little, but at the same time he seemed to relax in talking with her. His sense of humor met her wavelength, and Nyala suspected they were sharing more laughs than would have been advised for their information-focused program. Keep up your guard out there, or this will turn into Conan O'Brian, she admonished herself.

"Okay, Mr. Cassano, show-time," she eventually told him, getting up. "Let's get this over with," she added under her breath, only to stop short immediately after, shocked at her own rudeness. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry," she apologized, embarrassed to no end. "That wasn't directed at you, sir. It's just that I'm a newspaper woman and hate the TV business, that's all."

Slowly, a grin began to spread over his features. "That makes two of us," he replied warmly. "I didn't even own a TV until about a year and a half ago. So, if you hate it, why do it?"

"A freelance music journalist has to take whatever jobs come up," she answered with a lopsided grin.

"I see. Now, let me get this straight," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "This conversation is the result of both of us being forced into it. If we'd had a choice, we wouldn't be here. To be honest, I find that kind of sad. How about 'getting it over with', as you put it, and then getting together again on our own free will, to grab something to eat?"

Tempting as the offer was, and knowing she definitely wanted to learn more about his peculiar style, Nyala was still confused. "Didn't you want to keep your private life out of it?" she asked carefully.

"Working dinner," he offered sheepishly, his half-smile contagious.

"You're on," she agreed wholeheartedly. "Come on, the cameras are waiting."

 

2146 EST - 0246 ZULU
YAMAMOTO'S SUSHI
41ST STREET
MANHATTAN, NY

 

Slowly, Harm felt he was getting used to the sting he felt every time he met her glance. Those eyes weren't just *like* Mac's eyes - those *were* Mac's eyes, looking up at him from a totally different face. At first, he hadn't even been able to study her features more closely. His gaze had been drawn to hers like a magnet as soon as he stopped avoiding looking at her. He had tried to mask his pain, and judging from how the evening had proceeded he had succeeded quite well. Yet, only now was he beginning to take a closer look at Nyala Lyon. The pain her eyes inflicted was still there, but it had become bearable.

She was a beautiful woman. Slender, almost fragile, yet not too short, 5'6 maybe. Her arms seemed to have grown just a little too long, the impression stressed by her long, slender fingers. But her movements were graceful so the disproportion didn't draw attention. From the side, she was her father all over, Harm noted. Her profile matched the one that was displayed on one of Darius Lyon's CD covers. And her smile was the very same one Harm knew from many talk-shows that he had seen Darius on. But her eyes were different. Her mother, apparently a white woman, must have looked a bit like Mac, he assumed, chasing the thought as soon as it had made itself known.

He felt he liked her. Their conversation had been easy-going from the start and never once had awkward silence made them search for a new topic, just to say something. And in the course of the evening, Harm had become aware what he missed most in his new life: friends. Knowing that across the continent he had a handful of people who cared about him was one thing. Having dinner with someone, actually sharing moments instead of only talking about them, was something totally different. Sadly, Nyala would become an across-the-continent acquaintance, too, once he returned home tomorrow.

Hearing her clear her throat brought him back to reality. "Darren?" she asked, her voice just a little curious.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, flashing her a quick smile.

"Can I ask you something? Personal, I mean? I promise, this isn't the journalist talking right now. I have the highest respect for your privacy."

Her eagerness to set him at ease was endearing. He lifted his hands as if to calm her. "I know you do. Just be warned: I may choose not to answer. But fire at will."

Nyala rested her head on her hand and thoughtfully looked at him. "I know many people in showbiz who're reluctant to let others have a glimpse at their private life. But I've never met with anyone who's so... desperate to separate personal matters from his profession. I'll make an admission now about something that no one but my little sister knows: you had me crying with You Never Even Let My Heart Explain. This one is about real life, isn't it?"

This was just where he had wanted to avoid going at all costs. But looking at her and detecting nothing but warmhearted interest in her features, caring even, Harm somehow felt she was someone whom he could trust with the truth. Or at least bits of it. Being honest with himself - he longed for some genuine heart-to-heart talk, and not even Jeanne was someone with whom it'd feel right to go into the difficult issues. "Yeah," he only said in a low voice, not bothering to mask the pain in his eyes and waiting for her to take the conversation where she wanted to.

"Who are you, Darren Cassano?" she asked gently. "I feel like I could be friends with you - but whom would I really be friends with?"

He decided to give her the essentials and leave everything else for whenever it might come up along the way. I'd love being friends with you, Nyala, he thought, but decide for yourself if you'd get along with who I really am.

"Harmon Rabb, Jr.," he began, still speaking low and closely watching her reaction. "Former naval aviator with the rank of commander, and also former military lawyer with the Navy's Judge Advocate General corps. Resigned my commission last year - the reason doesn't really matter anymore - and decided to start out afresh when the road back into the service was closed. So, that's me." He tried a smile. "Shocked?"

Nyala's eyes had gone wide. "Well, a little, yeah," she conceded. "I had suspected that something had thrown you off the track and forced you to end your previous career, but I definitely didn't think about the military. Was she the reason you resigned? "

"Yes, but not the way you may think. I'd rather not go into that right now," he answered. "Please, Nyala."

"'Course," she murmured, "Sorry."

"Don't be." He tried to set her mind at ease. "It's okay. I'm only sorry we won't be able to continue this conversation anytime soon. It's nice having a friend around."

Her face lit up just a little. "Where do you live?"

"San Diego."

"Then you might see me sooner than you think. Starting next month, I'll be working for the LA Times for a change. It's only on a temporary basis, but I'll be in California for at least a year or so." Her smile grew just a little bold. "Count on me to show up on your doorstep, Harmon Rabb, Jr."

Somehow he felt his mood had lightened. "Call me Harm. And I'd be thrilled."

 

MARCH 21ST 2004
0643 PST - 1343 ZULU
HARM'S APARTMENT,
CITY HEIGHTS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

 

The persistent knocking on his door dragged Harm from a deep slumber, way earlier than he would have liked. He gave a cursory glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand and sighed wearily, rolling out of bed.

As much as he enjoyed performing on stage, it had a definite drawback. You never got home, let alone to bed, before the early hours of the morning. For him, that had actually been the hardest thing to adapt to. He was a morning person. He rarely slept past 0600, and now, most times, he didn't get to bed before 0200. Although he'd feared the emotional consequences of his performances, he'd been pleasantly surprised to find that with time, he got used to the emotional charge, and he could handle it fine. But still, sometimes, he found himself staring at his ceiling until the sun came up, like he had the previous night. Consequently, he had been asleep for a mere two hours when the pounding on his door had started, and hadn't stopped since.

"All right, all right! Keep your pants on!" he yelled irately, as he pulled on a robe. The knocking ceased.

"It's Nyala," came the muted reply.

His anger melted instantly, replaced by puzzlement. Nyala? They had become good friends over the past few months, sharing the odd dinner and chatter after an interview. He'd even gone as far as to invite her over a couple of times, cooking dinner once. But she'd always been very respectful of his privacy. She had never showed up unannounced, and never after a performance night.

He self-consciously ran a hand through his longish hair, cursing Jeanne for forcing him to let it grow longer than military regulation had allowed. At least then, he would have looked at least half presentable, even rolling out of bed.

He padded to the door, barefoot, unlocked the door quickly and yanked it open.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, seeing the concern in her eyes. He let her in, admiring her gazelle-like grace despite himself. But he didn't let himself dwell on her beauty today. The fury in her eyes was too intense.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Harm," she said, a hand on her hip, a rolled newspaper in the other, "but I have a feeling your phone will start ringing soon, and I thought you could use a heads-up." She handed him the paper.

He quickly unrolled it, as he flopped to his couch. He didn't need to look for the article. The Los Angeles Sun's Art section's front page screamed at him in bold print.

WMN Newcomer award winner a legal fraud?

Harm's eyes widened and he looked to Nyala.

"Read it," she replied to his silent question. She was clearly angry. Her lithe frame was taut with tension and her eyes were dark with anger.

Harm lowered his eyes back to the paper before him and began to read.

New Soul Jazz sensation and winner of the WMN's best Newcomer award Darren Cassano is, in all appearances, a fraud.

Cassano, at 40, is a late arrival to the music scene, but has taken it by storm. The quality of this music and his unique sound, as well as his heartfelt lyrics and performances have enchanted crowds, and earned him the coveted WMN newbie award. Private by nature, he speaks very little of himself. The only thing he has revealed so far is a previous law career, but alas, it seems the claim is as fraudulous as the rest of Cassano's persona.

In fact, a thorough search of all of the bar associations of the country revealed no record of such a name, nor did his birth date. Stage names are common in today's world, but why is Cassano displaying such a fierce need to hide who he truly is? One may only wonder why he came to the business so late, and if we can truly attribute his accomplishments to him, or is he just another Milli Vanilli?

Most artists will jump at the chance to reveal the path that took them to the burgeoning fame Mr. Cassano now enjoys, but not him. He's so far steadfastedly refused to answer any questions about his past, and such reluctance, in the light of the absence of facts, can only confirm deceit.

Only time will tell if Darren Cassano is indeed what he claims, or doesn't claim, to be.

Harm threw the paper on the table in disgust. "Bastards."

Nyala scoffed. "Not Bastards. Bastard. Terry Kilroy. LA Sun's metro section editor. A real piece of work," she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. She clearly despised Kilroy, and Harm had a feeling the animosity wasn't new. "I'm sorry about this, Harm," she said softly, rising off the loveseat across him.

"Not your fault. Thanks for the heads up, though. I gotta call Jeanne," he said glumly. "I know I should have expected some mud, but this..."

He put both elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He *should* have expected something like this. He knew he needed to react, but for some reason, he didn't want to. There was just too much baggage in his past, and he wanted it left where it belonged. In the past. He felt Nyala's slender hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet the brown eyes he now knew so well. But this time, the pain was back. Oftentimes, when he'd looked at her in the first few months, he would get a fleeting moment of déjà-vu, and see Mac's eyes instead of hers, but only for a moment, and less and less frequently as he'd gotten to know her. Diane and Mac had been as different as night and day, and Nyala was worlds apart from the two, but the heavens had seemingly played some sort of cosmic joke on him; all the important women in his life looked at him through the same huge, luminous brown eyes. And now, he couldn't help but see Mac again.

"I wish I had better news, but Kilroy is a snake, and an idiot to boot. Obviously he searched for the wrong name, but you have to set the record straight, Harm."

He didn't answer. A lot of time had passed since that horrible night in Paraguay. He'd mostly managed to rebuild his life, and despite having only a few acquaintances in California, he'd made a life for himself here. Why was it that every time he found a measure of peace, someone would jumble his life back up?

He gave a brief, humourless chuckle. Weren't those her words, as they watched the ambulance take Harriet and baby AJ off to the hospital, or was it when he'd told her he was going back to an active squadron? Either way, it didn't matter now.

"Harm?"

"What?" he asked through his hands, still refusing to meet Nyala's eyes.

"I... I know I promised I wouldn't pry, but... Why are you so reluctant to talk about your past?"

He sighed deeply, rose to his feet and walked to the large bay window that overlooked the city. He pulled back the deep burgundy curtains and let the early morning sunlight flood in. His eyes lost over the horizon, he replied quietly.

"It's because there's just too much pain buried there."

He heard her rise off the couch and walk to stand beside him, but he kept his stormy eyes on the sky.

"Painful memories are one thing, but I have a feeling you take a lot of pride in what you did before. You haven't spoken much about it, but I think you were a good officer."

Harm chuckled. "More of a loose cannon, actually. It's part of why I couldn't get back in."

"Harm, regardless of how baseless the accusations, you have to face them. As much as I respect you, at the moment your silence is condemning you."

"I'm a lawyer, Nyala. I know how circumstantial evidence works. A lot better than you may think. But what you don't realise is the damage revealing my true identity could do."

He walked back to the couch and sat on an armrest, finally facing her. "Have you ever tried to do a search on my birth name?"

Nyala rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Is that what you think of me? Of course I haven't! I just told you I respect your privacy!" she retorted, a bit wounded.

He raised his hands in surrender, instantly regretting his remark. He'd once more let himself think of her in terms of her profession, not as his friend. But trust had never come easily to him, especially when it touched his past. Despite the depth of his friendship to Mac, there were a great many things he'd kept hidden from her. Most times, he gave her the gist of it, but never the details.

"Hey! I know you do, but you're a journalist, and curiosity is inherent in the business," he atoned.

She gave him a shrewd look. "Curious, I may be. Not nosey."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. But do it. You'll be surprised how often my name comes up, and not always for good reasons."

"That may be, but if you don't take control of the situation-"

The shrill ringing of his private line interrupted her. He glanced at the call display and rolled his eyes.

"That'll be Jeanne, in a panic. Listen..." He hit the speaker button.

"Hi, Jeanne," he greeted.

[Tu as vu? C'est le bordel! Cet enfoiré de Kilroy! Il faut qu'on lui coupe l'herbe sous le pied avant qu'il ne foute encore plus le bordel! J'ai-] (Did you see? It's a complete mess! That ass Kilroy! We have to shut him up fast before it turns into a bigger mess. I've-)

"Jeanne?" Harm called patiently, a smile tugging at his lips.

[Quoi? Pourquoi t'es si calme? Tu savais déjà? Comment? Depuis quand tu te lève si tôt un lendemain de scène? C'est -] (What? Why are you so calm? You knew? How? Since when do you get up so early after stage? It's-)

"Jeanne," he tried again, stifling a laugh. Nyala laughed silently.

[Quoi!] she yelled. (What!)

"In English, please," Harm said seriously.

There was a pause on the line, and a muted curse.

[I did it again, didn't I?]

"Yeah. And despite my fractional knowledge of French, I got most of it, so no, I wasn't asleep, and yes, I've read it. Nyala-"

"Good morning, Jeanne," she cut in.

[Harmon!]

Harm had to smile at the indignation in Jeanne's voice. She had known he'd been seeing the journalist socially, but he'd told his mother-hen producer it wasn't anything serious. He wasn't ready for a new relationship, he'd said, and the look in his eyes had been enough to convince Jeanne.

"Jeanne, it's not what you think, so cool your jets. She got here about twenty minutes ago. So, what do we do?" he asked, as he slid into the armchair.

[You want to take this one, or shall I, child?] Jeanne asked, addressing Nyala.

"You go public, and tell them what they want to know. You don't have to reveal every detail, but enough to shut him up. You need a respectable journalist to do a piece on you, and show you under your best light, give enough info, but keep what you want private," Nyala explained. "I was about to tell him as much when you called."

[So, I've contacted some people to do-]

"Wait a minute! Don't I get a say in this?" Harm interjected.

[No, hon. I know the media and I know how to handle them-]

"And so do I. You supposedly know all about me, or so you've kept saying for a year, Jeanne. Let's test that knowledge. Remember a couple of years back, when a ZNN journalist was caught giving away a SEAL team's position?"

[Yes. Stuart Dunston was court-martialed by the Navy. It created lasting shockwaves in the media business. Of course I remember, why?]

"Who prosecuted?" Harm asked, a smirk on his face.

[Hmmm... Some hotshot Navy lawyer that found a loophole--] A pause ensued, and Harm could almost hear the wheels in her head turning. He let a slow smile spread over his lips.

[No. No way. That was you!?!]

"Yep. So don't try to teach me how to handle the press," Harm said triumphantly.

[I stand corrected. I'm guessing you want your friend Stuart to do the piece, since he feels he owes you for pointing out the error of his ways?] Jeanne supplied sarcastically.

"Not for that, but he owes me still. However, I sense a but in there," Harm said. For some odd reason, Jeanne had always managed to read his mind, and always was a step ahead of him. He did want Dunston to do the piece, and most of the reason resided in Stuart's understanding of keeping certain things of his past life in the dark.

[Yes. Dunston is a public affairs correspondent, a war correspondent-]

"Jeanne, I'm not just shy about my past because a lot of it is painful. I've done a lot of stuff that's still classified, and scratching at it too deeply could potentially hurt some people. Dunston understands that, and he'll stop when I tell him to, but he'll give those damned sharks what they want."

The last part of his sentence dripped with disdain. He'd never been a big fan of the media circus, despite understanding its uses and its necessity. Still, he felt like he was pimping to them, and he hated it. The very idea of playing nice to the media sent shivers down his spine. He rubbed his arms for warmth, suddenly cold.

[Okay. We'll do it your way. I'll call Dunston and set it up. We need to get this thing cleared up au plus vite, or it might just cost us the good news I had for you today,] Jeanne finished, her excitement barely concealed.

Harm's heartbeat suddenly quickened, reverberating through his chest. "What is it?"

[We got the dates.]

He closed his eyes and swallowed slowly, his throat suddenly dry. This was it...

"When?" he asked a bit breathlessly.

[Nyala, dear, I bet you'd love to scoop your friend Terry Kilroy, wouldn't you?] Jeanne asked sweetly.

"Jeanne, I will owe you for a lifetime!" Nyala replied enthusiastically.

[June 21st and 23rd at the Lincoln in New York!] Jeanne squealed. The Lincoln Center was THE Mecca for jazz singers. All the great voices had walked that stage, from Wynton Marsalis to Darius Lyon. This wasn't just any stage. It was a career-maker. Or breaker.

"Wow!" Nyala confirmed, clapping her hands. "Congratulations, Harm! Now you get to make your mark on that great stage! Harm?"

[Harm?] both women echoed.

He hadn't made a sound. He sat in his black leather armchair, completely still, mouth hanging slightly agape. He swallowed slowly and drew a shaking breath. This was just getting to be a bit much. He shook his head to clear it from the myriad of images floating into it, all of his favourite musicians, setting that very stage on fire. And now, he would be the one under the stage lights, the mike in his hand, and his guitar would make the perfect acoustics of the theatre vibrate with his passion.

Nyala put a hand on his shoulder, suddenly concerned by the alarming shade of white his complexion had taken.

"Harm, say something, please," she begged.

"The... Lincoln? Dear god... Me?" he stuttered, in complete disbelief.

[I think he's in shock, dear,] Jeanne said patiently.

"I think so," Nyala agreed, a note of mirth creeping into her voice.

Harm knew they were making fun of him. He just couldn't muster the energy to do anything about it. All he could concentrate on was the faint roaring in his ears and the slight spinning of the room.

"Um, Harm? Are you all right?"

[What's wrong, Nyala?]

"Huh?" Harm replied dumbly.

"Are you ok? You're awfully pale..."

Harm shook himself out of his stupor. He could only remember reacting like this once, when he'd received his acceptance into flight school: a great vertigo, brought on by the spiraling possibilities, the sheer vastness of the unknown that lay ahead, and the expectations he had to fill, whether his own, or other's. That day had been the true start of his dreams of following in his father's footsteps. That road had led to a lot of adrenaline, a lot of fear, a lot of pain and heartache, but also a lot of pride, and most importantly of all, a lot of lasting friendships.

He only hoped he could do it again.

"Yeah, I'm ok. I just..."

[You need a bit of time and a lot more sleep to wrap your head around this, hon. I know how much history that stage carries, and what it can do to a career. But I wouldn't have pushed for it if I had any doubts about you. I'll call you around dinner with details on the interview, all right, hon?]

He ran a weary hand through his hair and smiled. "All right. As usual, you got me pegged. You'll have to tell me how you do that."

[Trade secret, hon. And Nyala, please let him rest. Bye!]

"Jeanne!" The line had clicked off before Harm's indignant cry had even been uttered.

Nyala's musical laugh rang though the room as she rose off the sofa. "She's just messing with you. I have some contacts at ZBS. I might be able to get you on for an interview after the Dunston piece airs."

Harm chuckled. "Great. More cameras."

Nyala's gaze suddenly clouded and she let her head fall forward. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, dejectedly contrite.

Harm was instantly confused He hadn't been *that* disgusted with the offer... "No, no, Don't be. I don't mind them so much..." he trailed, quite puzzled by her sudden mood shift.

"It's not that. This whole mess is my fault."

Harm's brow furrowed. "Now how can that be? You didn't write the article, Ny. Unless you moonlight as a man, editing the LA Sun Times Metro section," Harm joked, hopefully brining a smile to her lips. He didn't understand where her guilt was coming from. She had nothing to do with the article. He knew that for a fact. So why was she feeling so guilty?

"It's not so simple, I'm afraid," she responded quietly, her eyes sad, but filled with an undercurrent of anger.

Harm slowly shook his head. "I don't understand."

Nyala exhaled sharply through her nose, lacing her slender fingers over her knees. "Kilroy did this to get back at me."

Now, he was completely confused. "What? Why?"

Nyala took a deep breath and rose from the couch, walking up to the window, just like he had a few minutes before, losing her gaze over the distance. "Jerry and I went to college together. He was a year older than I was, sort of took me under his wing. Of course, he knew who my father was, but he was actually decent about it, and we got along great. Until one day, he asked me out. " Nyala's arms suddenly went up around her chest, as if she was protecting herself. Her whole frame radiated tension, and in that instant Harm was by her side, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

"You don't have to tell me this, you know," he said, his voice filled with concern and compassion. He hated to see her so ill at ease. Nyala was like a bird; happy and joyous, carefree and confident. To see her so insecure and hurt tore at his heart.

"I do," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "I wasn't ready. So I refused his advances. But he wasn't one to give up easily. Eventually, I filed a complaint of sexual harassment with the dean's office. He was expelled."

"I understand how that would create tensions between you two."

"That's one way to put it," she replied sarcastically.

"But, I don't see how I fit into this."

"Nyala scoffed. "Easy. Remember when we went to dinner at The Plover, last week?"

Harm recalled their intimate dinner, the week before, in an Oceanside restaurant, only a few miles from his apartment. They'd walked out together, his hand resting on the small of her back. "Yeah," he replied, still not quite seeing what she was getting at, but sensing it, just like a shark, hovering just beneath the surface of murky waters.

"He was there. In a booth, at the back. I saw him. He saw us, and probably not just eating. He must have seen me flirting with you. He decided to get back at me."

It was his turn to sigh, and he rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Now, I'm the one who's sorry, Ny. If I hadn't ..."

She whirled on her heel and faced him, her eyes fiery, his hand flying from her shoulder. "Don't you dare be sorry. I didn't mind you doing what you did, and the end result is my fault. Not yours."

Harm bit his lip and lowered his eyes in a silent apology, but yet, not quite letting her take the blame. "Nyala, you didn't write the article, and you can't be held responsible for other people's actions. This guy wants to know who I am? Well, let me tell you he's going to get a hell of a lot more than what he's bargained for," he said, a hard but wickedly humorous gleam in his eyes.

To his immense relief, Nyala smiled, intrigued by his remark. "Oh? What are you going to do to him?"

"A lawsuit for defamation would be a good start, I think. I'm a lawyer, remember? Civil law isn't my strong suit, but I'm a hell of a litigator, and he's in for a sour surprise. But what I hate is that his tactics will have worked."

"Because he's managed to draw you out," Nyala summarised.

"Yeah."

"Funny. A timid lawyer..." she added, a teasing spark once more lighting her eyes.

Harm moved back to the couch, waggling a decided eyebrow at her. "I am not timid," he protested. "I'm just..." he paused, searching for the right word, "reserved," he finally settled on. "Besides, haven't you heard that discretion is the better part of valor?"

Nyala smiled sweetly, as she moved to the door. "Once or twice, but somehow, I feel the expression Silence is golden has always been lost on you."

"Out!" he retorted, in feigned annoyance.

"Bye!" she chimed back.

The door clicked shut with another cascade of laughter, and he found himself alone. If his naval career was any indication, he was in for one hell of a ride.

***********

NEXT DAY
0954 PST
ZNN STUDIOS
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Harm settled into the plush leather armchair, Jeanne flanking him, a satisfied smile on her lips.

"What?" he asked.

She studied him from the corner of her eyes for a second more before giving him an approbatory nod. "You were right. Dunston is the right man for the job."

"But we haven't seen the finished product yet. Hell, we haven't done the interview yet," he argued.

"No, but I've been doing this long enough to know, hon. I've seen the material he's going to use, remember?"

He was about to reply when the door to the "green room" opened, and Stuart Dunston stepped in. Harm rose and offered him a hand.

"Stuart! Pleasure to see you again," he greeted, a cloying smile on his lips.

Dunston chuckled, returning the hearty handshake. "Yeah right, Rabb. Or should I say Cassano? Really surprises me that you're willing to play the media game now."

Harm gave a brief chuckle of his own. "In public, it's Cassano. And true, I don't like the game. But you know I understand the need for it, and how it works too."

"As long as I play it by the rules," Dunston said, a knowing smirk on his face.

"That's what you get for--"

"Boys, I hate to brake up this reunion, but we have to get this show on the road," Jeanne broke in.

Harm turned to her, a hint of a sheepish frown on his face. "Sorry, Jeanne. Stuart, meet Jeanne LeBlanc, my producer/agent/watchdog and sometimes personal psychic."

Stuart nodded, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on the back of her hand. "Miss LeBlanc, a pleasure." His eyes lingered a moment longer on her curvaceous figure, but a firm hand on his shoulder cut the interlude short.

"So, Stuart, you understand why I want to keep some stuff out of the public eye?" Harm asked warily. He didn't care about being dragged though the mud, or the damage it could do to his budding career, but he still cared a whole damned lot about the commitment he'd made to his country.

"Now I do. I'm guessing you don't want the fact you were almost framed for murder twice out there..."

Harm pointedly ignored Jeanne's wide eyes and stunned expression. She was supposed to know about this. "I don't care about that. There are a lot of people out there I prosecuted or defended that are in witness protection or that work in intelligence. They do not need the spotlight on them."

"Understood. Here's what I had in mind..."

 

TWO DAYS LATER
0724 PST
ZBS TELEVISION CITY STUDIOS
HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA

 

Stuart Dunston stood in front of JAG HQ in Falls Church, walking slowly in front on the main entrance.

"A few years ago, in the middle of a messy, high-profile court-martial, I met a man that made a great deal of an impression on me. Not only with his skills as a lawyer, but with the depth of his commitment to the oath he took to defend his country. Since that day, he's left the Navy and moved on to another promising career in the music industry, under the name of Darren Cassano. However, I thought I'd let you know the man as I got to know him: Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. US Navy, JAG corps.

On the screen, Harm's service photo popped up, followed by stock footage of various court proceedings.

Most of you will remember him for prosecuting me in a Navy court-martial two years ago. And after a time, I admitted I deserved to be. But Rabb wasn't always a Navy lawyer.

Images of trapping Tomcats, Harm in a flight suit, and black and white pictures of his father and grandfather filled the screen as the narration went on.

A Naval Academy graduate, he started out as a fighter pilot, flying F-14s off the USS Seahawk. He followed in his father's and grandfather's footsteps and became a 3rd generation Naval aviator. According to some of his squadron-mates and commanding officers, Rabb was one of the best, until a fateful night, in the early days of operation Desert Storm...

The scene changed again, this time to an approaching Tomcat, over a dark, pitching deck. All too fast, the lumbering bird dropped lower and lower, tilting slightly to the left, until it erupted in a fireball, as it came in contact with the deck.

Then-Lieutenant Rabb suffered a devastating ramp strike, killing his RIO, and leaving him severely injured. It was later revealed he suffered from undiagnosed night-blindness, caused by a disease he'd suffered from only a few weeks before. The young man recovered from his injuries and, instead of resigning his commission, he went to Georgetown Law, graduating with honors. He quickly became JAG's rising star, but not before returning to the air.

Five years after his crash, Rabb climbed back aboard a Tomcat and beat the odds by landing the damaged plane, at dusk, and from the back seat, saving the life of a fellow officer and air wing commander of the Seahawk, now retired Rear Admiral Thomas Boone. He was awarded the first of two Distinguished Flying Crosses for this action. All this was witnessed firsthand by my colleague, Chuck De Palma.

Despite getting his vision corrected and serving another tour as an active pilot, earning his second DFC, Rabb chose to serve in the JAG corps, again distinguishing himself by always making truth and justice a priority, but his loyalty to his country has always been paramount. It is in that respect that he prosecuted me, for violating an order.

Rabb also prosecuted the first military tribunal since the Second World War, brilliantly winning and consequently helping foil a terrorist plot, preventing the destruction of the entire Seahawk carrier group by an unshielded plutonium-tipped missile. Again, his flying skills were put to the test, and again, he came through, earning himself a Silver Star.

But Rabb has also caused his share of trouble. In the courtroom or out of it, he pulled no punches, and defied the rules to make a point, sometimes landing him in hot water, and ruffling feathers in many different countries. But when our servicemen get themselves into trouble in foreign countries, often places of vastly different cultures, there are no easy solutions.

A perfect example of this is the court-martial of a young sailor accused of rape in Japan. Cultural differences and Rabb's Pit bull attitude did more harm than good, but the truth eventually came out.

Yet, a year after his chase with a nuclear missile, he resigned his commission, and completely turned his life around, launching into what looks like to be a promising music career.

The image once again returned to Stuart, standing in front of JAG HQ.

Knowing the man, I needed to find out why he left, especially when I saw the accusations flying regarding his law career. Turns out he left the Navy for personal reasons, not for lack of convictions or misconduct. But what I found, sadly, is an extremely poorly done journalist's job. So, he decided it was time to set the record straight, especially when the victim of such blatant incompetence is a true man of honor. Also, this is an opportunity to remember the commitment to the truth that we of the media have.

It's easy to launch accusations when we don't understand the reasons for secrecy or discretion, or even to defy those rules we don't understand. It may take a little more work and time, but confirming information before making it public, and respecting the people we inform and investigate should be paramount in our minds. That way, we may be able to achieve a goal Harmon Rabb, and ultimately the media, have in common: the pursuit of truth.

This is Stuart Dunston, for ZNN news.

Nyala turned from the screen behind her and stared straight into the camera. "Thank you to our colleagues at ZNN. Now, I have with me the man in question, Darren Cassano, or former Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. Good morning, Darren, and thank you for joining us, this morning," Nyala greeted pleasantly, inwardly cheering. Kilroy would, in all likelihood, lose his position at the LA Sun for the hatchet job he'd done.

Harm smiled back, his blue eyes incredibly brilliant, set off by the slate blue shirt he wore.

"Morning, Nyala. It's a pleasure to be here."

"So... Tell me, why the sudden career change?"

Harm gave her a wan smile. "The most honest answer I can give is a mixture of extraordinary circumstances and timing."

"That's vague... Were you thrown out of the Navy?"

"No. I resigned my commission, for personal reasons."

"So, there's nothing to hide there."

"Other than some classified details, no."

"The picture we've just been painted of you screams of a career naval officer, dedicated to his country, the type to stay in till the very end. Not the showbiz type..."

Harm chuckled. "True enough. Since I was little, the Navy was all I wanted. Had a lot to do with my father's disappearance in Vietnam. I'm very proud of my time in the service. I did my best for my country, and in my heart, I know I made a difference. But sometimes, life takes you down another path..." he finished softly, his eyes only slightly wistful.

"So, if you're proud of what you did, why hide it? Why all the reluctance to reveal your identity?"

"I think after what happened with the Dunston court martial, the press would have a better understanding of that, but let me explain. I *am* proud of what I did, but what I did has not always been public knowledge, nor should it be. I firmly believe in truth and justice, but our nation's security takes precedence over my desires. I have nothing to hide personally, but a lot of what I did is classified, and it would be unfair to those of us who still serve to put them in danger, to satisfy the press' need for gory details about my past."

"So we just have to take your word for it? That you're hiding for, quote, national security reasons?" Nyala returned sharply. If he wanted people beating down JAG's doors to search for hidden truths, he'd done a tremendous job of spiking their curiosity. She gave him a quick nod, silently asking him to trust her, and let her take him to safer ground. Luckily, he was already apparently beating himself up for his slip, and the look in his eyes turned thankful for a second, before sharpening up again.

He tossed his head in denial to her question. "No, that's not what I meant. Sometimes, when national security interests are concerned, you just can't be too careful about what you're telling people. Okay, I may have been a little over-careful, but even when you think your answer is absolutely innocent and harmless, there's always a chance someone will discover a link to some secret in a single syllable, and the people you are duty-bound to protect are suddenly in danger, just because of an innocent comment you made. It's not an easy burden to bear, but all service members live with that fear daily, and maybe I was just too afraid I might harm any of my former colleagues who're still dear friends of mine. Call it some sort of paranoia if you like. But all I'm doing is protecting my friends who serve our country. I'm sure you can understand that."

He gave the camera what he hoped was an apologetic, charming smile, and prayed like hell the public would buy it.

"That's why you changed your name?"

Harm laughed outright, giving the camera his dazzling smile. "No. I'm proud of who I am, but can you honestly say you'd buy an album with the name Harmon Rabb Jr. on it?"

Nyala smiled. "Indeed. But again, if you're proud, why hide?"

Harm's eyes clouded and he looked off in the distance. This was the question he'd dreaded, the one he'd fought Nyala tooth and nail not to ask. But it was also the only one he could not afford to avoid, if he wanted to nail his critics' mouths shut. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"As I said, I left the service for personal reasons. I made the decision to leave, for me."

Harm carefully kept his expression neutral, the white lie bringing a bitter taste to his mouth. But ultimately, it was true. He'd left for Mac too, but only because she meant something more to him than following orders ever had. So, technically, he had left for himself. However, the answer wasn't completely honest, but it would in all likelihood keep the wolves out of JAG ops, and away from Mac.

"That doesn't mean I don't sometimes wish I hadn't," he continued, "or that I don't miss it a lot. Sometimes, you make decisions based on what's best for all involved, not just what you want. The Navy's been the biggest part of my life, ever since I was seventeen. I loved what I did -still do- and moving on is hard. Making a clean break is easier, I think, for me at least. All I ask is that my right to privacy be respected." He kept his eyes on the camera, silently pleading, and hating every moment of it. He deserved respect, and having to beg for it made his skin crawl.

"That's all..." Nyala trailed.

"Yes. That, and the fact I'm hopelessly shy," he said, grinning full bright. "Seriously, though, I wanted to use my real name. My producer would have none of it. Besides, pre-trial motions and the Uniform Code of Military Justice usually bore people to death," he said good-naturedly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Nyala caught the signal from the director and smiled as the cameras cued back to her. "I bet they do. Thank you, Darren. That's all the time we have, but we'll be right back after the break, with Claire and Jed, right after your local weather."

"And we're clear!" the director said.

Harm slumped back in his chair with an audible sigh. He rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to rid himself of the tension and disgust he felt. He'd given in. He'd faced the critics, and therefore had given in to their tactics.

"Thank god that's over," he said, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes.

"You did well," Nyala assured him.

"I agree," Jeanne chimed in, as she walked out of her observations post behind the cameras.

"Yeah, well," he said, rising off the chair, "if you'll excuse me, I need some fresh air." He was fully aware he was being rude, but he needed to get out of there, and find some peace and quiet and regain his composure. Intellectually, he knew this wasn't any different from defending a guilty client. It was a necessary part of the system. He just didn't have to like it, or feel comfortable doing it.

At times like this, he really, really missed DC. It was at times like this -when the past would become to heavy to bear- that he'd go to the Wall. Now, he had to find someplace else. He grabbed his leather flight jacket from the young assistant who had taken them from him and quickly made his way outside, towards his Corvette. In the past, he would have headed home, towards San Diego and Miramar, and parked across from the tarmac to watch the F-14s take off, just like Tom Cruise had. He would never admit it to anyone, but he'd done just that, countless times, as a teenager. He hadn't had much time between getting his license, running away to Vietnam and leaving for the Academy, but every free moment he'd had, he'd spent there, dreaming of one day taking flight. Only now, it only served to remind him that he would never do that again.

So, instead, he headed north. Maybe a road trip to San Francisco was what he needed. He checked his watch: 0753. He'd be there in time for a late lunch. As he accelerated on the highway, a cocky grin slipped over his features as he watched the needle climb past 60 MPH. Maybe he'd be there just a little bit earlier...

**********

0037 ZULU - 1937 EST
JUNE 21ST
LINCOLN CENTER
NEW YORK, NEW YORK

 

Harm slowly shut and locked the door to his dressing room, promptly leaning against it, eyes closed.

"Why did I ever agree to this?" he murmured softly. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, hopefully stilling the mild swirling in his stomach. He ran a hand over his hair and gave another heaving sigh before pushing himself off the door and giving his surrounding a cursory glance. Another vase of flowers had appeared while he'd been in make-up. Make up. He shook his head at the idea. Granted, he'd always been careful about his appearance, but make-up?

Part of the game, I guess... he thought.

He walked over to the small round table and grabbed the card off the side of the vase, flicking it open, still shaking his head.

From your number one fan.
It's corny, I know, but hey, I'm allowed.
Love, Mom.

He chuckled softly. She was supposed to be sitting in the first row tonight, along with the Robertses, as well as Jen Coates. Somehow, that thought brought him little comfort. If he failed, she would be a prime witness of his humiliation. He flopped into one of the plush armchairs that furnished the room and let his head fall back, trying once again to calm his somewhat disquieted insides. His eyes wandered to the large poster on the wall. Why had they put it up there? He sure as hell knew whose dressing room this was.

They'd used the same picture as for his CD cover. It had been taken at the old family farm, in Pennsylvania. He was sitting on the old stone steps leading into the faded poplar barn, elbow on his knee, chin in hand, eyes lost over the horizon. The picture in itself had been a lucky shot. When the traditional photo shoots had failed to produce usable results, Jeanne had suggested he find a place where he felt at home, relaxed, to hopefully produce the photo. Instantly, the old farm had come to mind. So, he'd found himself invading his grandmother's safe haven with a photo crew. But again, they'd met up with his stubborn streak, and no usable pictures.

So, frustrated, he'd stalked off to take a walk, ordering Stephanie, the young photographer, to leave him be. Luckily for him, she'd ignored his directive and had followed, albeit from a safe distance, but with a telephoto lens.

The resulting shot had captured, according to Jeanne, his very essence. The picture had been rendered in Sepia, and was just barely blurred at the edges. He sat there on the barn steps, dressed in worn cowboy boots, jeans, white t-shirt and flight jacket, the perfect picture of the Soul Jazz musician. He'd been thinking of what he'd left behind, at that particular moment, of how much he hated some aspects of his new life. But as it most often did, the new had grown into the familiar, and he'd accepted the occasional irritations of it. He had to admit, he loved the feeling of stepping up on stage, and letting the music take a life of its own.

He'd been reluctant to step up onto the mystic stage that afternoon for the final sound check. But when he'd pinched the first strings, let the first chord ring out, all his apprehensions had vanished, replaced by a sense of awe intermixed with pride. The show Jeanne had put together was simple; no flash, no fanfare. It was him, his music, and the crowd. There was only one drawback to that: the only place the audience could place its attention was on him, and if he failed...

He didn't have time to dwell on the consequences of that, as a sharp knock sounded at the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Jeanne, chéri."

He rose quickly went to the door to let her in. She walked in and stood in the middle of the room, studying him intently, her violet eyes inquisitive.

"What?" he asked finally.

"You have twenty minutes before curtain." Jeanne let her words sink in for a few seconds before adding: "If you're going to throw up, now's the time. You need at least ten minutes for your colour to return."

Harm swallowed audibly as an involuntary rush of nausea flooded him. He instantly forced it back, squaring his shoulders and tucking in his chin. The sensation brought back memories of 9-G turns and dogfights, but having those while his feet were firmly planted on the ground was a completely new and disconcerting sensation.

"Why would you say that? I feel fine," he protested, slightly breathless.

She smiled kindly, putting a hand on his arm. "Experience, hon, and the fact you turned about five shades whiter when I said curtain. Nothing to worry about. It's nerves, and it's perfectly normal."

"Not for me, it isn't. I'm a fighter pilot, Jeanne. I do *not* get sick, and especially not because I'm nervous."

Jeanne walked over to the sofa and patted the seat next to her, inviting him to sit. "*Are* you nervous?"

He flopped onto the couch next to her, scoffing. "Heck yes. Terrified is actually a better description. I wasn't that scared for my first solo flight, and not on my first court case. But then, flying's in my blood, and I'm a damned good lawyer. I just don't know if I'm up to the challenge, Jeanne," he finished quietly.

Her hand gently closed over his forearm. "If I didn't think you were, I would have never have set this up." She winked at him and patted his arm. "I'll leave you in peace. Gary will come and get you when it's time."

Harm nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. He watched Jeanne close the door, and suddenly he was alone with his thoughts again. He stood and walked over to his guitar stand and picked up the instrument. He put a foot on the dressing table chair and checked the tuning one final time. He was just finishing on the sixth chord when a light knock sounded at his door. He gave a quick glance to the clock. He still had ten minutes, so he chose to ignore whoever it was. He needed some time alone to concentrate and be ready.

"Darren? It's Nyala... I'm sorry to disturb you but I have something for you."

He paused only briefly before answering. "It's open."

Nyala came in, a soft smile on her lips. She wore a pair of black satin cargo pants and a matching shirt, opened to reveal a scarlet camisole underneath. Her hair hung in loose curls above her shoulders, and her dark eyes were accented in deep, dark chocolate brown. Her lipstick matched her camisole, and the effect, combined with the glint in her eyes, gave her a slightly predatory look.

Harm stood somewhat stunned, his eyes travelling over her, his mouth dry. "You... You're absolutely gorgeous," he murmured.

She lowered her eyes for a spell and let out a nervous chuckle. "Thank you. Um, listen... I know you probably want to be alone right now, but I was asked to deliver this for you."

She handed him a thin, elongated gift box, not unlike one would use for a tie, with a small card attached to it. Curious, he took it from her and sat at his dressing table to open it, motioning for Nyala to sit as well.

The plain white card was covered by a familiar, feminine hand.

Knock 'em dead, *sir*...
Forgive us, but you'll always be more than just Harm to us.

Love,
Harriet, Bud, Little AJ and Jimmy.

A lopsided grin crept onto his face as he opened the box. He pulled back the thin sheet of silk paper and his jaw dropped open, his eyes unexpectedly shining.

"Oh, God... Harriet..." he murmured.

He carefully lifted out a soft black leather guitar girdle. He spread it onto the dressing table and carefully ran his fingers over the gold embroidery. The writing wasn't very large, so you couldn't read it from a distance, but it was the three small designs at each end that got him. His throat constricted painfully and he quickly brushed a hand over his suddenly tear-filled eyes.

"Harm? Are you all right?" Nyala asked, seeing his trouble.

He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah... It's... a very thoughtful gift from my friends."

"May I see?" she asked.

Again, he nodded. She rose off her seat and joined him, gazing at the girdle. She read the embroidered inscription:

Fly on the wings of song

At each end of the text, she saw three small designs, two of which made sense. One was a pair of wings with a shield and an anchor in the middle, the second a music key with a tritone interval, and the third, the one that puzzled her, was a pair of gold oak leaves, with three links of silver chain in between.

She met his eyes with a questioning look, but he shook his head.

"Later. I'm sorry to throw you out, but..."

"You need a few minutes to yourself," Nyala summarised. "I'll see you after the show."

Again, he nodded wordlessly. She didn't argue and left with a last soft smile. Finally alone, with barely five minutes to go, Harm closed his eyes and pushed all unwanted thoughts aside, and concentrated on the upcoming task.

When Gary, his tech, knocked, five minutes later, his eyes were clear, and he was ready, guitar in hand, with a brand new girdle draped over his shoulder.

*******

"Thank you!" Darren Cassano yelled out to the still cheering crowd, as he bowed one last time, and headed towards the garden side exit. As he made his way though the backstage maze, he received an assortment of hearty handshakes and slaps on the back. He couldn't help the huge grin that had claimed his features.

He had aced it.

Yes! he inwardly cheered.

Ahead of him, just outside the backstage exit, he could hear her laugh. He barely had time to send his guitar to his back before a completely ecstatic and thrilled French woman launched herself into his arms.

"T'as réussi! Mon dieu, c'était grandiose! Good god, Darren! How could you ever doubt yourself!" Jeanne squealed.

Finally, he gave in and laughed out loud, allowing his joy to shine though. "I was really good, wasn't I?" he said, certain of the answer. He hadn't felt this cocky in a good long time, and it felt wonderful. It was pretty damned close to flying, he thought for a second.

"Brilliant!"

He closed his arms around Jeanne's waist and lifted her off her feet in a great bear hug, whirling on his heel. Both laughed together, until Harm finally put Jeanne back on her feet.

"I was, wasn't I," he repeated again, eyes dancing.

"I tend to agree."

Harm tossed a look over his shoulder, meeting Nyala's dark eyes. His smile broadened just a little, as Jeanne placed a towel in his hand. He quickly wiped the sweat off his brow and face and placed the cloth around his neck.

She placed a hand on his arm and craned her neck to kiss him on the cheek. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. So, what's the official critique, Miss Lyon?" he asked, crossing his arms, his air pleasantly defiant and just a little bit arrogant.

Nyala crossed her legs, and rubbed her chin with a hand in mock thoughtfulness. "Hmmm, let me see... Cassano: True heart and Soul Jazz. Sound good to you?" she asked, matching Harm's cockiness.

Harm blushed slightly and chuckled. He nodded, lips slightly pursed in a vain attempt to curb his smile. But nothing he did worked. He couldn't help but act and feel like a rooster; proud and confident. He knew he'd scored a hit tonight. He'd poured his soul out into his music, and he'd felt the crowd respond, coming alive around him, fueling his own passion. The feeling was indescribable. He'd never thought he'd find something close to the catharsis of flight, but this was it. If he thought about it a little more closely, he could see the similarities between the two. In both cases, he used his instinct combined with his talent and skill to produce the desired effect, whether it was to pursue a bogey, or to compose a song. And then, there was the adrenaline rush, and the satisfaction of doing something he was good at. But it wasn't quite the same. For a brief instant, he saw himself in the cockpit of a Tomcat, and almost felt the stick in one hand, and the throttle in the other, the kick of the catapult, the weightlessness of those negative G's, and for an second, his smile turned bittersweet. He may have found another rush, but he'd never again know the charge of flying a fighter in combat. The thought suddenly left him strangely empty.

He forced himself to keep smiling, and nodded to Nyala. "Sounds good to me."

Jeanne squeezed his arm and patted his back. "That's all good, hon, but you need to shower and change. Party starts in half an hour. I gotta run there and meet Jerry, so don't waste any time!"

"All right. See you there," he called to Jeanne's retreating back. "Well, she's on cloud nine," he told Nyala.

"So were you, till a second ago..."

Harm tossed his head, indicating for her to follow. "Still am. Just beat, all of a sudden. I'm not used to do this for ninety minutes on end," he replied evasively. "How long do those premiere parties usually last?"

Nyala chuckled. "Usually? All night. Papers come out at about 1am, so reviews are read around then. If it's good, the party goes on. If not..."

Harm sighed wearily as he pushed the door to his dressing room open. He quickly placed his guitar back in its stand, and went directly to the small fridge in the corner, ignoring the bottle of Cristal chilling in an ice-filled silver bucket. He grabbed a litre of Naya bottled water from the fridge and polished it off in two long gulps.

"Thirsty, are we?" Nyala asked with a wink.

"Yeah, and downing Champagne like that is a) a crime, and b) a recipe for me to be sick before I even get to the party."

"I take it you don't like it?" she asked, taking a seat on the sofa, eyeing him carefully. He may have managed to fly under Jeanne's radar for once, but certainly not under hers.

He flopped to an armchair and pulled the bottle out of the ice, silently asking her if she'd like some. She nodded.

"No, I do. It's just..." he trailed, as he twisted the wire off of the cork, toying with it for a few seconds, again lost in his thoughts.

"You need something stronger?" she asked softly, sensing his mood shift.

He cast a puzzled gaze on her, smiling thinly, trying vainly to mask his discomfort. "Wh.. why would you say that?"

"I saw the look in your eyes change. They say eyes are windows to the soul. Yours are... windows to a mystery."

Harm sighed deeply. She hadn't asked a single question, nor put any kind of pressure on him, and yet, somehow, he wanted to tell her why he was suddenly depressed. But that conversation would have to wait, because it would take a whole lot more than the twenty or so minutes Jeanne had given him.

He warmed the cork in his hands for a few seconds, loosening it. Finally, he dragged his eyes up to meet hers. "I can't get into this now. It would take too long, and it's not exactly a pretty story. Can we... Can we get a very late dinner, once this thing is over? I mean, that is... if you want to talk?"

Nyala smiled. "Sure. It'll be my pleasure, as long as you don't mind me disappearing to turn in my article. I still have to give you that official gold star," she added, with a wink and a smirk.

Her playful expression warmed his heart. He felt his earlier joy returning, just because of her. "Fine with me. How long do you need?"

"Give me twenty minutes to finish my notes and organize them, another ten to turn them into an article, and five to fax them."

Harm's eyes went wide. "That fast?"

Nyala tossed her head. "I always write best under pressure, and my first draft is always the best. Makes for fast writing."

"I bet it does. I was the same way, when I worked on my closing arguments... So, should we share a glass of this stuff before I get cleaned up?"

"Of course!"

The cork popped and Harm quickly poured them each a glass. He smiled as he handed Nyala a glass, amazed at how good he felt around her.

Careful, Hammer, you're falling for her...

The thought surfaced unwarranted as her hand softly brushed against his, and in that brief instant, her face was shadowed by the ghost of two others, bearing the same eyes. He pushed the thought back, and forced himself to see only the slender and graceful Nyala, with her deep passion, and a bare hint of an accent he couldn't quite place. She truly was beautiful, but it wasn't a Hollywood type beauty, enhanced by make-up and clothes. She reminded him more of a wild animal, a miraculous cross of gazelle-like grace and feline confidence. He too, knew very little about her, other than the name of her father, her passion for jazz and foreign languages, and a deep bond with her little sister. She too, was a mystery, and he suddenly found himself wanting to know the woman hiding behind the panther's gaze.

"Shall we make a toast?" she asked, her head lightly cocked to the side, studying him.

He rose his glass, and in a moment, the decision was made. It was time to leave the rest of the past behind, and to let go of Sarah Mackenzie.

"To new roads," he said, his voice soft and velvety.

Nyala returned his smile and clinked her glass to his. "To new roads, and to wherever they may lead."

Harm tipped the glass against his lips and took a sip, never taking his eyes off Nyala. She held his gaze, but he saw the hand holding her glass tremble ever so slightly.

He quickly drained his flute and set it carefully beside the silver bucket. "I better get ready," he said, still watching her.

"Yeah," Nyala replied somewhat stiffly. "I, ah, should get my article done. See you there?"

"I'm the guest of honor, remember?" Harm said, a light smirk on his features.

A fleeting moment of confusion and self-recrimination darkened her eyes, but her easy smile returned quickly. "Yeah, of course you are... I'd better get my article done in the meantime."

And with that, she made a hasty retreat. Once the door was securely locked, he quickly stripped his "show" clothes off and stepped into the small bathroom. He turned on the shower, and as he waited for the water to warm up, he leaned over the sink and stared at his reflection. It was time, wasn't it?

What I want most, Mac, is never to lose you...

It didn't matter anymore. He hadn't lost her; not as a friend, at least, but she was still lost to him in the sense that had mattered most. He had only himself to blame for his silence, and he had learned his lesson. He wouldn't let love pass him by again. Love. That one word carried incredible power, and it still scared him. But twice, he'd loved in silence, and the pain of loss had been almost unbearable.

Deep inside, he knew he was slowly but surely falling for Nyala Lyon, and if her reaction was any indication, she felt it too. He knew if he'd let himself, he could probably fall completely, and love her. So much of his life had changed in the past year and a half, and yet, a lot of it was the same: people barely knew the man behind the façade, whether a stage name or a uniform, and suddenly, he was tired of it, tired of placing everyone ahead of him. He deserved some happiness, and maybe the lithe, elegant Kenyan-American music journalist was all he needed.

 

0734 ZULU - 0234 EST
LINCOLN THEATER MAIN RECEPTION HALL

 

The party was slowly beginning to die down, and Harm was infinitely glad. He was truly and completely exhausted. As planned, the reviews had been good. His mother had been ecstatic, and her husband impressed. They had left soon after the reviews had been read, with promises to meet for dinner.

Harriet and Bud had also taken their leave a few minutes before. They had to get at least some sleep before catching the morning shuttle to DC. Harm had been surprised that the admiral had given them the afternoon off to come to New York to see him, but according to Harriet, the admiral had gotten over his anger at him, and was sending his good wishes, and so was the colonel.

Harm had nodded his thanks and had left it at that, his eyes still scanning the crowd for Nyala. He hadn't seen her yet. He felt a hint of disappointment, but he knew she wouldn't have left without good reason.

"So, now that the dust's had a chance to settle, how do you feel?" Jeanne asked from behind his elbow.

He threw a look over his shoulder before slowly turning towards her, and snorted. "Jeanne, right now, I'm so tired I'm seriously having trouble remembering what name to use. Ask me tomorrow."

Jeanne handed him a tumbler, shaking her head with a smile. "Riiiight," she drawled. "Bourbon. I know you haven't had a drink yet, but I insist. To a brilliant career," she toasted, tilting her own glass to his.

He chuckled as he tossed back the bourbon in one sip. "Seriously, though," he said, once the fire in his throat had lessened. "I feel great. I'm really beginning to love this. I mean, not the..." He trailed off as he caught sight of the woman who'd held his thoughts for the last few hours.

"I was wondering where you'd disappeared to," he said, in lieu of a greeting.

"Got cornered by my editor. Afraid I'd stand you up?" Nyala asked, crossing her long arms and tucking her hands underneath.

Harm rose from his chair and gave her the first true, genuine smile he'd felt like giving in months, narrowing his eyes just a little. He could almost feel Jeanne's ears perk up at Nyala's remark, but he pointedly ignored her.

"No, just starving," he said, once again locking his eyes on her deep brown ones. "So," he continued, offering her his arm, "where might we go and get a decent meal at this time of night?"

"Ah, I hate to spoil your fun," Jeanne cut in, "but-"

"So don't," Harm finished for her. "This is my night, Jeanne, and we're leaving. Now," he said firmly. After a brief instant, a cocky twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Call it my first star's whim."

With that, he strode purposefully towards the exit, Nyala in tow, leaving Jeanne gaping like a fish.

"So, where to?" he asked again, as they reached the street.

"Come on. I know a place."

*******

0356 EST - 0956 ZULU
TRATTORIA DA MICHELA
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

 

Harm gazed out the window at the sky. There were hints that it was about to start to lighten, as it turned from deep midnight blue to a soft, almost velvety indigo. The little trattoria Nyala had brought him to was a gem in its own right, if only just because it was still open at this insane hour. But again, this was New York.

Harm drained the last of his wine and sighed softly, as he kept an eye towards the ladies' room, waiting for Nyala to reappear. The conversation had been light as they ate, and mainly centered on the show. Harm had a feeling that was about to change. He'd felt Nyala's eyes on him, carefully studying him, as if trying to figure him out. She hadn't asked a single personal question, but yet, he wanted to tell her what she wanted to know, about his Navy career, about his father and his brother, about his friends--

"Those thoughts look mighty deep, Darren."

Harm started slightly. They'd agreed on using his stage name whenever they were in public, for obvious reasons.

"No. Just... thinking," he replied, a somewhat shy smile on his lips.

"So, are you ready to talk?" she asked as she nodded to the waiter bringing their coffee.

He took a sip of the hot liquid before asking. "What do you want to know?"

"The girdle. What's that oak leaf and chain design?"

Harm leaned back slightly in his chair, toying with the edge of the tablecloth. "It's a JAG insignia. It's the symbol all Navy lawyers wear on their uniform to identify them as part of the Judge Advocate General's corps. Line officers wear stars instead," he explained. "Those three designs symbolize all three parts of my life: the Naval aviator wings for the time I flew F-14s, the JAG insignia, for obvious reasons, and the tritone, well..."

"For the music."

"Not just that. Last summer, after I resigned and found out I couldn't get back, a good friend of mine took me to this club we used to go to, when we were at Annapolis. That's where Jeanne *found* me, if you can call it that. Club's name is Tritone Connections."

Nyala shrugged a little and cocked her head. "I see why it means so much to you. But, why were you so... bitter after the show?"

Harm drew in a deep breath. He wanted to tell her, but would she understand? He felt a familiar twinge of fear, the same one he always got when he was about to bare his soul to anyone, but he pushed it back. He was moving on. Period. No more regrets.

"It really felt good, on stage. I mean, I loved it there. There's only one thing that ever made me feel that good, and it's something I'll never do again." The same hurt he'd felt then resurfaced, and he let his eyes wander to the still-dark sky.

"You loved to fly, didn't you?"

He gave her a wan smile. "Oh, yeah. And I was so damned *good* at it... It's like nothing else, Nyala. It's... I can't really explain it."

"No need to. I understand. I know about losing something you love," she said softly, covering his hand with hers. He looked up, slightly surprised. She did understand, yet he had no idea why. She was still a complete mystery to him.

He nodded. "You do?" he asked quietly.

It was her turn to take a deep breath, and for a spell, he was afraid he'd asked one question too many. "Look, if you don't want to--"

"No. It's only fair. I don't like to talk about it, but it's all right. You know I was born in Kenya?"

"Yeah."

"And you can probably tell, my mother was white. Segregation was still the norm in those years, so when they married, my mother became an outcast. Daddy worked in the coffee plantations, and mum made a living teaching piano to the white rich kids, until the parents found out she was married to a black man. She died not long after Amara was born, and things turned even uglier then. Her parents blamed daddy for her death. She carried a black man's child, so she couldn't go to the white hospital. I don't even know what she died from. But my grandparents blamed daddy, and threatened to kill him. His family didn't see him in any better light, so they didn't help us either. So we came here. I was fourteen, and Amara was two. Daddy began to sing in the clubs in New York, to earn some money for us to live. And then, one day, someone offered him a contract, and as they say, the rest is history. But... Kenya was my home. And we can never go back."

"I lost my dad when I was six."

"I know. The piece Dunston did--"

"Doesn't say much." And before Harm knew what had happened, he'd told Nyala about his father's strange journey, about his brother, and incidentally, about Mac, and their enigmatic relationship. He hadn't meant to, but he had. And Nyala had listened to every word. As the sun rose, Harm stopped talking, his throat raw, his mind spent.

"You loved her," Nyala said simply.

To his own surprise, he nodded. "Yeah, I did. But I'm all right with that, now." He was surprised to find that he truly meant it. For the first time, he truly felt free of the strange force that had linked his life to Mac's for so long. He still cared about her happiness, and she would remain a friend it they ever crossed paths again, but somehow, without his notice, the wound had healed.

So, he met Nyala's gaze, his own eyes calm. "I did, once. Past tense.."

Slowly, he reached for her hand. "We... should get going. The sun's coming up."

"We should..." she trailed, as his fingers closed over hers. He rose and brought her to her feet, never releasing her hand. He helped her slip her jacket on, only letting go of her fingers when he had to.

He escorted her outside, staying half a step behind her, his hand resting on the small of her back. When they reached the sidewalk, Harm scanned the street for a cab, but none were in sight. He turned towards her to find her again studying him.

"What?"

"You... fascinate me."

"Is that a compliment?" he asked with a hint of a smile as his other arm surrounded her waist, his heart beating just a little faster.

"It is," she replied, a bit breathless. "When I met you... You fascinated me then. I'd listened to you sing, and... The emotions in you, they are so powerful, but you... you're quiet, calm, and so strong... But tonight, you let me see who you are inside, and I let you in too. No one knows this much about me. In Swahili, there is a word for a man like you. It means Silent Warrior," she said, her slight Kenyan accent more pronounced than usual.

"What is it?" he asked, his eyes lost in the intensity of hers, almost without his notice, he cocked his head and he drew her closer, her small frame molding to his.

"Kamau," she whispered, a moment before their lips met.

His arms tightened around her, and his right hand traveled up her back to the base of her neck, as hers snaked under his arms and back up onto his shoulders. He felt her quiver slightly in his arms, as he ran his tongue on the seam of her lips, and he too shivered when she returned the gesture.

When they drew back from each other, there was nothing but tenderness in his eyes. He brushed his fingers against her cheek, and she smiled warmly at him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a cab and he flicked a hand, signaling it to stop.

"I had a great time tonight," he said softly.

She cocked her head, her smile widening, and a cascade of laughter escaped her lips. Before he could even frown in confusion, she reached a hand towards his face and brushed her deep red lipstick off his mouth.

"So did I. "

"We should... Can..." He blew out an explosive sigh. "I'd like to see you again, like this," he said, his eyes leaving no confusion as to his intent.

"I'd like that too. Share a cab?" she asked, turning towards the yellow car.

"No, thanks. I'll walk back. Dinner, tonight, at the Plaza?" he asked.

"Sure."

"There's a catch," he warned.

"What? You're bringing Jeanne?"

Harm rolled his eyes. "No. My mother and her husband..."

Nyala's eyes widened, and he could almost feel her uneasiness.

"Don't worry... I mean... I... She... owns an art gallery and I think... I mean, the two of you... It's just she's in town only for a couple days, and..."

Nyala couldn't hold it any longer, and she burst out laughing. "Relax. It's all right. I've actually been to the Burnett Gallery, three weeks ago, for an opening. She recognised me from the ZBS piece and told me who she was," she explained, her eyes twinkling.

Harm shook his head and sighed. "Just what did I get myself into?" he asked as he opened the cab door.

Nyala gave him a crooked smile. "I'm not exactly sure, but I'd like to find out."

He smiled back. "So would I. Thanks for tonight."

"You're welcome, Kamau. Good night, or I should say good morning," she amended, as the sun's rays hit a window across the street, bathing them in a burning orange light.

Harm closed the cab door and watched it pull away from the curb, his heart incredibly light, an easy smile on his lips. When it rounded the corner, he started walking towards Central Park. He was bone-tired, and mentally exhausted, but he was happy, and the last thing he felt like doing was going to bed. As he crossed the street and headed into the park, he couldn't help but be glad that his life had taken on a new road.

 

0622 EST
CLAYTON WEBB'S APPARTMENT
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

 

Mac took a sip from her cup of coffee, flipped the pages of the Post to the arts section and froze. Bud and Harriet had told her about the show, but... A kiss on the back of her neck interrupted her thoughts.

"Morning. Is that... Is that Rabb?" Clay asked from behind her, clearly incredulous.

Mac snorted. "Yes, it is. Where have you been living, Clay? Harm's had an album out since last fall. Even won an award for it."

"Hmm..." Clay scoffed, somewhere between contempt and indifference. "So that's what he turned the Agency down for? Whatever works, I guess."

Mac twisted in her chair to look at Clay. "Come on, you know he wouldn't have fit into your world. How many times have you said so yourself?"

Clay sighed and gestured his surrender. "You're right, as usual. It's just... I can't picture him in that role."

"Well, if you believe the critics, he's very good."

Clay looked at her suspiciously. "You've never heard him sing?"

Mac avoided his gaze and concentrated on the paper in front of her, but it didn't help. Even in black and white, she could almost feel the accusation in his eyes. In truth, she'd heard one of his songs on the radio once. The one everyone talked about. "You Never Even Let My Heart Explain."

How could she explain it to them? How could she tell them it was her fault he was gone? How could she tell them she did love him, but it was just too hard to face him and tell him so?

"Clay, Harm and I didn't exactly part on the best of terms. I mean, we've exchanged Christmas cards, but we aren't speaking. He has his life, I have mine. And besides, I'm not a big jazz fan," she told the spook, trying to convince him as much as herself.

Clay saw her statement for exactly what it was, but chose to let it drop. Rabb's loss, his gain. He and Sarah had been happy together in the past year and a half, and he wasn't about to let the ghost of a past-imagined relationship get between them.

"Okay. I'm sorry I made it into more than it is."

"You didn't," she replied, as she felt his arms slip around her shoulders. If only it were true.

*********

Chapter Five

SEPTEMBER 23RD
0553 ZULU - 2153 LOCAL
INTERSTATE 5
NEAR SANTA ANA
CALIFORNIA

 

He felt a strong urge to close his eyes. The velvety summer air was caressing his face and the even rumble of the car engine exercised a strong effect on his soul. Out on the carrier, this kind of noise had been every day's lullaby. And a good night's rest was what he had been craving for weeks now.

However, at 90 mph, Harm decided he'd better get a grip. Hopefully, he'd soon find the necessary calm to power down a bit and finally relax. Turning his head slightly to the left, where the last reminders of sunset were painting the sky a pale violet, he took a deep breath of hopeful contentment as he attached his cell phone to the 'Vette's speakerphone, then pulled over to the right lane and slowed down to reduce the noise the wind would cause in the mike.

A slight smile playing on his lips, he speed-dialled Nyala's home number. This was different from any relationship he'd ever had so far. Although they had been going out regularly ever since the Lincoln concert and were getting along fabulously, they were still nowhere near to where he had been with Annie or Jordan or Renée. Outwardly, they gave every proof imaginable of moving towards 'the real thing'. Several times a day, they would call each other or at least, if one of them was too caught up in work, exchange a few emails. Whenever Nyala made it to San Diego, she was sure to drop by, and so would he, whenever business called him to L.A. They'd share lovely dinners that often led to night-long talks about almost everything. Or they'd just take long walks on the beach, hand in hand, without saying anything at all, just being happy that the other was there and that they were so comfortable together.

And yet, strange as it seemed, he couldn't deny it: both of them were still incredibly shy around each other. After the searing kiss that had initiated their relationship in March, there had been very few moments of similar closeness. Apart from the regular 'hello' and 'goodbye' kisses, holding hands or caressing each other's cheeks, hugging or having her sit on his lap when they watched a movie was as close as they'd get. True, occasionally a harmless contact would get a little out of hand and they'd find themselves wrapped in each other's arms, about to take it further than they ever had. However, it had never happened. And more strangely still, Harm felt he was wonderfully comfortable with the situation.

During the first few weeks after the concert, he had had occasional moments of doubt. Was he doing the right thing? Was he really ready to move on? Wouldn't his feelings for Nyala turn out to be compensation for having lost Mac in the end? Should he - could he really do this to Nyala? As insecure as he had been about his feelings for her, one thing was sure: he cared far too deeply to ever intentionally hurt her.

But as time had passed, Harm had finally begun to trust his insight again. After having made the wrong choices for far too long, he had slowly re-learned to understand the ways of his own soul, and he felt he was, slowly but steadily, nearing the point where he could finally rely on his heart's decisions. And at some point within the past few weeks, his heart had started telling him that he could dare take the next step if she was willing to follow.

However, the discovery was still too fresh to risk a disruption. So Harm still complied with the cute, old-fashioned routine they had unconsciously established: whenever one of them was around after a certain time of the day, they'd first call and ask their significant other if dropping by was convenient or not.

Sturgis had laughed heartily when Harm had told him about this peculiar arrangement. And he couldn't even blame him. It was as unlike him as anything. But, oddly, it felt all right. Maybe this is what growing up is all about, he mused, chuckling, as he waited for her to pick up the phone.

[Hi, this is Nyala. Please leave a message.] Beep.

Trying to rid his voice of the acute disappointment he was feeling, he answered with a smile, "Habari, Swala. I just wanted to let you know that I'm about fifteen minutes away and that I was looking forward to some freshly-brewed Kenyan Peaberry. Well," he let out a sigh, "Apparently, you're not in, so... uh... I guess I'll just turn around and..."

[Hi!] She was breathless but her voice was ringing with joy. [I had dinner with Amara and only got home about twenty minutes ago. I was in the shower when you called, I'm sorry.]

Somehow, the thought of Nyala wrapped in a towel, running to catch him on the phone, was a little unsettling. Unconsciously, he cleared his throat. "Oh, ah... sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. I just thought... Are you decent?"

[By all means, come over! But I thought you were supposed to work on your new album?]

"Theoretically, yes. But my 'Vette needed a ride and I needed some fresh air and some of your gorgeous coffee." And a heavy dose of your good humour, he added silently, frowning.

She gasped audibly. [You're driving all the way up to L.A. this late, just because you need some of my coffee?] she asked, trying to keep her voice light, but failing to mask her shock.

Hearing her voice alone lifted the weight off his soul. "Hey, don't tell me you're that surprised that I might want to see you," he retorted in mock indignation, chuckling.

The silence that followed his statement lasted only for two seconds - but it spoke volumes. ["Umm, no, 'course not,"] she eventually stuttered. Then he heard her draw a decided breath and could almost see her shake her head as if to clear it. [Coffee's a-brewin',] she said merrily, her melodious laughter threatening to break through and warming his heart. [Kwaheri!] The line went dead before he could even answer.

Still smiling, Harm stepped on the gas and enjoyed the wind that was still warm, hot almost, on his face. All evening, storm-clouds had been darkening his mind, like they had for the better part of the past week. They hadn't seen each other for almost ten days, Nyala having been away to report from some minor grunge festival in San Francisco. Goto Hell again, he thought with a grin. She seemed to be stuck with writing about them, poor thing - and he knew how she loathed groupie talk.

Not wanting to upset her any further, he had just played the happy guy home, telling her he was getting along just fine and being honest only about the 'miss you' part.

And miss her he did. Dreadfully. He was suffering the by far worst case of songwriter's block he'd ever gone through, and recording time was nearing mercilessly. All he lacked was one lousy song - but as it was, it would need to be perfect. Jeanne wanted it to be the piece that would be published as his first single - and, what was worse still, his first video clip. When she had told him about her idea, all enthusiastic, he had choked on his saliva.

"Jeanne, beg your pardon, but... are you crazy?! Have you ever heard of a jazz video?"

"Oh, ne t'inquiètes pas, mon cher. Didn't you notice you're about to pull a Nigel Kennedy if you write another song like You never even let my heart explain?"

"I'm about to pull a what?"

She had laughed in his face, actually patting him on the cheek. "Come on, you know Nigel Kennedy!"

He frowned. "Sure I do. The weirdest classical violinist I've ever come by."

"Yes, and you know what? His interpretation of Vivaldi's Four Seasons was number one in the charts for weeks. The 'real' charts, I mean. If he can do it with classical music, you're going to do it with your Soul Jazz, hon."

He hadn't talked to her for a full ten days.

He knew Jeanne's idea of featuring a single and doing a video wasn't too far-fetched. A poll had recently brought to light that more than fifty percent of his fans were young adults and women. Just the greedy peer group who were known to plunge into star worship.

Just the greedy peer group he was so damned afraid of. Just the people he didn't want to share his emotions with.

But he knew he couldn't just quit. Not again. He had been thrown out of the life he had chosen from the start. He had built up a successful second career - and thrown it away, it didn't matter what for. Against all odds, here was life number three, apparently starting to flourish. There wouldn't be a fourth one.

So if he had to go through with it and do what his producer asked of him, he wanted the song to be one that needed no concessions. A hundred percent him, like the one that had been born out of a moment's inspiration. It wasn't only Jeanne's high expectations that seemed to be squashing him. It was his own determination not to be pressed into a pre-designed drawer. If he had to go mainstream - and be it only in the least bit - it would be his mainstream, something he would be able to identify with and be proud of.

But he had learned the hard lesson that inspiration wasn't repeatable on command. While the work on the new album had proceeded to everyone's satisfaction, bringing out more refined details of his style, he hadn't yet found the one idea that met his demands. Jeanne was slowly getting nervous about it. They were supposed to start recording four weeks from now, and still no single note of the title song was written. She had proposed several of his other pieces for the single but Harm would have none of it. It would be perfection - or it would be nothing at all.

More than once, Nyala had changed from the calm and peaceful gazelle to an angry lioness defending her family, furiously giving Jeanne a hard time about what the pressure was doing to Harm. She wouldn't accept Jeanne's excuses that most of the stress was self-inflicted.

"Harm would never sell his soul by mass-producing!" she had yelled at the stunned producer, "And you knew it when you first offered him a contract! So don't you tell me it's not your fault he beats himself up about it the way he does!"

Jeanne had actually postponed the recording date for another week after Nyala's last outburst, just before Nyala had had to leave for San Francisco. So Harm had done everything in his power to repay the debt he owed his girlfriend, cheering her up when she was frustrated and telling her that work was proceeding just fine, now that the pressure had lessened.

He had wanted to surprise her with his new song when she returned, but for entire nights, he had only sat there, strumming a few chords, his mind as void as could be. Seeking help with her tonight was his last straw.

I need you to inspire me, Swala. Please, don't let me down.

 

0618 ZULU - 2218 Local
Nyala's Apartment
Anaheim, California

 

"You're lucky, coffee's just ready," she said instead of a greeting, rising on tiptoe to kiss him.

Harm had wanted to keep up his earlier lightness of heart but the moment he felt her so near he simply wasn't able to. He pulled her close almost desperately, burying his nose in her hair, taking in her scent, trying to steady his racing heart. Finally, his world was all right again. He was home.

He felt her freeze a little in his embrace, but after a few seconds of shock at his unexpected display of emotions, her body molded to his and she returned the hug, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh.

"Hujambo, Kamau," she murmured against his chest.

"Sijambo," he answered just as low. "Yeah, now I'm fine, thank you."

She drew back a little, worry shining in her eyes as she searched his expression. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked, drawing him into the apartment and making him sit down on the couch. He never released his hold of her until he had drawn her right onto his lap, his arms encircling her slender figure. He needed to feel her close.

When he didn't answer for a moment, she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Okay, I think I know. Jeanne, I'm going to get you for this one. Nimekasirika," she swore under her breath.

"What's that?" he asked with a slight lopsided smile.

"You wouldn't want to know," she said, her good humor getting the upper hand, an answering smile spreading on her face. He let himself relax against the backrest as she hugged him again.

"Now, do I get that coffee I'm here for?" he asked in feigned impatience.

"Just because you're being so nice to me," she quipped with one eyebrow up high. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and vanished into the kitchen. "Would you turn on the stereo, please?" she called over her shoulder.

Curious, he complied. A moment later, an interesting mix of Afro-Caribbean reggae and East African rhythms and harmonies softly turned the room into an exotic, far-away place. Only now did he notice that she had dimmed the lights and opened her balcony door to let in the slight evening breeze. A strange feeling of calm and peace invaded his mind, and he flopped back onto the couch, finally closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

"You needed that, didn't you?" she softly shook him from his daydreams, sitting down beside him and handing him a cup with the very beverage whose perfume fused perfectly into the atmosphere that music, lighting and evening breeze were creating.

"Yeah, I did..." he conceded wearily. "Wow. Multi-sensorial soul soothing. Thank you."

"Harm," she started hesitantly, just a hint of reproach shining through her words, "Why didn't you tell me you were having such a hard time?"

His guilty conscience made him swallow before he could answer. "You were so stressed, Ny. I didn't want to upset you any further."

A sad expression crossed her face and she shook her head ever so slightly. "You still don't get it, do you?" she said softly. "This leaning-on thing is supposed to be mutual. Harmon Rabb the hero won't die from having weak moments, you know..."

"I'm having one right now, just in case you didn't notice," he answered in a whisper, unable to muster enough strength to smile.

Nyala set her mug onto the table and cupped his face with her hands. "I did," she said simply. "And I'm glad you're here. I missed you."

"Same here, Swala," he breathed, again closing his eyes and reveling in her soft touch.

She suppressed a chuckle, and the moment was over. Slightly confused, he studied her expression as she took up her cup again, grinning as if in malicious joy.

"What?"

"Where did you dig up that word?" she asked. "Earlier, on the phone, I thought I'd misheard you."

Pleased by her reaction, he explained, "I stumbled over a documentary the other night, on the Serengeti National Park. Those Impala antelopes were so cute and graceful they reminded me of you. And when they mentioned their Swahili name, it just stuck..."

"You know, this is kind of funny," she told him, snuggling up to him and letting herself be embraced once he had put down his mug. "There was this girl on the plantation daddy worked on, back in Kenya. She was a little older than I, and I admired her to no end. Her father was the foreman, and they were incredibly condescending towards us. She didn't like me, but that didn't stop me from wanting to be just like her. Her father always called her 'Swala'. She hated it. And as I grew older and wiser, I loved him for upsetting her with it."

"Hey, I didn't know you had a vindictive character."

"Under very good regulation - as long as you don't provoke me."

"Careful. I could just start calling you 'Ngiri'."

"Warthog?" she gasped, turning in his embrace and throwing a cushion in his face. "Don't - you - dare," she threatened him, laughing and squirming in his arms as he started to tickle her for revenge. "Now who's being vindictive?"

"Under very good regulation," he retorted, laughing himself. Shifting slightly, he managed to pin her between himself and the backrest of the couch, effectively stilling her movements.

For a few moments, their gazes fought a battle of challenge until she eventually surrendered. "All right, you win. This time," she added, new mischief sparkling in her eyes.

"Uh huh," he drawled. Then, sobering a little, he asked, "Should I stop calling you that?"

"No, I like the way you pronounce it. Your American accent smoothes the sound. And besides, Impalas happen to be my favorite."

"All right then," he said gently, caressing her cheek with his hand and sighing. "I really did need this. I haven't felt this good in weeks. Thank you, Swala."

"Anytime." The way she looked up at him with her huge brown eyes moved him deeply. Caring and trust shone in them - and he became aware that looking at them didn't hurt anymore at all. To him, they were Nyala's eyes now, and no memory had a right to claim possession of the picture anymore. That was when he knew he had crossed the bridge in full.

"So you've come for my Kenyan Peaberry, have you?" she asked him with a wink.

"Yes, I have," he acknowledged. "And for something else," he added, mock innuendo ringing in his voice.

"Oh, really?" She took up the game. "Now, what might that be?"

"I need a piano and someone who can play," he stated as matter-of-factly as he could. "You learned to, didn't you?"

The way she opened her mouth and snapped it shut again, taken aback, told him that his shift of tone had caught her completely off-guard. Gotcha, he thought.

"Er... yes," she made, and he could see she was trying to regroup. She gently freed herself from his embrace and sat up again, reaching for her mug. "Well?"

He made himself comfortable sitting again and then heaved a sigh, sobering and knowing that now the hard part was about to follow. "I'm stuck on that last song, Ny," he confessed in a low voice. "I tried to tackle it from every angle I could think of, but... I've run out of ideas."

"Don't say that," she contradicted him, gently but firmly. "I know that feeling. It's the same with my articles. Sometimes, you just think there's nothing new you could possibly write about, and all things seem to have been said a hundred times over. And yet, you'll find something new to put into words, and most of the times where you'd least have expected it."

"That's what I've been hoping for the last three weeks, but I just can't see where I could search anymore." He defiantly crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Look, I've dug up every last heartache I've been through and turned it into a song. Jeanne wants emotions and I don't want to lie. So, what would you do if you were in my place?"

She was silent for quite some time, apparently lost in thought, and for the first time tonight he had the opportunity to really look at her. Her curly hair was still just a little damp from the shower, making a few all-too reluctant curls escape the bun she had lazily pinned them up in. It struck him as kind of odd that he hadn't noticed before how little she was actually wearing. Because of the heat, all she had donned were a pair of light yellow shorts and a matching spaghetti-strap shirt. She had tucked her bare feet under a cushion and from the side, he admired her long, slender legs, the caffè-latte color of her skin contrasting beautifully with the pale lemon color of her clothing. Her shirt was hugging her body in the right places. All of a sudden, Harm felt a strong urge to have her close - but he remained rooted just where he was. Everything between them had come up naturally. So would this, eventually.

"Tell me about Mac," she suddenly said, never looking at him.

He started, surprised. "What about her?" he said warily, dreading what she might be getting at.

She looked up and met his gaze. She was calm and composed, but knowing her as he did, the fear she tried to mask didn't escape his notice.

"From what I've gathered so far, you've been through so much together," she said guardedly. "There should be a whole truckload of different emotions in there, enough to supply a whole songwriter's career."

His admiration for her doubled in an instant if that was even possible. Nyala knew well that he had never completely dealt with his feelings for his former colleague. And he suspected she could sense that Mac would always hold a special place in his heart - be the affair laid to rest or not. He suspected Nyala loved him. She hadn't told him in words, but she had never tried to mask her expression when she was near him. She had to feel that the history he shared with Mac might endanger any feelings he might ever have for another woman.

Every other woman he had known had always tried to make him forget Sarah Mackenzie even existed. And here was Nyala Lyon, obviously afraid something might come to life within him again when he faced the past, something that might ultimately tear them apart. And yet, just because she wanted to help him, she encouraged him to do just what she feared most, regardless of what it might do to her.

If there was love in this world, this was it. Harm decided that if she trusted him to that extent, he would take the lead she had offered, vowing to himself that in the end, Nyala would find him still by her side - and more securely than ever.

He took her hand and with his thumb caressed the smooth skin on its back. "What do you want to know?"

She took a shaky breath and gave him a small smile, letting him know she knew he had figured her out. "What we need for the kind of song you have in mind is a moment of intense emotion. Preferably one that has many different aspects but lets one strong feeling prevail. This way, you get the verses - and you know what to do about the chorus."

He was thrilled. You make simple things complicated... Dammit, Mac, you were right.

Obviously, this very recollection did bring to mind a whole lot of conflicting emotions as the buried images resurfaced. Only when he heard Nyala suppress a groan did he realize that he was squashing her hand, trying to steel himself against any possible emotional impact.

Immediately, he brought her hand to his lips. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know. Now, think again. Can you come up with a situation that tells a story that will draw people in?"

"There are a few, actually," he said, pondering which of the many borderline situations he had faced Mac in would be the most fitting. "You say that one feeling should prevail in the end. Should that be a positive or a negative one?"

Nyala cocked her head to one side, frowning in concentration as she apparently tried to combine different emotional displays to different musical manifestations of his style. "You never even let my heart explain was very sad and disillusioned, as are most of your songs," she mused. "I think people might like to see the situation somewhat reversed. Try to start with the sadness and the anger and come out with something positive instead. Can you think of anything of the sort?"

Positive... In his relationship with Mac, there had been many positive moments - but too few positive outcomes. He might describe the relief he had felt at finding and rescuing her. But the outcome had been devastating. He might dwell on the problem of never having had the time to start a family and then get to their deal... but he doubted people would understand what he was getting at. And if they did, he doubted they'd approve. So, what situation had actually brought light to previous darkness?

Darkness.

Suddenly, he knew what story he was going to tell people in his new song. If he managed to capture it in words.

Excited, he got up and pulled Nyala up with him, seeing her surprise at his sudden enthusiasm. He turned off the stereo and then led her over to the piano and opened it, sitting down beside her on the bench.

She looked at him in a frightened way. "Harm, I... I've never played for anyone but myself. I don't know if..."

Placing his arm around her shoulders, he gently squeezed her for a second and then pleadingly looked at her. "I need you in this, Ny. It's you who gave me the idea, and without you I won't be able to pull through. I'm scared," he confessed in a low voice. "Please, help me with this."

Swallowing, she nodded slowly. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. But only this once, okay?"

"Deal. So, here's the story: I've told you about Diane, haven't I?" he began.

"Your Academy love who was murdered before you got the chance to tell her?" she asked.

"Exactly. Now, you remember that I told you that Mac might have been a physical carbon copy of her, right?" He could barely contain his eagerness to make her see the potential of the moment he was about to describe. If this was what dealing with emotional baggage was about, he was actually looking forward to the ride.

Nyala nodded, slight shock causing her eyes to widen. "Yeah, now that you mention it... But there's more to that than just the shock when you got to know Mac, right?" she asked, still wary.

"Yes, there is," he confirmed. "What I haven't told you yet is that I did actually find out who killed Diane, about two years after the crime. But the evidence I had would have been inadmissible in court. So there was no way in hell I could have nailed her killer." Even now, telling her the story in completely different circumstances, Harm felt the old rage resurfacing. And for once, he didn't fight it. This was just the mood he needed to create a generic artistic rendering of that night.

"So I decided to take justice into my own hands," he confessed darkly, making Nyala gasp in shock. "I was ready to kill him for what he had done to me and to her," he went on, letting his thoughts and emotions drag him away to a dark and rainy night on a pier in Norfolk, and sensing that slowly, Nyala was beginning to feel what he felt, to share his pain, his anger and his false hope of laying the dreadful matter at rest. She was listening breathlessly.

"But just as I was about to leave to meet with the man, Mac showed up at my place to talk about a case," he explained. "She saw my weapon and immediately sensed that something was terribly wrong. She wouldn't be deterred; she dug for information until I had told her the whole story. I managed to outwit her and get away, but she wouldn't let me have my will." Harm noted his voice had become slightly breathless, but he couldn't stop himself. The memories had developed some kind of a dynamic by themselves.

"She found out where I was meeting the guy under false pretense, and she came out to the pier to stop me from killing him. She had been drenched by the heavy rain before, so when she was at the office with our colleague, researching for info about who might be my target, my colleague offered her one of his wife's spare Navy uniforms. That's how she showed up on the pier..."

"... and the illusion was complete," Nyala cut in, her voice trembling as she understood the weird trick fate had played him that night.

He nodded. "It was foggy that night, and the way she suddenly appeared out of the mist, she really seemed like Diane's ghost coming to haunt her murderer," Harm went on, tightening his hold of Nyala's hand as he felt her tremble. "He freaked out and fell into the water, where he was crushed against the pier by his ship. But that's not what I wanted to tell you about. What I was getting at was my own reaction to the apparition: for a moment, I mistook her, too... and the moment I kissed Diane goodbye for one last time, I started to recognize what Mac meant to me. That night, she saved my soul, Ny, and for that, I'll forever owe her, regardless of what may have happened afterwards. And that's what I want people to know."

Nyala's look was one of plain awe. It took her a few seconds to find her voice, and when she did, it wasn't entirely even. "You know, Harm, it's not just your soul you owe her," she mused, intently looking at him.

The intensity of her words shook him. He had always tried to sum up and understand to what extent Mac had altered the course of his life that night. But he had never been able to really draw a conclusion. And once again, this extraordinary woman next to him, without even knowing the whole story - let alone the person in question - seemed to read between the lines and figure out what he couldn't.

He had to remind himself to keep on breathing. "Then what is it I owe her?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"You owe her no less than yourself," she answered. And as enigmatic as it might sound - Harm knew Nyala was right. It wasn't just his soul that Mac had saved. It was his heart, the direction his life had taken, the image of the man he was and of the man he had always wanted to be, his values, his beliefs, his hopes, his future. In short - himself.

Without Mac's intervention that night, he might not even be sitting here tonight, allowing something as pure and beautiful as his feelings for Nyala to come to the surface. Without knowing it, Mac had opened the road to his future - right up to this moment. By denying him to conclude the past by destroying his soul.

"No less than myself," he repeated in a whisper, staring at the black and white keys in front of him. "And I'm not even afraid of owing such an enormous debt." As he said it, he knew it was the truth. If anything, his debt was proof of the most profound friendship he had ever shared in his life. Unlike in the audition, he wasn't thinking of how he had lost love. These were thoughts of having found life with the help of a friend. This wasn't about the past or about lines that had been drawn. This was only and entirely about a gift she had made him way back. No regrets - just thankfulness.

Thank you, Mac, he silently addressed her for the very first time in months, his heart devoid of any remorse or sadness, instead overflowing with the deepest gratitude he had ever felt.

The keys were starting to blur a little in front of his eyes when suddenly two slender hands were placed upon them, moving a little without striking, silently probing.

And then, she began to play. Softly, a slow, almost guitar-like accompaniment rose from the deep chords of the instrument, laying a ground that seemed to be made of dark velvet. Instinctively, Nyala used the right amount of damper and pedal to mix the sound of the arpeggi she played with her left and the clear harmonies of the chords she interjected with her right hand. There was no melody yet, but the atmosphere she created was perfect.

The broken arpeggio-chords painted the rain, described the restlessness of his soul that night. But as she modulated the harmonies from the initial melancholy d minor cadences to a hopeful F major where the chorus would follow, Harm felt his gratitude beautifully captured in Nyala's improvisation. Even the kiss as he recollected it - the wonderful discovery of having found a new love in the goodbyes to the lost one.

Nyala completed the harmonic circle of the blues scheme she had applied and immediately started it again right from the top. As she improvised, her rendering was slightly different, but the atmosphere remained unchanged. Harm felt he was trembling. He was reliving the events, but not the way he was used to whenever he thought of them. The harmonies were like a soothing blanket, wrapping them, laying them at rest, allowing him to finally make his piece with this part of his life. When Nyala arrived at the modulating part again, he closed his eyes and, almost unconsciously, began to hum a melody that fitted her harmonies.

If she was surprised, she gave no audible sign of it. For a third time, she played from the top, never interrupting her improvisation. By now, Harm knew instinctively where Nyala would take the harmonies, so he hummed on, without thinking about what he was doing, effortlessly adapting his tune to the darker atmosphere of the verses preceding the chorus. And when the optimistic F-major sunrays of the chorus began to shine through the cloudy d-minor darkness for a third time, Harm didn't even need to search for the words.

I all but let go of the world I believed in,
To savor revenge for my endless ordeal.
She saved me that night from surrendering to darkness.
There'll never be words to describe what I feel.

My life is hers,
And I long to let her know,
'Cause the truth is something you can't shelve.
I'm not afraid
Of the enormous debt I owe,
Although it's no less than myself.

Overwhelmed, he interrupted himself and gave Nyala a quick peck on the cheek. "Hang on a minute, Swala," he breathlessly told her, getting up. "I need to write this down. I just had an idea..."

The playing ceased but she remained rooted, staring at the keyboard. "Okay," she whispered.

"Back in a sec," he called over his shoulder as he headed for her desk. He let himself fall onto her chair, rummaged around until he found a sheet of paper and the first pencil he could get a hold of, and started to put his emotions into words.

On the negative side, they didn't flow as easily as they had in the optimistic chorus, but with a little rethinking, scratching, erasing and word-juggling, he finally managed to come up with a water-color drawing of his emotions of that night; impressionistically blurred, but, if watched from a distance, sharp enough to get the exact picture.

His heart beating fast, he rushed back to the piano and dropped onto the bench beside her. "Play again, please," he begged.

She nodded, never looking at him, and immerged into an even more heartfelt rendering of what she had previously offered. Steadying himself by taking a hold of the instrument's wooden frame, Harm kept his eyes glued to the sheet on his lap and, on her nodded cue, began to sing:

He had blown out the candle
That brightened my day,
He had shattered my heart -
And that night he would pay.
Ignoring my conscience,
Accepting my fate,
I'd bury my heartaches
By acting on hate.

Pure chance made her seek me.
Her heart understood.
Resolving to keep me
From leaving for good,
She delved into memories,
She shouldered my grief.
She never surrendered,
Refusing to leave.

I all but let go of the world I believed in,
To savor revenge for my endless ordeal.
She saved me that night from surrendering to darkness.
There'll never be words to describe what I feel.

My life is hers,
And I long to let her know,
'Cause the truth is something you can't shelve.
I'm not afraid
Of the enormous debt I owe,
Although it's no less than myself.

My hate was still stronger,
I managed to flee.
I almost achieved
What was burning in me.
But her friendship ran deeper:
She came to my aid,
Defeating the darkness,
Yet lifting the weight.

I all but let go of the world I believed in,
To savor revenge for my endless ordeal.
She saved me that night from surrendering to darkness.
There'll never be words to describe what I feel.

My life is hers,
And I long to let her know,
'Cause the truth is something you can't shelve.
I'm not afraid
Of the enormous debt I owe,
Although it's no less than myself.

The past overwhelmed me,
The present dissolved.
My memories resurfaced,
My timeline revolved.
But whatever induced me
To let down my guard:
It wasn't the other.
It was her, in my heart.

I all but let go of the world I believed in,
To savor revenge for my endless ordeal.
She saved me that night from surrendering to darkness.
There'll never be words to describe what I feel.

My life is hers,
And I long to let her know,
'Cause the truth is something you can't shelve.
I'm not afraid
Of the enormous debt I owe,
Although it's no less than myself.

No less than myself.
No less than myself.

Literally panting from emotional exhaustion, Harm wiped a stray tear from his cheek as Nyala let the arpeggi die out and took the whole piece to a hopeful, sunlit conclusion.

He let his arms drop and closed his eyes again as silence began to spread in the whole apartment. Harm savored it for a few moments, recapitulating the whole song in his mind.

This was it.

"Thank you, Ny. I could never have done this without you," he said softly, still not looking up.

However, when she didn't answer, he straightened and turned around to face her, slightly worried at her lack of reaction. What he saw stabbed him in the heart.

Nyala was sitting with her hands in her lap, her head bent backwards, staring at the ceiling. She was desperately biting her lips, trying to suppress any sound whatsoever that might threaten to escape her. But she couldn't suppress the tears that were trickling from the corners of her eyes right down to her jaw. And she didn't even bother to wipe them away.

"Hey..." He reached for her and pulled her to him. She let him embrace her, resting her head on his shoulder as a sob escaped her. He felt strangely shy, seeing her this shaken. "Are you all right?" he asked a little lamely, mentally punching himself for being unable to find the right words.

She nodded against him. "Yeah," she said shakily. "God, Harm, that was so beautiful..."

In the way her words trailed off he could almost hear the 'but'.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned. "Do you think I got carried away?"

"No, the words were perfect."

"Did I... did I get too emotional?"

"No. You couldn't, it's not in your nature," she answered, her voice lowering.

He was confused. "So... do you think I shouldn't sing about this at all?"

"No," she shook her head, her locks caressing his chin. "This is the best song you've ever written."

"'We've' ever written," he corrected her with a slight smile.

But she didn't pick up on his attempt at humor. "Congratulations, Harm," she said in a whisper, "From the bottom of my heart." Again, she couldn't hold back a sob. Harm felt her whole body shake.

He gently put his hands to her shoulders and held her a little afar so he could look at her. She held his gaze - and he saw she was hurting.

"What's wrong, Ny?" he asked, hearing the concern that was ringing in his voice. "Did I hurt you somehow? I'd never..."

"I know," she softly cut in, wiping her eyes. "It's just..." Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew a shaky breath, her head hanging. Suddenly she squared her shoulders and tried a pained, watery smile. "Harm, it's so great you finally figured out how much she really means to you. I'm so happy for you. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I know you'll always be my friend."

"Wha..." He gaped at her, stunned. This was what she was thinking? She knew him so well; she couldn't possibly believe he'd just had some sort of an epiphany regarding his feelings for Mac. And yet, as he scrutinized her features, seeing how she was trying to put up a brave façade in front of her apparent loss, he understood that she meant it.

Strictly speaking, she wasn't even wrong. He had had an epiphany - but the revelation didn't tell him to turn back and seek out the love he had lost. It had shown him that Mac had ultimately made tonight possible, by making him hold on to the man he was. And the consequence of this revelation was that he had no right at all to throw this enormous gift away, for the sake of both women involved.

He felt that the woman beside him was his future, and this very future, he owed to Mac for giving him the chance to arrive at this point.

Slowly shaking his head, his eyes never leaving Nyala's, Harm tried to steady his racing heart and prepare for what was to follow. He knew he had to choose his next words as carefully as possible - any misinterpretation of what he wanted to communicate might prove lethal to their relationship. The thought of losing her threatened to choke him.

"Listen, Ny," he began, speaking deliberately slowly and gently, "I've never been very good at heart talk, and I have no idea how believable all this may sound." He swallowed. "So I need to ask you to take my word for it because I have no circumstantial evidence to enter in my favor. Do you really think I... umm, what I mean is, did I give the impression as if I still... damn..." His voice had lowered to an angry whisper as he swore. Four decades of life - and some things never changed. Getting the words out was still incredibly hard.

"Don't you dare deny you still love her," she said, her voice barely audible.

He drew a resigned breath. "I do," he confessed. "And I probably always will. But I still love Diane, too. And Jordan. You can't banish people from your heart if you've been so close to them."

"But you loved Mac most, didn't you?" she asked, the fear of his honest answer evident in her voice.

Again, Harm decided that nothing but sincerity was appropriate. "Yeah, I did. But you have to believe me when I tell you that this chapter is closed, once and for all. Mac laid the basis, telling me we would never have worked, and you, Ny - you made me heal."

Seeing her disbelieving and guarded look, he silently prayed for the right words again. He cupped her face with his hand and with his thumb brushed away the tearstains, glad she didn't draw back from his touch. "Singing about my feelings enabled me to finally face them," he tried to explain. "But I still had hard times dealing with them until I met you. You have a way of reading me when I'm tongue-tied. I... Words don't come easily to me when I'm trying to talk about what's in my heart. And like with many others, this lack of communication caused a lot of misunderstandings between me and Mac. But you're different. You..." Harm let out an exasperated breath. "Heck, right now, you, of all people, should know that all I'm trying to say here..." He gulped. Now or never. "All I'm trying to say is," he repeated softly, his heart hammering in his throat, "that I love you."

She didn't react. Frozen, she only stared at him, the expression in her eyes revealing just how vulnerable she was at this very moment.

Her silence was torturing him. Desperate, he moved closer and laid his free hand on her other cheek, his eyes boring into hers. "I love you, Nyala Lyon," he said under his breath. "Is that so hard to believe?"

He could tell the exact moment the news got through to her. In her eyes, something suddenly came to life. A sparkle of hope, faint still and unsure, lit them and made them shine. It took her considerable effort to speak. "I know that Mac will always hold a big part of your heart, Harm," she began, apparently trying to keep her voice casual, but failing to fully hide the underlying joy. "But if you want me to have the rest of it..." She broke off, unconsciously holding her breath.

The dawning understanding that he had been right about suspecting that she loved him, made his voice catch in his throat. He had to clear it before he could answer. "I do. And I'll prove it to you that what you hold of my heart is more than you could possibly imagine. It's yours if you want it," he added shyly, awaiting her verdict. Now it was up to her alone.

On her face, the pain and fear slowly made way for the most beautiful and radiant smile he had ever seen on her. "Only if you take mine in return," she answered.

He couldn't voice his answer, so he let his smile speak for him and, leaning in, captured her lips with his. She instantly complied, moving as close to him as she could and parting her lips to grant him access.

Harm's heart nearly skipped a beat. A wave of passion welled up in him as he tried to seal their bond with this kiss, hoping he could make her see that this was what he really and truly wanted most.

When they parted for air, Nyala ran a hand through his hair. "I love you, Kamau," she said lovingly, resting her forehead against his.

All of a sudden, Harm felt as if a valve inside him had opened. For too long, he had felt the words inside but never let them out. But now that the decisive step had been done, the pressure of years found its way out and mutated to pure joy, ringing in his voice and shining on his face. "God, Ny, you have no idea how much I longed to hear that," he breathed, seeing that his open declaration surprised her.

However, her astonishment lasted only for a fraction of a second. "I've dreamed about you telling me you loved me," she confessed on her part, "But I kept telling myself not to be foolish. I knew you cared a lot about me, but..." She let out something in between a chuckle and a sob.

Instead of continuing, she initiated another kiss. Harm immediately gave in to her demands. This time, passion was building up slower, but more thoroughly, and clearly to an equal amount on both sides. Before he knew how it had happened, his shirt was hanging open, her hands roaming over his muscular back, and he had, without thinking, freed her of her top, only now becoming aware that from their hips upwards, her delicate form was molded to his without any barrier in between. Skin was resting on skin and it felt divine.

Yet, much as he hated breaking apart, he knew he had to make sure they were headed in the right direction. He drew back slightly, trying not to look at her body. "Are you sure about this?" he asked softly.

Although she was trembling slightly, she nodded. "Yes," she whispered, eyes closed.

He swallowed. "Ny, I need to warn you," he began, feeling how the embarrassment made his cheeks burn, "You may find that hard to believe but... I haven't been with a woman in almost five years."

Her eyes popped open in slight surprise, but her smile immediately set him at ease. "All the more reason for me to trust you," she replied, reaching up and caressing his temple with her knuckles. "And, just for the record, there hasn't been anyone in my life since my college days, either. No spare time," she added as he gave her an incredulous look.

Sensing that she was just as defenseless as he felt himself, and that she seemed to be just as comfortable with it as he was, he only kissed her one more time before she stood up, took his hand and led him to where she would become his in full.

There were few moments when earthly life bordered on perfection. This was one of them.

 

1728 ZULU - 0928 Local
NYALA'S APARTMENT
ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA

 

The mild sunlight that was filtering through the blinds painted patterns on Nyala's skin. Ever so gently, Harm traced the long lines of light with his fingers, hardly ever touching her so as not to wake her. She was lying next to him on her back, her long, curly hair disheveled, one arm lying high above her head, the other hand resting on her flat stomach. Although the window had been open throughout the night, the air was warm and the fresh breeze promised yet another beautiful late summer day. So, even though the thin blanket covered her only up to her hips, there were no signs of goose bumps on her skin.

Harm was lying on his left side and he couldn't stop watching her sleeping. He was reluctant to name it that, but if he had to analyze what he was feeling, the only plausible answer he could come up with was... afterglow. Lasting longer than it ever had before in any of his relationships. Probably because I've lived in my private monastery for too long, he thought with a slight wry smile. Yet, trying to look objectively at what had transpired in the last hours - if one could ever be objective about something so perfect - he would have been overwhelmed even without having been deprived of physical intimacy for so long.

They had understood each other without words. Opening up to each other as completely as was possible, laying at rest all fears of being bared and vulnerable, they had shared a union of such synchrony as he'd never thought existed. Guessing by instinct the desires and needs of their counterpart's bodies and hearts, theirs had been a pilgrimage of mutual trust and caring, a search for fulfillment in passion as well as in calm happiness.

And between heated ministrations of emotion and quiet exchange of fond caresses, Harm had, for himself, taken the final mental step, all of a sudden finding it as easy as anything. He had admitted to himself that he needed her in his life for good. In the past, he had often had doubts about being capable of making a permanent commitment. None of the women he had been involved with had ever induced serious contemplation of marriage in him, no matter how long and how close he had been with them. Maybe Diane would have made a difference - but fate had prevented him from finding out. Mac might have been the woman to inspire him to consider marrying - but he would never know about that, either.

However, what he did know was that Nyala held his heart captive in a way no woman ever had. Again he admitted to himself that maybe Mac would have been the one to exercise such power over him - but this would have happened in another timeline altogether. As it was, he found one single thought growing stronger and stronger within him, one single wish that seemed to hold the key to his lifetime's happiness.

As he had held her in his arms, finding his own feelings mirrored in her beautiful eyes, Harmon Rabb had decided that Nyala Lyon was the woman he wanted to grow old with. All he had to do was convince her that she wanted it, too. But how was he ever going to do that?

He tenderly brushed a stray lock from her forehead when she stirred, blinked and turned her head in his direction, her eyes widening in surprise when she met his gaze - until, a second later, her memory seemed to kick in. She smiled just a little shyly.

"Hujambo, Kamau," she whispered.

"Sijambo, Swala," he answered, reaching out and pulling her close to kiss her good morning.

Her smile widened, further lighting up the room. "Still here?"

"Where would I go?" he asked her with raised eyebrows.

"Dunno... second thoughts..." she offered, propping herself up on one elbow, just a hint of real anxiety shining through her mockery.

He tried to muster a capital frown, but only came up with some lame grimace that must have resembled someone with a heavy toothache. "Don't tell me you really meant that," he said in a low voice, sobering.

Wordlessly, she moved closer still and rested her head on his chest, encircling him with her arms. "No, I didn't. I'm sorry."

Returning her embrace, Harm felt his voice catch in his throat, so he said nothing but just held her, wanting to reassure her that he really was with her for good. Silence surrounded them, and the moment breathed a calm he hadn't felt in years.

Unfortunately, like all too often, the peace didn't last. The shrill beeping of his cell phone made them both jump, and Nyala, with a brisk, badly controlled movement of her left hand, all but missed the classic knock-out point under Harm's chin.

"Ouw!" he yelped, fiercely rubbing the point where she had hit him.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you?" She bent over him, caressing his face and kissing the sore spot. All the time, the electronic device persistently kept up its acoustic pollution of the peaceful morning.

Harm grinned at her. "That was close," he said, his voice a little hoarse, but his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. "Good morning to you, too."

After a fleeting moment of confusion, she burst out laughing and again buried her face on his chest, as he reached for his cell that - fortunately - was lying on the nightstand.

Desperately trying to make a straight face, his mouth twitching violently and tears of laughter forming in his eyes, he cleared his throat once, twice... and finally flipped the phone open.

"Rabb," he said with all the dignity and sobriety he could muster while Nyala was biting into the blanket in order to muffle her giggles. Harm's eyes dared her to make him burst out laughing again which - of course - only caused her to bury her face in the mattress.

["Bonjour chéri!"] Jeanne's merry morning voice came over the line - as always, she was talking so loud that he had to hold the phone a little ways away from his ear, this way sharing the conversation with Nyala. ["How are things?"] Jeanne asked, still overly happy.

"Uh... can't complain," he said, trying to hide the merriment in his tone while winking at Nyala who was wiping her eyes with an edge of the blanket.

["Now, that's good to hear. Umm... any news on the song?"] Jeanne's voice had grown wary.

Harm quickly covered the microphone with his thumb, trying to let his snort of glee go unnoticed.

"Um, yeah. I, uh, I made some headway with it last night."

"That's the understatement of the month!" Nyala whispered fiercely, her shoulders shaking.

They could tell Jeanne was genuinely pleased. ["C'est formidable! When do I get to hear it?"]

"Anytime you want," he offered generously, finally relaxing and allowing his grin to become audible.

["Ready already?"] the producer gasped in surprise. ["Struck by inspiration, were you?"]

"You could put it that way," he confirmed.

["Do you think it's got the potential for the video?"] she asked, a little breathless.

"Oh, I think it just might," he drawled carelessly, eyeing Nyala closely whose face had by now turned red from the frantic efforts not to make any distinguishable noise.

["Fantastic! We're lucky - I happen to be in San Diego and the studio's not taken. Why don't you meet me there in an hour?"] Jeanne's eagerness made him frown for real. Now things were starting to get tricky, so as not to say downright awkward.

"I'm really sorry," he began hesitatingly. "But I fear I can't."

["What do you mean, you can't?"] she asked rather sharply. ["You've got no other appointments today. I have your calendar right in front of me."]

"I know, but..." He sighed. "Look, Jeanne, I'm not in San Diego right now. I'm... uh... otherwise engaged."

["Otherwise engaged??"] Jeanne fired back, waiting for him to elaborate.

And as he heard his own words thrown back at him, he was struck by an outrageous idea. Outrageous, yes - but brilliant. Unable to keep his features from breaking into the most radiant smile he was capable of, he moved closer to the somewhat stunned Nyala and said nonchalantly, "Yes, otherwise 'engaged', ma chère. I've just asked Nyala to marry me and she's accepted." As he spoke, his pulse steadily increased its beating rate, his hands started to sweat and, sobering, he locked his gaze with Nyala's, imploring her with all that was in him to see that he was being as serious as anything.

Please, Ny, don't shoot me. All you need to do is confirm.

Nyala's face had gone completely white and her lower lip was quivering as she stared at him in utter shock, not saying anything. Come on, please, say something, he silently begged. You're killing me here...

Down in San Diego, Jeanne had found her voice. ["You can't be serious."]

"Why not?" he retorted, the slight hint of passion in his voice more directed at the woman in his arms than at the one he was talking to. "I love her and she loves me. With her help, I just composed the most incredible song I've ever written, and, frankly, all I could ever wish for is right here, in my arms. I think this is as serious as it could ever get."

He scrutinized Nyala's features for a hint at heaven or hell, but apparently, she was still too stunned to speak. He swallowed heavily. "Please," he mouthed, desperate.

["God, Harm, do you have any idea what that could do to your career?"] Jeanne asked, sounding slightly exasperated. ["Darren Cassano, the man of every woman's dreams, getting married?"]

A surge of anger made him draw a sharp breath. This was his private life, dammit, not that of some singer women and teenagers might or might not be having dreams about. Willing himself to stay calm, he replied, "Jeanne, let me be clear about that: I - don't - freaking - care. If people like the music of Darren Cassano the single, they will like the music of Darren Cassano the husband. If not, I can't help them. But there are certain priorities in life, and for me, this is one of them." And for you? his eyes asked Nyala who was still staring at him with huge, frightened eyes, completely paralyzed. Just give me some reaction, whatever, please, Ny...

Jeanne drew a deep sigh. ["I knew you were some pigheaded mule when I first met you. What the hell made me ever offer you a contract?"] She had tried to sound angry, but her good humor was already beginning to shine through again. ["Can I speak to her for a moment?"]

"Sure," he murmured, holding out his cell to Nyala with a shaking hand, swallowing again and watching her closely. She took the device from him and a shiver ran through his body when their fingertips touched, although their bodies were entangled under the blanket.

She cleared her throat. "Hi," she greeted uneasily, holding the cell a little ways away from her ear, too, so Harm could hear what was being said. All the time, she was holding his gaze. Yet, she still hadn't reacted to his unspoken question.

["Hi, sweetheart,"] Jeanne replied with an audible smile. ["Is he really being serious?"]

Harm felt his heart accelerate. One way or the other, he was about to get his answer. Unconsciously, he held his breath.

"It pretty much sounds that way, doesn't it?" Nyala replied in a surprisingly stable voice.

["It most definitely does,"] Jeanne confirmed. ["Well then, am I to congratulate you two?"]

All of a sudden, Harm saw tears rise in Nyala's eyes and his heart threatened to stop beating. You can't do this to me, Ny...

Nyala took a deep and slightly shaky breath. "Yes, you are," she said in a voice that had suddenly caught in her throat. A smile lit up her face and the color returned to her cheeks, making them glow. "Yes," she repeated, her eyes boring into Harm's.

Exhaling in sudden joy, Harm fervently pulled her close, burying his face on the pillow near her ear. Dear God, what have I done? he asked himself, overwhelmed. Just the right thing - in fact, the only thing to do, his conscious and his heart answered in unison. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear, feeling her shiver as his breath caressed her skin.

["Okay..."] Jeanne seemed to have considerable difficulties regrouping. ["All right. Guys, I wish you both every happiness imaginable on Earth. Really, I do. Now, enjoy your time off... uh, shouldn't you be working?"]

Nyala let out a chuckle, the first sign of relaxation Harm noticed in her ever since his question had all but knocked her unconscious. "Yes," she replied merrily, "But I worked a little overtime while I was in San Francisco and I don't have any immediate assignments. So they can do without me this morning at the editorial office. I'll drop by around noon, just to arrange things for tomorrow. And, Jeanne?"

["Yes?"]

"Thank you."

["You're welcome, sweetheart. And now tell that fiancé of yours he'd better show up at the studio by 6 p.m. with that new song or..."]

Laughing, Harm grabbed for the phone. "Don't worry, we'll be there."

["We?"]

"Yup. Nyala's doing the piano part."

["She agreed to play in public?"] Jeanne's voice was all astonishment.

"For me," he answered, his words ringing with love and pride as he gave Nyala a loving glance.

Jeanne chuckled. ["Aah... l'amour..."] she sighed theatrically. ["Just don't be late. See ya!"] And the line went dead.

Harm put the cell phone away and then turned to face Nyala, his conscience giving him a hard time about having presented her with this fait accompli. "Can you ever forgive me?" he asked in a low voice.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Just this once," she replied, guarded. Then she drew a deep breath, shaking her head. "Boy, you sure know how to overwhelm a girl." Heaving another sigh, she was silent for a moment. When she spoke up again, her voice was thoughtful in a mocking way. "Why do I get the notion that 'overwhelming' should work in a slightly different way, speaking in terms of proposing?"

Harm covered his eyes with this hand, wincing. "I know, I... I couldn't help it. I'm so sorry."

"Well," she concluded matter-of-factly, "At least I can boast that I got the most unusual and unromantic proposal ever." She flashed him a sweet grin that held the slightest touch of menace. "Just be warned: once we're a family, we're going to decide those kinds of things together, or you might just lose your right to vote altogether."

"I plead guilty, Your Honour, and I'll accept whatever sentence you're inclined to offer," he said with a crooked smile. Then he sobered. "Thank you, Swala. This is the most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me. I'm sorry I didn't do this properly, but - I just couldn't let such an occasion pass. Anyway, we'll find you a ring as soon as we have a little time to look, and then you'll get your candlelight dinner and me dropping to one knee and the whole package, okay?"

Her melodious laughter once again warmed his soul. "You're so sweet, but a nice evening at your place will do just fine. No need to drag this into public. But I do like the dropping-to-one-knee part."

"You got it," he promised, wrapping her firmly in his arms and covering her lips with his. "You still got a little time before you need to be off to the office?" he asked her when they broke apart.

"Just a little..."

He winked at her, his smile seductive. "I think we may have something to celebrate, don't we?"

"Affirmative," she only whispered before she let him take her back to where they had been all night. Their private paradise.

 

Chapter Six

 

OCTOBER 15TH 2004
1456 ZULU - 0956 EST
JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

 

Mac gave last look to the statement she'd prepared for the Lashker sentencing hearing and sighed deeply. If she had her way, the bastard would spend every last minute of his miserable life waiting for the needle. Murdering children was just not something one did. But Lashker had done just that...

How can you plan to kill your own child, months in advance, just to spite your ex-wife? Mac thought grimly.

She wearily pushed back the folder and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a brief respite before heading back to court. Commander William Atkins didn't have her former partner's talent or his passion, but he was good, and she needed to get her head into the game if she wanted to make sure Petty Officer Ferris Cowley didn't spend years in Leavenworth for pulling a stupid prank. Now that was a pleasant change from the Lashker case. The misguided petty officer thought it would help morale if he painted the mess on board the USS Belleau Wood, purple... His understandably upset CO had charged him with an article 108 violation: damage to military property. She chuckled, resting her head on the back of her chair.

But her ears soon picked up bits and pieces of whispered conversations, just outside her office door. The voices were just loud enough for her to recognise Bud and Harriet. She carefully pushed off her chair and made her way to the door, curious.

"But, Bud, how can we both get leave with Commander Turner already gone? And what makes you think the admiral will let us go to see him?"

"Harriet, he's over that. You know he is. Besides, I haven't taken any leave since he's left-Ma'am!" Bud jumped guiltily, a flicker of panic filling his eyes. Harriet looked similarly caught.

Mac stepped fully out of her office and studied the pair carefully. She didn't need to ask whom they were talking about. Their faces took on that particular expression when they talked about Harm. For some reason, everyone seemed to think she'd fall apart if his name was mentioned in her presence. Truth be told, in the first few months after he'd left, she'd felt empty, strangely alone. When she'd confronted him, in Paraguay, she'd expected him to be hurt. She hadn't expected to lose his friendship, and for him to completely disappear from her life. Slowly but surely, though, Clay had filled more and more of her heart, and she'd found some semblance of peace, a sense of balance. Clay was good for her. He truly cared, and he wasn't afraid to show it. And she somehow suspected that she was free to care back, without Harm's presence looming over her shoulder, making her doubt herself, or the sincerity of her feelings.

But.

Whenever his name came up, there indeed was this little sliver of regret, tucked in a remote corner of her heart, that crept out.

Still, she smiled knowingly at the two flustered lieutenants. "It's all right. I won't break if you say his name."

Bud tried to play innocent. "Ah, who, ma'am?"

"Harm, Bud. So, you two are planning to take some leave and visit him?" she asked, surprised by her own boldness. To her even greater surprise, the familiar pang of regret was far fainter than it had been in the last few months.

Bud tried to smile, but quickly looked at his shoes. "Um... not quite, ma'am."

Mac's brow furrowed, and she turned to Harriet. "No, you're not taking leave, or no, you're not going to visit him?" She mentally kicked herself. She didn't really want to know! But she did. She didn't have time to dwell on the reasons for her seemingly morbid curiosity, as Harriet pointed to her office.

"If I may, ma'am?"

Mac chuckled mirthlessly, a bit uncomfortable, and completely puzzled. "Ah, sure, Harriet..."

Mac motioned for her to come in and take a seat while Bud beat a hasty retreat. Once the door to her office was securely closed, she turned back to Harriet, leaning against the door, ankles crossed.

"Spill," she ordered.

"Well, ma'am, we are planning on visiting on the weekend of the 23rd, but Bud isn't sure he can get leave, because Commander Turner is already on leave. For me, it's not a problem because I'm in admin, and we're off on weekends, but if Bud isn't on leave, then, he can be sent TAD, and we really have to be there..."

Mac held up a hand. "You're stalling, lieutenant."

"It's the truth, ma'am..." Harriet stammered lamely.

"Ok, we're alone, so let's drop the rank for a minute. What is going on, Harriet? I am not going to fall apart if you talk about Harm in front of me. Whatever was or wasn't between us was over a long time ago. I'm very happy with Clay. So, just tell me."

Harriet twisted her hands in her lap, not meeting her eyes. "Mac, I... I mean, are you sure? You and he didn't exactly part as friends and... I don't know." The young woman heaved a quick sigh, squared her shoulders, raised her chin and met her friend's eyes.

"Do you have any regrets? I mean about you two never getting together?" she asked quietly, with as much tact and compassion as she could muster.

Mac didn't reply immediately. She crossed her arms and slowly walked to her chair, her eyes suddenly distant, lost in memories. Did she have any regrets?

She slowly sat and put her elbows on her desk, resting her chin atop her crossed hands.

"Honestly, I don't think I do. You would have asked me a year ago, and I probably would have said yes. But now... I think neither of us were ready for each other. Too much baggage, I guess. Harm couldn't commit to me, and I needed to hear words he couldn't say. I know he loved me, in his own way, and I did too. But, somehow, it was never right. But I do miss him. His friendship mostly. Clay... he's a good man. But sometimes, I wish he'd be more of a friend than a lover to me. But I am happy with him. Our relationship isn't perfect. None are. But it's good. I guess time does heal all," she mused. "So, please tell me what's going on."

Harriet nodded softly. "He's getting married."

"Oh," was all she could say. She waited for a few seconds for the pain to come, but surprisingly, it didn't. Well, not as much as she'd feared. Her heart squeezed a little, but she found herself smiling softly. It was good news, for the man she still considered her best friend.

"That's good news," she said stupidly.

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "Is he happy, Harriet?"

"Yes. He is. Very much so."

Mac suddenly found herself fighting a huge lump in her throat. "Um, Harriet, would you excuse me?" she said quickly, eyes locked on her desk. Harriet gave her a sympathetic look and left without a word.

Only then did she let her tears fall. For long minutes, quiet rivers ran down her cheeks, for all the lost chances, all the missed opportunities... She lost track of time for a while, but when her internal clock kicked back in, she felt a new kind of peace settle inside. Whatever regrets she'd had left had been washed away by her tears. There was no use looking back. If she truly was his friend, then she should be happy for him.

She wiped her face and quickly fixed her make-up. She still had over an hour before she had to be in court. She took a few more moments to collect herself and purposefully strode to Harriet's desk.

"Harriet?"

"Ma'am?"

"Do you have his number?"

Harriet was momentarily stunned. She shook her head slightly and blinked a few times. "Ah, are you sure?" The tension in her voice was thick, almost fearful.

Understanding dawned in Mac's mind. Harriet was afraid she'd try and talk him out of it. She smiled softly. "I'm sure. It's time we said our goodbyes, don't you think? I still consider him a friend. He deserves to be happy, and I want to give him my best wishes, all right? Don't worry so much about me."

Harriet nodded, somewhat contrite. "Yes ma'am. Here." She quickly wrote down a number and handed her the small slip of paper.

"Thanks, Harriet."

Fifteen minutes later, after almost throwing away the number twice, she reached for the phone, her hand trembling, her heart hammering.

 

0734 PST
HARM'S APPARTMENT
CITY HEIGHTS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

 

Harm let out a growling sigh, peeling an eye open. Whomever was calling him on his private line this early would get a piece of his mind! He spared a quick glance to the other pillow in his bed and swallowed another groan. Nyala was in New York this week, and waking up without her was definitely starting to get unpleasant.

He rolled over to glace at the call display, fully intent on letting the machine get it. A DC number... JAG Ops. Bud. He grabbed the phone just before the machine clicked on.

"Hey, Bud."

Silence.

"Hello?"

More silence.

"Bud, this isn't funny. It's before ten Eastern time, so you-"

[Hi.]

Now that certainly isn't Bud, his brain informed him.

"Um, hi. Who's this?" he asked, searching his mental database. He knew that voice. But somehow, he knew it wasn't possible.

[Hi, Harm. It's Mac.]

"Mac, hi," he greeted stupidly.

Mac? Why the hell is she calling you?

[Um, hi. Am I waking you?]

"Yeah, but it's okay. My schedule's kinda changed..."

[Yeah.]

A long pause stretched and grew, until Harm gave snorting sigh, hovering somewhere between irritation and amusement. "This is ridiculous. You'd think two lawyers would be more articulate."

[A lawyer and a jazz star, might I remind you,] Mac fired back, a hint of the old humour creeping back in.

Harm rolled his eyes. "Please. I already have my mother for the devoted adulation. Not you too," he said good-naturedly, a sincere smile spreading on his lips. "It's good to hear from you."

[You too. I hear some congratulations are in order.]

Harm searched her voice for a trace of reproach, of hurt, of regret, but found none. "Yeah, Thanks. Who caved?" he asked. "Not that I told them not to tell you, but..."

[I know. And I forced it out of Harriet. I really am happy for you,] Mac said seriously.

"I know. Means a lot to me." After a light pause, he spoke again. "Mac, I really am glad you called. I don't know why I didn't, but... I wanted to thank you."

A chuckle erupted over the line. [Thank me? For what? Last time we spoke face to face, I pretty much ripped your heart out.]

"You did, but that's not why I wanted to thank you. Did you know I have a new album coming out in a few weeks?" He suspected the answer, but he'd asked anyway.

[Ah, no,] she replied, slightly embarrassed.

"That's what I thought. I'll send you a copy. But... Mac, remember that night, when... when I went after Holbarth?"

Mac scoffed. [How could I forget?]

"You saved me, that night, and I never really thanked you, for that. That's what the title song of the album is about. No matter how much we managed to hurt each other, I do care about you, and I owe you a lot."

[You don't have any debts to me, Harm. You saved me more times than I could count. Especially Paraguay...] He heard a soft sigh before she kept talking. [I don't know why I didn't call before.]

"I think we needed time to heal," he replied calmly. He took a deep breath, and asked the question that had been burning his lips since he'd heard her voice. "Mac... Are you okay with 'us' or the absence of?"

[Yeah. I am, now. Harriet says you're very happy. I wish I could meet the woman who managed to tame you,] she added quickly, changing the subject.

Harm laughed, his heart warmed by thoughts of his fiancée and the return of some of the old friendship he and Mac had once shared, however brief it was likely to be. "You'd love Ny. She's strong, has a temper as hot as a volcano, but she's sweet, caring, funny... And she'd like you. Honestly, Mac, she's the best thing that ever happened to me."

[I'm not sure she'd like me very much, for what I did to you,] Mac said somberly.

"I don't have any secrets from her. She knows our history. Nyala's protective of me, but she isn't vindictive. She's the one who made me realise how much you did for me that night."

[She sounds like a wonderful person. You *are* in love, aren't you?]

"Head over heels," he agreed. "Listen, Mac, about the wedding..."

[I didn't expect an invitation, Harm. And I doubt Clay will mind being left out of your guest list. I just... wanted to tell you I'm happy for you, and that... I'm still there, if you need a friend.]

Harm smiled, knowing full well neither of them would ever reach out to the other again.

"Same here, Mac. Bud and Harriet tell me you and Clay are good together. When are you two going to walk down the aisle? It's been over a year, hasn't it?" Harm had no idea where that came from. In a mere month, he'd gone to commitment-phobic to engaged to Dear Abby-the-Matchmaker-and-Wedding-Planner? What was up with that?

"I'm sorry, Mac. It's none of my business and I had no idea getting married would turn me into such a sap," he apologized quickly.

[Harmon Rabb, a sap? That'll be the day! You don't have a romantic bone in your body!] Mac laughed.

"Yeah, well my fiancée would agree with you on that. She qualified my proposal as the most unusual and unromantic ever."

[Now, that's a story I'd love to hear, but seriously... Clay doesn't want us to get married.]

"Why not?"

[Once an Agency wife, always an Agency wife. He doesn't want that for me.]

"He's a good man."

[Yes, he is, and so are you. Be happy, Harm. You really deserve to be. I wish you all the best, okay?] Mac said sincerely, a tiny note of tears in her voice.

"Thank you. I will be. And you deserve that happiness too. You take care, Marine, all right?"

[I will. Take care... squid.]

A soft click in his ear told him she'd hung up. He placed the handset back in its cradle and stared at the ceiling. He swallowed hard and brushed a hand over his eyes. He truly did wish her well, and whatever feelings had lived between them had been laid to rest. Still, goodbyes were always bittersweet.

His hand again found the handset and he speed-dialled Nyala's cell, without even a look.

"Hey, Swala. Just needed to hear your voice. I love you."

 

OCTOBER 23RD
1512 ZULU - 0712 LOCAL
COUNTRY ROAD NEAR LA JOLLA
CALIFORNIA

 

"There you are, old man!" Amara jovially patted Harm on the back as he crossed their self-set finish line.

"Shut up," he panted with a lopsided grin as he slowly walked around in circles to slow down his racing pulse. "I'm not aiming at a ticket to Beijing 2008. You are. And..." He had to pause to catch his breath. "And besides, I need to be in good shape in a few hours... or your sister's going to kill me, if I break down at the altar..." Again, he panted a little before concluding, "So, go easy on me."

"I have," Amara said with an evil grin. "I could have insisted on the whole 42.195 kms, you know... But given your schedule, ten miles was just fine. And I tell you: you'll thank me for talking you into it," she shook a finger at him, "Because before long your adrenaline is going to hotwire your brains, and having worked off a little of it in the morning works wonders."

He looked out over the sea, shading his eyes with his hand. "Wow. I never thought I'd end up doing this one day," he said, more to himself.

"Why not?" Amara asked, curious. "Cold feet?"

He shrugged. "No... Marriage just never came up. I may have thought about it occasionally, but in the end, those who wanted me were not the ones I would have wanted, and of the two women who might have been the right candidates, one was murdered and the other decided against me before we even got involved."

"Whoa..." she replied non-committally.

Gazing out to the western horizon herself, she was silent for a moment. Harm watched her from the side, once again amazed at how much she and Nyala were alike despite the twelve years that lay in between them. The same slender figure with the overly long limbs that made Amara the excellent runner she was - a clear hint at her East African roots. And as to their disposition, both were the exact image of their father.

Harm had met Darius Lyon in May already, but just briefly, and they hadn't had the occasion to talk. Four weeks ago, when Nyala and he had invited their stunned parents to dinner, explaining that they were planning on getting married around the end of October, Harm had finally gotten to know his all-time idol for real - and had found him an open-minded, well-educated, witty and, most of all, caring man. By now, it wasn't just some indistinct pride that he felt at the fact that the great Darius Lyon was going to be his father-in-law. It was honest affection, based on the way he acted around his daughters and on how he had welcomed Harm and his parents into his family as if he'd known them all along.

Initially, Harm had been a little afraid of introducing the two families. True, as of now, Darius Lyon was a rich man and had no reason whatsoever to be careful about whom he met in high society. But still - from the outside, his wife's family had been just the same kind of people as Trish and Frank Burnett: rich, sophisticated, white. And from what Darius and Nyala had been through, Harm feared they might still feel slight resentments against this particular 'class' in general.

However, he'd been proven wrong. Right from the start, Trish and Frank had gotten on extremely well with Darius, and Nyala had told him that she felt they accepted her as if she really were their daughter.

Harm and Darius had very quickly come close, sharing two major passions: jazz and... flying. Nyala had been just as surprised as Harm when her father had confessed that ever since he had first seen the crop dusters on the Kenyan farms as a little boy, he had wanted to learn to fly himself. (All of a sudden, Harm had known why Darius's famous Above the Storm Clouds had rung so incredibly right in his heart when he had first heard it, years ago). Back in Kenya, Darius hadn't had the money to fulfill his dream, and now that that point was covered, he didn't have the time anymore. So, if Harm hadn't already known that Darius liked him because Nyala was happy with him, he was sure he'd have won his heart the day he took him up for a tour in 'Sarah'.

Two weeks ago, Sturgis had come over with his father, as Chaplain Turner was to perform the ceremony, and the evening Harm had spent with the Turners and the Lyons in a cozy little San Diego Jazz Club had been something to remember. Somehow, Harm was glad he was in some tiny way able to fuse his former and his new life. Much as he had come to love who and where he was now, JAG and the Navy and all his D.C. friends would always play an important role for him.

Amara wasn't around very often. She had recently been admitted to a special sports college in Boulder, Arizona, where she could now follow her ambition of participating in the 2008 Olympic Summer Games in Beijing. But the few times they met, Harm and she regularly went running together, even though for him, keeping up with her bordered on torture. She was an open and friendly girl - but Harm couldn't fight the feeling that she was always on her guard around him. This saddened him a little, especially since the two sisters were so very close. So, on days like today, he would always try to get past the reserves she seemed, for whatever reason, to be holding against him.

"Those look some pretty heavy thoughts for such a sunny day," he tried to pick up the conversation again, still gazing out at the ocean.

"Yeah," she said in a low voice.

"Care to share?" he offered.

Amara looked at him. "You know, Harm... for me, it's kind of odd that Nyala is going to have a new family, well, sort of. Ever since mommy's death, we've been very close, the two of us and Daddy. I know I'm being terribly selfish here and unjust and... oh, well..." She sighed in exasperation. "But I can't fight the feeling that all is going to change once you're married. I'm so sorry, Harm, really, I am, but... it's like... you're getting in the way..." Her voice had lowered considerably on the last words and she was looking down on the street where she was shoving a pebble around with her foot.

He couldn't help feeling a slight sting, but if there was anyone who knew how she had to be feeling, it was him. He put on a smile and turned to the girl that was so like his fiancée, except that she had an all-American pronunciation and lacked the slight Kenyan accent that he had come to love in Nyala's voice.

"I know what you mean," he told her, trying to make her see that he really did, that he wasn't just doing the 'understand-the-children' routine many adults applied. "Maybe Nyala told you that my dad was shot down over Vietnam when I was six?"

Her eyes widened in slight shock and she shook her head. "No, she didn't."

"He went missing in action," he explained, "And when he was still unaccounted for seven years later, my mom had him declared dead and remarried."

Understanding lit up Amara's eyes. "So that's why your parents have a different last name. I was wondering."

"Exactly," he confirmed. "You know, my dad was always my hero, and I was incredibly upset that mom seemed to exclude him from our family by remarrying. We had been a little family of our own - just like you and your sister and your dad. Frank was an intruder - and I gave him a damned hard time for that. He didn't deserve that at all."

"I would never give..."

"I know," Harm cut in. "You've always been very polite and friendly, and we're even having fun running together, don't we?"

She nodded, wary about what he might be aiming at.

"But you know what would be terrific?" he asked her.

"What?"

"I've always wanted to have brothers and sisters and I never had them. I'd love doing big-brother duty in your family, Amara. Do you think I might fit into that category?"

She gave him an insecure smile. "Maybe..."

He stepped closer and laid a hand on her shoulder, making her look at him. "I don't want Nyala to have a new family altogether," he said intently. "In fact, I'd like to simply get included in yours. Nothing would change really. Nyala's lived alone, now we're going to live together. Your dad is around doing concerts all the time, and you're in college. Do you think it'd be very hard for you to come home for the holidays, if you came home to Nyala and me, instead of her alone?"

"It would need some getting used to," she admitted sheepishly. "But I think, in the end it might be worth it." Her features relaxed and for the first time, her smile grew genuine.

Harm felt a ton of stones being lifted off his heart. "I'll be looking forward to seeing you for Thanksgiving," he said warmly.

"Same here," Amara said tentatively and then raised her fist. "And let me warn you, Harmon Rabb, Jr.," she said in mock threat. "You better be good to my sister or you'll have to fear my vendetta till the end of your sorry days."

Seemingly intimidated, Harm snapped to attention and, smirking, bellowed, "Ma'am, yes, ma'am! Understood, ma'am!"

"Good point," Amara stated with a huge grin. "Now let's get you ready for church, big bro."

"On my way."

 

OCTOBER 23RD
2100 ZULU - 1300 LOCAL
ST. JAMES BY-THE-SEA EPISCOPAL CHURCH
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

 

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God himself, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence..."

Harm had heard those words many times before, in very different circumstances, but today, they sounded oddly unfamiliar. This wasn't just due to the fact that this time, they were directed at him. It felt strange to hear the century-old liturgical phrases from Chaplain Turner, who normally tended to apply more modern clauses. And it felt stranger still to see the father of his best friend standing before the altar, not wearing his class A uniform, but a black cassock with the classical white overcoat and stole. The chaplain had smiled a little in surprise when they had told him they wished the ceremony to be celebrated according to the traditional Anglican rite, and he had apologized beforehand for any possible stumbling over liturgical differences as he was a Methodist priest. But he had gladly consented to marrying them according to Nyala's faith of birth, knowing that it meant a lot to Harm if he did.

Nyala's slender hand was lying in Harm's, chilly and trembling slightly. Although he was by no means less excited than her, Harm firmly encircled her fingers with his own, trying to warm them and to convey a calmness he didn't feel. Right now, things were getting as serious as they ever had in his life, and although Harm was still as sure as anything that this was the right thing to do, actually making this enormous commitment still intimidated him beyond recognition. Once a chicken, always a chicken, obviously... he mused, trying to keep his mouth from twitching.

He was lucky that his back was turned to the congregation, so - besides Nyala - the only one who might get an idea of how he was feeling was the chaplain. Unfortunately, Turner was a very keen observer and Harm could have sworn that when he briefly met his eyes, he gave him a barely noticeable wink in return, meaning, Don't worry - been there, done that. You'll get used to it.

Now, Harm saw the chaplain exchange a knowing glance with Sturgis who was sitting farthest left. Apparently, Sergei, who was sitting right behind Harm as his best man, had noticed it, too. Harm was sure he had heard a sound that resembled a suppressed chuckle.

Nice to know everyone's getting along so well that people can make fun of me without even speaking, he grumbled silently, but deep in his heart, Harm was glad that the atmosphere was as it was. The people assembled here were those who mattered most in his life - they were few, but they were dear to him. In the first row, on the groom's side, Sergei was sitting next to Galina, his wife. To her left followed Trish, Frank and Sturgis. Right behind them he had seen Harriet and Bud, little AJ sitting in between them and looking intimidated. Jen was sitting in between Bud and Tiner. Behind the JAG family, Jeanne Leblanc and Jerry Emerson were sharing a bench with Ross, Clive and Della who formed the background combo for his songs.

So, apart from Mac and Admiral Chegwidden, with whom the careful attempts at reconciliation hadn't yet grown so far as to invite them, there were only five more people that Harm would have liked to be present today: Gram Sarah, who had been sick and still wasn't able to make the trip across the continent; Admiral Boone, who had family business of his own to tend to; Gunny, who seemed to be chasing terrorists for Webb somewhere in the Middle East; Keeter, who was once again unaccounted for; and Skates, who was deployed to the Indian Ocean. Well, one couldn't have everything.

On Nyala's side, there were even fewer people attending the ceremony. Amara, obviously her Maid of Honour, was sitting next to Darius. Behind them, a few college friends and three or four carefully chosen colleagues were observing as their African friend was marrying someone whose wedding they'd gladly have reported about, had they not been invited and been close friends with the bride.

As his thoughts were trailing away from the chaplain's words, Harm turned his head slightly to the right, seeing his future wife in an aureole of sunlight that was filtering through the windows. Her curls had been pinned up loosely, interwoven with a few tiny white blossoms. She wasn't wearing a veil. He hadn't seen the dress before today, of course, but he hadn't been surprised at how simple it actually was: she had always told him that simplicity was the only thing that felt right to her. "Everything else just isn't me," she had said.

And she was right - sitting next to him, Nyala was as much herself as she could ever be. Her snow-white dress was cut elegantly straight from one shoulder to the other. It had long, tight sleeves with a line of six little satin-covered buttons on each arm, from her wrists to about halfway up her forearms. The dress was a tight fit right down to her waist, from where the long skirt opened into a classic A-form. No pearls, no lace, no frills, nothing. Plain and simple - and breathtaking. Even though Harm had taken up his mother's advice and was wearing a classic black cutaway with the traditional charcoal trousers and the silver-grey waistcoat and tie that had to go with it, he felt that his looks weren't up to par with Nyala's. This was one of the very few moments when he would have longed to be in dress whites once again.

Nyala glanced to her left, and in the brief moment when their eyes met, she gave him a slight smile, returning the squeeze of his hand. As fleeting as the glance had been, the feelings displayed on her features brought him back to the present in an instant. Small congregation or not, cutaway or not, absent friends or not - in those eyes lay the promise of a future he had been dreaming about ever since he had finally understood the ways of his own heart. This very future was about to start right now, and he wasn't going to miss out on another second of it. An answering smile was spreading on his face when the chaplain's voice re-entered his consciousness.

"...thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined."

Chaplain Turner let his smiling gaze wander over the congregation. "Would everyone present please rise?" A general rustle interrupted the reverent silence that had reigned in the assembly. As soon as it had died down again, he turned to Harm, who felt an indistinct flutter in the pit of his stomach. Yet, he noted in awe, the fear was gone. He was about to pronounce the most important words he'd probably ever say in his life, but he wasn't afraid. Not with Nyala at his side. All that was in his heart was pure, overwhelming joy.

"Harmon," Sturgis's father solemnly addressed him, "wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together according to God's law in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

He swallowed hard. "I will," he answered, a slight tremor perceptible in his voice, all the time locking his gaze to his bride's, to let her know this vow was for her, and only for her. Nyala's eyes were slightly misty, and her cheeks were just a little flushed, but she firmly held his gaze, radiating confidence, trust and deep caring. As long as we both shall live, he silently repeated in his heart.

The chaplain turned to Nyala, whose hands had started to tremble again. "Nyala, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together according to God's law in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health? And, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

Her voice was clear and serene, and Harm thought he'd once again lose himself in her eyes when she turned them to meet his for her answer. "I will."

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" Chaplain Turner asked, giving Darius a slight smile over his daughter's head.

"I do," came the melodious voice from right behind them.

Still smiling, Turner removed the stole from his shoulders, signalled to Harm and Nyala to take each other's right hand, and placed it over the joined hands. "I now ask you to profess your vows in the face of everyone present."

Harm took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart, as he solemnly declared, "I, Harmon, take thee, Nyala, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse: for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law; and thereto I give thee my troth."

He slightly caressed the back of Nyala's hand with his thumb under the chaplain's stole, as if to reassure her that taking this decisive step hadn't been too hard for him, after all. Now I'm in your hands, Swala, he silently told her.

Now it was her turn to swallow. "I, Nyala, take thee, Harmon, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold..." She broke off. A tear had escaped her eye and she let out something in between a sob and an embarrassed chuckle, desperately blinking to clear her vision. Compassionate smiles could be seen throughout the assembly. With a self-conscious smile, she shook her head slightly as if to straighten out her thoughts. Harm's heart went out to her. His voice had all but given in to his emotions, too, just a moment earlier. And somehow, he was glad he wasn't the only one who found this hard to do. He gave her hand another encouraging squeeze, and when she took up her vow again, her accent was just a little stronger than usual - as always when she was deeply moved. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse: for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law; and thereto I give thee my troth."

Upon a nod from the chaplain, Sergei stepped forward and presented a cushion with their wedding bands. Turner held his hands over them and prayed, "Bless, oh Lord, there rings, and grant that they who give them and shall wear them may remain faithful to each other, and abide in thy peace and favor, and live together in love until their lives' end. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

Knowing his cue, Harm picked up the smaller one and gently slid it onto Nyala's left hand. "With this ring I thee wed; with my body I thee honor; and all my worldly goods with thee I share: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Nyala repeated his words, eliciting slight chuckles from the congregation when his ring refused to slide into place and she had to apply a considerable amount of strength and effort to get it to comply.

Turner raised his hands in blessing. "Oh Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind: Send thy blessing upon these thy servants; that they may surely perform and keep the vow betwixt them made, whereof these rings given and received are tokens and pledges; and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. Amen."

There - it was done. He was a married man. Astonished beyond belief, and not daring to trust his luck that the angelic apparition in front of him was really his for good, Harm all but missed Chaplain Turner's next sentence.

"Harmon, you may kiss the bride."

Only when Turner distinctly cleared his throat did he get a grip and gently lowered his lips onto Nyala's. The velvety contact suddenly confirmed that his dream had indeed become reality, and he wished this moment never had to end. When they broke apart, they were oblivious to the cheering and clapping that had arisen around them.

"Set me as a seal upon thine heart," Turner's voice was ringing with joy when he read from the Song of Songs, "As a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be condemned."

The chaplain's look turned just a little wistful. "Harmon, Nyala, the love that unites you, the feelings you have found and kindled in your hearts, will withstand any trials and hardship you may have to face, if you stand true to your vows and never leave each other's side. They will grow the most powerful source of strength you could ever wish for. Cherish this immeasurable gift that the Lord has granted you. There is nothing more precious in this world than knowing to be loved and to love in return. Let this awareness indeed become a seal upon your hearts, and have faith that your love truly is as strong as death. God bless you."

Once again, Harm looked at the woman to whom he had pledged his life. Only about a year and a half ago, he hadn't been too far from despairing altogether about the course his life had taken. His heart had lain shattered in pieces, and he had doubted he'd ever find the strength to put it together again and start afresh. Yet, here he was, at a point where he was ready to swear that his life couldn't be more blessed with happiness than he found it to be. And in some strange way, it didn't even strike him as out of place when in this very moment, his thoughts wandered east to the one woman who'd ultimately been the cause for the enormous turn his life had taken.

Mac, I am truly glad there are no hard feelings between us anymore. I can safely tell you that today, your friend is the happiest man on Earth. And I wish, with all my heart, that you may find equal happiness in your life with Clay. God bless you, Marine.

In this exact moment, he knew for sure that in the book of his life, this chapter had been closed and sealed for good. The past no longer had any power over him.

Harmon Rabb was free.

END OF FIRST MOVEMENT

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