Like a Sad Song

A musical JAG novel in three movements - Movement II: The Road Home

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

Disclaimer: JAG is property of Belisarius Productions, CBS and Paramount Pictures. Some of the songs used are our own work, some are property of their respective writers and singers. No copyright infringement intended.

Rating: 12+
Classification: Angst, Romance (H/M, starting out H/Ny, M/Clay), 'Multi-Song Fic'

Spoilers: Everything up to the season-9 episode 'Shifting Sands' and, of course, the whole of 'Like a Sad Song - The New Road'.

Summary: Personal tragedies, political conflict, personal commitment to protect a child, and the power of music let Harm and Mac cross ways again - at a time when both of them most desperately need a true friend...

Authors' notes:

From SC: Thank you for being patient and waiting so long for the start of this new movement in the 'Like a Sad Song' series. It's mostly my fault it took so long, but I hope you enjoy the tears I'm sure to cause. Dae, thanks for sticking by me! And again, many, many thanks to AeroGirl for beta-reading.

This story takes place a few months after LASS 1, and keeps with our own timeline, so nothing past 'Shifting Sands' happened, including Meredith and the Admiral breaking up. Bud and Harriet aren't expecting twins, and Clay never died.

Now, about feedback. I love feedback, good, hard and constructive, but whining and complaints will be met with silence. If you can help me write better, if I screwed a timeline or a detail, please let me know. But if this story doesn't appeal to you because of the storyline, the pairings or anything of the likes, I can't change that, and neither can Dae. So please, don't disrespect our work, its quality or the time we put into it. That said, thank you for being our readers, and I sincerely hope you enjoy this story.

From Dae: We know we had initially promised to post this far earlier, but during the past months both SC and I got a few reminders that RL doesn't stick to writing schedules. We still hope we haven't lost too many of you, and that our story might just be worth your admirable patience! And Cat, you're very welcome. I love working with you, and would have waited longer, too.

BTW, I second what SC said about feedback: I'm always eager to improve, and I love honest and differentiated criticism. But yelling at us for not taking the story where one would have wished is indeed unnecessary and annoying. Luckily, those people disqualify themselves by their comments, so I don't need to invest a lot of time in replying. (Except when I feel I want to amuse myself a little with irony...)

One more thing: as it turns out, we seem to have psychic abilities, too, concerning Mac's state of health. So, if anything you read might in fact make you think of "The Four Percent Solution", please believe us that this was written quite a bit earlier, even though we're posting it only now.

Finally: enjoy!

*************CHAPTER ONE**************

JANUARY 12TH 2005
1154 PST
CASSANO/RABB - LYON RESIDENCE
CALLISTO, CALIFORNIA

Harm absently turned the fuchsia-coloured nut over in his hand before cracking it open. Well, crushing it was actually a better description. Why were pecans so hard to get to in one piece? If you exerted enough force to crack the shell, you wound up crushing the soft nut inside, and picking out edible fragments from hard bits of shell for minutes on end. Almonds were a lot easier to get to, but they lacked the sweetness of the pecans he liked so much. Then again, if he'd bought shelled nuts, he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

He gave an irritated snort and threw the nutcracker and bits of shell into the wood bowl that rested on his desk, beside the pile of empty music sheets. He scrubbed a hand over his face and willed himself to concentrate. He hadn't written anything to his liking in three months, and it was starting to drive him, well, nuts. It wasn't for lack of ideas, though. It wasn't so much to his liking but as to Jeanne's. Since the wedding, he'd had all these ideas for new songs, each more upbeat than the next. Jeanne had been appalled by the sudden change in his style, and she was afraid he'd shatter his image of a tortured and lonely soul, in turn shattering his fan base and record sales. Nyala had been quick to argue that they'd like anything he'd write, because it would be good, and true to him, and that was all the style he needed. The relationship between Jeanne and Nyala was... intense to say the least. The two women often clashed on matters concerning Harm's career, and he was only mildly surprised they hadn't come to blows yet.

But, on the other hand, the two women had a wicked way of ganging up on him when they had something in mind, like having him sing at the Grammy Awards next month. He still wasn't sure how those two had managed to con him into that one.

A brief smile chased over his features as he thought of his lioness-wife, defending him at every turn. Nyala was fiercely protective of him, and she would show her teeth any time Jeanne pushed him too far for her liking. He couldn't wait to see her protecting her-- no. Their children.

He pushed off of his chair and walked up to the oak 4½ foot grand piano and let his fingers slide over the keys. Nyala had been teaching him to play, and he was making good progress. But he wasn't proficient enough, yet, for him to play his own compositions. The instrument never failed to bring back fond memories for him. He loved to sit behind her, and watch her play, as she swayed gracefully to the music, her hands caressing the ivory and ebony keys. Once or twice, he'd given in, and had interrupted her playing with kisses in the crook of her graceful neck, and just like the first time they had shared the piano's bench... He blew an explosive breath and willed himself to concentrate. He needed to get his mind in the game, and come up with a new song for the Grammies, sooner rather than later.

Well, that's the price of glory, my friend, he mused. With his increased popularity came increased demand for his own material, and since he'd proven he could write a hit, well... He couldn't help but feel just a little cocky. No Less Than Myself had topped the charts for over a month, and the video had done just the same. With it, however, had come the dreaded hordes of fans, and paparazzi. He was no longer a stranger amongst the throngs of strangers in L. A. He could no longer walk the streets or jog in the parks in peace. So they had moved here, further from the city, into a more private community.

The house wasn't big by Hollywood standards, but to Harm, it was huge. He let his eyes wander around the music room. Most people would have made it a dining room or a living room, because of its vast panoramic windows, offering a superb view of the mountains in the distance. In the morning, the entire room was bathed in sunlight, dampened only by the raw Egyptian cotton curtains they usually kept open. Ebony masks adorned the ecru walls and giraffe sculptures towered near the windows, mixing with model airplanes and stainless steel sculptures on the bookshelves, to create a décor that was uniquely theirs, a perfect mixture of tribal Africa and modern America.

Again, he reached out a hand and let his fingers run over the dark oak piano's cover. It had been a wedding gift from his mother; it was an antique Steinway she'd found in a dusty shop in the bowels of San Francisco. On the key cover was a simple engraving of an H and an N, intertwined. Nyala loved it. And in another corner stood a brass and copper tenor saxophone, a thin, graceful black signature on the bell: Darius Lyon. Harm loved it, despite his complete inability to play it.

He'd never been quite so happy in his life. Nyala was, literally, his everything. He'd always hated being dependent on anyone. Anyone but her. From the moment he'd let her in, he'd found himself swept away by a torrent of feelings he didn't know he was capable of experiencing. It made him stronger, more resilient, and so much more vulnerable. Their relationship wasn't perfect, and their fights, although always intense, were always short lived. He would yell at her, she would yell back, and he would look into her fiery eyes, see her proud bearing and the way she cocked her head when she was mad at him, and he'd fall in love all over again. The look in his eyes would change, she would see it, and get angrier. For only a minute. And then, they would apologize to each other, fall into each other's arms, and talk, until they'd fixed whatever was wrong.

He let himself get lost into the memories of her as he sat on the piano bench. And like magic, he let his fingers touch one of the keys, and then another, and another. He frowned and searched for a moment to find the right note, and within a few minutes, he had a basic melody to match the words in his head: a languid and slow melody, once again set into a minor key. He quickly retrieved a sheet of blank staff sheets and set them up on the top of the piano, furiously scribbling the basic melody and rhythm he'd come up with. That done, he rose again and walked to the waxed oak armoire that hid the controls for the recording equipment set throughout the room.

He took the remote with him and again took a seat behind the piano, and hit the "record" button on the remote. A tentative piano melody filled the air, soon outshone by Harm's smooth baritone.

"African sun
You rose in my life
To bring me joy, bring me love
Never had I known such happiness could be

"African rose
You grew in the barren land
That was once my heart
Never thought the rains hmmm...." he hummed quietly, searching for the right words.

"You made me heal, made me whole, made me love
Just by being you
You turned the desert of my soul to an oasis of gold
Just by being you
Just by being you

"African ..." he trailed, as the phone started to ring.

Harm stabbed the stop button on the remote with an irritated sigh. After a few moments of quiet frustration, he pushed himself off the piano bench and grabbed the phone.

"What," he answered curtly.

[Well, hello to you too, chéri. What's got you in such a mood?]

Harm rolled his eyes and flopped into a nearby black leather armchair. "You, interrupting me in my work, Jeanne."

[Is Nyala around?] Jeanne asked, completely unapologetic.

"No. Why?"

[Good. She won't get in the middle of this.]

"Jeanne," Harm warned, sensing the subject ahead.

[If you're still writing that happy, sweet... disgustingly romantic stu--]

"Jeanne," Harm interrupted harshly, "we've been over this before. My way, or no way. Live with it."

Jeanne released a long, aggravated sigh. [Nom de Dieu, mais comment j'ai pu penser faire de toi quelque chose d'autre qu'une tête de mule?]

Harm cracked a smile and let out a low chuckle. "You're calling me an ass?"

The snort he received had him howling in laughter. A few seconds later, Jeanne gave in, and laughed too.

[You're spending entirely too much time with me if you're picking up enough French to understand all the insults I throw your way,] she said at last. [And for the record, I was calling you a stubborn ass, and wondering whatever possessed me to offer you a contract.]

"Yeah, well, I'd like to know the answer to that myself. As I recall, I asked you to leave my place at least twice," Harm said, remembering that rainy June night.

[Three times, actually. And the answer is I couldn't pass up such exceptional talent, regardless of the attitude that comes with it. But seriously, Harm, business-wise, you need to keep some, how can I say... A sense of who you are -your persona- as a singer, and that's a dark, troubled soul, hon, not a head-over-heels-in-love newlywed. You know I'm right.]

Harm blew a soft sigh, letting his head drop on the backrest.

"We've been over this before, and you're wrong. My persona, as you call it, is just me. I write what I feel and sing it out. I'm deeply honest, and no matter how hard you try, you'll never change that. People like my music because it's true. You've said so yourself, remember? I'm happy, Jeanne. For the first time in my life, I'm truly and completely happy. So either accept it, or I'll find someone who will," he finished calmly, meaning every word of it. He loved Jeanne like an annoying big sister, but the only things he'd carried with him throughout his life and all its changes and transitions were his honesty and integrity. He wouldn't compromise those, even in song, and Jeanne knew it.

Silence stretched over the line, as she pondered his words.

[You have a contract. You can't just walk away,] Jeanne said, her tone just a little frosty. Maybe this time he'd pushed too far.

"I know. Look, Jeanne, I like working with you and Jerry, but..."

[Relax, chéri. I know you. But even I have some limits. If I can't sell your stuff to the label...]

"Then find another one-"

[Didn't I just tell you to relax? This just means I'll have to fight them harder on this. I'll back you up no matter what, because you're too good to drop, but this is a business, Harmon. Never forget that. It's a numbers game. But I'll make it work, somehow,] she added under her breath.

"And that's why I let you play it. I just write the songs and play pretty guitar tunes."

[Oh, go write something and leave me alone,] Jeanne snapped, trying to feign annoyance.

"Bye, Jeanne," Harm said, lowering the phone towards its base.

[Wait!]

"What," he asked impatiently, once again sticking the phone to his ear.

[I'm actually calling to set something up with you for the Grammies.]

"No. Whatever it is, the answer's no. I already accepted to sing, and that's it. Period."

[Hear me out. I think you'll change your mind, and besides, it might just save you from having to write that song.]

Harm's brow quirked. What was that fox-minded producer of his up to now? "Speak," he said warily.

[Well, you know about this year's Lifetime Achievement award...]

Harm's brow furrowed further. "Yeah, so?"

************

FEBRUARY 4TH
2057 PST
STAPLES CENTER
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

As the applause died down, Harm leaned to Nyala's ear, once again marveling at her beauty. Her skin shone like a dark pearl, and he had to resist stroking the soft curls of her hair, loosely pinned to the back of her head, just barely brushing her bare shoulders. The thin, airy black silk dress she wore seemed to caress her body, displaying it like a precious jewel, instead of hiding it under its fabric. He sat, mouth only a hairsbreadth from her ear, mesmerized by her beauty.

In the last few weeks, something had changed in her. She'd always been radiant, smiling, and happy, but now, there was something more, a new light in her eyes, that completely captivated him. Oftentimes, when he was hunched over his desk, working over his latest creation, she would stand beside him, and just smile, her head lightly cocked, watching him. Now it was his turn to watch her as she studied the crowd around them, intently watched the performers and presenters on stage, and take quick notes on a small pad she hid in her evening purse.

He forced himself out from under her spell and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I gotta go get ready, Swala."

Nyala turned a sharp gaze towards him and her expression turned to one of incredulity. "Already?" she whispered back. "But you aren't due up there for another hour and a half!"

"I know, but Jeanne wants me there now. Last minute changes..." he explained, a pleading look in his eyes, begging her to understand.

"But," she spared a quick look to her other seat companion, her father. "You'll miss dad's award..."

He lowered his eyes, contrite. "I know. But I'll be backstage, and they have monitors. I'll watch it. And besides, I'll be waiting for the three of you back there, okay?" he said, casting a quick glance to Amara, sitting beside him.

Nyala sighed, clearly disappointed. "Are you sure you have to?"

Harm smiled apologetically and nodded. "I'm sorry."

"I'll get Jeanne for this," she hissed finally, and for a moment, he was ready to swear there were tears in her eyes.

"She's not the one to blame this time, Ny. It's the show's producer." A movement from his left caught his eye and he nodded. "Gotta go. See you in a few, okay?"

"All right," Nyala said at last.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek softly. " Nakupenda wewe."

"I love you too, Kamau."

Five minutes later, he met Jeanne, backstage.

"Did she buy it?" she asked, a huge smile on her face, her lavender eyes twinkling.

"She's about ready to kill you at the moment, and I'm not sure she'll forgive me, no matter what she says," Harm replied, with a smile of his own. Maybe this was going to work after all. He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and pulled his bowtie loose, breathing a sigh of relief. He'd had a brief tense moment, fumbling with an explanation as to why he wasn't wearing his stage clothes like all the other performers, when Nyala had remarked he wasn't going to sing in a tux. He'd made up some cockamamie story about performing only in the second part of the awards, so he'd have plenty of time to get ready, and about old habits of always being in uniform at functions, and luckily, she'd been convinced, or so he hoped.

Now, he couldn't help but smile, as he pulled on his jeans and white undershirt and slipped on his bomber jacket. He also added his aviator model Ray Ban sunglasses, to complete the picture. Yes. It would be just perfect for what Jeanne had planned. He slipped his guitar out of its case and gave it a last quick tuning before starting his warm-up exercises, meeting up with his backup vocalists. He could still hear the different award presentations through the monitors distributed around the area, and the sound carried from the stage, setting the atmosphere.

A few minutes of vocalisations later, a technician motioned for him to follow, and soon, he was standing in the dim of the rear stage, awaiting his cue. He could hear the host's voice booming into the speakers behind him and a faint voice in his earphone announced one minute to curtain. He smiled and listened to the presenter.

"This year's lifetime achievement award nominee has had a long and successful career, excelling in one of the most demanding of musical genres. Not only did he rise to the top during a time when people of colour were called just that, but he raised two daughters by himself, in a new country, a continent away from his native Africa.

"Darius Lyon gave us wonderful jazz in his inspired lyrics, soulful rhythms, and unique harmonies. And so tonight, we pay tribute to Mr. Lyon. And to do so, we'd like to offer you a rendition of Darius Lyon's greatest hit, Above the Storm Clouds, performed by one of his biggest fans, and one of, if not the most promising jazz singer in this country, best new album nominee, Darren Cassano."

As the voice died down to be replaced by applause, Harm stepped onto the stage and met the eyes of the drummer in a silent cue. He counted four in his head and stoked the first harmony, and at once, music and light exploded around him like a sudden thunderstorm.

Through the glare of the follow-spot, he searched for Nyala's face, but he couldn't see her. Somehow, he had a feeling he was forgiven for bailing out on her and the presentation.

He stepped up to the mike as the intro wound down, and began to sing.

Elements in motion,
Darkness all around,
The burdens of existence,
No sunrays to be found.

But now each passing moment
Will calm my battered mind.
The humming of the engine
Will keep my thoughts aligned.
The skies in their immensity
I know will set me free:
Up here I come alive,
And I'm nearer, God, to Thee.

The grey vastness below me is hiding my sorrow,
The blue lightness above me is soothing my pain,
The bright sunlight around me is a promise of tomorrow.
Above the storm clouds, no worries remain.

Joy unfolding freely,
Levity of heart,
For once no gnawing troubles,
No problems to discard.

I'm bathing in the headwind,
I'm letting passion flow.
Succumbing to emotion,
I'm finally letting go.
This boundless source of happiness
Is what I need to be:
Up here I come a live,
And I'm nearer, God, to Thee.

The grey vastness below me is hiding my sorrow,
The blue lightness above me is soothing my pain,
The bright sunlight around me is a promise of tomorrow.
Above the storm clouds, no worries remain.

Take me up above the storm clouds, Lord,
Take me up and ease my pain.

After the last note faded away, Harm took the mike from the stand and walked to the podium, as a technician discreetly took his guitar. When the applause died down, he smiled broadly.

"Thank you. Now I hope my wife will forgive me for the deception," he said, eyes twinkling, gazing in Nyala's general direction. A soft chuckle ran through the crowd.

"I want to say what an honour it is for me to pay tribute to the great musician Darius Lyon is, and not just because he let me marry his daughter." Another chuckle broke though the crowd. "I'm really proud to do this, because he is my greatest inspiration, and a true pillar of jazz in this country. Ladies and gentlemen, Darius Lyon," Harm concluded, as the follow-spot found his father-in-law.

Darius soon joined him on stage, accompanied by his two daughters. Nyala's eyes locked on his as she climbed the stage steps on the arm of her father, shaking her head in a mixture of disbelief and indulgence. As Harm handed the golden gramophone replica to Darius, with a warm handshake and sincere congratulations, Nyala placed a hand on his arm, smiling lovingly at her father. As she passed Harm, she rose to the tip of her toes and placed a light kiss on his cheek.

"I'll get you for this, Kamau," she whispered in his ear, before returning to her place beside Darius.

Harm smiled and winked as he turned to listen to Darius speak. The older man cleared his throat and gazed fondly at his daughters and at his son-in-law.

"Well, methinks my son-in-law will have some explaining to do," he said solemnly, his eyes dancing. A soft chuckle coursed thought the crowd and Harm ducked his head in mock shame.

"But I must say, I'm glad he's part of the family now. I couldn't think of anyone who's done more for jazz in the last decades." Darius sobered, and looked fondly at his daughters. "I am a blessed man. I have two wonderful daughters, and the music that allowed us to make a life for ourselves here is still alive, thanks to a new generation of musicians, shaping it to today's tastes and times. I give you my appreciation, and my thanks for this award, and I thank in particular all those who believed in me all those years ago, and to those who still love jazz, and will continue to keep it alive for generations to come. Thank you."

Harm knew his father-in-law had always been a man of few words outside of his songs, and despite a bubbling sense of humour -inherited by both his daughters- and a wonderful talent for performing on stage, he was remarkably shy, a trait only Nyala had inherited.

Thundering applause rose in the theatre, as Darius and his family, including Harm, moved off the stage, towards the media area. After answering the perfunctory questions and posing for various pictures, Nyala managed to snag her husband's arm and drag him off to a private alcove.

He stood with his back to the wall, pinned by Nyala's lithe frame, biting the inside of his lower lip to keep from smirking too much.

Scowling, Nyala rattled off a few heated phrases in Swahili, trying vainly to appear mad at him.

"I didn't quite get that, Swala. What?"

"If I didn't love you so much, I think I'd kill you for what you just did," Nyala said, her eyes dancing.

"Hey, I know what 'I love you' is in Swahili. That wasn't part of what you said," he protested.

Nyala's eyes softened, and she laid her head on his shoulder. "No, you're right. But I think you'll like what I said even better."

Harm didn't exactly know why, if it was her tone or the light in her eyes, but his surroundings started to fade, until nothing other than the woman in his arms existed. She raised a hand and softly caressed his cheek, delicately tracing the outline of his jaw. He felt a deep flutter in the pit of his stomach, and he knew at that precise moment, his life was about to change forever. He just didn't know how yet.

"Tell me," he whispered. "What did you say?" he asked, barely breathing.

"I said I would kill you if you didn't mean so much to me, and I can't do that to the father of the child I'm carrying."

Harm blinked twice, and his entire body was quickly engulfed by a strange tingling sensation. Father of the child I'm carrying? Had he heard her right?

"Pregnant?" he choked out, forcing his throat to work. To his immense joy, Nyala nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

As Ny confirmed, someone roughly grabbed Harm's arm, dragging him away from her. Stunned and overwhelmed, he didn't resist the pull and followed whoever was shepherding him towards the main stage area. In that instant, the entire world around him became surreal, as the news worked its way through his brain. He was already on stage before he recovered enough of his senses to protest, but applause erupted around him. A tall blonde woman placed something in one of his hands and shook the other. He only stared at her, uncomprehending. Only one thought floated in his head: he was going to be a father. They were going to have a baby. A baby. A child.

"Congratulations!" she said cheerfully, kissing his cheek. "So how does it feel?"

How could she know? He wondered, completely confused. He briefly looked around him, desperately searching for guidance, but found only a podium and a microphone in front of him.

"Say something!" the blonde urged, smiling.

Why? What the hell is going on? How can all these people know? He wondered, but still walked to the podium, with no idea of what to say.

"Tell them how you feel!" the blonde urged, her smile turning nervous.

"Ah, I don't quite know what to say. I'm, ah, overwhelmed, but... This is the single most wonderful thing to ever happen to me, aside from meeting my wife. Thank you."

Tentative applause met his brief statement, and he was escorted off the stage, still trying to comprehend what twilight zone he had walked into. And where was Nyala? As the thought formed in his head, he spotted her, a few feet away. He shouldered his way past the crowd in front of him and grabbed her in a huge hug.

"Congratulations, honey," she said, beaming at him.

"I'm going to be a dad?" he asked again, almost afraid to believe this was really happening.

"Yes."

"How can they know already?"

Nyala shook her head, a bit confused. "Who? Know what?"

"About the baby. They asked me how it felt..." he trailed, a suddenly ominous feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have time to reflect on it, as Jeanne roughly spun him around to stare daggers at him.

"Mais bordel, où t'as mis ta tête?" she asked, clearly upset. "It's one thing to be a bit overwhelmed, but a thank you for me and Jerry, or at least the production house would have been nice! Now come with me. You missed the interviews." With that, Jeanne started to drag him towards the press area.

This time, however, he dug his heels in. "Whoa! Hey! Now hold up!" he protested, inflamed. Enough was enough. Who did these people think they were? It was one thing to be grateful for his career, but when it came to his family, he was the only one concerned. It had taken him a damned long time before daring to make a commitment, and he loved Nyala dearly. Jeanne had nothing to do with that. Granted, he'd met his wife in part thanks to Jeanne, but that was it.

"You, or anyone else other than me for that matter, have anything to do with my wife being pregnant!" he snapped.

Jeanne's features folded into a mixture of incomprehension, shock and joy. "Pregnant?" she asked, looking at Nyala.

"Yes," Ny confirmed, sliding her arm underneath her husband's. "And I think I know what's going on with him."

"Please explain, dear, because I'm about an inch from throttling him," Jeanne snarled. "OH! Congratulations!" she suddenly added, and kissed Nyala warmly. "Now explain your lunatic husband's behaviour."

"He hasn't noticed yet."

"What do you mean, he hasn't noticed yet?" Jeanne squeaked.

"What are you talking about, Ny?" Harm asked, only to be completely ignored.

"I told him I was pregnant about 2 seconds before they dragged him towards the stage. I think he doesn't know."

"How could he not?" Jeanne replied, casting an amused glance towards a very confused Harm.

"You saw the same thing I did. And once he got back here, he asked me how come they know," Nyala explained patiently.

Jeanne just couldn't hold it any longer and dissolved into helpless laughter. "Oh, no, It's just too good to be true!" she chortled, and Nyala's musical laughter joined in.

"If you two are laughing at me, I'd like to at least know why, if you don't mind," Harm asked, mildly annoyed.

The two women regarded him with pity. "Do you want to tell him, or shall I?" Jeanne asked, winking conspiratorially at Nyala.

"Since it's my fault, allow me. Darren, dear, the rest of the world doesn't know," Nyala clarified.

Harm's confusion became complete. He blinked twice and his brow furrowed deeply, his eyes traveling between the two women. "Then what..."

"What's in your left hand?" Ny asked.

" Huh? In my... What?"

"In your left hand."

Finally, Harm sensed the weight of the object he'd been holding for the last few minutes. He let his gaze drop to his hand, the ominous feeling he'd had suddenly coalescing into dread. He found himself staring at a small square of mahogany, topped by a small replica of a gramophone, just like the one Darius had received only a few minutes before. A Grammy.

Nyala could see the exact moment the realisation hit him. His eyes widened and he turned about five shades of red.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I, ah, I see. I, um..." he stammered, not daring to look at Jeanne. "God. I am such an idiot. I've just humiliated myself and the rest of the team... I'm so sorry, Jeanne."

Jeanne shook her head, and took his hand. "No worries. We can fix this. Come on."

SAME TIME
WEBB - MACKENZIE RESIDENCE
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

"And in other Grammy news, our correspondent Jillian Markson brings us the latest on the ceremony. Jillian?"

"Thank you Mary. Well, a few minutes ago, Jazz and Blues star Darren Cassano accepted the Best New Album award. Cassano surprised us by an all too rare short speech, but his reaction to receiving the award was puzzling to say the least."

Mac turned her attention to the TV screen, closing the file she'd been working on.

"Clay, come and see this!" she called.

"What is it, Sarah?"

"Harm's won a Grammy!"

Clay stepped into the cozy living room, gazing lovingly at Mac. He smiled and sat beside her on the burgundy leather sofa, still wondering how she could work comfortably, hunched over the coffee table. Her office, next to his, served as such in appearance only. But then, he wasn't about to complain. She would come up to bed in a few hours, her back tied in knots. As always, he'd volunteer to rub it for her, and she would accept. Maybe it was the only reason she worked in here.

He didn't mind her lingering interest in Rabb's new life. He'd accepted not to question their strange relationship, especially when she'd told him about Rabb's marriage. Besides, he owed his life to that man, and Sarah's. He turned his attention to the television, as he placed a gentle kiss on her temple. Together, they watched Harm accept the award as if lost in a fog, dazed.

"It's not like him to be fazed by attention," Clay remarked. The man seemed positively lost, completely overwhelmed.

"No, it's not," Mac agreed.

"I was able to talk with Darren a few moments ago, and I think you'll agree, he had a very good reason to be a bit overwhelmed."

The picture changed to show Harm and his wife, looking fondly at each other.

"So Darren, have you had a chance to adjust? You seemed quite swept away there..."

Harm gave the journalist a radiant smile. "Well Jillian, at the risk of embarrassing myself further, my comments had nothing to do with the Grammy. In fact, I didn't realise I'd won. You see, my wife dropped a bombshell on me about a second before I was dragged on stage."

"Wow! That must have been some news! Care to share?"

"Absolutely. Nyala's pregnant. We're going to have a baby. That's why I completely forgot to thank Jeanne LeBlanc, my producer and LESyncope productions for getting me where I am now."

The journalist turned her attention back to the camera. "There you have it. Back to you, Mary!"

"Now that's good to hear. Harm with a family of his own," Mac whispered.

Clay instantly felt her slump slightly next ho him. They had been trying for over a year to have child of their own, but to no avail. He gently put an arm around his shoulders and held her close.

"Our turn'll come, you'll see. When's your appointment with Dr. Clendenin?"

"I know. In three weeks. I never thought I'd have so much trouble getting pregnant."

"Who says I'm not to blame?" he said softly. He wanted children, but not as badly as she did, so the situation was a lot harder on her. When her doctor had suggested they consult with a fertility specialist, she'd taken it hard, blaming herself. He only hoped the consultation would bring good news, but hearing about Harm and his wife having a child was bound to make things harder.

"I just know it's me, Clay. But... thank you for being there."

He smiled softly. "There's nowhere I'd rather be. So, should we send our congratulations to the expecting parents?"

Mac relaxed against him, and smiled wanly. "Yeah, I'll get a card. I'll get his address off Harriet." She flicked off the television and rose off the couch, holding onto one of his hands.

"My back is sore. Would you rub it for me?" she asked, her eyes pleading.

Clay smiled indulgently. He rose as well, and motioned towards the stairs, and their bedroom. "Of course. Shall we?"

**********

FEBRUARY 18TH
1025 PST
LESYNCOPE PRODUCTIONS & STUDIOS
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Harm pushed the tall glass door open and took off his sunglasses, heaving a deep sigh, casting a thankful glance to the two behemoths standing by the door. How he regretted his days of anonymity. His popularity had jumped about five notches since the Grammies. Jeanne was on Cloud Nine, and Nyala was right there with her, for different reasons. And he had to admit, he felt pretty good too. Ok. If he was truly honest, he had to make a conscious effort not to strut like a rooster down the street.

The idea of fatherhood filled him with a new sense of purpose, and nothing could touch his good spirits, not even a last minute summons from Jeanne. He nodded to the receptionist and quickly made his way to Jeanne's office. He spotted here through the large glass panes, poring over a huge calendar, and a map of the continental United States. He knocked twice on the glass before letting himself in.

"Morning, Jeanne!" he called cheerily. "What are you up to?"

"Bonjour, chéri," she replied, without lifting her head. "Re-arranging your tour schedule. I'm thinking you'd like to be in L.A. when the baby comes."

Harm's smile faded a little. He'd managed to forget he was leaving for a six-month tour in a few weeks. The overall tour would take ten months, when holidays and breaks were taken into consideration. The good mood he'd thought anchored for good slowly evaporated, and he sank to a chair as the realisation gradually set in. He would miss most of Nyala's pregnancy.

He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling, chewing on his bottom lip. He contemplated making Jeanne push the tour back, cancel it or something of the like, but shoved the impulse back. What would he have done, had he still been an F-14 pilot? Deployments didn't take such things as pregnancies into consideration. But he knew he'd have shipped out, regardless of his feelings. He'd made a commitment to his country and he would have honoured it. This was no different. He had a contract with the production house, and he'd given his word. And so he'd keep it. After all, his schedule was far more flexible than a deployed naval officer. Still…

"What are you thinking about?"

Jeanne's voice broke through his reverie, almost startling him. He looked up to her, a bit of a disillusioned smile on his lips. "I was convincing myself not to be selfish and childish. My fist impulse was to tell you to screw the tour."

Jeanne laid a sympathetic hand on his thigh. "I know how much you want to be with your wife, but you have obligations here too," she said, just a hint of worried warning in her voice.

"Relax, Jeanne. I know what a commitment is. I served my country for close to twenty years. Right now, I'm thanking my lucky stars for not being on carrier duty. That's the only aspect of military life I didn't like: being away from your loved ones when they need you most."

"Well, I managed to get you a whole week off when the baby comes," Jeanne beamed.

Harm shot to his feet, flabbergasted. "A week! Jeanne!"

"Well, that's provided that kid of yours is born on its due date. Now come over here so we can go over the schedule changes," she said absently, poring over the calendar again.

"Jeanne!"

"What?"

"A week! Are you completely off your rocker?" Harm yelled, outraged. "It's bad enough I'll miss most of Ny's pregnancy, I will not miss my child's first few days!"

"Mon dieu, les hommes," Jeanne mused."Take a breath, hon. Have a look at the schedule. I'm not that heartless. You're spending the entire month in California and Arizona, plus a few weeks in Nevada. You'll be home every night. Most of them, anyway."

Harm stepped up to the table, and quickly reviewed the proposed schedule, allowing himself to be reluctantly optimistic. He had to admit that Jeanne had done the best she could. It didn't ease the sense of apprehension that had first taken up residence in his heart when he thought about the tour. Somewhere deep in his gut, something felt off. He gave a brief thought to a man rotting in a dark cell in Leavenworth, but quickly pushed it away. The eerie feeling had some similitude with what he'd felt on that night, years ago, as Mac watched over him, but that wasn't it.

The thought brought a smile to his lips. He and Ny had received a wonderful congratulatory card from Mac and Clay, wishing them all the best. He'd laughed out loud when he'd read Clay's comment about a son of his giving his country a whole new set of headaches. Mac's message had been a little more wistful, talking about a baby with his looks and his brains driving his mother up a wall.

As he'd expected, they hadn't kept in touch. He still got birthday and Christmas cards from her and sent the same, but neither of them had any desire to dwell on lost chances, now that both had finally moved on and found some happiness.

"Darren? Mais où tu es, aujourd'hui? You're awfully pensive, hon."

Harm pursed his lips and smiled, looking Jeanne straight into her lavender eyes. "Impending fatherhood, how quickly life changes, takes new people into your life, old friends out of it, and the like…"

Jeanne nodded fractionally, her gaze boring into his. She guided him to the sofa and sat next to him. "Did you ever thank her, like I told you to?"

Harm didn't have to ask her whom she was talking about. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Yeah, I did. Just before Ny and I got married. She called me, actually."

"Any regrets?"

Harm thought for a few seconds before replying. "None that matter. We… Just weren't meant to be, I guess. No. No regrets." As he uttered the words, he knew it wasn't completely true. He didn't have any regrets about his life with Nyala, or about his new career, despite its disadvantages. But…

He wished that he and Mac could have made things work, that they'd taken one of the many opportunities life had given them. But then, he would never know, and there was no sense in having regrets about things he couldn't change. He loved Nyala with all his heart, and now, he realised that he probably loved her more than he ever did Mac. Maybe because Ny respected the feelings he had for Mac, and accepted him completely, in a way he felt Mac never could. But then, he'd done the same.

He shot to his feet in one swift move, taking Jeanne by surprise.

"Whoa! Where are you off to?"

"To see my wife. We done?"

"Go. Give her a kiss for me."

Harm gave a sharp nod of agreement and quickly exited the building. He nodded to the beefy entrance guard, resisting the lingering impulse to salute. One could take the man out of the Navy, but not the Navy out of the man.

He slipped behind the Corvette's wheel and slid into late morning traffic, impatient to get in touch with Nyala. He didn't know why he suddenly was in such a rush, but he needed to talk to her now. Taking his eyes off the car ahead, he grabbed his cell and hit Ny's office number. She picked up on the third ring.

"Hey! How'd your meeting with Jeanne go?" her sunny voice asked.

"I hate caller ID," he replied, some of his anxiety dissipating, just by hearing the sound of her voice. "I can never surprise you."

Nyala's musical laugh rang over the line. "Sorry, Kamau. And besides, you just gave me a good excuse to get rid of Karen. She wants me to cover the GotoHell concert tonight. I told her to shove it."

Harm chuckled. "Not those guys again! That a curse or something?"

"Don't know, but you didn't answer my question. How'd it go with Jeanne?"

"Are you free for lunch, Ny?" he asked, ignoring her question. Her sharp intake of breath told him she'd picked up on his mood, but made the wrong assumption as to its cause.

"Do I need to call her again?" Ny snarled.

"No The meeting went fine. I just need to see you."

"What's wrong, Harm?"

"I… I just really need to see you, all right?"

"Okay. You're on your way to pick me up?"

"Yeah."

"See you in ten, then?"

"Okay. Thanks."

"Naku penda, Kamau."

"I love you too, Swala."

Nine minutes later, he pulled up in front of the LA Times building, his expression set into a grim mask, his mind still filled with that strange mix of anxiety and worry. He barely had the urge to smile when he spotted Nyala walking out of the building, wrapped in pale green chiffon, fluttering in the spring breeze. She opened the door and sat next to him, her luminous smile fading as their eyes met.

He leaned close and kissed her deeply, almost desperately. She returned the kiss, and as soon as they parted, she cocked her head and studied his features carefully.

"What's got you so upset?"

He glanced away, unable to bear her gaze any longer. "Can we not do this here?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Home?"

"All right."

The drive passed in worried silence, for both of them. Nyala had always been sensitive to Harm's moods, and right now, she was positively scared. She'd never seen him so anxious, yet so pensive. When the Corvette stopped in the driveway, the tension seemed to engulf the entire block.

Harm quickly rounded the front bumper to open the door for Nyala, taking her small hand in his large one, gently brushing his thumb over her knuckles. The silence persisted until the door was securely closed behind them. Nyala paused in the foyer, keeping her back to him for a moment, before gazing at him over his shoulder.

"This is about Mac, isn't it?" she asked softly.

Harm's eyes widened, and for an instant, he felt like a cornered animal. He didn't know what to feel. How could she know? He was hovering between surprise, disbelief and utter terror. He had no idea how Nyala would interpret his response, whether positive or negative: if he said yes, she'd undoubtedly be hurt, and perhaps she would even think he was having second thoughts. If he denied it, he would be lying to her, and he'd promised never to do that. Also, he wanted to tell her about what was bothering him. That was why they were here, wasn't it?

"Partly," he replied, his voice low. "But probably not like you think." As soon as he'd uttered the words, he saw her expression crumple, and a look of fear invaded her huge eyes. Harm could tell she was terrified. But true to her nature, Nyala squared her shoulders and faced him, her chin high, almost defiant. Her eyes, though, still reflected the fear she felt.

"Do you regret marrying me?" she asked, her voice quivering a little.

"Do you?" he asked back, his voice filed with infinite sadness.

Nyala's fearful expression turned to confusion, and her slender hand reached out to his arm. He only lowered his head and stared at the floor.

"How could you accept me, knowing how much I'd loved another woman, knowing she'd always have a place in my heart?"

Harm listened to the echoing silence for a few heartbeats, before he dared to look up. What he saw completely amazed him. Nyala was smiling softly at him.

"Come sit down," she encouraged gently, tugging on his arm. He followed her to the music room, where they sat down together. She turned to him, taking both his hands into hers.

"I married you, first of all because I love you, and all of you, even with your past. I accepted you, and I repeat, all of you. Not just the parts that suited me. I know Mac is in your heart. I thank God every day for that. Because if you hadn't touched me the way you did with that song, I would have weaseled out of the interview. I was supposed to do the GotoHell gang, and I was about to tell Wendy to find someone else to do it, when she showed up and told me I was to meet with you. So, in a way, I'm thankful."

Harm stared at her, amazed beyond belief. "You… you don't… I …" He shook his head and took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. "I never saw it that way, but… Nyala… Jeanne asked me if I had any regrets, and I… I could really say I didn't. But Ny, you are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love you more than I even thought I could and now… I'm abandoning you! You and our child! How can you not resent me for that?" he cried, shooting off the sofa. He began to pace back and forth in front of her, gesturing wildly.

"When I was in the service, the women in my life knew I could be transferred or deployed at any time. Being away from home is one of the sacrifices servicemen make, but the people in their lives know what they're getting into. You didn't sign on for that! You didn't marry me so I could let you go through this pregnancy alone!"

Nyala shook her head and smiled indulgently. "Harm, I've been in the entertainment business a lot longer than you have. I didn't "sign on," as you say, blindly. I knew you'd have to leave on tour sooner or later. And it's not like I can't call you when I want to, or fly out every time I feel like seeing you. I'm strong, Kamau. I can take care of myself and our child, so long as I know you're not going away. And as far as regrets go, I'd be a lot more worried if you had none. Denial is a lot more insidious than a healthy dose of self-doubt."

It was his turn to grab her hands and drag her to her feet. He looked tenderly into her eyes and drew her close, placing her head over his heart. She had managed to disarm all of his insecurities in about fifteen seconds, without making him feel like a complete irrational fool.

"You are so amazing. Do you know that?"

Nyala's soft chuckle reverberated through his chest. "Only for you."

Harm's smile turned suggestive, as their gazes met once again. "Do you have to go back to the office this afternoon?" he asked, as he nuzzled her neck

"No, why?" she replied, her eyes closing. She let her head fall back and let herself dissolve into the feelings he was evoking in her.

"I'm suddenly ravenous for some Kenyan…"

"Why, I aim to please, husband," Nyala replied languorously. Pearls of laughter and kisses marked their way to the bedroom, new trust and confidence growing strong between them.

JUNE 7TH
0854 LOCAL
SOMEWHERE ON HIGHWAY 70
BETWEEN ST-LOUIS MO AND KANSAS CITY KS

The gentle lolling of the waves lapping against the boat rocked him gently, bringing a small, satisfied smile to his lips. The brand new sun was barely painting the sky pink, he imagined through closed lids. Tucked safely in his arms, Nyala slept peacefully, her head cradled between his shoulder and the crook of his neck.

He knew instinctively it was the crack of dawn, that it was way too early to rise, yet he hovered between sleep and wakefulness, infinitely content.

A bang and a sharp jolt reverberated though him. His eyes snapped open, fearing having hit a reef, or come aground-

He grunted a sigh and pushed back the covers on the empty bed. No, he wasn't sailing with Ny. The tour bus had just hit a pothole. He spared a longing glance to the empty pillow beside him and shook his head. This dream was beginning to drive him nuts. He slipped on a t-shirt and jeans before wandering out in search of some coffee.

"Morning," Jeanne greeted, from her spot on the sofa.

"Hmmm," he grumbled, as he poured himself a large mug of steaming coffee.

Jeanne chuckled. "My, are we cheerful this morning!"

"Stuff it, Jeanne. I'm not in the mood," Harm growled. He hadn't seen Nyala in six weeks, and once-a-day phone calls weren't enough anymore. He was being a bear to Jeanne and he knew it, but he was past caring. He needed to see his wife, and not in three weeks.

"Sorry. The dream, again?" Jeanne asked compassionately.

Harm rolled his eyes as he flopped on the bench across the table from Jeanne. "Why did I ever tell you about that?" he grumbled, staring into his cup, as the bus bounced along the uneven road.

"Because you needed someone to talk to, who understands how life on the road sucks?"

"Oh. Yeah, right. Listen, Jeanne, I'm sorry to be taking this out on you. It's just that…" Harm said, sounding despondent.

"I know. How did the ultrasound go?"

Harm let his head drop back, and heaved a quick sigh. "Well, I guess. Doctor can't tell if it's a boy or a girl. I miss her, Jeanne. It's driving me completely nuts."

"Then call her. Get her to come out and join us. We're heading west, and we'll be back in LA in a month. She can take a few weeks and come, can't she?"

"Yeah, but…" Again, Harm sighed deeply. "She has her own career, and… well, I don't want to… seem dependent on her," he finally admitted, blushing furiously.

Jeanne chuckled knowingly. "Harm, do you really think she misses you any less than you do?"

Harm glared at her but stayed silent.

"I thought so. So shove your pride out of the way and call your Swala."

Harm nodded, checking his watch. "I'll let her sleep for anther couple hours. I'll call her then."

He took a drink from his cup, hissing as the hot liquid scalded the roof of his mouth. He stared out at the rolling hills outside the window, his mind wandering to vast expanses of ocean, a salty breeze, and the ever-present tang of jet fuel. He saw the faces of his bunkmates, the pictures of their families and the longing in their eyes. Once again, he thanked the heavens. Nyala was, after all, just a phone call away.

"You know," he said suddenly, "I think I know, now, why I was never serious with anyone when I was serving aboard carriers as a fighter pilot. I mean, first of all, I shipped out at 22, and I spent most of the next 5 years at sea." His gaze turned distant, lost in memories of years long past. "I'd see all the guys with families, always talking about home, about their wives and kids, how they missed everything. I always thought… I don't know… I had a family too - I mean, my mother - and I missed her, but not like that. Somehow, I kept telling myself the guys weren't tough enough, that they knew what they signed up for. So, I think in some way, maybe I didn't want to be like that. Sounds cold, I guess."

"And now?" Jeanne prodded gently.

"Now I see how arrogant and stupid I was."

"You were young…"

"And I wasn't in love."

"But you are now."

"Yeah," he replied, somewhat wistfully. He checked his watch, willing the minutes to go by faster, trying to tell himself that Ny needed her rest. A soft snort of laughter made him return his gaze to Jeanne.

"What?"

"Call her, already."

"She needs her rest."

"That she does, but do you really think she'd mind?" Jeanne asked, her eyes twinkling.

Harm huffed, his eyes indignant, his lips curled into a grimace. He stood and grabbed his cell phone, Jeanne's laughter accompanying him all the way to his sleeping quarters.

*****

Nyala lay awake, staring at the still-dark ceiling. The small flutter under her hand brought an instant smile to her lips, and a sudden tear to her eyes.

"I wish your daddy was here, Kito."

As if her voice had carried across the country, the phone began to ring. She reached out a hand and grabbed the receiver.

"Morning, Kamau!"

[How'd you know it was me?] he asked, surprised.

She laughed softly. "Because I was just telling our child I miss you."

His gentle chuckle brought a smile to her lips. [I miss you too, Swala. That's why I was calling you.]

"What did you have in mind?" Ny asked, raising herself onto her elbows.

[Come join us in Kansas City tonight. I have all day tomorrow free so... we could spend the day together, see the sights... A... and you could stay with us. We're heading towards Denver after that, and maybe we could go and see your sister, and after that, we're going to San Francisco and then to L. A. and, and, and...]

Nyala couldn't help it. She burst out laughing.

[Is it that ridiculous to want you with me?] he asked, his tone gruff.

Nyala could sense the hurt behind his words, and almost see his defeated expression. Her laughter soon died down, and she apologised, her voice velvety and soft. "Honey, you don't have to try so hard to convince me. I miss you too. My contract at the Sun is up in a couple of weeks, and I have enough overtime to take off now and join you. I'm sorry I laughed. It's just… you were trying so hard… I just couldn't imagine you being the one begging me to come. I thought that it would be me."

[You did? I mean you will? Come out here, I mean?]

"Of course I will. I love you. And we miss you."

[We, huh?]

"Yeah. He started moving a few days ago. I call him Kito."

[Him? Kito?]

"Yes, him. I don't know why, but I'm sure it's a boy. Kito means precious."

[I like that. Kito Lyon Rabb. Has a nice ring to it.]

Nyala shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "Um, Harm, we don't need to use my last name as a middle name…"

[Why not? It fits. You're like a lioness: the way you attack life, how protective you are, how graceful and beautiful. That way, he'll always feel your strength.]

Nyala blushed, caressing her belly. "What if it's a girl?"

[Then we'll call her Nandi Lea Rabb.]

"A queen and a lioness? Wow, no small shoes to fill, don't you think?"

[No. She'll be our daughter. She will do anything she wants, and no challenge will be too great,] Harm said wistfully.

"So I guess I should find a flight to Kansas now."

[You're really coming?] he asked, sounding suspiciously like an insecure little boy.

"Yes. Now, you should get some more sleep, Kamau," Ny said lovingly, lowering herself back to her pillow.

[Me? You're the one who's pregnant.]

"Ah, but I'm also the wise one, going to bed *before* the sun comes up."

Her only reply was a muted snort of laughter. [I love you, Nyala.]

"Love you too, Harmon. See you tonight."

Nyala placed the phone back on its cradle and sighed, content. They very rarely used their full names when talking to each other. Somehow, it had become very special to the both of them, like a reminder of their wedding vows. It was a kind of assurance of renewed love, a new commitment, every time they spoke each other's name. It reminded her of old Massai traditions; a warrior was to speak his true name only to his betrothed, for fear of losing his strength. She was one of the few who knew his, and she would always cherish it. She drifted off to sleep, dreaming of her silent warrior, of the little one she carried, and of the sweet kisses she and her husband would share when they were reunited, before the sun set to rest for the night.

*********

Harm dropped the cell phone to the mattress and followed suit, closing his eyes, a soft, slow smile lighting his features. Before, he'd always disliked being called by his full name. When he was a kid, it would always mean trouble when his mother called out to him like that from the front porch, fists planted on her hips. But now, hearing it falling from his wife's lips, it felt like a promise of happiness.

A boy. She sounded so sure… Had the ultrasound shown something Ny hadn't told him about? No. She just wouldn't hide something like that from him. He soon drifted off too, images of a dark-skinned, blue-eyed little boy running around his head, and a proud lioness of a mother standing guard over them both.

When he awoke, a few hours later, the feeling deep inside him wasn't the expected anticipation and elation of soon seeing his wife. Instead, a deep sense of dread and anxiety tied his guts in knots. He ran a weary hand through his hair and once again joined Jeanne at the table.

"I told you she'd come," Jeanne said, her piercing violet eyes on him, almost challenging him to say she was right.

"You listen to my calls now?" he snapped back, irritated.

"On s'est levé du mauvais pied? Why so bearish if she's coming? And I didn't mean to pry, by the way, darling, but this thing isn't exactly private," she explained, waving a hand at their surroundings.

"I know. I'm sorry. Yes, she's coming, and I don't know why I'm feeling like this. It's like… I don't know. Things are going so well, right now, I can't help but wonder when this'll all blow up in my face."

Jeanne made a face and rose to put a hand on his shoulder. "One of these days, you'll learn to trust in the future, Harm. Has it ever occurred to you that you may have left all the bad behind? Because from what you tell me, you've had a lot of bad happen in your life. Maybe this is just the pendulum swinging back, and there's just the good stuff ahead."

Harm chewed on his lip, unconvinced. "Yeah, well, a pendulum swings back and forth, and it doesn't generally pause on one end of its course. Depending on the momentum it has, it takes more or less time, but it always comes back."

Jeanne threw her hands in the air and rolled her eyes. "I try to make you feel better, and you give me a physics lesson. I cannot WAIT for Nyala to be here. At least I won't have to deal with your twisted logic for a while," she shot back, annoyed.

Harm sighed deeply and let his head drop. "Jeanne, I'm sorry. I know I'm being unreasonable. It's just… I can't shake this feeling that things are about to go terribly wrong, for some reason."

"Then write a song about it. It's what you do best, isn't it?"

Harm frowned. "Maybe." Suddenly a melody popped into his head. He quickly retrieved a guitar, but to Jeanne's surprise, he chose the electric one instead of his usual acoustic. He turned on the amp and tested it on a couple of simple chords. Satisfied, he moved back to a stool and began to play a soft intro. He picked up the rhythm and began to sing, his fingers pounding out a heavy rock beat.

I missed you so much that I begged here to fly here and see me
You must've broke down cuz you finally said that you would
But now that you're here
I just feel like I'm constantly dreaming
But something's gotta go wrong
Cuz I'm feelin' way too damn good

For 48 hours I don't think that we left my hotel room
Should show you the sites cuz I'm sure that I said that I would
We gotta make love just one last time in the shower
Well something's gotta go wrong cos I'm feelin' way too damn good

And it's like...

Every time I turn around
I fall in love and find my heart face down
And where it lands is when it should
This time it's like
The two of us should probably start to fight
Cuz something's gotta go wrong
Cuz I'm feelin' way too damn good

Sometimes life ain't best if left in the memory
It's better kept inside than left for good
Lookin' back each time they tried to tell me
Well something's gotta go wrong
Cuz I'm feelin' way too damn good

And it's like...

Everytime I turn around
I fall in love and find my heart face down
And where it lands is when it should
This time it's like
The two of us should probably start to fight
Cuz something's gotta go wrong
Cuz I'm feelin' way too damn good
Feelin' way too damn good

I missed you so much that I begged here to fly here and see me
You must've broke down cuz you finally said that you would
But now that you're here,
I just feel that I'm constantly dreaming
Cuz something's gotta go wrong
Cuz I'm feelin' way too damn good

And it's like...

Everytime I turn around
I fall in love and find my heart face down
And where it lands is when it should
This time it's like
The two of us should probably start to fight
Cos something's gotta go wrong
Cos I'm feelin' way too damn good

Feelin' way too damn good

I missed you so much that I begged here to fly here and see me

Feelin' way too damn good

I missed you so much that I begged here to fly here and see me

He kept on playing the last chords over and over, a small satisfied smile on his lips, his blue eyes sparkling, looking defiantly at his producer.

After working her mouth fruitlessly for a few seconds, Jeanne found her voice. "Tell me you just didn't come up with that one, and… Hard rock?"

"No, I didn't, and yes, it is," Harm replied smugly.

"Spill," Jeanne ordered. "Ok, I always knew you had eclectic taste in music, but jazz, Latin jazz and blues and country and… Hard rock?"

"And classical, and soul."

"Forgive my ignorance. Seriously, though, what was that?"

"It's a song I heard a couple years ago. It's by a Canadian rock band called Nickelback. Title's self explanatory. It's called 'Feeling Way Too Damned Good," he said, feet firmly planted on the floor, the guitar hanging from his shoulder, a look of determination in his eyes.

"Ah non. Pas ça. Pas une autre fois."

"What?" Harm queried. He wasn't talking about the meaning of what she said, either. No was clear enough.

"You know what. I will *not* let you produce a hard rock album," Jeanne said firmly.

"But you'll let me cover one song."

Jeanne pondered the request for a few seconds, giving a mildly irritated, indulgent sigh. He had that look in his eyes, like a child in a candy store. At least, he wasn't snapping at her anymore… "Tell you what. I'll get the rights, but you come up with a softer version closer to your usual, and I'll sell it to Jerry."

"Deal," Harm said triumphantly. Before Jeanne could even reply, he rose and planted a firm kiss on her cheek, and headed back towards the bathroom. "Thanks, Jeanne."

"You're welcome," she whispered, as the door closed. "Glad I could help." She shook her head for a few more seconds, and turned her attention back to the romance novel in her hand. She would never understand how that man's brain worked.

**********

JUNE 24TH
2122 PST
CASSANO/RABB - LYON RESIDENCE
CALLISTO, CALIFORNIA

Harm shoved the front door closed and threw his bag on the floor, turned around and engulfed his wife in a monstrous hug.

"God, it's good to be home," he whispered in the crook of her neck. She didn't reply and he felt her tense up in his arms.

"What's wrong?" Sudden worry climbed up his spine, as Ny pushed herself away from him. She pressed a hand to her belly, her face contorted in a mask of pain. He dropped to one knee and placed his hands on her arms, anxiety morphing into fear. He was about to reach for the foyer phone when she relaxed and gave him a thin smile.

"It's all right now. Just a cramp. I guess I've just been sitting still for too long. Ow!" Again, she rubbed a hand over her belly.

Now, Harm had had enough. "I'm taking you to the hosp-"

"Relax, she cut in, chuckling at his obvious worry. "Your son is just agreeing with me. I just wish he'd express it in some other way that kicking my bladder. I'll be right back."

Once Nyala was out of sight, Harm blew out a long sigh and leaned against the foyer wall. If this was any indication, he was going to be a complete basket case in the delivery room. He'd seen two babies born, and it wasn't about the birth itself, but rather the fact that the child being born was his, a part of him, part of his beloved Nyala.

He shook his head and picked up his bags, heading upstairs. He'd been looking forward to spending a night in his own bed for months now, and he wasn't about to let some irrational anxiety ruin their first night together at home, alone, in months.

He quickly jogged upstairs and hopped into the shower, enjoying the feeling of being in his own shower, in his own home. When he finally emerged, relaxed and happy, he went in search of his beloved. He found her in their bedroom. Nyala was laid out on her side of the bed, fast asleep. He couldn't help the slow smile that spread across his lips as he stared at her naked form, the swell of her belly now recognisable as a baby mound. She looked so beautiful, filled with his child…

He gingerly lay next to her, careful not to wake her. He stretched out beside her, gently running his fingers along her shoulder, down her arm and to the hand resting on her belly. He intertwined his fingers with hers, laid his head on the pillow right behind her, his nose buried in her hair. He sighed, content, and let himself drift off, convinced the world had never been such a wonderful place as it was at that precise moment.

*****

2345 PST
CASSANO/RABB - LYON RESIDENCE
CALLISTO, CALIFORNIA

Nyala's eyes snapped open as she gasped in pain. She stilled in hopes of not waking her sleeping husband, until the pain subsided enough for her to slip out of bed and into the bathroom adjoining their bedroom.

"Baby, you need to let -OW!" she yelped, as a deep set ache spread like lightning though her belly. She felt something wet trickle down her thighs, and was instantly worried. She slipped her hand down while flipping on the bathroom light. She could only stare in muted horror at her bloodstained fingers when the next cramp hit. Dizziness soon followed, as a rush of blood poured down her legs.

As she fell, her heart pounding in fear, she screamed.

******

"HARM!!!"

The piercing scream woke him up with a jolt, and he sat bolt upright, scanning the darkened room.

"Nyala?" he asked worriedly, finding the bed empty and cold beside him. He heard a faint moan coming from his right. He turned and saw the pool of light coming from the bathroom. He threw the covers back and jumped out of bed, worry quickly turning into fear.

"Nyala!" he cried, as he stepped into the light. He threw himself onto his knees, gathering her limp form into his arms, watching, paralysed, the growing pool of blood on the floor.

"The baby," she whispered faintly.

Finally, Harm's brain kicked in, and he quickly called for help, praying it would get there in time.

************

0324 PST
CALLISTO MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
CALLISTO, CALIFORNIA

Harm sat, head in his bloodied hands, staring at the worn linoleum. He thought about pacing, but he remained still, worry turning his insides to jelly. He kept hearing Nyala's scream, reliving the horror of finding her in a pool of her own blood-

"Mr. Cassano?"

His head snapped up and he was on his feet in an instant. Dr. Whitehall was standing only a few feet away, his lips drawn into a thin line. Harm's anxiety instantly soared, his heart beating furiously in his chest. Something was wrong.

"Nyala?" he choked out, bile in the back of his throat.

"She's in recovery. She... We couldn't stop the labour."

"The baby?" he asked, his breath coming in thin, ragged huffs.

The doctor pursed his lips and lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Harm drew back and gasped, his eyes instantly awash with tears, oscillating between relief and sorrow... Nyala was alive. The baby was gone. His firstborn... He was a bit surprised at the depth of the grief he felt. Only a day ago, it had barely felt real, like the child itself wasn't real to him. He swallowed hard and bit his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"It's called Placenta Previa. The placenta detached from the uterine wall prematurely, causing massive hemorrhaging. And at this stage, the baby, a boy, was just too young to survive. Another couple of weeks, and he could have been able to live. There was nothing we could do. I'm truly sorry."

Harm nodded, his head low. But though the fog of pain, an even deeper fear emerged. He raised his head and studied the doctor's features. He could see sadness, but there was something more. He hadn't said a word about Nyala.

"What about Nyala?" he asked. "Can we... Can she... Is she... Will we be able to... try again?" he managed to finally ask.

Whitehall pursed his lips and sat down in one of the plastic chairs, motioning for Harm to do the same.

Shaking, he wiped his eyes and drew in a deep breath, bracing for the bad news he knew was coming. He drew in a shuddering breath and sat down. The doctor cast him a compassionate look, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"I know this is a lot to take in, and I truly wish I had some good news... But I need to tell you why the placenta detached. Mr Cassano, Darren... You see, hidden behind the placenta, we found a large mass..."

Cold terror clawed inside Harm, sending shivers down his spine. "What are you saying, doctor?"

Whitehall pursed his lips before answering. "Pathology revealed it was a large adenocarcinoma."

"Cancer?" Harm whispered disbelievingly.

The doctor nodded sadly. "Stage three endometrial tumor. We had to perform a complete hysterectomy. I'm sorry," the doctor said empathically, squeezing his shoulder. " But there is some good news; despite how advanced it was, the tumor doesn't appear to have spread to her abdomen. So we think she'll need only a minor course of chemotherapy, but we'll know for sure when the pathology results come in."

Harm stared at him blankly, trying to grasp the full implication of the doctor's words. The baby was gone. There would never be another. And now, Nyala was in danger too... Harm pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to clear the fog of pain, grief and exhaustion. He didn't understand how things could go from pure joy to complete horror in a matter of hours.

The hand on his shoulder snapped him back to reality.

"Darren? Is there anyone I can call for you?"

He shook his head quickly and shot to his feet. "No. Um, I need to see her. Can I see her?" he asked, almost panicked.

"She's still in recovery. We'll move her to the ICU in a couple of hours, but she won't wake up until early afternoon," the doctor said calmly, placing a hand on his arm.

Harm squeezed his eyes shut and ran a weary hand over his face. He nodded and wiped his eyes again.

"Okay."

Whitehall nodded, and gave him a compassionate smile. "Would you like to see your son?"

He froze, suddenly lost. He had no idea what to do. His son was dead. What good would it do to see him? As the question formed in his mind, somewhere deep inside, something happened, and it was almost as if his soul had taken a voice of its own.

He's your son. Your child. How can you leave him alone? How can you never look upon his face?

"Yes. I want to see my son," he said finally, his voice quivering only a little.

"Come with me."

Whitehall lead him though the OB ward, towards a dark, quiet room. On a small desk, a whimsical lamp cast a soft, warm glow on an antique wood rocking chair. The doctor motioned for him to sit, and walked up to the bassinet in the corner. He picked up a very small bundle and walked back to him.

"Here he is."

Harm extended his arms and Whitehall placed the tiny infant in his hands. He cast a confused glance towards the doctor, who nodded reassuringly. He drew the bundle to his chest, amazed at how so very small he was. He stared at the perfectly sculpted face, and at the minuscule fingers that were barely visible at the edge of the blanket.

"He's so small," he whispered, awe and sadness chasing over his features.

"He weighs one pound and five ounces," Whitehall replied.

"He's so tiny," he repeated, stroking the infant's pearl white cheek. His son. Perfect, in every way. He smiled, as a wave of complete, unconditional love swept through him.

"I love you, Kito," he said, placing a gentle kiss on his son's forehead. He lowered the infant back to his chest, just over his heart. He pushed his feet off the floor, setting the rocking chair in motion. He blinked slowly, looking tenderly at his son, and began to sing.

Sleep, baby, sleep
Your father tends the sheep
Your mother shakes the dreamland tree
And from it fall sweet dreams for thee
Sleep, baby, sleep
Sleep, baby, sleep

He tried vainly to keep singing, but his voice cracked with tears - still, he pressed on. He whispered the lullaby's words, his shoulders shaking. It would be the first and very last time he would hold his son, sing to him, or touch him. Every thought in Harm's mind brought new things he'd never do with his son, things he would never get to see, get to feel, to experience.

Sleep, baby, sleep
Our cottage vale is deep
The little lamb is on the green
With snowy fleece so soft and clean
Sleep, baby, sleep
Sleep, baby, sleep

He hummed gently for a few more minutes, tears silently falling from his eyes. He stilled the rocking chair, laid another feather-light kiss on his son's forehead and rose to his feet. He placed the infant back into the bassinet, running his fingers over the tiny cheeks one last time. The pain was still there, but an almost surreal sense of peace filled the room. Deep inside, he knew his son was safe, that he would never be hurt, and that he would always, always be loved.

"Goodbye, son," he whispered. "I'll always love you."

**********

An hour later, Harm stepped out of the cab into the driveway of their home. He heard the door click shut behind him, locking out the rest of the world. There had been only a few photographers at the hospital's entrance, and he'd managed to avoid most of them, but he'd heard the cameras snapping away in the distance. He wondered how long it would be before the phone started to ring.

He climbed up the steps to the second floor but stopped in the bedroom's doorway. From there, he could see the trails of blood, left by the stretcher, on the white carpet. He could still hear Nyala's tortured scream, still feel her blood sticking to his skin... He shivered violently and closed his eyes, turning away from the room. He shook his head to clear it and headed back downstairs, pausing in front of the phone. Darius. He should call Darius, and his mother... He reached for the receiver, but froze for a spell, silently envying their blessed ignorance.

No more baby. His son was gone even before he'd had a chance to know him. He would never be a father. Never.

Never.

The word echoed in his soul, transforming itself into a black hole, sucking all the life from him, turning his mind into a wasteland where nothing but pain and grief existed. He leaned back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest, and wept bitterly.

Never.

Again, that word was shattering his world, leaving nothing but destruction behind. He pressed both hands over his eyes, trying vainly to stem the flow of tears. Instead, the quiet sorrow turned to heaving sobs, brought on by an all-consuming grief. He would never again hold his baby boy. He would never look into his eyes. There would never be another one. And Nyala... He completely refused to contemplate what Stage III endometrial cancer could mean. If he was to lose her too...

His heart gave a hard squeeze, making him gasp in pain, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if the agony he was feeling was intangible grief, or a physical blow.

"Why?" he screamed at the walls. "Why? Haven't I paid enough? Haven't you taken enough from me?" He slammed his fist hard into the polished granite floor and let the tsunami of pain engulf him, screaming out his pain, his loss, until he could do nothing but surrender to exhaustion, his throat raw, his eyes red and swollen, tears still trickling down his cheeks.

Hours later, a sharp ringing sound penetrated his grief riddled mind. His eyes suddenly snapped open, and he bolted upright, grabbing the phone on the table next to him, his muscles screaming in protest.

"Hello?" he said, his voice rough and gravelly.

"Harm! Why aren't you up yet? You were supposed to be here an hour ago for the first set of sound checks. Get your ass in gear now! We've got to be done by noon."

"Jeanne?"

"Who'd you think it was?" she snapped irately.

Harm swallowed thickly, a sudden lump once again in his throat. He tired to get the words past it, but he couldn't. Some irrational side of him was convinced that if he didn't say it out loud, maybe it wouldn't be real, and maybe, just maybe, Nyala and his son would be all right.

"Harm? Hello?"

He drew in a shaking breath, and he could hear Jeanne's tone change.

"Harm? What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"No," he managed to say, his voice strangled by emotion. He let himself slide back against the wall, his back muscles in knots from sleeping on the hard granite floor.

"Hang on. I'm calling an ambulance," Jeanne replied, her voice rising in panic.

"No!" he cried. "It… it's not me."

He could hear Jeanne gasp as she began to suspect what had happened. "Nyala? The baby?"

Fresh tears sprang into his eyes and he brushed a hand over them, trying to regain control. After a long pause, he cleared his throat and spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper. "She went into premature labour last night."

"The baby?" Jeanne asked, her fear evident.

"Gone," he whispered, fresh tears falling from his eyes. The embers of grief smouldering in his heart flared to life again, as images of the previous night filled his tired mind. How would Nyala and he get through this?

"Nyala!" he cried suddenly, his eyes darting to his watch. It was past 1000. Nyala would wake soon. He needed to be there. He needed to be with her; he couldn't let her face this alone.

"Harm? What is it?"

"I have to go. She needs me…I…"

"All right. Go. I'll take care of things here."

Harm squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the remaining four concerts he had to give. Despite the catharsis of singing out his pain, he just couldn't fathom the idea of going up on stage the next night. He couldn't face the idea of ever going up there again, at the moment.

"I can't," he whispered brokenly.

"Je sais, chéri. Je sais. Don't worry. I'll handle it. I'll cancel the concerts and take care of the press, all right? You take care of your wife."

"There were photographers at the hospital…"

"I'll take care of it. Go."

"Thank you, Jeanne."

"De rien. Go."

Harm hung up the phone and pushed himself stiffly off the floor, trying vainly to relieve his cramped muscles. Unable to face the upstairs bathroom or bedroom, he shuffled to the downstairs bathroom. After a quick shower, he sat at his desk and picked up the phone, calling first Darius, and then his mother. He barely heard their muted gasps of horror and their tears. He didn't care about them. He only wanted to hold his wife in his arms, hold her close and protect her from the monster within, keeping at bay his own clawing fear.

He drove his Corvette as if it were a Tomcat, his heart pounding in abject terror. Some part of him already knew the outcome. Deep in his heart, he knew he was going to lose her. But he couldn't show his fear. He had to be strong for her.

For the first time in over a year, Harmon Rabb Jr. pulled up the mental shield he'd sworn he would never use again on his wedding day. As he parked the car in the underground lot, he steeled himself and pushed away the sorrow and dread, forced the fear from his heart and built back the walls Nyala had so effectively destroyed.

He walked up to the OB nurses' station, barely noticing all the staring women. "Nyala Lyon," he asked, his voice dead.

"Um, ah, room 406, Mr Cassano," an older nurse replied, a compassionate smile gracing her lips. "Doctor Whitehall's with her now."

At her words, Harm gasped and ran to the room. As he rounded the doorway, he skidded to a halt. Nyala was lying in a huge bed, looking so small, so fragile, so pale… His heart once again gave a hard squeeze and all the walls he'd built back crumbled.

"Nyala," he cried, closing the gap between them in one huge step. She weakly raised her arms and he slid his behind her shoulders, holding her close. Instantly, he could feel her tears soaking through his shirt.

"The baby's gone," she whispered brokenly into his shoulder.

"I know," he replied, his voice quivering. He carefully sat on the bed and held her to his chest, trying to ease her wracking sobs.

"Shhh. It's ok. It's all right," he murmured over and over again, his own tears falling onto her hair, the small beads of moisture shining brightly, like so many pearls of grief.

"It's all my fault!" Nyala cried. "I should have listened to you… I should have come here right away…"

Harm's eyes briefly darted to Whitehall, standing quietly by Nyala's bed. He gave a slight shake of his head.

"It's not your fault. There was nothing you or I could have done to prevent this," he choked out.

Nyala pushed herself away from him, her eyes filled with so much agony and guilt that he almost turned away. "How do you know what? How can you be so sure?" she wailed, somewhere between grief and anger.

He ran his knuckles gently over her cheek, his eyes filled with compassion and shared pain. "I just do, Swala. I know he's in God's hands, and that he's safe. And I *know*," he said emphatically, his hands holding her chin so she would not look away. "I *know*," he repeated, "that it's not your fault. It's not. I promise."

The trace of self-disgust in her eyes faded a little, leaving room only for the loss they both felt. Whitehall made a discreet exit while they lay quietly in each other's arms, quietly grieving. Harm told Nyala how he had held their son, sang to him, and about the peace he'd felt.

"We'll be happy again, Ny. I promise. One day, we will be," he said, her gaze holding hers with fierce intensity.

She nodded the slightest of nods. "I hope so."

Exhaustion soon caught up to Harm, and he was about to drift off, when footsteps at the door made his head jump up.

"Mrs. Lyon?" the petite woman asked.

"Yes?" Ny replied warily.

"I'm Doctor Suzie Yager. I'm an oncologist. I'm here to talk to you and your husband about…" The doctor paused, as if searching for words.

The cold fear that had clenched Harm's gut the previous evening returned instantly, turning his knees to cotton, despite his position on Nyala's bed. His heartbeat pounded against his sternum as fear spread though him like a wildfire.

"About what the pathology analysis of the tumour shows," the doctor finally said.

Nyala's hand tightened into his, fear burning through her dark eyes. Harm turned what he hoped was a reassuring gaze to her.

"Doctor Whitehall told us something about stage III," Harm began. "He said Nyala would need some chemotherapy, but that's she'd be all right," he continued, his own fingers tightening around his wife's. And then, his entire world shattered.

Doctor Yager gave them a sad, contrite pursed-lip smile. "I wish it were that simple."

From that moment, Harm only heard the words, recorded the information for future analysis. He simply ceased functioning. Only one thing reverberated through his mind.

He was going to lose her.

He didn't exactly know how long he'd stayed there, how long he'd been holding his sobbing and terrified wife when a figure obscured the doorway. He squinted through the contre-jour lighting, and recognised Darius.

"Your father's here," he whispered softly to Nyala's ear, slowly disentangling himself from her grasp.

"Papa," she cried, as Darius almost ran to her bedside. He took the opportunity to slip out of the room, unnoticed. He walked as fast as he could without breaking into a run and headed to the hospital's inner courtyard, desperately trying to maintain his composure.

Once outside, in the peaceful garden, he let his eyes wander over the ripe apples hanging off one tree, the golden leaves of another, the bushes of late fall flowers swaying softly in the wind. So much tranquility, yet nothing slowed his spiralling mind.

Carcinoma

Lymph node involvement

Chemotherapy

Less than ten percent chance of success

Dizzy and overwhelmed, Harm grabbed onto a nearby trashcan and heaved, his body revolting against the intense turmoil in his soul. Suddenly exhausted, he flopped onto a bench and buried his head in his hands. He knew he shouldn't have run out of the room as he did, but he'd needed time to absorb the news, to accept the fact that he was going to lose his wife too.

He pressed his hands hard over his eyes, pushing back the despair that threatened to flood him at that very thought. Deep inside, he knew he needed to be strong, that he needed to be there for her. In the last eighteen months, he'd gotten used to no longer being alone, to having someone there to share his pain, his joy. Now that person was no longer available.

He couldn't ask Nyala to be there for him. She was scared enough as it was. She didn't need to worry about him too. As he rose to his feet to pace the garden, he tried to look deep down, to find the strength do bear the burden alone, but this time, he couldn't. He needed someone there. But once again, he was alone.

I'm still there, if you need a friend…

Mac's words came to him, unbidden. He knew she'd been sincere as she wished him the best for his wedding. She'd meant it. Maybe it was time to reach out again. She had Clay, but… maybe she still had a helping hand to lend. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled Ops, punching in Mac's extension at the recorded prompt. As each ring echoed in his ear, his hopes grew dimmer and dimmer. Finally, her voicemail kicked in.

[You have reached Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, JAG corps. I'm not available at this time…]

He punched the end key before the "beep" and pocketed his cell phone, heading back inside. He would have to find the necessary strength within himself. When he stepped into the hallway leading to Nyala's room, he immediately spotted Darius, waiting for him.

"I'm sorry for running out, Darius… I… I needed time," he explained, not daring to meet his father-in-law's eyes, his own flooded with guilt.

"No need for apologies, son-in-law. My daughter needed time as well, to find a measure of peace in her soul." Darius placed a soft hand on his upper arm, walking along his side towards Ny's room. "She understands you leaving her, for your own sake, but you didn't leave her alone. You left her with me. She knows you, and she's afraid for you. Like her mother was for me."

Darius's eyes turned pained and sad. "You and I both know she will likely not be with us for as long as we wish. All I ask of you is to help her find the peace she needs."

Harm stopped and turned to face the shorter man, a new confidence and strength flowing though him, despite the grimness of the situation. "I promise you, Darius. I'll be there for her."

"And I for you. Go. She's waiting for you."

Harm nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. He stopped briefly in the room's doorway, surprised to see Nyala sitting up in her bed, eyes dry, her hair combed into a low ponytail.

"I'm sorry for leaving you," he murmured, as he walked up to her bedside.

She smiled gently at him, only a hint of sadness shadowing her dark eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I can't imagine how hard this must be on you. Are you all right, Kamau?"

Harm chuckled with astounded dismay, once again marvelling at her strength. She didn't seem afraid anymore. Sad, disappointed and grieving, but not afraid. Much as he'd felt while holding his son, he felt a quiet sense of peace invade the room, allowing them to talk about their future, without fear, or so it seemed. Only the slight trembling of Nyala's hands betrayed her composed demeanour.

"You're asking me? You must be the one who's terrified," he said simply.

"I was, for a time. But… You know I've always believed in God, and that he takes care of us. What you told me about our son only reinforced that." She took a deep breath and locked her ebony eyes on his blue ones, quietly asking for his forgiveness before causing him more pain. "When… I'm gone, I won't be in any more suffering. But you… I… I'm afraid for you."

Harm smiled back, despite the burning in his eyes and throat. "I'll be all right, Nyala. I'm not alone. And I'll always be there for you."

"I know. I spoke to the doctor. She says there isn't much of a chance… but I want to try."

Harm nodded, a single tear trailing down his cheek. "We'll fight this together, Swala. I promise you that."

Ny nodded, as he slipped her arms around her once more. "I love you," he murmured, over and over again, praying for a miracle he somehow knew would not come.

*****CHAPTER TWO*****

2318 ZULU - 1718 LOCAL
MACKENZIE/WEBB RESIDENCE
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Mac had no idea just for how long she had been sitting motionless, holding the sheet of paper in a death grip. The letter was as concise and informal as it could ever be - and therefore, just as cruel.

"... chronic deficiency in choriongonadotropine production..."

"... incapacity to stabilize required progesterone level..."

"... preventing the blastocyte from lodging in the uterine mucous membrane..."

"... estimated chance of in-vitro fertilisation success: less than 5%..."

She was barren.

She didn't care that her legs were starting to feel numb from the way she had tucked her feet underneath herself on the couch hours ago. Staring at the turned-off TV set in front of her, Mac was trying to come to grips with the realisation that this door had just been closed for good. Deep down, she had expected something of the kind when more and more time had passed and her body had steadfastly refused to comply with her innermost wish.

The fact that, two days ago, Clay had received a positive report on his capacity to father children had given her some time to prepare for her fears to become reality. She had been all quiet and composed when she had opened the envelope a few hours ago. But holding the verdict in her hands had completely paralysed her, while her thoughts had been spinning and spinning in a continuous whirl, conjuring up hundreds of memories, creating thousands of mental images, yet coming down to one single, cruel truth.

Sarah Mackenzie would never be a mother.

With your looks and my brains, he'd be perfect.

What if *she's* got your looks and my brains?

That could work, too.

Harm was about to get his half of the dream. She never would. What was she supposed to feel? Anger? That once again, Harmon Rabb was on the sunny side of life, regardless of what had happened to him before? Envy? That she, who had wished so badly for this one thing to happen to her, was again denied what countless others were blessed with? Sadness? That there were so many unwanted children in this world who suffered needs of all kinds, whereas right here, a child would have found the most perfect home she'd have been able to offer, full of love and caring?

Mac searched her heart, but found that what was inside was nothing of the sort. Instead, what she did - or rather didn't - feel was nothing but a deep, dark void. Deep down, something had died today, the shimmer of an already feeble flame of hope. And the loss was irreversible. Under the immensity of this burden, Mac had simply surrendered. She had no strength left to cope with her sorrow. No strength to overcome the petrifying tension and at least allow her tears to flow. The silence was deafening.

All day, the air had been heavy and humid, clouds growing fast on the western horizon. Ere long, the sky had taken up a pale yellowish colour that contrasted sharply with the dark storm front that was building up. Now, the cumulonimbi seemed to have reached their critical mass. A bolt of lightning, followed by yet distant but distinct thunder, managed to shake Mac from her haze. Like the lightning flashing outside, her emotions suddenly culminated in an angry gesture of crumpling the letter and forcefully throwing it against the wall with a fierce outcry.

Only then did the tears finally come. She collapsed into a bundle of helpless misery, digging her fingers into the soft backrest and pressing her face into the upholstery, the cushions muffling her crying.

Her inner clock never failed her. It was exactly 33 minutes later that her sobs quieted down to a level that could be labelled as 'overcome'. What remained was silent grief of a magnitude she hadn't known existed.

However, once her stasis was broken, it wasn't in Mac's nature to keep focussing on a point in the big nothing. Weary and spent, she dragged herself up and wiped her face with her sleeve, drawing a deep, shaky breath.

Okay, regroup.

Tomorrow. Hearing. 1000. The Chapman Article 32. Drunk and Disorderly. Need to prepare my opening statement…

Incapacity to stabilize required progesterone level.

Get your head into the game, dammit! Suck it up, Marine!

To no avail. Sighing in exhausted frustration, Mac decided she needed distraction. She reached for the remote control, turned on the TV and distractedly zapped through the seemingly endless list of channels their satellite network provided.

She knew she should have called Clay. Or maybe his mother, to whom she had gotten used to talking quite often when her spook boyfriend was once again out of reach. Porter Webb had a compassionate disposition, and having been in covert service herself, she could relate to their problems like few people could.

But somehow Mac couldn't bring herself to pick up the phone yet. She felt as if communicating the news to someone else would render it more real still. For the moment, Mac was clinging to the illusory hope that keeping her verdict to herself might undo the bad in some way. Rationally, she was fully aware that this was the most foolish of consolations. But still, she felt she needed this emotional drawback position for just a few more moments. She would call within the next two hours.

Society Channel. That was just what she needed, she resolved grimly, settling back into her half-seated position on the couch. The dumber the programme, the more lulling the effect. She'd get back to ZNN soon enough anyway. Right now, she needed to practice escapism.

The platinum-blond anchorwoman flashed her public her most charming Colgate smile as she supplied the nation with those headlines that really mattered.

"... says Britney, referring to her recent tour through Europe. 'Of course I'd love to do a tour through southeast Asia,' she confirms enthusiastically, 'But right now that might be a little dangerous.'"

"Oh, I'm sure Abu Sayyaf would gladly trade you for whatever your fans are willing to pay," Mac caught herself muttering dryly, only partly shocked about her cynicism. A humourless chuckle escaped her at the stricken face the anchorwoman suddenly made as someone handed her a sheet of paper from the off.

"What - some actress's pussycat got a cold?" she mumbled in a spiteful tone.

But she couldn't prevent herself from sucking in a sharp breath when all of a sudden, a certain well-known face appeared on the screen.

"Harm? What...?" she whispered, aghast, immediately sensing that something had to be wrong. Very wrong.

The picture had been taken from a distance, but even now, his body and face spoke volumes. He was apparently coming out of a hospital, his stance slumped, his expression anything but that of an expectant, loving parent-to-be. In fact, although she was sure that no one but her and probably his wife would be able to perceive it, the pain on his features caused her a sting of deepest commiseration:

His face showed the exact expression she had been allowed to see the few times he had truly opened up to her and sought her companionship in deep sorrow.

The USS Hornet. Norfolk. Russia. Saying goodbye on the admiral's porch. Bud's injury.

The memories invaded her mind in quick sequence, making her shiver.

God, Harm... what is it?

"We've just received shocking news from California," the anchorwoman announced in such a doleful tone that Mac wanted to smack her. "Darren Cassano and his wife Nyala, daughter of Jazz legend Darius Lyon, are mourning the loss of their first child. Darren's and Nyala's son was due to be born just a few months from now and according to Nyala's doctor, both mother and child were doing fine when, out of the blue, tragedy stroke. Cassano was returning home from his nationwide tour that so many of his fans followed over the past months, when Nyala went into premature labour. Doctors were unable to stop the contractions and feared for Nyala's life, due to massive haemorrhaging.

"Mrs Lyon is in stable but serious condition, as doctors informed us that the miscarriage was caused by a stage three uterine tumour. Cassano has cancelled all of the four remaining concerts that were to conclude his tour, so he can be with his wife, his producer Jeanne LeBlanc informed the public. She has also asked that fans show their support by sending donations to the American Cancer Society. And now to the weather forecast."

"Right, go ahead, drag the tragedy out in the open," Mac ground out, disgusted, as she forcefully switched the TV off. The amount of hurt she felt surprised her. She and Harm had barely heard from one another in the past eighteen months - and still, his grief went right through to her heart.

Her own loss hadn't diminished one bit, but suddenly, shouldering it seemed bearable. In some weird way, Mac unexpectedly felt something of their ancient, long-forgotten mental connection resurfacing, and unconsciously, her mind reached out to him.

I am so sorry, Harm. So sorry. Believe me, I can feel what you're going through, especially right now that our sorrow unites us. My thoughts will be with you and Nyala. Be strong for her, sailor. I know you can. Be her anchor, like you were for me, so many times over. With your help, she'll pull through. And if there's anything I can do, let me know…

She knew he wouldn't. And so she wouldn't call him right now, not in such a situation. But still, offering her support in this quiet way did more to soothe her soul than any words of consolation could have. In some way, she hoped he might feel that someone out there shared his grief, even though he didn't know who she was.

Again, she found herself crying, but not as frantically as before. Those were tears of silent mourning - for herself, and for the man she somehow still considered her best friend.

The situation doesn't change who we are.

Not 100% his words, but close - and still as valid as ever.

She didn't flinch when from behind, two arms sneaked around her shoulders and drew her backwards.

Clay's face was damp from the rain, and it felt cool as she rested her cheek against his.

"Bethesda?" he only asked, immediately comprehending.

Mac nodded. "Chronic hormonal deficiency," she explained very low. "Nothing to be done. I'm so sorry, Clay…"

"Shhh…" he soothed her, stroking her hair and shaking his head a little. "No, *I* am sorry, Sarah. I so wanted to make you happy."

She swallowed. "You do, Clay. I am to blame. I alone."

"Nonsense. No one is to blame, least of all you. Seems it wasn't meant to be. I'm only sorry this is happening to you."

"Thank you for being here right now," she whispered, indeed glad that unlike many other times, he was in reach when she needed him most.

Wordlessly Clay rounded the couch and sat down beside her, drawing her into a tight embrace. Mac let herself be held, glad that Clay wasn't a man who needed many words to understand.

Suddenly she felt as if not telling him about Harm would make her insincere. Although Harm didn't play a major part in her life anymore, crying on his behalf when she had been with someone else had already destroyed her relationship once. Granted, for her and Mic it had been the necessary wake-up call, and with Clay, her situation was a whole lot different. Harm being away and married, too.

However, the fear of endangering her relationship by keeping her feelings for Harm to herself pushed her to talk. And, she reminded herself, there was nothing she needed to be ashamed of.

"Today is from hell all over anyway," she sighed with a slight sniffle. At his raised eyebrow, she explained in a low voice, "I heard dreadful news about Harm, too. His wife lost the child, and she's got cancer. Bad, it seems. Wasn't really the kind of headline to make me feel better, you know."

Clay's expression turned genuinely grieved. "God…" he murmured. "Are you going to react in any way?"

"Apart from hurting for him?" she asked with a mirthless chuckle. "Hardly. I don't think I'm really entitled to. Maybe it's better that way. What good can a lachrymose phone call from a troubled ex partner do? The best I can do for them is to leave them alone."

"Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "Let's hope they've got close friends to help them get back on track. Rabb was never really my favourite, but no one deserves what the poor guy's going through."

"Where's your heart of stone, Agent Webb?" Mac asked with a grieved half-smile. "Be careful. Emotions are dangerous in your business."

"Do I look as if I care?"

"I appreciate that. But I still need you around."

"Noted. And I'm glad you do, Sarah."

For a while, they sat in silence watching the sky clear and the last clouds give way to a beautiful after-storm sunset.

"Do you… have you made any plans yet about what you're going to aim at now?" Clay eventually asked, his tone careful. Too cautious, even. Mac immediately sensed that he was testing the waters.

"Not yet," she replied warily. "The news is far too fresh to just get it over with. But I get the impression you've got some proposition to make. Right?"

"Boy, if I'm getting that transparent I really need to work on my undercover routines," he sighed just a little theatrically. "Maybe it's just that you know me too well, Colonel."

"All right. So, what is it?" At the back of her mind, two well-known contradicting emotions rose again, the same two she had always felt when Clay had recruited her and Harm for a mission. 'Great, something exciting to do and the opportunity to make sure it gets done right,' the first little voice would tell her. And the other would immediately answer, 'Remember just how often you got into trouble when you walked down that road. Just don't.' Listen what he has to say first, she effectively stilled both voices, concentrating on the facts. Whatever he offers to drag your mind off the bad things is welcome.

"Let's play a little game of ask and answer, okay?" was his surprising reply. Taken aback, Mac only nodded and waited.

"Fine. I'll drop a key word and you'll tell me what you know about it. The scenario as a whole is kind of complicated, you know," Clay explained. "I need to make sure first you understand the parts involved. Maybe you'll even figure out what this is about by yourself then."

"Phew," she replied, not really knowing what to make of his enigmatic statement, but glad to focus on something outside her everyday routine. "Okay. Fire at will."

"Okay. Here goes: Zimbabwe."

"Oh?" she asked. She had expected quite a lot of things, but surely not something based in southern Africa. "Well, let's see…" Mac bent her head back and studied the ceiling as if she could read her answer there. "Zimbabwe: former British colony by the name of Rhodesia. Semi-arid climate, Kalahari desert, dry savannah, tobacco and cotton farming, plantations owned by few white families, poor black population majority. President Robert Mugabe, authoritarian regime for about three decades, old black man clinging to power, people wanted to get rid of him. Before the elections, he disowned the white and gave the land to his black followers who chased and persecuted the families, even killed many whites. Those who weren't killed fled. Economy down to zero, country in chaos, international isolation. That's about it, I guess. How did I fare?"

"Excellent," Clay stated appraisingly, kissing her on the cheek. "My Sarah knows her world politics, as should be expected of a good United States Marine. Next: next month's schedule at UN Headquarters."

Puzzled, Mac turned in his embrace. "God, Clay, how am I supposed to know that? My guess would be Iraq, again, or Afghanistan, or the Middle East. But as you asked me about Zimbabwe - anything to do with them?"

"Let me help you: James Elwood."

"Uhm… Blues Brothers?!"

"Not in this case. Okay, let me fill you in. James Elwood is a former tobacco farmer who was disowned by the Mugabe government and chased from his land by his men. He and his family never left the country, though. Instead, Elwood went underground and organised an all-encompassing opposition movement against the Mugabe regime. They're fighting for the democratic elections that never took place. Kofi Annan and his people managed to drag all parties to the conference table. Tentative peace talks are scheduled to start next month. In New York, at the UN."

Feeling her forehead starting to ache from frowning, Mac asked, "Impressive. But I still don't get how I figure in the picture."

Clay shrugged. "Well, then, next hint: family."

"Wait, you don't want me to play bodyguard for his family, do you?" Mac asked rather bluntly.

"Yes and no," was Clay's cryptic answer. The slightest remainder of the long-overcome urge to strangle the spy for his Agency ways made itself known inside Mac's chest. She defiantly ignored it.

"So, is it yes or no?" she only shot back.

"First I've got yet another question for you: SOS Children's Village."

By now, Mac was completely at a loss. "Help," she stated dryly. "I'm kind of stuck here. Some kind of a charity organisation, right?"

"Right again," Clay confirmed. "But to make you see what they really are, I'll have to drag this out a little. SOS Children's Village is an international help organisation for orphans, founded in 1949 by the Austrian Hermann Gmeiner. He was inspired to do it when he saw the many orphans WWII had left uncared for in Europe. Now, his idea was that the children didn't merely need a roof over their heads and something to eat. What they needed were families and neighbours. So he built villages for the children to live in. Every house is inhabited by a family of about ten to fifteen children of all ages up to 18. And: each family has a mother. Children's Village Mother is a real profession. And a trying one, too."

"I'll bet," Mac said. "But a beautiful concept."

Being a mother. All her earlier relaxation was gone in an instant. She winced slightly as the previous pain stabbed her in the chest again. A door that would remain closed in her life, shutting her out from what she so longed for. Mac bit her lips, hoping she could keep the tears at bay.

Clay had noticed and tightened his embrace. "Okay, here's the rest of the story. James Elwood is being threatened by Mugabe's people, so he won't have very much of a say in the outcome of the peace talks if we don't take any measures. They've threatened to harm his family. Elwood's wife is somewhere in the UK; only MI 5 know where they placed her. But his twelve-year-old daughter needs to be accommodated elsewhere, far away. So they contacted us on Tamara's behalf.

"Two months from now, a new SOS Children's Village is to be opened in Pennsylvania, about 100 miles northwest of Philadelphia. The Agency made a few arrangements. Only two houses will be completed by the opening date so the inhabitants will be easier to watch. We have one very experienced Children's Village mother from Georgia to become head of one family. The other family will have a member by the name of Tami Elling - you can guess who she really is - and Tamara will have a very special village mother: a woman who will go by the cover name of Sharon Carmody, who is not only a US Marine lieutenant colonel but also a JAG lawyer, an experienced field agent and… someone with such a caring heart to give her and her village siblings the love and shelter they need."

By the time Clay had ended, Mac found she was literally trembling. "This is insane…" she only managed to whisper. A wave of fear had washed over her on Clay's last sentence, and it was a fear she felt she was completely unable to battle against.

Give her and her village siblings the love and shelter they need.

"Clay, I can't do this," she addressed him, her voice a strange mixture of dread, sadness, determination and longing. "I… I'm not up to par."

He returned her gaze in warm openness. "Why, Sarah?" he simply asked in such a gentle tone she had to swallow hard.

"Because… God, Clay, all this mess is about family, isn't it?" she tried to explain. "I would have loved to get to know this experience. But I'd have had the possibility to learn from the start, with one child, right from the very first moment. Now look at me: half dissolved in tears all the time because I can't have my own children. Playing mother for so many children at a time, traumatised children, too, who lost their parents. Wanting me to be a mother to them when I don't have a clue as to what family is really supposed to mean! Can't you see it? I'd never be in a position to do them any good! You can't do that to those poor children!"

Mac became aware she had sprung to her feet and was towering over Clay, who was watching her with a mix of amusement and admiration. "Already defending your family, Sarah. Now, tell me - what is it that you don't have, to make them feel loved and protected and at home?"

"The experience of a happy childhood," Mac answered emotionlessly, staring right through him. "I could never make it good for them… because I don't know what 'good' is." On the last words, her voice had lowered to a whisper and she turned her head to stare out of the window, trying to find a neutral place where to look.

She more heard than saw him get up. From behind, Clay pulled her close, cradling her softly in his arms but never forcing her to face him. "Hey," he said softly in her ear, the warmth of his face near hers comforting and soothing, "Do you want me to start telling you how often you knew exactly what 'good' was when you had the choice?"

His words were balm on her sore soul, but she didn't have the courage yet to trust them. To trust herself. She only took his arms and pulled them more tightly around herself, leaning in and waiting for her voice to become controllable again.

His voice bore audible traces of his previous sympathetic amusement. "Do you want me, of all people, to tell a Marine about using instinct?"

Despite herself, Mac chuckled slightly. "No," she said very low, shaking her head and leaning her cheek against his, still staring outside.

"See?" he answered, just as low. "Your sense of what's good and just is one of the things I love in you, Sarah. I've always admired it. From the very start. It's what made you and Rabb too alike for your own good. And it made the two of you invincible."

Astonished that he should mention Harm in a situation as this, she turned in his embrace and noted his small wistful half-smile. "Don't look so shell-shocked," he told her. "You know that I always suspected there was more between you than just a working partnership. Well, apparently I jumped to conclusions, but I'll say it again if you like: you and Rabb, you are alike in the way you know what needs to be done to get it right - except with each other. For which I'm kind of thankful…" he added with a sly wink, causing her to chuckle again. "Anyway, there's nothing you need to be afraid of, Sarah. Use your instinct. There's so much warmth and affection in you - you'll be the best mother they could ever wish for. The real hard thing will be parting with them, once the mission is completed. But we'll make sure your replacement will be someone you trust handing your family over to. What do you say?"

Swallowing hard, she kissed him almost shyly. "Do you really think I can pull this off?" she asked under her breath, thrilled and terrified at the same time. "Don't you think I might be too emotional to keep my professionalism?"

Clay shrugged. "I've given that point a lot of thought," he admitted with a sigh. "The danger is always there. You're right about that. But on the other hand, right for this job, we need someone who doesn't just play mother. Our agent needs to 'be' a mother. If you don't succeed to get the children to trust and love you, the image of your family would never hold up under close scrutiny. Tamara wouldn't be safe. We have no idea how long the talks will last and for how long the girl needs a safe place far away from her family. So: yes, Sarah, I absolutely think you can pull this off, and in this particular case, your emotions might prove a strong weapon. The closer the family is, the safer the child will be. Tie them together like only a mother could - or a Marine behind enemy lines."

Burying her nose on his collar, Mac once again lost the battle against her tears. The dream was gone - but still this man had managed to let her have a feel of what she might never have known. So if it would never happen to her, she could at least say, 'But I know what it might have been like.' After a day from hell, this awareness seemed like the biggest gift any man could ever have made her. "Thank you, Clay," she whispered, trembling. "Thank you."

TWO DAYS LATER
1121 LOCAL
DUNKIN' DONUTS
BELTWAY
WASHINGTON, D.C.

Mac found it hard to keep her calm. Twisting and twirling the teaspoon in the cup before her, she tried for what had to be the hundredth time to categorize what she was feeling. It wasn't dread, but a considerable amount of fear knotted up her insides and made her leave the blueberry muffin on the plate where it had lain for the last twenty minutes since she'd arrived. Weird as it seemed, there was something like joy mingling with her anxiety as well. Tentative joy might be a more fitting term, but still Mac felt she literally had butterflies in her stomach. Yet, it wasn't the kind of anticipation one would feel on a first date. It was a somewhat shadowed happiness, burdened with the fear she couldn't chase.

The sum of all her emotions left her only with one distinct feeling: the urge to run and hide. This was one of the very few times in her life when Sarah Mackenzie felt she was asking too much of herself.

However, she disciplined herself, there was nothing to be done. She had stood her ground in front of her torturers. So she would now, in front of her…

…daughter.

Clay had arranged a clandestine meeting for her and Tamara Elwood, so they would know each other before the rest of the family joined them. Mac felt she needed this first get together in order to be able to act naturally despite the knowledge that this girl was supposed to be a 'mission'. The other children would get to know her as the woman who volunteered to be their mother for the years to come until they reached adulthood. Knowing she was deceiving them in this hope was difficult already. No need to further complicate matters by having to become acquainted at the same time with the one child she was especially protecting.

Tamara knew what was expected of her. Clay had told Mac that for her age, she was very mature and reasonable, probably a trait shaped by the events she'd been through in Zimbabwe. What she didn't know, though, was Mac's true identity. Initially, Mac had protested that she couldn't protect a child she was at the same time deceiving, but Clay had eventually convinced her that the less Tamara knew about the safety measures taken, the less information she might accidentally give away. To her, Mac would be the Village Mother who had agreed to take her in and offer her a secret safe home for the time being.

"At least that I can make sure," Mac muttered under her breath, bracing herself once again. "If anyone wants to harm her, he'll have to do it over my dead, cold body."

Her glance flew to the door when she heard it creak, and there she was. A slim, shy girl, being gently pushed her way along the row of tables by a broad-shouldered forty-something man in casual sports wear.

"Ms. Carmody?" he addressed her in the wary, non-committal way all spooks mastered so well. Mac was sure that apart from her, no one had noticed. Drawing a last sharp breath, Mac put on her sincerest welcome smile, got up and took the offered hand.

"Yes, that's me," she answered in a lightheartedness she didn't feel. "Mr. Whitmore?"

"Yup," he acknowledged way too carelessly. "I'll be pickin' her up at two, right?"

"Yes, thank you," Mac acknowledged politely and silently added, And tone your woodworker attitude down, Agent! This isn't really my idea of undercover work.

"Bye, ma'am," he only mumbled, then turned and was already gone again. Mac resolved to speak to Clay about having a few people tested for undercover aptitude.

"So, you're Tami?" she asked the obvious, feeling stupid.

The girl nodded, big brown eyes looking up at her from a delicate face that was just a little too dark to be labelled 'white'. Who cares about the colour anyway? Mac thought angrily. She's suffered for belonging to a white family. It probably doesn't matter if all your relatives are white or not, as long as you own the land.

With an embarrassed movement of her right hand, Tami brushed back a few tiny dark-brown curls that had escaped her bushy ponytail. "Yes, ma'am," she answered politely, "My name is Tami Elling." From the way she stressed the 'my name is', Mac could tell Tami was testing her. She wanted to see if she picked up on the cover name.

"I've heard so much about you," Mac answered in the same tone, stressing the 'so much' just enough for a slight spark of mutual understanding to shimmer in the girl's eye. The tension immediately dissipated. "I'm glad we meet at last," Mac added, hoping her own relief wasn't too evident. "And, please, don't call me 'ma'am'. I'm not that old. We're going to be a family. So, to you that's Sharon, okay?"

"Okay."

"Come on, sit down and tell me all about yourself," Mac cheerfully invited her. "Oh, what would you like to have?"

"Café latte and a double chocolate doughnut?" the girl asked shyly, apparently fearing she might be asking too much.

"Hang on," Mac told her with a wink, getting up again. She had wisely chosen the table - just opposite the counter, so she could leave the girl alone without leaving her out of her sight. Two minutes later, she set the desired items before the girl and took a sip of the new coffee she had gotten herself.

"So, you like coffee, do you?" she asked, just to open the conversation. "That's unusual. I don't know many twelve-year olds who do."

"In Zim…" Tami interrupted herself and looked around, frightened. When she met Mac's glance, Mac winked, and she relaxed visibly. "Where I come from, that's normal," she explained. "With the plantations and stuff. I grew up drinking coffee. But I like it more with lots of milk."

"You definitely need to tell me everything about it," Mac said enthusiastically. "But as long as we're here, let's talk about other things, right?"

"Sure."

"For example… what do you like to do when you're not at school?"

Tami's eyes lit up. "I love painting. I can do all kinds of awesome things, that a… a friend of my mother taught me. Like watercolour painting, or charcoal, or batik. And silk-painting, too. Most of all I love drawing landscapes and animals. I can show you if you like."

"That'd be great," Mac agreed, genuinely intrigued. "You're a real artist, then."

Tami shook her head vehemently. "Not yet," she stated in deep earnest. "One needs to go to art school first. But when I'm grown I will be one."

"I'm sure you'll teach every one of us how to draw," Mac proposed. "We could have regular art lessons in our family, what do you say?" Darn, Clay, you were right. This is starting to be fun, she silently admitted when she noticed that she was suddenly all eager to make plans for what they would do once they were settled in their house.

"How many other children will come to live with us?" Tami asked, a little wary.

"Eleven," Mac explained. "You're the eldest but one. Callista is fifteen, you are next, Sean is ten, Terence and Marcus are eight, Julia, Nina and Tom are seven, Jonah and Philip are six, Kevin is three and then there's our little Emily. She'll be two in a few weeks. Our first party we need to throw! And then, of course, there are all the other village families."

"I've never had any brothers or sisters, Sharon," Tami confessed, eyes wide. "What if they don't like me?"

All right, Mackenzie, now act like a family expert, Mac told herself, parts of her previous uneasiness returning. "Why shouldn't they like you?" she asked gently.

"I don't know… maybe because I don't talk like them."

Mac suppressed a sigh. She had a point. Children could be cruel in that respect. Tami sure was a native English speaker, but her pronunciation was Oxford tinged with a decidedly hard, African edge. She would stick out a little in their playtime. "What about back home?" Mac enquired, lowering her voice a little. She knew she probably shouldn't talk about this in public, but she felt Tami needed to be set at ease.

"The others never liked me," Tami explained in her endearing, earnest way. "You know, they said I talked like in England, and that was because my father's a landowner. They said I should go play with the white kids. But the white kids told me I was black. So I stayed home and played with my cat because my only friend, Clara, was at school all day. She's sixteen, you know."

Battle plan, Colonel, Mac told herself. Think of something - the last thing we need is for the girl to be shut out. "You know what, Tami?" Mac conspiratorially bent down to her. "We'll tell them a little story. We'll say that your mother was from Africa, say… umm, Kenya, and that your father was a businessman in Nairobi. That's where you grew up. So it's no wonder you've got that accent. A year ago your parents moved to the States where your father was from, and there your parents died in a car accident. That's a real cover story. Like in a movie. Isn't that thrilling?"

"Died?" Tami asked, aghast.

Mac nodded, saddened. "All the children at the village are orphans. That's why they come to live with us. But you know what? With this story, you can even tell people about Africa and teach us to paint the savannahs and everything, and no one will have a clue where you really got that from. Let's just agree that we keep the secret to ourselves, right?"

"All right!" The sparkle was back in Tami's smile, and all of a sudden, Mac felt something like pride deep down. Pride in herself, that she had handled the situation, and affection for the girl who had understood. My daughter, she thought, grinning about herself.

"Kenya?" Tami asked suddenly, seeming a little excited. "But that's where Darren Cassano's wife is from! Cool!"

Mac needed all of her willpower not to wince. "You know Darren Cassano?" she asked lightly.

The look Tami gave her had "DUH!" written all over it. "Of course I do. Back home, my friend Clara's got all his CDs. She's been to the U.S. with her parents and she went to his concert in St. Louis last April. She thinks he's really cool. And I do, too."

Harm, your fans grow younger all the time, Mac thought, biting back a grin. But immediately, she fell earnest again when the recent events connected to Harm's wife came back to her. God, I'm so sorry…

"Sharon?"

"Uh, yeah? Sorry, I got carried away," she apologized, mentally kicking herself for letting her guard down with the child she was supposed to protect.

"It's so sad," Tami stated earnestly, her big brown eyes shining. "His wife is really sick, isn't she? First their baby died and now, do you think she'll die, too?"

Mac raised her eyebrows with a sad, helpless shrug, trying to shut out the pain. "I don't know, Tami. I don't know…"

"She looks a lot like my mom, you know," the girl said. "My granddad was black, too. Do you think their boy would have looked a little like me? For the colour of skin, I mean."

"Probably," Mac agreed, trying to imagine steel-blue Rabb eyes in Tami's light brown face. He would have been perfect indeed, she resolved with a slight sting.

Tami drew a long sigh. "Clara always told me Darren Cassano and his wife are in love like in a real fairy-tale. Clara's read a lot about him. She knows. She says he'd been very unhappy before he met Nyala - that's his wife, you know - because another woman hurt him big time. He wrote his first big hit about her, you know, You Never Even Let My Heart Explain. Clara is really upset about that other woman. She says she didn't know what she had because Darren Cassano is such a great man to have. She must have been really stupid to send him away, don't you think?"

The situation was slowly becoming surreal. Here I am, discussing Harm's and my relationship with a twelve-year old. How weird can this ever get? Mac inhaled deeply and let the air slowly stream out again. "Probably," she admitted vaguely, trying to sound neutral. "But we can't know how the situation really was, can we?" she couldn't help going on. "You know, Tami, sometimes, in relationships, there are misunderstandings on both sides. Maybe Darren as well as that other woman had difficulties telling each other how they felt. Maybe they just missed the right time to get together. Maybe she's been regretting it ever since."

"If she regrets it, she loves him. And if she loved him, she could have told him, but she didn't. So there."

The world according to kids. Wasn't she supposed to make complicated things simple herself? Mac wondered. "Yeah, you're probably right," she agreed in a low voice, not daring to follow the road Tami had just pointed out.

"Listen! That's him!" the girl then exclaimed enthusiastically, referring to the radio station that was playing in the background. "That's a song that he wrote for Nyala, says Clara. She says he never recorded it but only plays it in concert. Clara says it's the most beautiful love song of the world! He wrote it for Nyala's birthday, you know."

"Your Clara knows a lot of things about Darren Cassano," Mac observed.

"I told you. She's read most everything