Like a Sad Song - Chapters 3&4

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.

Authors' notes:

From SC - Sorry it took so long for me to finish chapter 3, but a lot of good has been keeping me extremely busy. My semester at school is almost over, so the chapters should be coming along faster. Thanks to Dae for waiting for me, to AeroGirl for keeping us on track and her wonderful Beta, and to JenM, our proofreader extraordinare. And let's not forget my motivator, DelphieKat.

From Dae - What can I say? I totally second all the thanks Cat expressed above, and here's the only thing I feel I need to add: Cat, hon, it's again been a terrific ride. I'm already looking forward to continuing this!

**********CHAPTER THREE**********

TWO MONTHS LATER

1732 EST
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

Clayton Webb looked fondly at his mother. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she watched the hordes of kids of all ages, running and playing in the greening fields. She would so have loved spoiling grandchildren. How unfortunate he couldn't give her that. He really didn't blame Sarah, despite her constant fear of it. Rather, he wished he could do more for her than provide a surrogate family.

Porter had chosen the date of the inauguration of the village well, he thought; spring was in full bloom, and the air finally held the promise of warmer days, even in late afternoon. He'd had always known of his mother's involvement with SOS Children's Village, but he'd never seen exactly how much the charity meant to her, until she mentioned the construction of "her" village in rural Pennsylvania.

And when Director Kershaw had come to him with the need to hide a child, he'd jumped at the chance. He didn't feel any guilt in using his mother in that manner. In fact, quite the opposite. He welcomed the opportunity to spend more time with her, watching her and Sarah get to know each other -

"My dear Clayton, I do wish you'd learn to hide your thoughts better," Porter Webb said, placing a gentle hand on her son's shoulder, as a distant whistle sounded, recalling the children to their homes. It was time to get ready for dinner.

Clay turned a perfectly innocent smile on her, letting just enough of a confused frown slip over his features. Despite having been out of the field for some time, he hadn't lost his touch.

"What do you mean, Mother?"

"You've been spending every possible hour of your free time here, helping me with this village..." Porter trailed, her dark eyes studying her son, carefully analysing his body language, his demeanour, scrutinizing his soul.

Clay's expression turned slightly hurt, and he turned away from the only pair of prying eyes he couldn't fool. "I thought you'd appreciate it. I know how important this charity is to you."

Porter's gaze turned distant, suddenly filled with sadness. "Oh, Clayton, you cannot imagine what it was like, walking the streets of London, after those bombings... So many children, lost, hurt and alone..." she murmured, as the horrid images filled her memory.

Gently, Clay slipped his hand into hers, a rare contact between the two, unsheltered by a layer of fabric. A waltz or a hand in stepping out of a car was within society's accepted realm of physical contact. This, however, wasn't. Despite the deep bond mother and son shared, they rarely exchanged more than a cursory kiss on the cheek as a polite greeting. Porter's eyes sought his, seeing a similar light in his.

"You forget, Mother, that I too have seen my share of war-torn countries, and their children: Afghanistan, Iraq, Ireland or Rwanda... Each has these orphans. Their eyes are part of the reason why I keep doing what I do," he replied, his tone just as quiet.

They resumed their silent walk towards the main house, each lost in their own thoughts for a moment, a gust of warm air rustling the flaps of Clay's jacket. He knew he couldn't fool his mother for very long. He was surprised she hadn't already asked about Mac. He heard her sharp intake of breath and knew he wouldn't escape her questions this time.

"Clayton, why not tell me why you're really helping me?"

He sighed, resting his hands on his hips, keeping his eyes on the horizon.

"We've just been over this, mother. It's for the children, and for Sarah... We... we will never have our own, so I thought that this could be good for her."

Porter laid a hand on her son's cheek and smiled knowingly. "Clayton, I've been in the intelligence game far longer than you have. Please don't try to deceive me. Sarah has been here for two months, using a cover name. Since the Company cannot act inside this country, I can only assume that you're repaying a favour. I hope you're not putting the children in danger."

Clay gave her a sharp look, shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to the vast rolling fields.

"You know perfectly well I'd never do that."

"I do. Still…"

Clay let his shoulders fall and relented, chuckling softly, and shook his head. "All right. I do have an ulterior motive, but, as usual..."

"Need to know, and I do not," she replied, smiling. Porter Webb was anything but stupid. He should have known. Using a cover name for Sarah had indeed been a dead giveaway. In the back of his mind, he'd been aware of the distinct possibility of Porter figuring out the truth, but above all else, he knew he could trust her.

"This is why you've been trying to force me to abandon the Grand Opening concert. It puts a damper on security for your protégé," his mother said, a hint of reproach in her voice.

Clay lowered his eyes sheepishly. "I'm sorry. It was selfish of me. The children deserve this. Mother, please believe I'm helping you here because of them first?"

"Since you've always been unable to lie to me, I believe you. Just see that your enterprise does not bring harm to those children. They've suffered enough. Besides, it seems this singer has suffered a terrible loss, not long ago. He thought giving time to the children would help him heal."

Clay nodded empathically, and smiled thinly. Somehow, he suspected leaving the field had been a wise decision. His feelings for Sarah made him a liability, if this was any indication. In the past, he never would have allowed his objective to be threatened by a pop singer and his entourage of journalists and photographers, of all things. He had made sure a few of the sound technicians installing the stage were his people, just to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. But it hadn't eased his uneasiness. It had little to do with the fact his mother had kept the singer's identity a secret. Had he truly wanted to know, he could have found out. There was just no point in doing so; one singer or another made very little difference on the security concerns. Still, for some reason, he was worried. He knew the reason for his concern loomed just under the surface, and would undoubtedly rise once he'd put that meeting with DDCI Kershaw behind him.

"I have to go back to D.C. I'll be back as soon as I can," he said finally, unease still hovering in the back of his mind like a dark cloud, just over the horizon.

Porter nodded graciously, as he took his leave. He felt her eyes follow him until he disappeared behind one of the field stone buildings. He paused and leaned against the cool stone, breathing deeply. He barely had time to give Sarah a quick goodbye before heading back to the capital, and the latest crisis.

He willingly ignored the tingling on the back of his neck. His instincts had always been sharp, but this time, he had a suspicion he was wrong. This was the first operation -if it could even be called that - that he had handled since Paraguay. The CIA couldn't operate in the US, so officially, this wasn't an op, more like a courteous lending of a hand in a delicate matter, since no actual intelligence gathering was going on.

Clay tried to convince himself that his apprehensions had to do with leaving Mac in charge, alone to protect the girl, but there was no real risk. No one knew where she was, or even suspected she had been taken out of Zimbabwe. Still, the prickling on small of his neck remained. He shook his head and exhaled forcefully, pushing off the wall. CIA Directors were not a patient breed.

*********

Harm stretched his knotted back muscles as he slowly scanned the scene before him. The large cobbled plaza was flanked by three four-story houses, if they could be called that. Built out of field stone, the structures were huge. Harm knew that each housed 10 to 12 children of all ages, and all the help required to care for such a brood.

Still, he felt like he'd walked back in time and had magically been transported to Heidi's version of Alpine Switzerland instead of the rolling hills of Pennsylvania.

"What do you think?" Jeanne asked, from behind his elbow.

"Are you sure we're not in Austria or Switzerland?" he replied, cocking his head, hands on his hips.

Jeanne smiled. "The SOS foundation is Austrian in origin. Explains the architectural style, I guess. Maybe there's some of that Amish influence in there too. They are Europeans in origin, and a big part of this state's history and heritage. Let's go. The village's sponsor is waiting for us. We're late," she added, casting him a shrewd look.

"Grandma tends to stretch goodbyes a little. Sorry."

He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. It faded quickly, swallowed by the deep, hollow void in his heart. Admittedly, he was doing better, and the grief of losing his wife and son had lost its sharp edge. But he still felt empty and alone, isolated by that intangible wall around his heart. He knew deep down that a part of him would never recover completely, just as it had with Diane. However, this time, he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep his promise to Nyala, and one day be happy again.

He felt Jeanne's soft hand slip onto his shoulder, squeezing gently. He dragged his eyes off the fields and met hers, offering her an apologetic shrug.

"I'm sorry. I was…"

"Thinking about her, I know." Jeanne paused, studying him intensely, her violet eyes piercing. "Are you sure you're really ready to do this? I mean, if you need more time-"

"Jeanne, it's fine. I'm still not really sure if I'm ok, but I'll never get there if I keep on doing nothing. Besides, from what you tell me, the kids need this. And I kind of miss the stage, too…" Harm trailed, torn. He missed it, yes, but how would he feel, after the stage, with no one there? He'd gotten used to having Nyala close by awfully fast, and he knew her absence would burn sharply tomorrow night.

Jeanne raised her eyebrows. "You? Miss the stage? Wow. I better mark my calendar."

Harm gave his producer a shrivelling look, mirth shining in his eyes despite his fears. "Funny. Now let's meet the main man of this place."

"Unfortunately, the man is not a man," came a cultured voice from behind.

*I know that voice*, was the first thing that entered his mind, as he turned to apologise. His eyes fell on the refined, older woman, and a flash of recognition seared his brain. Porter Webb.

He gaped like a fish for a second before he recovered enough sense to hold out his hand to take the one she offered, and shake it politely.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Webb," he managed, his throat suddenly dry. If this village was Porter Webb's project, then her son was likely involved, and...

Mac.

"Mr. Rabb, what a pleasure! However, I was expecting a young man by the name of Darren Cassano," she said warmly, placing her left hand over their two clasped ones.

Harm felt rather than saw Jeanne's inquisitive stare, but ignored it. He swallowed thickly and let his game face slip over his features, something he hadn't done in almost two years.

"Mrs. Webb, pleasure is all mine, and Mr. Cassano and I are one and the same. I wasn't aware you were this village's sponsor."

Porter smiled warmly. "And neither did I realise the star I was expecting was one of Clayton's friends. He'll be sorry he missed you. He left for D.C. only a few minutes ago."

Harm laughed wryly, hopefully covering the mix of emotions swirling through him.

"I doubt Clay would be glad to see me. We didn't exactly part on the best of terms, last time we… spoke." Harm wasn't sure how much Mrs. Webb knew about the event that transpired in Paraguay. He suspected she likely knew most of it, but Jeanne didn't, and "classified" meant exactly that.

Porter's eyes turned soft. "Oh, I think he'd be glad for a chance to thank you, for… bringing them both back," she said emphatically, squeezing his hand a little tighter, "As do I," she added. "Come now. The village mothers are waiting for us. Dinner will be served shortly, and the children were promised a surprise, after all."

"So, Mrs Webb, how did you come to be involved with SOS?" Jeanne asked, as they took the cobbled path, leaving Harm alone with his jumbled thoughts.

If Clay had been here, Mac probably had as well. That had been his first thought on seeing Porter Webb. Guilt filled him instantly at that. For an instant, at the prospect of seeing her again, all memories of Nyala had faded away. She had been gone only a few short months! How could he?

Relief had quickly followed the initial rush of anticipation. She wasn't here. He'd almost breathed out his thankfulness. Jeanne would have asked too many questions if he had reacted in any unexpected way. She probably already would. But intermixed with the remorse he felt for momentarily sending his wife's memory to the back of his mind was a surprisingly deep sense of disappointment. He wouldn't get to see her. Sarah Mackenzie was still barely out of reach.

So many times in the past months, he'd stayed up all night, staring at the phone on his nightstand, wanting to pick it up and call her. He wasn't sure if he just missed their friendship in a particularly intense moment of need, or if he just needed to see her eyes, the ones she shared with Nyala, to make the grief a little more bearable. In any case, he'd never picked up the phone.

Despite their past friendship, he wasn't quite sure Clay would have been accepting of him calling in the middle of the night for a shoulder to cry on. Besides, from what Harriet had said when they had talked at Nyala's funeral, Mac had been going through a rough time of her own. After everyone had gone, Harriet had stayed behind and offered her help

*******Flashback********

Harriet smiled gently and patted the sofa next to her.

"Come and sit down, Harm. Bud's handling the dishes."

He smiled thinly and sat, and she covered his hand with hers. He stared at the floor, his eyes lost, his face empty.

"I know how hard this must be," she said softly. "At least, partly."

He looked up and his lips curled in a grateful smile. "Yeah. I… You and Bud have been a lot of help to both of us. Ny… She had such a hard time accepting it wasn't her fault…"

"Maybe that's why we connected so well. I felt like that too, for a long time. But you were there for me then. It's my turn now."

Harm silently nodded his thanks.

They sat in the quiet for long moments, before he squeezed Harriet's hand back. "So how's everyone back in D. C.?" he asked.

"Good. The admiral, well, Meredith is keeping him on his toes. Sturgis is still in Naples, and rumours say he'll make captain in the spring. And Tiner is actually pretty good in a courtroom," Harriet said, a glint of humour in her eyes.

"And Mac?"

Harriet's eyes darkened, and she looked away.

"What's the matter, Harriet? What's wrong with Mac? Is it Clay?"

Harriet looked into his eyes, debating whether to tell him what she knew or not. Harm cocked his head.

"No. Not Clay." She avoided the question again.

Harm sighed, laying a firm gaze on Harriet He'd lost the two people he'd cared most about and had survived, in some ways at least. He wasn't sure he would ever heal or feel normal again, but for a time, focusing on someone other than himself felt good, even if it was only a brief escape from his own troubles.

"Harriet, she's still my friend," he said finally.

"I just don't want to add to your burden," she said, with a strained frown.

"Harriet, please."

"She's barren."

*******End Flashback********

He'd lost a child, but Mac would never even have the chance to have one of her own. He understood that kind of pain, and for a few fleeting moments, he'd allowed himself to think that calling to let her know he was there for her in that hard time would take his mind off his own suffering. But she didn't need him. She had Clay, and once again, he was alone.

But now, she was near him. He could almost feel her presence. And he had no idea how he felt about that.

**********

SAME TIME, MAC'S ROOM

Mac ran a brush through her longish locks and heaved a tired, happy sigh. Soccer in the field had been fun. And little 7-year-old Tom had finally managed to kick the ball in the right direction, to his complete delight. She lay the brush down on her vanity and stared at her reflection. Clay had been right. Despite it all, she was glad to be here, surrounded by children. The admiral had taken her request for a prolonged TAD with the CIA surprisingly well. Well, maybe not so surprising after all. AJ had always had a soft spot for kids in trouble - or was it her? She wasn't sure.

Tonight promised to be interesting. Mrs Webb had told them about the plans for the Village's inauguration, but she'd kept the identity of the VIP Godfather secret. Old habits died hard, she supposed. But she had to admit that it was fun to watch the children gossip, and to have them try and pull information out of her, info she didn't have of course, but they didn't need to know that.

She quickly washed her face, changed into a light blue, thin wool sweater and form-fitting taupe skirt. Not her usual dress for dinner with the kids, but they were expecting a visitor, and she welcomed the opportunity to dress up, even a little.

As she reached for her blush, a light tap sounded at her door.

"Who is it?" she called, swallowing a sigh. She loved those kids, but she longed for a few hours of time for herself.

"It's Callie," a shy, almost adult voice called. "I think Em's sick, Sharon," the teenager said, her voice tinted with worry.

Mac closed her eyes. So much for an easy evening while the kids were busy with their VIP guest. She didn't even question Callista's feelings about little Emily's health.

"Hang on, let me finish dressing. I'll be right there," she called through the closed door. Despite her disappointment about the evening and her worries for Emily, Mac smiled. They buddy system she'd implemented with the kids was working wonders; the older kids were paired with a young one, and would help them with the day-to-day stuff like dressing, cleaning their rooms, brushing their teeth and at mealtime. Naturally, since Callie was the oldest and Em the youngest, they were buddies.

Taking care of Emily had done wonders to help Callie come out of her shell. Mac didn't know yet what her complete story was; just that she had been found four years ago, on the side of the road where a bus crash had occurred. Her parents, aunt and brother had been killed, leaving her completely alone in the world. She had withdrawn into herself, and so far no one had been able to draw her out.

Mac changed her sweater for an oversized white cotton shirt, and her skirt for a pair of jeans. She hadn't even considered keeping her evening outfit on. She already knew it would have been pointless. Emily had had recurrent ear infections for the last six months. This would be her third since Mac had gotten to the village.

"It's okay, Callie. You had a good reason to come and see me," Mac assured the girl. "Now what's up with Em?" she called through the door

"She feels really warm and she's fussy. Keeps saying owie and rubbing her ear," the fifteen-year old explained.

Mac pulled the door open and smiled at an anxious Callie, eyes downcast, leaning against the wall. She quietly led Mac down the maple-floored hall, the clacking of her wide heels muffled by the flowered carpet running its length. Mac could hear the usually quiet and happy Emily wailing, despite being several yards away from her room.

"I asked Sean to keep an eye on her while I got you, And Tami's there too, with Kevin," Callie added, suddenly insecure about leaving her charge.

"That's a good call, Callista. Jonah and Phil can play by themselves for a bit," Mac replied kindly.

She pushed the oak door open and stepped into a bright kid's room, shared by Emily and Kevin. Sand-coloured teddy bears and white bunnies dotted the pale green walls. Two cherry wood cribs stood on opposite sides of the ladybug and dragonfly decorated carpet.

Tamara and Sean were hovering around the screaming toddler, trying to quiet her cries, while three-year-old Kevin played on his blue and white railed bed, oblivious to his roommate's torment. Mac picked up the screaming girl from Tami's arms and cooed gently, feeling her forehead.

She clicked her tongue and shook her head. Em was burning hot, and furiously rubbing her right ear, mumbling cries of pain in between sobs.

"Tami, get the first aid box from the bathroom's upper cupboard."

"Okay," the girl said seriously and disappeared. Next, Mac turned to Callie. The tough part was about to start.

"Callie, I need you to replace me for the official VIP greeting tonight. I have to take Em into town to the doctor-"

"But-" the teen cut in worriedly.

Mac held up a hand as she scooted the still-crying Emily to her hip.

"Callie, you can do this. Trust in yourself, all right? I need you to find Mrs Webb, let her know Em is sick and that you're replacing me. Don't worry. All you have to do is get everyone to the main dining hall. Tami will help you. Use the buddies, and if I'm not back after dinner, get everyone to bed." She could see the fear and worry creeping into Callista's eyes, so she smiled reassuringly.

Tami re-entered the room with a white plastic case, bearing the universal red cross. Mac smiled in thanks and took it in her free hand.

"Tami, take Kevin and go make sure all the others are ready, then wait for Callie to come and get you. I'm leaving you two in charge. If you need help, Mrs Webb and Ania will be there," Mac said, as she hoisted her charge up on the changing table and retrieved the thermometer from the kit.

Tamara wordlessly nodded, taking young Kevin by the hand and out of the room. Mac winked at her. Tamara shared a room with Callista, and knew of her roommate's insecurities. She turned her attention to the teenager, holding the thermometer to Emily's left ear.

"I'm listening," she said softly, caressing Em's back.

"Sharon, I can't-"

"You can," Mac interrupted. "Callie, I know you're scared of the responsibility, but you've proven to me you can handle it. You're taking great care of Emily. But right now, I need to get her to the doctor. Don't worry. I'll have Ania watch over all of you, but you're the one in charge."

"But…"

"Callie, I need you to do this. I need to rely on you tonight, and I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think you could, all right?"

"'Kay," the girl muttered, tossing her long auburn hair over her shoulder, her green eyes still downcast.

"Callie, look at me please."

The girl finally raised her head.

"You can do this," Mac said, nodding confidently, her eyes conveying her faith in the girl.

"I can do this," Callie repeated.

"Good. Now go see Mrs Webb. Tami will get the others ready. You just need to come and get them. I'll speak to Ania and get Em to the doctor. I should be back before you get to bed. Just do as we always do. You and Tami make sure everyone gets to bed on time, and we'll talk when I get back, okay?"

Callie nodded, a glimmer of newfound confidence in her still-insecure eyes. She leaned forward and gave Mac a quick hug before bolting down the hall.

Mac turned to the sniffling toddler sitting on the changing table. "Well, young lady, looks like you and I will get to spend an evening together!" she said cheerfully, despite her disappointment.

'Oh well, I'll get the details from the kids,' she thought as she dressed Emily. Her adult night would have to wait.

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

Harm's eyes stayed lost over the distant fields, as the sun slowly crept across the sky. A pair of deep brown eyes stared back at him wherever he looked, making his soul ache. It wasn't just that Nyala was gone for good. He just didn't know whose eyes stared back. He suddenly was glad Mac wasn't here. He wasn't sure he was up to seeing her; not just because of her resemblance to his wife, but simply because she'd always had an uncanny way of having him open up, and say what was bothering him, of seeing right through his defences. At the moment, he didn't dare contemplate the things left unsaid between them, or why they had never been able to tell each other what truly lay in their hearts.

A soft hand on Harm's arm jerked him back to reality, wrenching him away from thoughts of the past. He forced himself not to jump and glanced over his shoulder, right into Jeanne's concerned eyes. He forced a half-genuine smile upon his lips.

"Sorry. This place is… so peaceful-"

"If you're not ready for this, just say so," Jeanne said, her hand squeezing his arm gently.

Harm chuckled. "Stop, mother hen. I'm fine. Besides, there are about two dozen kids waiting for a surprise in there," he said, tossing his head towards the stone building just behind her. "I'm ready. Let's do this," he assured, nodding to Mrs. Webb.

"Mr Rabb, I must say, I'm truly sorry for your loss," Porter said empathically.

"Thank you, Mrs Webb," Harm replied. "But please, it's Cassano now," he added, shrugging almost uncomfortably. To his relief, or rather to his un-surprise, Porter Webb nodded, her piercing eyes never leaving his. He should have expected a woman with such a past to readily accept the change, without question or hesitation.

"Shall we?" he offered, motioning to the door.

"We'll start by meeting the two village mothers. Come with me."

As they entered a large foyer, Mrs Webb frowned. As far as Harm could see, only one adult was present, accompanied by an obviously nervous teenager.

Mrs Webb turned a polite, if displeased glance at the teen. "Where is Sharon?" she asked softly, her questioning gaze firmly on the ill-at-ease girl.

"Um, ah… I mean…" stuttered the girl, eyes locked on the floor.

Harm saw Porter Webb visibly take pause, and soften her expression. "Please, Callista. Tell me. It's all right. You see, our guest is here. I'd like to introduce him, but I need to make sure everyone is here. So tell me. Is Sharon on her way?" she questioned gently.

"Um, no. She had to take Emily to the doctor. Her ear's infected again," the teen explained shyly. "She put me in charge, and said that Ania," the girl said, her eyes darting briefly to the other adult in the room, "would be there to help," she added.

Porter gave Harm a conspiratorial glance. "Well, then. Let me introduce our VIP Godfather. Ania Kaster, Callista Phillis, meet Darren Cassano."

He could see the instant the teen recognised him. Her face flushed, her jaw fell, and her eyes turned to amazed saucers. The star effect. He'd never quite had gotten used to it. Still, he smiled.

Jeanne chuckled softly beside his elbow.

"Ready for a crazed-in-love-with-you bunch of teens?" she asked, eyes gleaming.

Harm scoffed. "There are boys in there too," he said. "Aren't there? Mrs. Webb," he asked, turning to the older woman, suddenly not so confident.

"Of course. Shall we?" she replied, lightly tapping the still-awestruck Callista.

Harm's easy smile grew into a genuine grin, lighting his features. This was going to be fun.

2212 EST
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

Mac sighed quietly as she settled a now-sleeping Emily in her crib. She could hear faint mumbling form the small bed across the room. Kevin was dreaming, she mused. She brushed her hand over Em's head and pulled her blanket up over her quiet form. Settling quietly on the window seat, she gazed across the fields, and let her mind wander a bit. The happiness she felt was bittersweet at best.

Clay had never been very present, despite his staying at CIA headquarters. He'd tried to comfort her loss by finding her this assignment, but he himself had become distant. Or maybe it was just her imagination. In some ways, he reminded her of Harm. He was grounded, retired from fieldwork, but his eyes were always on the sky, always longing to return to the field. She sometimes had this eerie feeling that she was holding him back, and that he somehow resented her for it.

Mac shook her head and dismissed the idea. Living with a spook was making her paranoid. Her eyes drifted to the stone plaza below. A crew was putting up a stage for tomorrow afternoon's show. She only hoped they would save the hoisting of lights and sound tests for the morning, once the kids had woken up.

She rose and quietly padded out of the room. Time to check on Callie, and see how the evening had gone. Despite the girl's set bedtime being past, Mac doubted they were asleep. She chuckled when she indeed saw a sliver of light under the door. She knocked gently and pulled the door open.

"So, how'd it go?" she asked Callie, who sat propped up by mounds of pillows, a book open in her lap.

"It was great!" the teen exclaimed, her eyes bright. Mac could see her vainly try to hide her enthusiasm behind a mask of casual indifference, but it just wasn't working. Mac smiled.

"So you had fun?"

Callie tossed her head. "Well, yeah, but you should have seen Tami! She's such a kid sometimes," the teen said, her tone conspiratorial.

"Speaking of her," Mac replied, stealing a glance towards Tamara's bed, "where is she?"

"She went to put Kevin to bed. Should be back soon if he isn't too fussy," Callie replied confidently.

A sudden rush of fear slipped into Mac's veins. "Callie, bedtime was over two hours ago!"

"Maybe she fell asleep-"

"I was just there dropping Emily off. She's not there!" Mac screeched, panic, anger and guilt suddenly stealing her breath. She should never have left Tamara alone. She'd gotten careless.

Tamara was gone.

**********

Harm listened distractedly to the fading conversation between Jeanne and Mrs. Webb. The dining hall was now deserted, the two organisers of his life having retreated to an adjacent office. He'd initially begged off in participating to the planning details of tomorrow's concert, but he was starting to question the wisdom of that decision.

He'd truly enjoyed the evening, but now that it was over…

He'd gotten so used to Nyala's presence, to her grounding presence after concerts or other public appearances that her absence burned even more sharply, now.

He inhaled slowly, biting his lip to try and keep from being flooded by loneliness. It just wasn't working. He shoved a hand through his longish hair and paced the large room. The heels of his cowboy boots hammered hard on the terrazzo floor, drowning out every sound his heart made. He tried desperately not to think.

Images of her filled his mind, his soul. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. He needed to get out. He headed towards what he thought was the way to the center courtyard. He instead found himself in a small, brick walled garden. Geraniums and azaleas had been carefully planted at the wall's base, and clematis were just beginning to scale the walls. The place was literally instilled with peace.

Harm spied an old wood swing tucked in the shadows. At least he would have a place to sit while he indulged his misery, he thought.

He took a step towards the swing but instantly stilled. What was that sound?

There it was again! A sniffle. He stepped closed and peered into the darkness, and sure enough, he spotted a white t-shirt behind the swing. A child had apparently slipped out, just like him, and for the same reason he had. His own troubles momentarily forgotten, he gingerly approached the swing and sat.

"Hi," he said quietly. "It's okay to be sad. Want to talk about it?" he offered.

"No," came the mewled reply.

"Okay. You don't have to. My name's Darren. What's yours?"

"Tamara."

Harm smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Tamara."

The sniffles behind him paused. "Darren, like in Darren Cassano?" the voice asked, teary surprise clear in the girl's voice.

"Yeah. Want to come sit with me? I'm feeling kinda lonely."

"For real?"

"Sure."

Soon, a café-au-lait, tear-smeared face appeared. The girl rose from the stone ground and shyly sat beside him. He smiled gently. He could see excitement, amazement, disbelief, but mostly sadness chase over her delicate features. He extended a hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Tamara."

The girl smiled a little brighter and took his hand. "Wow. It's really you," she whispered.

"Yep. You weren't sure?"

She shook her head. "Not really. My wishes never come true," she said sadly.

"Is that why you were crying?"

Her eyes again filling with tears, Tamara nodded, biting her lip.

"C'mere," he said, wrapping her in his arms.

"I shouldn't cry," she murmured against his shoulder. "It's stupid."

"Why?"

"Because I miss my mom!" she sobbed.

Harm bit his lip. These kids were orphans, he knew. It was only natural for them to miss their parents.

"It's all right, honey. I miss my wife and my son too," he murmured, swallowing his own tears.

"Oh, I'm such an idiot!" the girl wailed, pushing away from him. She flung herself on the armrest and sobbed quietly.

"Being sad isn't stupid, Tamara," Harm said gently.

"But it isn't the same. Your wife and baby died, and I just miss my mom," she sniffled.

Harm's brow furrowed, not quite understanding what the kid meant.

"My loss doesn't make yours any less important, and your sadness is just as normal as mine, Tamara," he explained.

"You don't understand. My mom isn't dead. I just can't see her."

Harm's confusion only grew. "Why?"

The girl pushed herself off the armrest and turned to him, her features contorted in a mask of painful anger.

"Because of the stupid Militia, that's why! If the president hadn't insisted on giving back the tobacco land to the-"

Harm held up a hand, completely confused. Not only had the girl gone from despair to fury, her accent had morphed into something very similar to Nyala's.

"Hold on, Tamara. What are you talking about? Where's this?"

"In Zimbabwe. Haven't you heard about the government's persecution of the white farmers? My dad…"

Tamara's eyes suddenly filled with terror, and she bolted up from the swing. In an instant, she had crossed the courtyard and disappeared inside.

"Tamara! Wait!" Harm called, chasing after her.

"Shari!"

He heard the girl's scream echo off the corridor as he ran in.

"Tami?" a familiar voice queried, from the opposite end of the hallway. He turned towards it and met with the steady, protective gaze of Sarah Mackenzie.

Time seemed to stretch and freeze. Her gaze burned him, like hot coals, yet he couldn't drag his eyes away. Those eyes... it was so painful to look at them, because in an instant, he didn't see Mac. He saw Nyala. And right in front of his eyes, she died afresh, and her face morphed into Sarah Mackenzie's once more.

It was exactly like the first time he'd met Nyala. It was the same grief, the same pain of loss, but the roles of the two women were now reversed. Yet he still couldn't tear his gaze from hers. He registered the hurried passage of a small body by his, and saw Mac's frame move backwards, and she momentarily broke eye contact to look down at the child now huddled at her feet.

But it was enough to break the spell. Sound returned to his ears and he blinked once, to try and clear his head. His brain was filled with conflicting emotions, renewed pain, and a sort of bizarre joy he didn't dare analyse. Bracing himself, he looked into her eyes once more.

Her gaze was steady, with only a glimmer of unconcealed surprise. But there was something more, something from the time they had been partners at JAG and close friends. Her eyes said two things: trust me, and follow my lead.

He nodded imperceptibly, a sign he knew only she would recognise. He saw the look of apprehension leave her face as she focused on the scared girl clinging to her. She bent down and stroked Tamara's back, soothing her.

"It's all right, Tami. Tell me what's wrong."

"He.. I… I told. I said…" she sniffled, eyes fearfully darting to him.

A glimmer of understanding seemed to come to her, and she visibly relaxed. "You mean about your dad?"

"Yes," the child whispered, her body shaking.

Mac lowered herself to face the girl. "Tami, remember when we met, what we talked about? About Darren Cassano?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Well, his friend that I know also told me you can trust him too. He can keep your secret safe, Tami," Mac said, her gaze meeting his as she spoke.

He took the cue, and knelt on the floor. "It's all right, Tamara. I won't tell anyone what you said about your dad. And if…"

"Sharon," Mac provided helpfully, answering his unspoken question.

"If Sharon's friend is who I think she is, she ought to know. We worked together for a long time, before I became a singer. So I promise I won't tell. All right?" he said to the girl, his eyes locked on Mac's. "Do you believe me, Tamara?"

"Y…yes," she replied, the fear slowly draining out of her.

"All right, then, young lady. You need to get to bed. School starts early tomorrow. Art class, remember?"

The teen's exuberance was back, in an instant. "Yeah! We're doing abstract drawings tomorrow!"

"All right, get to bed, miss. We'll walk you up to your room. If Mr. Cass-"

"Darren," he interrupted.

Mac nodded. "-if Darren will accompany us."

Harm bowed, extending his arms towards the stairs. "Lead the way, ladies."

Twenty minutes later, Mac closed the door to Callie and Tami's room, and joined Harm, waiting in the hallway.

He smiled, forcibly at first. "So, Sharon, how is Sarah Mackenzie these days?"

Mac smiled, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. Her cheeks coloured slightly and she shrugged. "She's doing all right. Not seeing much in the way of of courtrooms, these days. Lots of kids, though."

Harm nodded, neither of them directly looking at each other. So much time had passed, so many things had happened… Neither of them knew quite what to say, or how to act.

They slowly scaled the hall, in an uncomfortable silence, until Mac laughed out.

"This is ridiculous. You'd think we'd have something to say to each other."

"Yeah," he agreed.

Mac's expression grew contrite. "I'm sorry about your wife and son."

Harm's expression clouded, and he looked away. "Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't return your message…"

"It's all right. I-" she tried, still unsure of how to act around him.

"Mac, I'm sorry. I mean… About… Harriet told me," he blurted, equally as ill at ease.

"I know. She told me. She was afraid I'd be upset. But somehow, I knew you'd understand how I felt."

They had reached the cobbled plaza Harm had been initially searching for when he'd stumbled upon Tamara's hiding place. The cool spring air penetrated his sweater, suddenly making him shiver. He ambled towards one of the stone benches and sat, shoving his cold hands deep in his pockets. With a nod, he invited her to join him.

"That's part of the reason I didn't call back. I… I didn't want to burden you with my problems. Besides, you have Clay now," he said, surprised by the bitterness he still felt. He managed to keep it out of his voice, however.

"Harm, I wouldn't have minded. I kept telling myself that my problems were so small compared to the loss you've just faced…"

He chuckled. "You'd think I was listening to myself think."

"But I wasn't alone." It wasn't quite a statement, or a reproach. It was just a fact, reassuring and ugly at the same time. The tone with which she'd said it seemed to hold more that the simple facts, yet not hide anything. It just left him puzzled. So he chose a simple, equally factual answer.

"No, you weren't," he said, pushing off the bench to pace.

She stayed silent, and once again they were trapped in that uncomfortable place, where friendships have become too distant to invite conversation or reminiscences, yet still to precious to let go and let die.

"I missed your friendship," she said at last.

"That makes two of us," he said simply.

Again, the conversation died. Neither seemed ready to let go, ready to retire for the night. Harm knew they would see each other in the few days to come. There was the concert tomorrow, and then he was supposed to spend the week here and help out, do some PR for the Foundation and spend time with the kids. After a few minutes spent listening to the soft chirring of the crickets, he spoke up.

"She's the reason you're here, isn't she? Tamara, I mean."

Mac nodded. "Yes. Her father's the head of the White Farmers' coalition, in Zimbabwe. They've stood against the government, and are trying to stop the persecution of the white colonists who own tobacco lands. He's brought the matter before the UN, so to try and muzzle him, they've threatened his family."

"So the CIA offered to protect them, and they hid Tamara here. So you're TAD to the CIA again," he said. How ironic, he thought.

She nodded again. "Clay thought this would help me cope. It's his way of helping, of being there for me."

It was Harm's turn to nod. Again, he detected something in her tone, something that she didn't dare say, or want to acknowledge, he judged. And that something had to do with Clayton Webb.

"Are you sure he'll be ok with you telling me this?"

She laughed. It was just as he remembered it. Crystalline, and genuine. He couldn't help it. He joined in.

"No, he probably won't. But I'll handle it. Besides, you pulled me out of his messes more times than I can count," she replied, once the laughter had died down.

Harm didn't reply. Guilt had suddenly swamped him, like a cold shower. How could he be laughing and joking around with Mac? God… Had his feelings for Nyala had truly been born out of pure spite at Mac? He couldn't bear to contemplate the answer. The confusion he'd felt earlier at the prospect of seeing her was nothing compared to the maelstrom in which he was now caught.

"I wore my whites to her funeral," he said, for absolutely no reason. At least none other than to share something he needed to share, with someone who had once known him, when the uniform had truly meant something. He willingly chose to ignore the conflict in his head. He would argue with his conscience later.

"You needed the shield they provide, the strength they represent," she replied quietly. "I always wore my Class As when we were going through the fertility tests. I thought… No. I hoped they would protect me, give me the strength I needed to cope, too."

He shrugged. "Maybe I did. Since she's been gone, nothing has made sense in my life. Jeanne, my producer-know-it-all-friend-agent, said this would be good for me, to come here, and help the kids."

"Clay thought the same, and it fit his agenda too."

Again, that tone. This time, he didn't let it pass. "Are you two doing okay?" he asked carefully.

"Honestly? I don't really know. He was very supportive about the whole infertility thing. But… Things have changed. I don't know how. They just have."

"Hmm," he said, at a loss. After spending so many minutes of awkward silence, they were sharing experiences and intimate emotions, more freely than they ever had in the past. The whole situation felt surreal.

Suddenly, an infinite weariness crept over him. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Tired?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head a little. "Yeah. This… It feels strange. Empty. Any public appearance I made, she was always there. This feels… I can't really describe it." He truly couldn't. He had no idea of what he was feeling, other than confused betrayal, and guilt.

"I wish I could make things better for you," she said softly.

He turned to her and rose, and she did the same. He took her hands and smiled, as best he could.

"You have. It was good talking to you," he said, not sure if he meant it or not, feeling strangely like a traitor.

"You're welcome. I need to call it a night, though. The kids are up early," she explained a bit lamely.

He nodded.

"Good night," he said, releasing her hands, his turning to ice.

"Night," she replied, turning back towards the stone building. She never quite turned his back to him, till the door clicked shut behind her. Only then did he let himself drop unceremoniously to the stone bench he'd just vacated. He buried his head in his hands, finally giving in to the turmoil he'd barely kept at bay a few minutes earlier.

"It's her, n'est-ce pas?"

Jeanne's voice made him jump straight up to his feet. He looked at her with wild eyes, not knowing what to reply.

"What?" he heard himself finally say.

"It's her, Colonel Mackenzie," she stated, her chin motioning to the closed door.

Harm frowned, narrowing his eyes. "How do you know her name, let alone what she looks like?" eh asked, his tone accusing.

"Now, don't get angry at me, Harm. Nyala showed me a picture of her."

Harm's brow knotted in a furrow. "When were you and Nyala ever close enough to share stories about my past?" he asked, puzzled. Most times, the two women had been arguing over and about him, not commiserating or sharing quiet moments.

Jeanne smiled, a sad look fleeting over her eyes. "Your wife and I may have butted heads on several occasions, but that's because we both care about you. Our objectives were different, I admit, but still… How did it feel to see her again?" she asked, when he didn't speak.

Again, silence.

"Harm, chéri, please. Tell me how you feel."

That got her a reaction. Harm threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, cynical and sarcastic bark. He rose to his feet, his head rolling backwards. He opened his arms wide and turned to her, finally looking at her. His features were filled with disgust, sadness and confusion.

"How I feel? How I feel!?! How the hell should I know!" he scoffed. "All I've done today is find how little I truly know about her, or myself. What did the two of you talk about?" he asked, his tone angry and sullen.

"When she was worried about you, or when you were on stage, we spent time together, and we talked about you. That's how she eventually showed me that picture of you and Colonel Mackenzie in uniform. Now I understand what Nyala said about your initial reaction, when you meant. You know how insecure she could be. She was afraid that you really didn't love her, that if you ever see the colonel again, you'd leave."

Harm dropped his head again, infinite grief sweeping through him.

"She was right," he murmured miserably, his voice trembling.

"WHAT!" Jeanne cried. " Bon dieu, I do not believe that, for a single moment! Harm, you're not making any sense at all. What in Hades are you talking about?"

He sank slowly to the ground, in the middle of the plaza.

"Nyala. I used her, Jeanne. I used her like an egotistical, stupid heartless jerk. How could I do that to her? Huh? Tell me! How could I use her as a substitute like that? Betray her feelings for me, just because she happened to look at me twice when I needed an ego boost? God, I'm such a fool. I used her as a substitute for the woman who broke my heart, just because their eyes happened to look the same! What kind of monster am I?"

He fell silent, spent and mentally sick of himself. How could he not see that before? How could he be so selfish and blind?

Once again, Jeanne's voice interrupted his dark thoughts. Her tone was not quite the reprimanding one he'd expected. Instead, she was mildly chastising, and quite annoyed.

"You are certainly a fool if that's what you remember of the feelings you shared with Nyala, my friend."

"Jeanne, I used-"

"Fermes-la et écoutes. You're in shock, dear. It's the first time you've come face to face with her since your wife died. Doesn't matter if it's the first time since you met me. What you're feeling is guilt over feelings that still live in your heart for someone other than your dead wife, nothing more."

"You cannot possibly know what I feel, Jeanne," he growled. "You're in no position to judge the authenticity or lack of, of my feelings for Nyala and Mac!"

"Oh? Am I now?" Jeanne fired back, head cocked, hands on her slim hips. "Tell me this: whose face did you see when you made love to Nyala? Hum?"

Harm's eyes went wide. "Jeanne!"

"Answer the question, Harmon," she said, daring him, simply by using his given name.

He blushed furiously, his eyes refusing to meet hers. "Nyala's."

"My point exactly. And did you ever call her Sarah, in those moments?"

The indignation was back in full force. "Of course not - geez! What kind of man do you think I am?"

Jeanne smiled gently at him, a hint of triumph creeping over her delicate features.

"The kind that loved his wife enough to feel crushing amounts of guilt just because he met someone he once loved and may still have feelings for." She paused and rose to her feet, walking towards him. She dropped a hand to his shoulder and knelt by his still form.

"Trust me, what you felt and still feel for Nyala is as genuine as anything I've ever seen. This is a testament to it, in fact. If you hadn't loved her, or if you'd already come to terms with the loss, you wouldn't be feeling guilty and confused like this."

"Why does this feel so real, then?" he asked, anger getting the best of him. "If you know me so well, tell me why I can't even tell if what I felt or think I felt or feel for my wife is real, huh?"

"You're too close to the situation. You need some perspective, that's all. And some sleep too."

"There's no way I can sleep, Jeanne."

"Then do what you do best, chéri."

He turned to her, eyes wide and vulnerable. "And what would that be?"

"Write a song, my dear. That's what you do best."

He nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, now, anyway." He tried to keep the regret out of his voice but failed. He sensed Jeanne's shoulders fall, and felt her deflate.

Jeanne sat down beside him. "Do you regret your choice? Your new career?"

He thought for a moment and drew in a long breath, his mouth twisting. "No. I don't. I just… I haven't tried since she died," he finished quietly.

"Then it's time for you to try. For your own sake, and for the promise you made her. You'll never move on if you don't come to terms with this."

Harm shook his head in wide arcs, a smile finally creeping up. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I'm really, really sick of you being right all the time. That used to be my job."

Jeanne slapped his shoulder playfully, standing up. "So go write me that new hit."

Harm rose and looked straight into her eyes. "Thanks for being there, Boss."

"Always."

**********CHAPTER FOUR**********

NEXT MORNING
0823 LOCAL
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

The big stage took up about half of the village's "marketplace." Although fine weather had been predicted, the stage was covered, mainly because the strong steel construction supporting the ceiling held a whole battery of spotlights of all kinds and colours imaginable. The sky would still be light when the ceremony started, but Harm's concert was supposed to take place at dusk, so the longer he was on stage, the more show effects the TV people would want to apply. Mac supposed that this wasn't really his style, but as a professional, Harm had probably gotten accustomed to those kind of optic distractions from his art.

The sun had risen about an hour ago, and inside the two already inhabited houses, everyone was up and preparing themselves for what the day would bring. Mac wondered how on Earth those of her children who attended school would survive their classes, knowing what lay in store for the rest of the day. Tami especially would probably give her teachers a hard time, impatient as she was to be near Darren Cassano. Only Callie had been allowed to stay back from school because the eldest of every house were needed as helpers.

Callie and Tami were all giddy and difficult to keep in line, Tami still beaming with pride about having met Darren Cassano all by herself last night. It was an open secret that although Callie had been on the welcome committee yesterday, she was rather envious of Tami's private tête-à-tête with the singer. But apparently she thought that rather than fighting, staying close to Tami might prove the best way to get near her idol herself. And then she was probably hoping for some private words with Harm as well, once everyone but her and the small ones would be at school.

Mac had had her hands full at breakfast, with two giggling teenagers, three teasing younger boys, two little girls wanting to talk about the same things their bigger sisters discussed, and her smallest still crying a lot because of her slightly feverish condition.

Village Mother is a real profession. And a trying one, too, Mac remembered Clay's words from when he had first told her about the mission.

You bet, Mr. Webb, she half-angrily, half-amusedly addressed him in her thoughts as she stood in the middle of the little plaza, taking in the sight of the empty stage and letting the morning sun warm her face.

Next week, things were probably going to change, once the big event was over. School would go back to its normal rhythm, and some kind of regularity would hopefully divide their days into bits that were easier to digest than this one big blur of excitement. By and by, all the other houses would welcome their families, too, and at the end, a real, growing village community would encompass the children who were so badly in need of a warm flock.

Mac took a deep breath of the fresh air the slight wind was bringing in from the forests up on the hills. Cleaning up after the meals was the children's task, directed by Callie, who might even make a good company gunny one day, judging from the way she issued concise and reasonable orders. Mac was amazed and maybe even just a little proud of how well Callie had started to overcome her shyness, at least with her village siblings. Towards adults, she still tended to be insecure and reserved, but seeing the progress, Mac was confident that Callie might in time overcome that problem as well.

As an early riser, Mac had finished whatever she needed to do in the morning by the time the family gathered around the breakfast table. So washing-up time was her private little treasure, and she liked to spend it alone wandering about the village, checking the situation, and enjoying the calm before the stress of being a mother of ten would take over again. However, today she couldn't fully savour her little time-out. She sat down on a bench a little ways away from the stage construction, closing her eyes and trying in vain to get back some of the relaxation she lacked because of last night's lost sleep. She had heard the bell-tower toll 0300 before she had finally found a little slumber - only to wake up again at 0530.

Damn you, Rabb. If there's one thing I need here it's a good night's sleep, and you just had to march into my life out of nowhere to steal it from me...

Their encounter had shaken her psyche in its very foundations. That was what frustrating her most: after all this time, after dozens of months when their personal contact had culminated in a few strained words on the telephone, Harmon Rabb still had the ability to make her lose her cherished control. He had come, seen, and won the battle she'd tried to fight against having his sudden appearance intimidate her. Will there ever be a day when we'll be able to meet as neutral, friendly acquaintances? she wondered, answering her question with a resigned I guess not... the moment the thought had formed in her mind.

After all this time, his gaze had still mesmerized her. The mixture of stupor, terror, and genuine joy in his eyes when they had so unexpectedly run into each other, had touched her to her very marrow. The high-security door that'd she'd locked her Rabb memories behind had given way in an instant, and all the long-banished recollections of the remarkable moments they'd had had come back to her like an avalanche. In that one moment, Mac had learned a bitter lesson: there just was no way of getting over Harmon Rabb, Jr. Instead of trying the impossible, she'd better accept the situation as a given and try to work it through so she wouldn't endanger the life she had built after he was gone.

And right now Mac was definitely in a place where she had everything but the necessary time and mental strength left to cope with such a once-in-a-lifetime task. Splendid. All she could try to do was act normal and hope he wouldn't stay long.

Yeah, sure. As if this is ever going to work.

"Already taking a break from your family, Sharon?" a voice asked with a humorous undertone, albeit sounding very guarded. "I thought people with your combat experience would last longer than that."

She instantly felt herself tense as memories of last night's encounter set off alarm bells at the back of her mind. But Mac wouldn't let on just how uneasy he was making her feel. "Wanna try for yourself, counsellor?" she softly answered without opening her eyes, trying to appear as relaxed as possible.

"Uh, I guess I'd rather not. May I?" Harm asked, now apparently referring to the bench she was sitting on.

"If you're asking if you're going to get to know my right cross if you sit down, the answer is 'no'," she replied, still without so much as moving an eyelid, although her insides were as tense as a bungee cord on the turning point.

She felt the seat give way a little the moment Harm lowered his weight onto the bench. For a few minutes, they were silent. Then he caught her somewhat off guard with his next question. "Are you sure you're as comfortable with this situation as you want to make me believe?"

Angry that he seemed to see through her mask, Mac lifted her head, opened her eyes and turned to him. His former forced playfulness had vanished completely. "What do you mean?" she asked defensively. "Am I comfortable with the concept of you suddenly stepping back into my life when we've heard next to nothing from each other for years? Rhetorical question, right?"

He didn't smile. "No, not at all. I'd like to hear if I'm really the only one who can't cope."

'Course you're not, moron, was the angry reply that shot through her head, but she mentally chastised herself for being overly sensitive. Don't let him get to you! she ordered herself. What she had once proposed to him as a solution, going back to the beginning, suddenly proved the one thing she was most afraid of. Deciding that attack was the best defence, she answered carelessly, "Goes to character, doesn't it?"

The flash of surprise and sincere hurt that crossed his features upon her hostile reply immediately made her want to apologise, but she found she couldn't bring herself to do it - not yet, anyway.

Why the hell is he affecting you so much? she asked herself, hating the fact that her fear was making her bitchy. Because you're not used to having him around anymore, her subconscious told her. If things were never easy when you saw each other every day, what did you expect after such a long period of silence?

Mac knew well she had her share of guilt over the fact that they hadn't kept in touch. But hadn't he been the first to walk away and start all over? she tried to justify herself. Wasn't she entitled to be mad at him for putting her in her current jumbled state of mind by showing up out of nowhere? He told you he's confused, and it's not as if he could have known you were here, her subconscious tried to reason with her, but Mac defiantly blocked reason out.

Harm inhaled deeply and took a lot of time to answer. He bent forward and studied the irregular natural stones on the house wall opposite to them, resting his elbows on his knees. "Maybe it does," he conceded in a matter-of-fact voice that held just a trace of cynicism, "but on the other hand, I've always tried to avoid overreacting in situations that made me feel uneasy."

"So I guess you were afraid of overreacting in some way, and that's why you never got in touch," Mac answered coolly, perfectly imitating his tone.

Harm never moved. "Just like you never did."

"Oh, I did. When I heard you were getting married."

"I attributed that to curiosity," Harm replied calmly. "It took an event like this to make you call me. So I thought it couldn't really have been I you were interested in."

Mac couldn't help letting out a sarcastic chuckle. "Do you really think one feels inclined to just line up with all those groupies in order to get a few seconds of a star's attention? 'How are you? Fine. Me, too.' just doesn't cut it. What's the use of that, anyway?"

"It's called showing interest. Or so I've been told."

"And you're an expert in that, right?"

That finally got Mac the reaction she had unconsciously been pushing for. Harm turned his head towards her, clearly angry but apparently forcing himself to stay calm. "You told me off in the first place. How was I supposed to know you wanted to keep up the contact?"

"Hell, you told me you cared about me."

"I didn't think that mattered to you anymore."

Ignoring the sting of guilt, Mac sighed and turned her eyes heavenward for a second, unnerved. "Sure it did. It would have been so easy for you to just call and find out."

Harm exhaled forcefully and shook his head in exasperation. "What do you want to hear from me, Mac? That I'm sorry I respected the privacy of someone who made it clear she thought we were incompatible? That I had to cope with having thrown away my career? That I didn't exactly miss our eternal discussions? Or that I thought you should have been the one to ring me up, once you got your after-Paraguay life sorted out?" The vertical furrow on his forehead was just as deep as she remembered it. "Well, you didn't call. So, frankly, I didn't see why I should. From what I heard, you were happy, and my life started to turn out great. Chapter closed. Except for that one time, you didn't seem interested in hearing from me."

"I couldn't help hearing about you in the news," Mac retorted, the cold, hurt tone of her own voice surprising her. "Darren Cassano this, Darren Cassano that. At some point, I had the impression Harmon Rabb ceased to exist. You don't want to hear about someone who seems like an artificial icon. The man on ET wasn't the friend I knew anymore. A few personal words now and then might have made a difference, but to me, you looked as if you were your producer's masterpiece. I hear Jeanne LeBlanc is pretty bossy. Tell me, did she suggest you marry Nyala?"

Outwardly, Harm appeared unmoved, but knowing him as she did, Mac could see in his eyes just how near the boiling point his temper was. Yet, he again took a lot of time to answer. When he did, his voice was strained from suppressed rage. "That was uncalled for," he simply said, turning his head and looking at the house wall again. "And you know it. But I won't hold it against you because you just answered my question. I'm definitely not the only one who can't cope with this mess."

"Fine," Mac answered defiantly. "So this is getting to me, too. What next?"

Sighing, Harm got up. "I'm sure you've got a lot to do, and I need to prepare for the rehearsal. Better get some sleep. See you around."

Mac watched him walk away, her mind in turmoil. Her conscience was giving her a hard time, but she had been totally unable to refrain from alluding to his marriage, although she had known from the start she was doing him a severe injustice. Ashamed, she couldn't even determine what exactly had made her say it. Was she just mad at him for not getting it right the first time? Or was she jealous of the unknown woman who had managed to get what she had always been refused? Mac had no idea, and was reluctant to go there just now.

Never apologise. It's a sign of weakness. How long had it been since she'd told him that? Three years? Four years?

However, Mac had to admit to herself that she no longer believed it. The longer she kept staring at the house wall where the rising sun pulled the shadows back, the more she felt the need to let him know she hadn't meant it. Maybe during lunch break she'd find an opportunity to talk to him.

Will we ever be able to meet as neutral, friendly acquaintances? Nope. Could have told you, Mackenzie.

VILLAGE PLAZA
1114 LOCAL
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

The acoustics were great. Harm noted contently that the stone houses didn't produce any unwanted echo effects, but the open space afforded just enough resonance that additional sound effects weren't needed to create a concert-hall ambience. The stone plaza and the houses that lined it created in fact some sort of an odd amphitheatre effect, enabling his technicians to limit artificial amplifying to a minimum. Harm would have liked nothing better.

What did preoccupy him, though, was the fact that as of this morning, Rachel, one of his newly hired background singers, had had to leave because of a heavy bronchitis caused by too frequent use of too light clothing in the still cool evening air. The lawyer in him already ripped her contract, but he could think about that later. Now he had to find a new singer for the background trio who would have no chance to do a stage rehearsal with them. The perfectionist in him hated it when anyone performed without proper preparation. Jeanne was already busy telephoning up and down her register but hadn't found a replacement yet.

For now, Harm had only tested the acoustics, but in about fifteen minutes, the first song rehearsal was due if they wanted to stick to their schedule. Light, clear sopranos didn't grow on trees.

Deciding that every problem looked already less severe if digested with a good cup of coffee, Harm put away his guitar, told his team to have a little break and headed for the house he knew wasn't Mac's. He felt he didn't really need yet another fight as the ultimate cherry on top.

Behavioural patterns. He and Mac would have made an expert's case, worthy to be admissible in court as an example for two educated adults who were unable to communicate. Deep down, the recognition stung, but at the same time, Harm wasn't all that surprised. They had just taken up where they had left off. Wasn't that a good sign for friends who had been apart for a long time? he asked himself cynically.

He entered the house and found the kitchen where he had been told coffee was set up for the crews to help themselves. Finding it fresh, hot and strong, Harm poured himself a mug and sat down on one of the chairs at the far side of the room, closing his eyes and enjoying the aroma.

The two teenage girls who entered, chatting excitedly, apparently didn't notice him. One of them, Harm recognised as Callista, the girl from Mac's family who had been on the welcoming committee the day before. Harm hid a smile. From how her cheeks were glowing, he could deduce just how excited she was about everything that was going on around her. Right now, she and her friend were discussing his music.

"The lyrics are ever so cool," the other girl, a petite Hispanic, said. "I mean, You complete me with your presence. / In your hands, my life is whole. Isn't that the sweetest thing ever that your lover can tell you?"

Callista poured herself a cup of tea and nodded eagerly. "Definitely. But the melody, too! And the way he sings it! Listen, first he's got that kind of longing tone in his voice, like -" She took a breath and then, in perfect imitation of Harm's interpretation, sang, "In your hands, my life is whole. And then," Callista went on explaining, "he gets like... dreamy, or swept away, or whatever when he gets to the chorus, like this: The song of my life now has a melody," the girl sang on, "Resounding from Heaven above / Elating my heart and ringing true to me: / I'm blessed with the gift of your love. This is just so awesome!"

Amazed, Harm listened to the little kitchen performance. Callista's voice had clearly never been trained or shaped, and he remembered from last night that she seemed to be extremely shy around strangers, but the way she had just sung those lines to her friend told his ear that the girl had enormous potential. And if she liked his music all that much, this might be worth a try.

He cleared his throat, making the two girls jump and colour deeply when they discovered just who had been listening. With an easy smile, he got up and joined them in front of the coffeemaker. "I'm flattered you know my songs by heart. That's really the best praise you can get. Thank you."

"Dios de mi vida," the Hispanic girl mumbled, and then hastily stuttered, "uh, yes, umm, well, we're fans, kind of... you know." Callista just stood and stared at him with wide eyes, the cup in her hand trembling.

Harm couldn't fight a sympathetic chuckle. "Hey, I don't usually bite. So, do you like music in general?" he tried his hand at small talk as he would with a frightened witness.

"Big time," the Hispanic girl answered with a wide smile. "Problem is, I can't sing. But Callie can. You heard her. She's got a cool voice, hasn't she?"

Inwardly thanking her for the cue, Harm turned his gaze to look at Callista, who seemed to shrink under his eyes. He nodded appraisingly. "Yes, she does. Do you sing regularly?" he asked her.

Callista unconsciously took a firmer hold on her teacup. "Umm," she said and had to clear her throat. "Just a little. For myself."

"Ever thought about taking lessons? Your voice has potential."

If possible, Callista's eyes went even wider. "Do you think?" she asked, aghast.

Harm nodded with an encouraging grin. "I do, and as a matter of fact, and I'm not kidding here, just now I'm pretty desperate because my background soprano's sick and I can't find a replacement who'd make it here in time for the rehearsal. Wanna give it a shot? As I said, I don't bite, and neither does the public, I promise. Can you read music?"

Callista just stood and stared, open-mouthed, but her friend reacted for her. "Madre de Dios, this is your chance, Cal!" She gently nudged her with her elbow. "I know you can do it!" She turned to Harm. "'Course she reads music. She's always the first to learn a new song. Just hand her a sheet and she'll sing what's on it."

"Ana!" Callista hissed, obviously uneasy at her friend's praise.

The girl ignored her. "She's the best you can get, Mr. Cassano," she went on. "If you want, I'll tell her mother she'll be needed on stage."

"Thank you, that's kind of you." Harm gladly took her up on her offer, relieved he wouldn't have to talk to Mac unless she had any objections - which he doubted, knowing Mac would never deprive her daughter of such an opportunity. "Callie and I will step by Mrs. Webb's office on the way and make sure she's okay with it, and then we can continue with the rehearsal. So, what do you say?" He turned to Callista, giving her his most charming smile and holding out a hand.

Callista still needed a few seconds to make up her mind, but then a smile began to light up her face and she laid her trembling hand into Harm's. "I'll try," was all she said in a very low voice, but her eyes spoke volumes.

1552 LOCAL
VILLAGE PLAZA
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

"Okay, coffee break!" Harm called into the microphone and shooed his musicians off the stage. Mac watched him take a few steps to the back of the stage and put a hand on Callie's shoulders, apparently telling her she was doing fine. The girl beamed up at him, more reassured of herself than Mac had ever seen her act with adults.

Damn it, flyboy, you have a way with children - and with women, for that matter, she silently told him, smiling slightly to herself. She would probably have to do a little damage control later, considering the effect Harm's one-billion-watt smile was making on Callie. But she knew that luckily, the girl was too down to Earth to misinterpret Harm's actions, so Mac didn't worry about any unwanted long-term effects. A little crush on a star had never done any harm to a young girl's mind.

Until well after lunch break, Mac had had her hands full with little Emily's condition,which still seemed reluctant to bend to the antibiotics she was administered, requiring her to take the little girl to the doctor again. Only when she had returned Mac had been told of Callie's elevation to village stardom. At first, Mac had been very critical - but once she had seen and heard how much Callie seemed to enjoy being up there, utterly against her usual nature, and how reassuringly Harm interacted with her, every now and then turning and giving her an appreciative nod when the soprano part had been clearly audible above the other voices, Mac had just sat down and watched the scenario play out. Harm's music therapy seemed to be doing wonders to Callie's self-esteem.

Obviously, Mac still hadn't had the occasion to talk to Harm about what she thought about this morning's conversation. Now or never, she thought as she made her way to where he was just stepping down from the stage.

"Hey," he greeted her, guarded, when she came to a halt next to him.

Mac cleared her throat. "Uh... I wanted to apologise for my comment about your marriage. You were right. It was uncalled for and I knew it even before I said it. I'm sorry."

Harm's eyebrows went up a notch. "What about saying you're sorry being a sign of weakness?" he asked.

"Views can change," Mac answered simply.

"Accepted," he said, not smiling but giving her an open, friendly look.

"So, how's it going?" Mac asked, wanting to cement the relaxation by keeping up the conversation.

With a nod, Harm motioned to where the background singers were supposed to stand. "Callie's doing great," he said. "She should take singing lessons. And I love the acoustics on the plaza. What do you think? You heard us."

Mac shrugged with a slight smile. "I'm anything but an expert, but what you do sounds good to me if that's any help. Volume is okay, I'd say, and as far as I can tell the sounds mix well. I don't need to mention that I love your music, right?"

Harm's guarded expression finally relaxed into a smile. "I wasn't sure about that, but thank you. I'm glad you like it."

"You're welcome. And thank you for what you're doing for Callie," Mac added, sobering. "I don't recognise her. This is the best thing that could have happened to her."

"My pleasure. She's helping me out of a substantial problem here, so this is kind of a quid-pro-quo thing." Harm looked at her for a moment. "You're great with your kids, you know that?"

Surprised about his sincere praise, Mac couldn't hold the eye contact. "I'm trying," she said modestly, looking down and then forcing herself to meet his gaze again. "But this is really the first time I don't fully trust my instincts, and that isn't exactly reassuring."

"Don't worry," Harm offered. "I'm sure Clay told you to rely on your instincts. And I think I can see that you're following his advice. Believe me, as far as I can tell everything's just fine."

"Thank you," was all Mac could think of to say, not wanting the conversation to grow any more personal right now.

Just as the silence began to turn awkward, one of the technicians called out to them. "Hey, Darren, got a minute?"

Harm gave Mac a crooked smile. "Duty calling," he stated.

"Seems so," she agreed, admonishing herself to think of a somewhat wittier remark next time.

"See you later?" he asked, turning to leave.

"Wouldn't miss it."

Slowly walking back to where her children were sitting, munching their coffee-time muffins that they had been allowed to take outside to the plaza, Mac tried to determine how she was feeling.

Better, yes, because we're talking. But tell me one thing, sailor: why do we always need a fight, just to be able to have some normal conversation afterwards? I'd like that to stop, for a change.

But for the time being, Mac was pretty sure her wish was to be archived under 'denied motions'. There was still too much left unspoken to just move on. And probably there always would be. Why should old habits die?

1643 LOCAL
VILLAGE PLAZA
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

Harm knew he had taken far more time than was necessary to re-tune his guitar after coffee break, but the strings under his fingers were something familiar he could cling to. They were always in the same order, as reliable as could be, giving him the tiniest bit of security in the present situation that was as unsettling as anything.

He was glad he and Mac were at least talking - something that couldn't be said about the entire time span of their relationship, he mused with a wan smile. Maybe all they had been through had made them grow up on that point, too, although this morning's conversation had instantly taken up where they had left off: at the point of going haywire because of miscommunication, accusations, emotions out of control. Yet, they had somehow found a basis for amicable talk, conversing as they would, had they really been just a village mother and a pop star who knew each other from the past and now met for a certain event. It came in handy where Tami's security was concerned, he thought, secretly feeling relieved that this way, he had been able to let himself off the hook on the opening-up issue until now.

However, from the moment he had returned to his hotel last night, Harm had found himself turning and turning and turning his thoughts and feelings over and over again in his mind, trying to figure out what exactly he should be thinking, what he was in fact thinking, what Mac might be thinking and what people would expect them to be thinking if they had all the details to their situation. Let alone missing Nyala and at the same time finding his thoughts constantly wandering back to the village and to Mac, making his heart ache with grief and guilt in equal shares.

One conclusion couldn't be denied: the love once lost and laid to rest was about to claim her former place in his thoughts again, be he willing to let her take it or not. Nyala had always known Mac was firmly rooted in his heart. During his happy days with Ny, this one truth had to some degree faded into the background of his mind, giving his soul the necessary distance to heal.

Now, Harm had to admit that - as always - Nyala had been the one to see right through him. Forgive me, Swala, he silently addressed her, as he once again adjusted the topmost interval on his instrument although the fourth had already been as pure as could be. I should have known better than to dismiss your judgment.

Admitting to himself that being close to Mac was affecting him big time was one thing. Placing the unsettling feeling in the correct emotional category was something entirely different. On the one hand, Harm felt he longed to move beyond the state of doing emotional small talk with her, back to the times when they had understood each other without preamble, seeking each other out whenever they felt the need to alleviate their hearts of something. He longed to open the valve and let the dreadful pressure dissipate that had built up in his heart from the moment he had first heard Porter Webb's voice. On the other hand, Harm was aware that he absolutely refused to feel anything towards Mac that surpassed friendship and the deep gratitude he had made the topic of No Less Than Myself.

He wanted to be near Mac and be comfortable with it without feeling guilty towards Nyala. He longed to be able to talk to Mac about what really mattered, without the constant danger of starting a fight with her that had proven so vivid just this morning, even after all this time. Towards Mac, Harm wanted to feel nothing but solace in companionship and thankfulness to a true friend. Instead, however, the most noticeable feelings within the constant whirl of emotions that was in his soul, were anger, passion, and, despite himself, just a little hope for the very things he was at the same time so desperately trying to block out.

The bottom line was that chaos had been reigning in Harm's mind for the last 20 hours, and Jeanne had once again hit the nail on the head with her bedtime orders: for him, there existed only one way to get back to his normal self - putting his feelings into music. In You Never Even Let My Heart Explain, it had worked for coming to terms with Paraguay. In No Less Than Myself, it had worked for re-evaluating his esteem and special kind of love for Mac. Last night, although he had first dismissed the idea, inspiration had suddenly begun to grow from his stormy state of mind, born of the wish to let Mac know exactly what kind of a person she was facing.

Harm was aware he couldn't offer any definite judgment about their situation. All he could give her to work with was a momentary snapshot of the different emotions colliding and warring inside him. From there, they'd have to wait and see if they could work out some kind of a bond that felt safe to both of them. As of now, Harm had no clue if they might ever get there. He did know, though, that he wanted Mac in on the as-yet-incomplete picture. He only hoped Mac would understand that his words were meant neither as a declaration of love, nor as an accusation of any kind. Just as he hoped no one would see through the lyrics and be able to guess whom they were solely addressed to.

Well, Jeanne of course would, but Harm knew she wouldn't dwell on it.

Drawing a deep breath and seeing Nyala smile encouragingly before his mind's eye, Harm squared his shoulders and stepped out onto the stage again for the second half of the rehearsal, swallowing his anger at the TV crews who were turning this simple training into a non-rehearsed concert in itself.

Callie was by now quite naturally standing in between the other two accompanying singers, her auburn hair flowing down her back and her face shining with pride and confident joy.

If nothing else, at least this was worth it, Harm thought as they went through the remaining songs of the programme. Mac was observing her protégé overcome her shyness and enjoy using her voice. Her features mirrored pride - of her surrogate daughter and, as he noted when their glances fleetingly met across the distance, of him. A feeling of warm contentment began to spread all through him when he realised there were no reservations in her gaze, just sincere affection.

How could he have ever let her grow that distant? Romantic interest or not, when they had let their friendship die, they had thrown away a rare gift. Harm resolved to would go to great lengths to get it back, even after such a long time.

When the last song had ended and the "village people" had applauded accordingly in anticipation of the concert, the band members started putting away their instruments. The sound technician was about to disconnect his installations when Harm pushed himself to act. Rising a hand to silence his small audience, who immediately obeyed, he stepped forward and took the microphone, making the TV teams hastily activate their equipment again.

"Thank you all for already making this rehearsal something to remember," he said with a smile, earning himself some more cheers and whooping from the teenagers present. "If our luck holds up, we're gonna have fun tomorrow. But before we finish tonight -" His eyes wandered over to Jeanne, begging her to act as if unsurprised. "I'd like to try out something new. I'm not sure yet if I'll do this one at the concert because it's never yet been sung in public." Actually it's never been sung at all, he added in his thoughts, but refused to let the TV crews know, that as of now, the song existed only in his mind and on the piece of paper he had scribbled it down on last night.

"If you don't mind, I'd like you to be my test public." As inconspicuously as possible, Harm let his gaze wander, crossing Jeanne's for a second, who gave him the faintest understanding nod, until he met Mac's eyes. "TV crews are allowed to keep filming but can only use about 30 seconds of footage for news reports. As I said, this is more to test the effect of the song. A full, authorized tape will be made available as soon as possible."

Curiosity showed on Mac's features, although she seemed to be trying to conceal it. Anxious curiosity it was, Harm noted, and silently apologized for unsettling her, knowing well the lyrics wouldn't exactly set her mind at ease, either.

"Do you need any of us, Darren?" Ross asked from the left where he had started to unwrap his double bass again, but Harm only shook his head with a slight smile, wordlessly thanking his background musician for the offer.

The light director immediately drew his own conclusions and dimmed all stage lights down to zero, except for one simple white spotlight that shone clearly down on the stool that Harm had pulled up and sat down upon with his guitar. The time hadn't been changed to Daylight Saving yet, so dusk had begun to set in. In the rising dark, the spotlight's direct illumination was blinding Harm considerably, making it impossible for him to discern any clear contours in the audience, let alone observe the effect his song might have on Mac.

For a split second, that bothered him, but he was professional enough not to let the feeling prevail. So instead of interacting directly with her, Harm pictured Mac's face in front of his mind's eye as he now began to play a soft accompaniment of broken chords, calm in their flowing rhythm but yet slightly puzzling in their unceasing movement. The tonality seemed to constantly oscillate between major and minor, enharmonic changes playing tricks on the listener's harmonic imagination as the piece never really seemed to follow the expected paths of cadence logic.

Harm had needed a little while to figure this out the night before, but now, to his relief, he found the music not only sounded good to his critical ears but also worked the one effect Harm had wanted it to produce: confusion. After all, wasn't this precisely what the whole situation came down to?

When he began to sing, his voice started to interweave seamlessly with the guitar's melody, adding to the controlled chaos.

I look into your eyes - I see the stars.
Like long ago.
I need to turn away - I feel the scars
From long ago.

I long to hold you tight - a wish I made
So long ago.
And yet my heart recoils - I'm too afraid
Of "long ago".

Changing the rhythm slightly to a more even pace and omitting the constant harmonic switches, Harm wanted the chorus to be mainly explanatory, to shed some light on the emotional fragments he had just offered. Nice job, Hammer, he thought when the accompaniment immediately began to have a soothing effect on his own mind as well. Sarah Mackenzie had once again proven a muse worthy of the Grammy he had won.

I'm overwhelmed to have you close,
Still, I fear seeing you around.
Is it gonna hurt all over,
Or is it solace that I found?

I don't know what to make of it.
Not sure if I can cope.
I feel sadness, anger, pain -
But I can't fight the hope.

What's left is confusion.

Harm completed the blues scheme and inserted two extra bars to prepare the ground. Okay, ready for round two, he silently encouraged himself as he led the music back to the initial ambiguity, this time adding a few stray embellishments that enhanced the character of restlessness and disorder.

Out of the blue we met - what did I feel?
Can't tell right now.
I try to sing and smile - a heart of steel
I need right now.

Just thought that one fine day, my pain would ease.
Don't know right now.
Got no strength left to fight - be gentle, please,
With me right now.

Although this was only a first sound rehearsal, Harm felt beads of perspiration starting to trickle down his temples. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he saw Mac's gaze - or was it Nyala's? - thoughtfully scrutinize him, and he suddenly found himself longing for the tiny nuance of relaxation the chorus's calmer harmonization and rhythm promised to offer.

I'm overwhelmed to have you close,
Still, I fear seeing you around.
Is it gonna hurt all over,
Or is it solace that I found?

I don't know what to make of it.
Not sure if I can cope.
I feel sadness, anger, pain -
But I can't fight the hope.

What's left is confusion.

This time, Harm allowed himself a longer instrumental interlude - for the sake of harmonic variety, as he kept repeating to himself. To prepare for the most trying part of the song, as he knew was the real reason. Wishing he had the opportunity to moisten his suddenly dry mouth, Harm swallowed heavily and once again took up the unsettling first part - now, however, omitting the deepest keynotes so as to make the accompaniment take on a light, melancholy, almost transcendent tendency.

The one who shared my life - she's lost to me.
Eternally.
I promised her to fight - to wander free.
Eventually.

I prayed for strength and help - and you I met.
Surprisingly?
I want to learn to trust. I can't just yet -
Not totally.

The chorus's even harmonies appeared like an anchor to him now, a little break to block out the painful memories of Nyala's last moments. The promise Nyala had made him make, the promise to one day love again, weighed heavily on Harm's soul. Not for the first time, he wondered if this was going to be the first promise he might be unable to keep. Pushing the thought away, he was relieved when the ambiguous part was over for good this time. Now all he needed to do was cross the musical finish line.

I'm overwhelmed to have you close,
Still, I fear seeing you around.
Is it gonna hurt all over,
Or is it solace that I found?

I don't know what to make of it.
Not sure if I can cope.
I feel sadness, anger, pain -
But I can't fight the hope.

What's left is confusion.

Oh, please, help me figure out my heart...

Even while he was still continuing to pluck the strings, Harm let his chin sink on his chest as the music was slowly dying down. The final chord was barely audible, just loud enough to satisfy the listener's need for a harmonic conclusion. He let it fade away without dampening the strings.

Silence ensued.

It was only when Harm himself broke the spell, getting up from his barstool and moving away from the microphone, that someone in front of the stage started clapping, and then cheers and whistling erupted in the small congregation on the plaza.

"Mr. Cassano, will you sing this in the concert?" one of the journalists called over the applause.

With an exhausted smile, Harm stepped close to the microphone again. He felt weary and worn-out, but he knew he needed to keep up the façade for just a moment longer. "Judging by your reaction, I take it you want me to?" he asked back, addressing no one in particular.

Cheering acknowledgement was all the answer he needed. "Okay, the piece is in. Thank you all for bearing with me. I'll see you all tomorrow. Bye." He took his leave with a wave and a smile, signalling to his light director to shut down completely. Immediately, the plaza lay in its usual cozy evening light, illuminated only by a few orange sodium lanterns.

Wordlessly, Harm went to place his instrument in its case when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and found himself face to face with a visibly moved Jeanne.

"Déjà vu," she remarked in a soft, compassionate voice. "This was your audition all over. And if I hadn't offered you a contract back then, I would now." She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Thank you for trusting me enough to take me up on my advice. The song is incredible, but I guess you know that anyway."

"I'm glad you like it," Harm replied. "And thank you for knowing again what's best for me. The situation is hell on earth, but somehow singing about it makes it easier to bear." He didn't look at her, concentrating on tucking his instrument into its velvet bed.

"Les caprices de la vie..." Jeanne mused thoughtfully, gazing up to where the first stars were appearing in the clear sky. After a few seconds of silence, she looked at him again. "Do you know what the hell she's doing here?" she asked, sounding more curious than annoyed.

Yet, Harm didn't feel inclined to speak. He couldn't have answered her question anyway, so he just locked his eyes with Jeanne's, trying to put as much meaning as possible into his gaze.

Jeanne's confusion lasted only a second. Then she slowly nodded understanding. "You do. But you won't tell me." She flashed him an accepting half-smile. "Then I won't ask."

"Thank you." Once again, Harm was glad his producer had such an amazing instinct.

"Welcome," she offered, turning to leave. "I guess you'll have some further explaining to do," she added, inclining her head in the direction of someone standing in the shadow to her left. "Get some sleep," she admonished him and left.

Harm turned to where a tall, slim figure now moved forward, out of the shadows. Mac's eyes were slightly misty, but she appeared calm and composed.

For a long moment they just remained rooted a few yards apart, gazes locked, silently measuring each other. Then Mac took a few steps to the side and leaned against one of the posts holding the stage lights, folding her arms in a movement of self-protection. "Where's the Harmon Rabb I knew?" was all she asked, her tone guarded - but clearly speaking as a friend.

Harm felt his brow furrow. "What do you mean?"

Traces of a melancholy half-smile softened her features. "Where's the man who'd rather have had his tongue cut than let anyone in on what's going on inside him?"

Harm couldn't hold back a small wry smile himself now. "I guess he was lost somewhere in between Tritone Connections Jazz Club and LESyncope Productions," he replied in a low voice, looking down, "where he discovered how to use music as his vehicle for heart talk and decided to become Darren Cassano."

Mac's sad smile intensified. "Ever wondered what might have been if you'd had a guitar at hand in that hotel room in Paraguay?"

Her insinuation stung, making him sober. "Without Paraguay, I'd never even have gone to the Tritone," he replied curtly, turning to clean his instrument's strings in the open case.

For a moment, leaden silence hung between them. When Mac finally spoke up again, her voice was strained and ringing with sarcastic self-defence. "I guess I need to congratulate myself then. By making you hate me, I enabled the world to get to know one of today's greatest musical talents. I should have won the Grammy, not you."

Looking up and meeting her gaze, Harm couldn't think of a witty reply, so he opted for openness again. "You have, sort of."

"I'm afraid you've lost me there..."

"Nyala sensed that it was you who made me write my best music. She suggested I search for topics in our relationship. You've got quite a bit of a share in my success. And by the way -" He felt his features soften. "- I've never hated you, Mac."

Mac's expression relaxed as well, commiseration showing in her eyes. "She must have been one remarkable woman. I wish I could have met her."

The deep sigh escaped him before he could try to suppress it. "She was," he agreed. "You two would probably have argued a lot, but I think you could have been good friends."

"Reminds me of two people I once knew," Mac remarked with a soft chuckle.

"Weird. Me, too," he stated dryly, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch, albeit against his will. Both battled with laughter for a moment, but never gave in to it.

Eventually, Mac sobered and took up the thread of their conversation, her voice once again very guarded. "So what you said in the song is actually what's in there?" she asked, pointing her index finger at his chest in a clumsy gesture meant to alleviate the situation.

"Depends on what you understood," he evaded her direct approach.

Her eyelids closed in a fleeting moment of exasperation. "Okay," she sighed, "the enigmatic Harmon Rabb is still there after all." Again, she hugged herself in unconscious self-protection. "Let's make this simple. You know I'm good at that. What exactly did you want me to understand?"

He smiled despite himself as she brought up their fateful conversation from so long ago. Honesty, Hammer, he admonished himself. "Most of all, I wanted you to understand that this situation is confusing the hell out of me. I thought you should know opposing counsel's state of mind."

"Fair enough, and ditto on the confusion part. But…" She swallowed, letting him get a glimpse at how difficult this seemed to be for her. "What do you want me to make of the parts that sounded like a love song?" The words had come out in a breathless rush, and fear was shining in her eyes.

Harm knew he had to seize this chance of setting the matter straight once and for all. "Old feelings die hard," he stated in a straightforward way that surprised him just as much as her. "But that wasn't the point I was trying to make," he continued explaining. "I'll always care about you, but the times when I would have wished for something more are long past. I was just trying to paint an exact picture of my mind, because you need to really know me, if we're ever to be friends again the way I want us to be."

"So that's this 'hope' you 'can't fight'?" she cited the chorus, thoughtfully cocking her head to the side, her gaze never leaving his. "For us to get back to the old days?"

"Yes."

"And there's nothing else lying beneath it?"

"No."

"You just want us to be best friends again?"

"Yup."

"But you're afraid we might start hurting each other again?"

"We did. This morning."

"So you don't know whether to stay away from me or to come close?"

"Exactly."

"So, basically, you're leaving the decision up to me?"

"Once you've got the whole picture, yeah."

"What about my own feelings on the matter?"

"I'm listening."

The slight melancholy smile returned to Mac's face. "Didn't this conversation just sound as if we were already there?"

Harm noticed he had been so focussed on her questions that the atmosphere of companionable, unrestrained exchange that had indeed transpired through the last few moments had completely escaped his notice. For the first time since he had known she was near, he felt his inner tension lessen. His smile was generated from within his heart. "I guess it did," he answered, seeing her expression light up at his reaction. "So what about your feelings on the matter, Marine?"

"I'd say we have a deal," she said softly, closing the distance and encircling him in a tight hug.

He was shocked at how much the contact electrified him, but he supposed the sensation would diminish once he'd get used to being best friends with her again. However, right now a myriad of emotions welled up in him, the most prominent of them the joy of having found something that he had accepted as lost forever.

"Clay's not going to like this," Mac stated when she eventually drew back. "He's still jealous of you, you know."

"You're kidding, right?" Harm answered, slightly incredulous.

"No, really. I guess some explanations are in order when he comes back for the concert."

Harm sat down on one of the metal crates hosting the show equipment and made Mac sit beside him. "He still doubts your feelings when you've been together for so long now?" he asked, pondering if he was entitled to such personal information, friend or not.

She didn't seem to mind supplying it. "I don't know," she replied, shrugging a little helplessly. "I guess it comes with being a spook."

She was probably right, he thought. A true spy never completely trusted anyone or anything. Yet, judging from what he had seen and heard so far, Clay seemed to be doing a good job at coming as close to trusting her as was possible for him. "I wonder if he'd have trusted his own children."

Mac's sad smile was just a little crooked. "Who knows?" she said with a sarcastic sigh. "Maybe I should be glad he can't teach my children not to trust anyone around."

"I'm sure you'd have found a way to block out his influence on that point. And indeed, who knows? Maybe kids of his own would have reformed him?" He had said it smiling, but at the topic of children, his mind had started wandering away to that one desperate night when he'd sung Kito to sleep, knowing he'd never wake. He bit his lips hard.

Mac had always had a way of seeing through him, he remembered when he felt her arms go around him again. In her eyes he read understanding and care, and once again he noticed just how much he had missed having someone close by who didn't need long explanations and met him on an equal wavelength. Jeanne understood him, too, but he couldn't imagine ever overcoming the last bit of professional distance with her. Since Nyala's death, he had been alone when it came to truly private matters.

The irony wasn't lost on him that this situation was a weird reversal of his first private 'working' dinner with Nyala. Back then, she had started being the friend he had needed after having lost Mac. Now, it felt as if Mac were paying back a debt she owed Nyala for having taken care of him back then. It almost seemed as if he had two guardian angels, taking turns in offering support and friendship. Two guardian angels with the very same dark eyes.

"Let's not talk about me," Mac said softly. "I couldn't even begin to understand what you must have been through. The day I got my own verdict from the hospital, I heard about Nyala and your child in the news, and I cried - for you, Harm. And only just a little for both our dreams lost."

A lump had started growing in Harm's throat and he didn't trust his voice to many more words. "Thank you," he only whispered, clinging tightly to her, letting her presence alone soothe him.

"Darren, you there?" they suddenly heard a clear voice call out from behind the dark scene. "Have you seen..." The voice stopped short.

Harm looked down from where they were sitting on the stage and found himself facing a startled Tami who was gaping at them, open-mouthed. He hastily drew back from their embrace, getting up and jumping down from the podium, Mac following on the spot.

"Do you two know each other?" the child blurted out, stupefied, her African accent acutely noticeable.

"Umm... ah... yes, from... college, yeah," Harm stuttered, slapping himself for being so slow in coming up with a credible excuse.

"Really?" Tami's eyes had gone wide as saucers as she turned to look at Mac, who tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to bore you with stories from old times," she replied, her uneasiness noticeable only to Harm.

"Now I know why you said you had a friend who was a friend of Darren's!" Tami exclaimed, beaming. "You're his friend yourself and you just wanted to protect his privacy!"

"Speaking of which," Harm managed to get a word in edgeways, "that's something I've wanted to ask the two of you ever since you first mentioned it: you meet for the first time, and of all possible topics, you talk about me?" he asked, shaking his head at them.

"Yeah, we did, because I told Sharon I'm a big fan of you," Tami explained eagerly, turning back to Mac immediately. "Do you also know that dumb woman who hurt Darren so much?"

Harm covered his sudden fit of laughter by coughing into the pit of his arm. This scene was getting decidedly absurd.

"Uh... yeah, I think I saw her once," Mac answered, "but don't ask me what she was like. And besides, that's Darren's private life, and that's off limits, okay?"

"Sure - sorry, Darren." Tami looked slightly guilty.

Desperately trying to get his breathing down to normal again, Harm cheerfully patted the girl on the back. "It's okay, honey. You know what? I'll walk Sharon and you over to your house now, and then I need to get going myself. Come on, ladies." Harm shouldered his guitar, put his arm around Mac's shoulders and laid his other hand on Tami's back, and they set off across the plaza.

The flashlight stung cruelly in their eyes as it turned the evening to day for a split second, three times in a row, the clicking sound of the camera resounding unusually loud through the peaceful evening silence.

"Who's there?" Squinting his hurting eyes, Harm tried to make out anything of the scene, but his vision was one big blur. He heard hurried footsteps vanishing in the distance.

The first thing he saw once his eyes would let him recognise any precise forms again, was the horrified expression on Mac's face and her lips tonelessly pronouncing one single word.

"Tamara."

NEXT DAY
1229 LOCAL
MAC'S FAMILY'S HOUSE
SOS CHILDREN'S VILLAGE
SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA

"What the hell is this?"

Mac jumped when she heard the voice, but only half-heartedly. She had expected something of the kind would happen, although she hadn't yet seen the corpus delicti herself. But she could imagine what it would be like.

"Sharon, could you please explain this to me?" Enraged, Clayton Webb threw the Philadelphia Chronicle on the kitchen table with a loud 'splat'. It slid over the polished wooden surface until it landed on the floor on the other side.

Wordlessly, Mac got up from the book she'd been reading, rounded the table, picked up the newspaper and took a look at the front page. It was worse than she had expected.

It wasn't as if the Chronicle were a sophisticated, wide-spread means of information. Cheesy gossiping was more its specialty, but still more than enough people read the Chronicle on a daily basis. As of tomorrow, every major network would probably run the news.

New happiness for Darren Cassano?

The surprisingly clear picture of a smiling Harm who had his one arm around a smiling Mac's shoulders, her looking up at him, and who rested his other hand protectively on a black girl's back, took up the whole width of the page. Underneath, a long article about the impending village opening and the concert was supplied, luckily not seeming to contain very much personal information.

But the line that accompanied the picture said it all: Darren Cassano, more relaxed than we've seen him in months. Is Children's Village mother Sharon Carmody the one who will make him heal?

The third column of the article supplied what little information was to be had about Mac at such short notice: that she was a trained kindergarten and elementary school teacher who was eager to engage in a long-term project like raising an orphaned patchwork family. That she was born in Colorado, had a Mexican grandfather and liked to kick-box. Mac had made Clay include this last detail in her CIA curriculum, just because she wanted to somehow feel connected to this otherwise entirely different character she was supposed to play.

Relaxing a little about the general nature of the information so far given in the story, Mac quickly perused the remaining parts of the article, trying to determine just how much damage had been done.

Cassano, whose wife Nyala Lyon died from cancer, had withdrawn from public life ever since the tragedy happened, the journalist wrote in the last column. Before, the couple had already had to mourn their firstborn who died after having been born prematurely. Apart from a few minor performances for charity reasons, Cassano had kept to himself until engaging in the Children's Village VIP godparents project. Probably this would have been just another occasion for fundraising, gone by unnoticed by public attention - if it hadn't been for a new song Cassano tried out at the rehearsal: 'Confused' - a brilliant, gripping solo piece.

In best Cassano tradition of acoustically painting a breathtaking emotional portrait of a troubled heart, the lyrics of this new chartbreaker-to-be, however, put the small rehearsal audience on their guard. "Ever since Darren met Sharon last night, he's not been himself," an insider from his crew reveals. "Rumours have it that they know each other from college." If this were how it happened, then Georgetown would have been the place to see Darren Cassano in love, back in the early nineties. Then a naval officer, Cassano was working on his law degree while Carmody was an undergraduate student in teaching and childcare.

Should the 'scars from long ago' that Cassano refers to in his song indeed have been caused by the beautiful surrogate mother to ten orphans, aged three to sixteen? Might the 'hope' he repeatedly sings of in the chorus be that of a new beginning with his love from long ago? The facts seem to say it is. According to his sound technician, Cassano wrote the song right the night before, after he had been presented to the village families. The next day, he immediately decided to sing it in public, Sharon Carmody listening in the small crowd. And whoever was present at the rehearsal agrees to one thing: if music ever opened a gate to happiness, Darren Cassano's fans might soon be able to stop worrying about their idol's future.

"Damn that sneaky bastard," Mac ground out through gritted teeth, letting the newspaper sink. "I'm beginning to understand how hard this has got to be for someone like Ha... Darren, who's out there at their mercy all the time." Still, she hadn't turned to face Clay.

"That's all you've got to say about this?" Clay's voice was calm, but Mac sensed the cold and hurt in his voice.

"At least the info they published isn't true," she answered, knowing she was only trying to soothe her worries, knowing it wouldn't help. "And they said nothing about Tami. The Chronicle surely isn't read in Zimbabwe, and in the photo she could just be any girl..." With a sigh, Mac broke off, helpless. Turning, she now forced herself to meet Clay's gaze. His tone of voice had only been a shadow of what she saw in his eyes.

However, Clay remained professional. "Sharon," he began just a little angrily, calling her by her cover name as they had agreed they would as long as they were in the village, "how many times do I need to tell you that 'compromised' is 'compromised'? We can't afford to keep Tami here. We'll guard her well for the next 48 hours and by then I hope I'll have found a new place for her. God, this is just great."

Mac felt her defences go up. "No one knew the photographer was there!" she retorted.

"Hell, didn't you learn anything in Paraguay?" Clay now apparently couldn't help yielding to his rage to some degree. "You shouldn't have brought her near Cassano in the first place! You knew he was probably going to be chased by cameras! But it just figures you'd lose your professional distance once he was around! Ironic, isn't it? Life, I mean."

"So this is about Cassano, not about Tami?" Mac retorted, knowing that she was half right.

"I'm concerned about the girl, damn it! And yes, I'm mad at you for being such an amateur about this job! I don't care whom my mother hired for the concert!" Clay had risen to his feet upon his last words, and took a few steps in her direction.

Furious, Mac stepped close to him, her whole posture threatening. "Okay, so I made a mistake. You're no stranger to that concept, if I remember well. And usually, in such cases, you just adapt to the situation and work with it. So now don't you use this," she pointed her index finger at the photo, "as an excuse to take your dumb jealousy out on me! The whole thing with Darren and me was nothing until you made an elephant out of it!"

"I didn't," Clay shot back, "the reporter did. And there's always a grain of truth lying underneath. But now let's concentrate on damage control. Where do we send Tami?"

"You'd better talk to Langley about that one. Maybe they don't think it's all that big a story. You always..."

At that moment Clay's cell phone started to beep. "We'll continue this," he coolly told her, pressing the speaker button. "Christopher Weber."

After a few seconds of watching him listen to his contact, his face taking up a frustrated expression, Mac became aware she was holding her breath. Scolding herself not to be paranoid, she exhaled and crossed her arms in front of her chest, waiting.

"I see. I'll deal with it immediately. Thank you." Clay switched the phone off and, frowning, turned to Mac. "Well, as a matter of fact, Langley doesn't think this is no big deal. Seems that a copy of the Chronicle made its way right to New York, into the hands of the Zimbabwean government's delegation to the UN peace talks. And now our field agents are observing activities in certain circles that seem to be directed against the Please Touch Museum in Philadelphia that you wanted to go see with your kids tomorrow, or so I've been told."

Mac felt the colour drain from her face. "Tell me that's a bad joke."

Clay shook his head. "Nope. I'll leave two field agents here and go kidnapper hunting with the rest of my team. With all the cameras around, this is, for now, a safe place for Tami, until she can disappear from public attention again. But we'll need to talk again about tomorrow's tour." He closed the distance and kissed her fleetingly. "Bye, Sharon, I've got some serious work to do." Throwing her another, mostly puzzling glance, he turned and left, although he hadn't been at the village for as much as an hour.

"Bye," Mac replied to herself in a low, resigned voice. Yet another relationship starting to deteriorate.

Tell Harm. Her subconscious, out of nowhere, came up with the one answer that had always worked to make her feel better in such situations before. Knowing he understood her, as well as knowing he knew about the impending threat, would have been reassuring, to say the least. But with Langley involved, that seemed out of the question.

Some other time, she resolved, feeling her regrets sting acutely. If this time, we manage to keep in touch and should ever get the chance to have another heart-to-heart.

"Sharon?" Mac heard Callie call when she stepped into the kitchen. No time to think. Plastering a smile to her face, Mac called back, "Over here. What is it?"

"Is Chris already gone again?" the girl asked, confused.

"Yeah," Mac confirmed. "He got a call from work and needs to do an extra shift."

Callie grinned conspiratorially. "I guess he was pretty jealous when he saw the photo, wasn't he? I mean, who would..."

"Off limits," Mac sharply cut her off. "Darren and I are friends from college. Chris knows him from way back when. No conflict here, just work to do. And private lives to respect. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Callie murmured, slightly taken aback by the sharp tone, but complying.

No conflict here. The words resounded in Mac's ears and she turned away so Callie wouldn't see her wry smile. If only that were true.

To be continued…

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