Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

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СКАЧАТЬ just a couple of supply reqs. Oh, and don’t forget, the wedding rehearsal is two weeks from next Saturday. You’re best man, so make sure you don’t schedule any more classes!”

      “Already taken care of.” He initialed two spots, then signed. “Later, Slick,” he said, using his special nickname for her. With no one around, he leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek.

      “Don’t! You’ll ruin your uniform.” She gave him a little push in the direction of his car. “Go, already. You’ll be late.”

      He returned her wave and hurried toward the waiting car, anticipating its cool comfort.

      THE CHURCH IN Solana Beach was a good thirty miles down I-5 south. First Presbyterian catered to the affluent crowd in town and in nearby Del Mar, the horsey set who lived where “the surf meets the turf.” The church was made of real granite and marble rather than the usual spray stucco and pressed cheap tile. The cars in the lot were sleek and expensive, as were the people who owned them.

      Sunshine, Michael’s stepmother, wasn’t a member of the horsey set. But the high-quality Raku pottery she’d been throwing ever since her go-go-boot days made more money annually than a Del Mar favorite during the Futurity Classic. Her Raku was refined and expensive, just like Solana Beach residents. It was also of outstanding artistry and in hot demand by locals, galleries, L.A. movie moguls and top dealers in Tokyo. Sunshine Mellow McLowery happily lived up to her name. She threw her pots every morning and surfed every afternoon with her board purchased years ago in Hawaii. The rest of the day she tended her flowers, fussed over her retired arthritic husband and doled out both love and food to her stepson, Michael, and her younger cousin, Selena.

      Those occasions no longer came as often as Sunshine wished. Before he got involved with FHOTC, Michael’s last duty station had been in New Orleans, and even though he was now stationed close to home, he preferred to live at the furnished Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Selena lived at the McLowerys’, but she spent her free weekends with her fiancé. They usually met at a hotel halfway between her place and his. Since Selena had become engaged, Michael made an effort to stay over a few nights a month because he knew Sunshine missed Selena more than she’d admit. Sunshine wasn’t looking forward to the end of Michael’s tour at Camp Pendleton. He’d already served more than two-thirds of the usual three-year duty, while Selena would soon resign from the Navy and move north to Silicon Valley, where Paul worked. To all appearances, however, Sunshine gracefully accepted the loss of her “children,” and waited for the day she could indulge her grandchildren.

      No brothers or sisters came along after the marriage of Lt. Commander Patrick Andrew McLowery to the much younger, sadly infertile, Sunshine Mellow. He’d retired as a Commander, never making Captain due to hard drinking after the deaths of his wife and daughter. He didn’t seem to care. Patrick’s days of fast cars and hard liquor ended soon after his marriage to Sunshine. He finished his time in the Navy teaching others to fly jets, retired as early as possible and now spent his days running Sunshine’s business and nursing his arthritis. He seemed to accept his change of status with, if not wild passion, contentment in his good fortune.

      “Trust a damned Irishman to count his wife’s pennies,” Sunshine often said without rancor.

      “Trust a damned hippie not to pay her taxes,” was her husband’s standard comeback.

      Michael smiled to himself as he kicked up the A/C in his Acura to high, slid in a rhythm-and-blues CD and gently maneuvered the car through the daily quagmire of traffic that was Southern California’s signature. Sunshine Mellow and the retired jet jockey. What a combination. And whenever he saw them, the scene was always the same.

      The two would gently squabble, while Patrick— “Paddy” to Sunshine—made himself busy with paperwork and phone calls and arranging deliveries while she molded her clay. Sunshine never seemed to mind his frequent presence. She was generous with her workshop, her time and, to Patrick, her still-slim body. For that, Michael admired her greatly. Maybe that was why he was so fond of Selena. Both cousins shared their own happiness.

      Michael, like all the other men who knew Sunshine, was almost in love with her himself. She’d been half mother, half dream date in his younger years. The adult Michael knew that Sunshine was the only reason Patrick hadn’t drunk himself to death, and the only reason Patrick’s son was still sane. Sunshine and Patrick were a good combination. Sunshine had hoped Michael and Selena—not actual blood relations—would someday pair off, but had accepted that disappointment with her usual grace.

      Michael switched lanes smoothly. He’d hit the funeral service, try to cheer up Sunshine and then get back to Selena and see if he couldn’t find relief for her. Maybe he could take her and Paul out for a nice dinner. Surf and turf, maybe, in La Jolla, hopefully with no interruptions. Michael was as protective of his cousin as he was the rest of his family. Paul, a computer tech from Silicon Valley, seemed like a nice guy, nice enough that he didn’t mind sharing his soon-to-be wife with the rest of the family. Michael didn’t mind returning the favor. Family ranked right up there with duty. Hell, family was duty. As soon as the funeral was over, he’d make reservations for four, which would include Sunshine. His father rarely dined out, thanks to his arthritis and the addition of two brand-new sports channels.

      As for Michael’s twenty-four-hour-a-day responsibility for Fleet Hospital, he wasn’t worried. He’d flip his pager from tone to vibrate before the funeral. The only B or B he’d see today would be Sunshine’s friend in her rich-bitch customized open casket.

      FORTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD Commander Coral Puripong, Medical Service Corps, looked over her new command while walking through the canvas-over-concrete tented halls. Fleet Hospital Operations and Training Command, FHOTC, was the last bit of training she needed to be eligible for promotion to Captain. To hell with staying in the cozy Admin section of the tent hospital. All her future plans depended on getting promoted. Everything was budgeted down to the last penny. Nothing must go wrong. She would whip these foolish, lazy, full-bellied Navy personnel at Fleet into a glowing team for her glowing record and glowing new promotion.

      Puripong’s eyes glittered with anticipation. She had done everything else she’d set out to do in her life. Getting promoted would be the easiest task imaginable.

      She glanced up at the sound of booted feet running inside the Fleet Hospital. It was the Black Guard, the pretty woman with the big rifle and carefully pressed starched uniform. Puripong bit back the sharp reprimand on her lips. The guard had that Hard Look in her eyes; the look that meant she knew about bad times and priorities. Especially priorities. If the Black Guard was running with a rifle in her hands, there was an important reason.

      “What is it, Sailor?” Puripong snapped out in her best English.

      “Ma’am, there’s a problem in the Expectant area.”

      Puripong could barely understand the rushed Southern drawl.

      “Slow down, MA2, and start again.”

      “Yes, ma’am. I just came from the Expectant area. Some photographer there found a body.”

      Puripong refused to acknowledge the possibility her superstitious Filipina gut was hinting at. “Of course she found a body. Moulaged bodies are supposed to be there.”

      “No, ma’am. I’m talking about a not-breathing, no-heartbeat body, ma’am. There’s fresh blood all over a corpse that’s ready for six feet under, ma’am. The body’s an officer, and the dog tags say Christian. The chaplain’s in there sayin’ last prayers.”

      “Last rites,” Puripong automatically corrected. СКАЧАТЬ