Navy Rescue. Geri Krotow
home unnerved him this much, how was he going to stay steady enough to help her while she suffered through her reentry?
Frustration was already a constant companion; with Gwen under the same roof it would be that much worse.
Drew threw the soaked shirt on the passenger-seat floor and leaned back, forcing himself to focus on the scenery.
The ebb and flow of the waves on West Beach were in stark contrast to the flat Puget Sound water he saw out of his office windows every day. The energy in each white-capped wave soaked up his anxiety, bit by bit.
He’d come here every single day after he and Gwen had agreed to separate with the intent to divorce. She’d never asked where he was going and he’d never volunteered it, even when he knew she probably thought he was meeting friends at a bar.
The first two months after she’d ditched her plane in the South Pacific, he’d been out here every chance he got. He’d never missed an appointment that first week she was MIA, but Serena and the rest of the staff had known his mind was elsewhere. Wondering what kind of torture Gwen was enduring. The local and eventually national news media reported the Pentagon’s assessment that she’d been lost at sea.
Gone. Dead.
But he’d known. Deep down, he’d known. Gwen’s heart was still beating, somewhere.
Ro’s position as the wing intelligence officer gave her access he’d never get as a civilian, and she’d brought him what little intel she’d been able to gather. Miles had cornered him after a therapy session one day and told him that both he and Ro were concerned about his increasing isolation, his avoidance of them and others outside work.
Miles had convinced him that going on with his life wasn’t an affront to Gwen’s memory.
After Gwen had been gone six weeks, Drew allowed himself to mentally engage with the world again. He couldn’t fight the facts, but he didn’t have to ignore his instincts, either. He’d figured that if she were still alive after six weeks—which he’d believed even if no one else had—she’d survive whatever came her way. Somehow she’d make it out.
As she had.
He went to sip his coffee and only when his empty hand curved around air did he shake off his thoughts. He couldn’t prevent a smile. Gwen would never settle for plain drip coffee. She took hers like a lot of people native to the Pacific Northwest. Two shots of espresso, with steamed low-fat milk. Maybe a shot of almond syrup if her sweet tooth was nagging her.
Their Sunday-morning routine rushed at him with its remembered familiarity and warmth. They’d hem and haw over whose turn it was to get the pastries, their once-a-week treat from the local bakery. Gwen liked the fresh-made éclairs, while he favored the apple fritters. One of them would pick up the pastries and coffee, while whoever stayed home walked the dog, fed the bird and got the woodstove blazing if it was chilly.
It’d been so easy, so natural, their life. Their love.
Until it got hard. Their professional drive, perfectionism and insistence on each being the best at what they did took its toll. Damaged the bond between them.
Memories of their competitiveness still made him squirm. They should’ve seen it; two strictly trained naval officers were innately competitive at a primal level. That hadn’t changed, even when he’d left the navy. Of course it had bled into their relationship and blown it to smithereens.
The event that had exploded the fissure into an impassable crevice had taken place on the night of a squadron party. He’d been there with Gwen, acting the consummate navy spouse as usual. He’d played the role willingly; anything to keep the peace, to let her see he wasn’t threatened by her success. His practice was still fledgling but promising.
He’d left the celebration early—told her he’d meet her back at home. They’d taken separate cars as they’d both come from work.
Unbeknownst to him, one of Gwen’s subordinates followed him home and tried to convince him to let her come in and talk to him. She was an attractive aviator, a younger version of Gwen. Except that she didn’t seem to care that Drew was married. To her boss.
But Gwen had come back before he’d gotten rid of her, and assumed the worst. Hell, at that point in their marriage he would’ve thought the same thing if he’d found a strange guy in his house.
After he’d pummeled him.
He’d told her the truth.
Gwen, nothing happened. She came over and said she needed to talk. I let her in, told her I wasn’t interested. She’s just young and dumb.
I’ve never thrown myself at my boss’s husband.
You’re a professional, Gwen.
She’d shaken her head. It doesn’t matter, Drew. The point is I believe you—and this doesn’t surprise me. I wouldn’t blame you if you had taken her up on her offer. Let’s face it, I haven’t been a great wife to you.
She’d referred to their lack of lovemaking. Either or both of them had been too tired over the past few months. It should’ve been a red flag after the way they’d burned for each other in their earlier years.
The conversation hadn’t solved anything. The disbelief, hurt and anger that Gwen should have expressed, should have felt, wasn’t there.
Gwen’s desire to pursue her naval career, his decision to open a private practice that made him averse to further navy moves, as well as their inability to forge a solution to their failing relationship— it had all been too much for any marriage.
Gwen had moved out within the week, and their road to friendship had begun.
Five years ago. It felt more like fifty.
He turned the key in the ignition so that he could lower the windows. The salty Pacific breeze cooled his face, tugged at his hair.
Reminded him that he was alive.
Gwen’s alive.
Sunlight played off the frothing waves as it slipped out from under a heavy cloud. He’d been here for over an hour; he needed to get back to the office, back to reality.
And get ready to do the one thing he dreaded most—living in close quarters with his ex-wife again.
CHAPTER TWO
THE FIRST THING Gwen noticed when she arrived in Washington State was how clean and fresh the air felt.
The second impression was that she’d developed claustrophobia. The military hospital she’d been “requested” to stay in for a complete post-trauma physical was pristine and comfortable, even spacious. But it was still a building. With solid walls. After six months on the run, most of it spent with little more than a thin barrier between her and the jungle, she felt hemmed in.
At least that was what she told the medical staff. In reality her chest hurt as if a three-ton gorilla sat on it, keeping her from freedom.
Whidbey called to her. She wanted to go home.
She needed to be back on the island.
The doctor who sat across from her didn’t agree. Not yet.
“I’m ready to go.” She shifted in the soft-cushioned chair.
Gwen still couldn’t get over the relative plushness of her psychiatrist’s office compared to the way she’d been living for the past half of a year. She’d only met with him for the past few days but it felt as if he’d peeled back every layer of emotional skin she had left. She knew it was his job to determine how emotionally healthy she was after her time in the Philippines, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“You will go home, Gwen. Soon, I promise. We can’t send you back without some basic reentry tools. I can’t underestimate the mental stress you’ve been under.” He peered at her as if she were a biological specimen. Dr. Lucas “just call me Luke” Derringer