Fallen SEAL Legacy (6 page)

“So, what do you feel like tonight, Coop?” Armando asked.

“Stop!” Fredo barked. “Don’t fuckin’ ask him that. He’ll pick tofu and steamed vegetables, broccoli and Brussels sprouts, all that green shit. Pee-ew!”

Cooper had to laugh. Their side trip to Silicon Valley via Monterey had taken them through just-harvested fields of cabbage and broccoli, and the pungent odor made Fredo carsick. Anything green, except lettuce, guacamole and cilantro was off Fredo’s food plan.

“You need to eat more steak, man,” Armando volunteered.

“Yeah?”

“Cooper’s gonna live to be 100,” Fredo said, his nose wrinkled and his unibrow bunched at the center of his face looking like a huge asterisk.

“What’s the point of being 100 if you can’t fuck?” Armando always equated everything to sex.

The trio stuffed themselves at a local steakhouse, Cooper begging off the trip to
Ta-Ta’s
,
the local strip club. He was grateful for the company, but it was wearing thin and he really needed to get to bed if he was going to keep his promise to young Leonard to go surfing at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning. They dropped him off at his motor home and he said his goodbyes.

His sheets still had the faint scent of Cherries and it was too distracting. At this rate, he’d not be able to sleep. He got up and changed the them, stuffing the dirty ones in his closet. He would do his laundry at Fredo’s when the closet got full.

Coop didn’t mean to hurt Daisy, but he could see, if he continued to give her the brush-off, he was going to be painfully removed from her Blackberry, just like the tattoos she removed from his buddies’ arms and chests when they got divorced or tried to cover up an everlasting memento from a night of partying. As he slipped on his jeans and a shirt, he realized that when he was nervous or tense, Daisy knew how to love it out of him. But no, like an idiot, he’d sent her home.

No woman deserved that kind of treatment. He wasn’t good enough for even the casual relationship with Daisy. He was all used up. That’s why he wanted to stay single forever. He’d gotten real good at telling himself it was the only way to do what he needed to do and stay sane. There was no comfort in relationships—either casual or otherwise. Not with the things he’d seen over in the war zone. Where human life was cheap and accidents happened to good men and women every day. The randomness of the danger required he be on alert 24/7.

He’d been with buddies who’d gotten the “Dear John” letters, the women who’d divorced their brave men after running up huge credit card debt while their guy was out getting his head nearly blown off. No, best to stay free of the cobwebs of a serious relationship. Keep a clear head. Best to avoid heartache, complications, and distractions. He wondered if he ever could be ready for that type of closeness.

That’s why this is such a shit-freaking bad idea.
He didn’t need this family. Rich people who couldn’t care less how the other half lived, and died. Were these the people he was fighting for? Nothing was wrong with the family he buried. They deserved to live. What the fuck was the Chief thinking? The Brownlees didn’t want anything to do with him, if he guessed right. No more than he wanted to have anything to do with them.

“We don’t speak military.”
That’s a fine legacy for a young man who was probably scared out of his mind and who paid the ultimate price, he thought.

Died for all of them. Even the ones who couldn’t be bothered.
He studied his face in the mirror. He looked the same, but he clearly was not anything like the man he’d been a week ago. The whole fuckin’ world had shifted.

But an order was an order.
Just get ‘er done.
And he did owe it to the Fallen to do his job. That much was clear. He hoped he didn’t have too much
incoming
when he went back tomorrow afternoon. Wasn’t invited for dinner. Hell, he probably couldn’t eat anyway. And who’d want to be social with a psychiatrist?

What the hell do you say to a man who analyzes people for a living? An excellent living, from the looks of it.

Well, Sir, I sometimes get night sweats, and some awful nightmares when I get back from tour. I like to hole up with a woman the first twenty-four hours when I get home. There are girls only too happy to do this for our community.

Yeah, analyze my dick, why don’t you? But leave my head alone.

Chapter 6

The next morning, Libby woke up to the bright sunshine of San Diego. She lay in bed, lazily watching the patterns on the ceiling. She heard her father leave for work, heard her mother leave for a tennis date with her girlfriends.

Libby stayed busy all morning, cleaning her room, sorting through things she’d left behind when she went off to school. She condensed all her keepsakes into one box. The rest went out to the trash. She looked at Noodles, her tabby cat, curled up next to Morgan on her bed. Some day her favorite teenage toy would have to go, too. But she wasn’t ready yet to do that to the faithful companion who had listened to all her preteen secrets about the boys she liked and hoped to kiss some day. And besides, Morgan kept Noodles company while she was away, in a strange dog and cat thing.

It felt good to say goodbye to part of her past. Get rid of things that no longer meant anything to her, get rid of her prepubescent idea that life and love were meant to be a fairy tale. Time to grow up, accept the challenge she’d been handed, and get on with life. The interchange with Dr. Gerhardt had only cemented her resolve that she needed to recover from the myopic view of life that came from being a trusting, wide-eyed student too long. It had warped her vision. She hoped getting away from it all, coming back home, would give her that chance to regroup.

Soon she realized she was doing whatever she could do to keep her mind off the tall, muscular sailor with the fluid gait who had waltzed onto their porch and awakened something in her soul. Last thing she wanted was to see a guy who wanted to get in her pants. Men were all alike, she thought. Focused on one thing only.

Maybe this sailor is one of the good guys.
It was hard to tell. God knew, she couldn’t trust herself to make that judgment any longer. Not yet.

Everything that’s good for you is bad for you sometimes,
her father had told her one day. She ruminated those words round and round in her head until they made her dizzy.

She had friends who were married, and she shuddered at the thought. She wasn’t ready to get caught up in the childbearing and soccer practices some of her friends had opted for They looked happy enough, but she knew herself well enough to know it wasn’t on her radar. Not even close.

Libby put three large boxes destined for Goodwill in the garage outside the kitchen door. She made some tea and watched her father’s new gardener work silently on his knees by the walkway that ran from the garage to the house. He lifted his gaze up to her, and then lowered his baseball cap to completely cover his face and eyes. He stabbed the black soil in the grassy mound at the edges of her mother’s zinnia patch, exposing plastic PVC tubing.

Still in her pajamas, Libby brought her tea upstairs and flopped back on the bed. She began reading one of her favorite romance novels
.
The hours ticked by. She finished the book just as the sun was beginning to lower toward the horizon. She heard her mother return home and deposit groceries for dinner on the kitchen counter, so Libby made a dash to the shower.

She thought about the hero in the novel. Though the author had described him as dark-haired, Libby saw the face of that SEAL bending down to kiss her, just like she’d imagined the Brazilian painter would do in her novel. She put on a black pair of lacy underwear, which made no sense at all. She slipped on her jeans and an oversized deep pink cotton shirt she felt comfortable in. She walked through a spritz of her favorite perfume.

Libby heard a sound outside, and looked through her bedroom window as Cooper’s muscular frame detached itself from—
a scooter?
  The shiny red thing looked like it belonged to a tanned San Diego coed. The SEAL’s black slacks hugged muscular thighs and a tight, swimmer’s butt. He leaned back and cracked his back. She could see a trace of treasure trail peek just above his fly as the white shirt inched up just enough.

Lord, has it been that long?

When she dropped her hairbrush on the hardwood floor, he looked up into her open window and spotted her staring back at him.

So much for looking disinterested.
She’d been chastising herself all afternoon. Her heart was racing in anticipation of being in the same room with this guy. She wasn’t sure whether it was attraction or the sense of danger hovering like a cloud above him, which was strangely exciting. It defied logic. And she liked it.

Her mother had opened the front door with a loud squeak, her elegantly mannered voice welcoming and fresh. Libby couldn’t make out the words, but the SEAL grabbed his helmet and climbed the porch steps slowly, smiling. She held her breath as he disappeared from view. Into her home.

There was a light tap on her bedroom doorframe. Dr. Brownlee poked his head in.

“Brownie, you think I can just send him away?”

“Oh, Dad. Didn’t know you were home already.”

“Just got here. You up for this?”

“He’s here to see you. This isn’t my show. He wants to tell you something.”

“Yea? Well I want to tell him something too—”

Libby was surprised at the acid tone in her Dad’s voice. “Dad, everything all right? This is just some sailor with a message from the Navy of some sort. Not a big deal, really.” She saw his frown and gave him a gentle peck on the cheek, stepping back.

“They send someone who’s just lost his family, so I can’t tell him what I really feel about this whole war and the military machine that runs it. Smart, aren’t they?”

“That what you’re upset about? The war?” She wanted to bring up Uncle Will’s name but something told her to be cautious. She was getting more and more nervous as she noticed the changes in her normally casual and confident father.

“I just don’t like it. Not now,” he said.

Why not now?
“
They
aren’t doing anything. Besides, you always told me to watch out for
they
and
them
.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go downstairs and face this sailor together.”

Dr. Brownlee sighed, then stepped ahead as Libby followed him down the sweeping curved staircase to the lobby below. Cooper was in the kitchen, nursing a glass of ice water.

“Hello, son. Austin Brownlee.” He extended his hand to the SEAL.

“Calvin Cooper.” He said as he shot a quick glance at Libby. She felt her heart race.

Dr. Brownlee seemed to wince as the SEAL’s large hand enveloped his. Libby sensed the civility of the evening had just passed. She braced herself.

After her dad extricated his paw from the sailor’s grip, Cooper nodded to Libby. She felt her cheeks flush. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a frown wash over her father’s face.

“I’m Libby.” She did not extend her hand.

“Libby,” the SEAL said and tipped his head.

“We do serve alcohol in this house. What can I get you?” her father asked.

Coop held up his glass, tinkling the ice cubes. “I’m good.”

The silence was awkward. Did he have a past drinking problem? Growing up, Libby’s family discussions often centered on addictive cycles.

“Probably wise in your line of work.” Her dad dismissed Cooper’s comment and stepped up to the wet bar off the kitchen. Libby felt concern when she watched him pour himself half a tumbler of amber liquid and down it in one gulp. Although she knew her father had been dreading this little party tonight, she didn’t think it had anything to do with his drinking. And he was dosing, self-medicating. Something was very wrong with the famed psychiatrist.

“Please,” her mother interjected, gesturing to the front of the house. “Let’s go sit in the living room, shall we?”

Libby watched as both men inhaled sharply, and in tandem, while they moved into the expansive room. She knew this was not a meeting either one of them wanted. 

Why did he come?

Dr. Brownlee went to the mantle over the fireplace and retrieved the picture of Uncle Will, an exact younger copy of her father’s face. The smiling young man was wearing a sailor uniform. When Libby was little, her father had told her what every bar and stripe and medal meant. She focused on the SEAL Trident that was prominently displayed at the top. It was especially painful today to look into the eyes of her father after she’d gazed at the baby-faced picture of young Uncle Will, who died more than twenty-five years ago.

“This is Will.” Her father deposited the gold-framed photograph into the large hands of the SEAL. Then her dad turned and filled his glass with ice as he prepared himself another drink, leaving the young man to ponder the face of the fallen soldier.

That’s your third, Dad. Damn it, what’s wrong?

Cooper was breathing hard, and Libby knew he was working to keep strong emotions in check. He held the frame carefully, almost delicately. Then his expression changed into a faint smile of recognition, like he was staring into the face of a young, innocent child. Slowly, the SEAL rose, and, using both hands, he carefully placed the picture back on the mantle. Then he adjusted its position, perfectly centered on the painted mantelpiece. He stared at it a long time before he turned, looked directly into Libby’s eyes, and then diverted his gaze down.

Dr. Brownlee cleared his throat, his refreshed drink in one hand, and seated himself on the sofa next to his wife. Libby sat to their right. Brownlee took his wife’s hand and spoke to their entwined fingers.

“So, you want to tell us what this is all about, son?”

Cooper stiffened, raised his chin like his shirt was too tight at the neck. He gave a shrug of his massive shoulders and started a difficult speech Libby suspected had been rehearsed several times.