Undetected (20 page)

“Not yet.”

“You need to. There's always a tension between who you are versus who you want to be. It's one of the most powerful emotions driving people. But you can't build a good future
on the hope you'll become something different once you're married. It doesn't work that way.”

“If I end a relationship with a great guy simply because he loves the water and I don't, I'm probably going to regret it for the rest of my life.”

Bishop understood her point. “There's no perfect fit, Gina. There's only ‘good enough.' Figuring out where that love of water falls on the list is going to be a nuanced problem to sort out. But you're wise to realize it's there. Most people can't name the concerns before they get married and then wonder at the collision that comes after the ceremony. You need to get this right. Because a bad marriage is much worse than being single.”

“It seems so trivial. He likes to boat, I don't.”

Mark shook his head. “Misreading something that could reflect many hours a week of your lives is not a minor miss. If you both had a passion for the water, there would never be a tension about how you spend your free time. If you don't share it, there always will be. That wears on a marriage.

“The goal of dating is to figure out who you really are, who he really is, and think through where you fit together and where you don't. If you match up well, the marriage thrives. If you don't match up well, you end up with a struggle. You
can
make it work—two people being open and flexible can get around nearly any obstacle—but you both might have been better off not having to deal with those issues all the time. You can't ignore differences, no matter how wonderful the guy is. You can only decide if the marriage will work in spite of it.”

Gina studied the approaching shoreline. “Not going to tell me I'm thinking too much?”

“No. Not on this.” Bishop relaxed beside her, thinking back. “I got lucky with Melinda. I was totally green for what we needed to make a marriage work, but I was blessed with someone who both fit me well and who had the ability to adapt easily where there could be tension. Actually, I learned how to do that from her. She was a rare find. I'm not expecting that same serendipity if I marry again. It will be a good fit before I offer a ring.”

He was surprised at the place Gina was in her relationship with Daniel. Her concerns seemed like ones she'd be thinking about after three or four months of dating, not in the first few weeks. She was watching for stress points, he thought, having come through three failed relationships, wanting to spot problems before she got her heart broke again.

“One last comment, Gina?”

She glanced at him, nodded.

“You could work it out with Daniel. There are guys who love to hunt whose wives never come along, and the marriage thrives. Guys who love to golf. Boating may create a big hole in your schedule, but it's still possible to have a peaceful, good, solid marriage. You simply both have to be comfortable with the way it will be after you marry, rather than get married holding expectations that end up not being met. Don't say no, if this is the only concern. Say maybe, and then talk it through in more depth.”

Gina slowly nodded. “Thanks for that advice, Mark.”

“Sure.” He was trying to play fair to Daniel and to her, even if she didn't understand the dilemma he was in. He wanted her to be happy, and in a good marriage. If that turned out to be with Daniel, he would deal with it and be glad for her.

The ferry slowed on its way into the dock area. Bishop
led Gina down to the lower level and his car, and they joined the slow procession roll-off from the ship and into the city. Bishop was comfortable with the silence. He hadn't expected such a revealing conversation. He was beginning to realize he'd underestimated her again. The personal matters were getting a great deal of thought and attention on her part. She got on well with Daniel, but she'd also been noting the details while getting to know him.

Bishop glanced over at Gina with a new topic. “Jeff mentioned that Thomas Keller at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory has offered you a position with the Sun Research Group.”

“He has.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“I haven't said yes to the offer yet, but it's an open invitation to come whenever I'd like to join them. They're undertaking a five-year project with the goal of modeling the sun's dynamics. I've still got the second sonar idea to look at—the data set you were able to get for me of an all-quiet boomer with a cross-sonar search to find it. It will probably take just a few days, maybe a week to look at the data and check out the idea. If I don't answer my question about it while I'm here, I'll wonder about it for months until I can come back to take a look at the information, so I might as well get it done before I go.”

“Personally speaking, I'm glad you'll be around for a few more days.” He kept his voice casual, but the comment was anything but.

“When does
Nevada
gold leave for its next patrol?” Gina asked.

“September first.”

“Daniel and
Nebraska
blue are heading out to sea mid-November.”

Bishop nodded. “They had a longer shore rotation than normal as the
Nebraska
needed to be dry-docked for maintenance. You'll have some time when he's back from sub school to see him before he leaves on patrol. But there's no getting around the fact submariners and our deployments can be hard on relationships.”

“I'm figuring that out. How did you and Melinda handle the separations?”

“I've turned out to be somewhat of a letter writer.”

“Really?”

“Most guys who deploy on boomers acquire the habit.”

She didn't follow up on the comment, and he let the topic drop. He'd kept his letters to Melinda, and they were some of the most revealing ones he'd ever penned. She hadn't been able to read them until he was back from patrol, but she had loved the fact he wrote them for her. He'd learned to be a good husband in part by thinking about her while on patrol, mentally reviewing how their marriage was doing, and making some corrections where he needed to when he was back onshore.

When Bishop pulled into the bookstore parking lot, he touched Gina's arm before she could open her door. “Here's the plan. We've got three hours to scope out the shelves, and I'll buy the fiction you like. And if you hold your nonfiction to under 30 books, I'll carry them for you.”

“You don't need to buy the fiction,” she protested.

“My treat. It will please me, so be kind and say yes.”

She smiled. “I never turn down books, Mark. Deal.”

They went their separate ways for the first hour, then Bishop found her in the biography section and settled in to browse with her. She would scan chapter headings and then
read three to five pages of the book before making a decision. Four biographies were added to her stack of books before she moved on to mathematics and the physical sciences.

“Why don't you find a table and chair, Mark? This is going to be a slow perusal. I see several I've not run across before.”

“In a bit,” he replied, resting an elbow comfortably on the next section of shelving. “Why do you enjoy these kinds of books?”

“I love listening to people. A book is someone taking time to develop a thought—create a hypothesis, present evidence, argue a point, draw a conclusion, make their case. Some do it primarily in mathematics, others in lecture format, while others present ideas and build reasons for their conclusion. Books are enjoyable hours of listening to experts on various subjects. I might not agree with everything, but that's a minor point to why I read what they've written. I like the fact they make me think.” She added two more books to the stack he held for her.

“If you buy a dozen books, how many are useful to you?”

“Maybe one or two.”

“I should have recommended a good library.”

She smiled. “This way I get to donate to Goodwill some fascinating books other than popular fiction.” She added another book to the pile in his arms. “I do have a bit of discipline to what I read and when. And I have a yearly book budget, which is exorbitant, but I stay within it.”

“I'll find a table so you can read a few more pages from these and make sure they're firm choices.”

She nodded. “Appreciate that.”

Her buying spree ended at 24 volumes. He carried them for her to the checkout counter, watched her sign the credit
card slip without a wince after hearing the total. “What's the most you've ever spent on books?” he asked, curious, as he paid for the novels he'd bought for himself and for her.

“I bought a retired professor's library once.”

“I could see you doing that. What about your more routine book buys?”

“I've spent five hundred a time or two. Most visits are a few hundred.” She glanced over. “You seem surprised.”

“Not surprised. Just adjusting to your cost of doing business. Books are certainly cheaper than postgrad class tuition. The way you read, you could test out of most of the classes required for another degree.”

“I have done that more than a few times. My parents agreed with your premise—books were cheaper and faster than college courses. They bought a lot of college textbooks for me. I've never changed that habit.”

“How many advanced degrees do you have now?”

“Six. I'm still a registered student at three universities. I sit down occasionally and test out on classes, talk with an advisor, and put together a study plan and a research project to finish up another degree. I use them as milestones to judge when I've adequately understood a particular subject. The fact I'm a registered student means I can audit classes, stop by and discuss matters with a professor, pursue what interests me with less of a hassle than if I were merely a guest.”

“When did you earn your first Ph.D.?” Mark asked.

“I was 21.”

“Are you working on one now?”

Gina nodded. “Satellite dynamics. I've got a research project about the upper layers of the atmosphere, how it heats and expands, its interactions creating satellite drag. I'd like
to get a working model of the upper atmosphere figured out. It hasn't been a priority. I pick it up when I've got a few days free, but I enjoy the challenge of it. I'm doing it in coordination with NOAA and NASA, using satellite data from instruments they have aloft, and ground-tracking station data on the precise satellite locations themselves.”

“Sounds complex.”

“Moderately so. It's mostly data intensive.”

Bishop put her two bags of books into the back seat, held the passenger door for her. “I know this area well. We can afford an hour before we take the ferry back across the Sound. Want to enjoy a bit of being a tourist?”

“Sure.”

He pulled a map out of the glove box, scanned it to confirm the exit he wanted.

“Where are we going?”

“Do you like surprises?”

“Not particularly.”

He smiled. “We're going to the seashell museum.”

She looked at him, trying to decide if he was serious. “You're not kidding.”

“You can see sea lions whenever you like. Just come down to the Delta Pier when the sun warms the hull of a submarine and watch them sunbathe. And seals are a pretty common sight on a boat ride. Dolphins and the occasional whale can be found with a little effort. But intact seashells—that's a museum specialty.”

The museum occupied what had once been a general store, the entrance fee was a dollar, the store shelves had been turned into displays, and the shells were accessible to pick up and study. They came in all sizes and conditions, most of them
donated by collectors, who liked to come and enjoy the display, see their names on the cards alongside their shells.

Gina picked up a beautiful pink-toned spiral that had once found a home in the waters off Australia. “Just think of the creature that once lived in this shell and called it home.”

“It's beautiful.” Bishop wandered around with her, enjoying watching her interest in the minutest details.

“I've always found it fascinating that God made sea creatures' shells so interesting,” she observed, “colorful, functional, and yet their bodies are ugly, mostly gray and sluglike. Shells don't decay like plants do, and most abandoned shells get taken over by another sea creature or eventually broken up on the rocks. Beaches made of crushed shells are some of the prettiest in the world. Oh”—she spotted a shell on a lower shelf—“this one has black bands inside, like a tiger shell.” She carefully picked it up to turn it over. “See how the width of the bands widens the further out they are from the shell base and how the bands aren't evenly spaced? It looks like a number PI progression in both distances and width. This is so cool.” She fingered the smooth, hard surface on the inside. “This one would be vibrant underwater. The stripes would pop as a rich luxurious gray.” She carefully set the shell back on the shelf.

They wandered the museum for half an hour. Bishop bought her two shells from the gift shop, both her choices smaller than her fist. “I'll use them as paperweights,” she told him as she tucked the purchases into her purse and followed him outside. “This was an odd stop, Mark. Interesting, but odd.”

“The novelty of it intrigues me. And I was curious how you'd react,” he said.

“What were you expecting?”

He smiled. “Not what you offered.” He held the car door for her, then circled around to the driver's side, started the car, pulled out into traffic. “Go ahead and select a favorite book from the bags. I won't mind if you read on the trip home.” She opened a sack and selected one. He glanced over. She'd pulled out a romance.

Ten minutes later, she set the book aside. “How was I
supposed
to act when presented with all those seashells?”