"Sammi June," Jessie said, hating herself for bringing it up and knowing she had to and wouldn't be able to help herself. There was an aching tightness in her throat. "I heard what you told the SECNAV. About wanting to be a pilot."

"Yeah? So?" Sammi June pivoted, studying the effect of her outfit from the rear.

"So…when did you come up with that idea?"

"It's something I've been thinking about for a while, that's all." Sammi June still wasn't looking at her. "Look, it's no big deal."

"If it's 'no big deal,'" Jessie said carefully, "then why didn't you say anything to me about it?"

Sammi June threw her a look, then closed her eyes and gave a put-upon sigh. "Because I knew you'd react this way. Look, Mom, it's not like I'm planning on flying Tomcats and going to war and getting shot down or something. I just want to be a pilot-commercial aviation. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong-"

"Just because Dad-"

"This has nothing to do with your dad!"

"Oh, no? Then what? I've got news for you, Mom-women can fly airplanes. They do it all the time. It's no more dangerous than…than…I don't know, just about anything else you can name. Driving a car to work every day is more dangerous than flying an airplane, did you know that?"

"Statistically, maybe," Jessie muttered. Then she waved a hand distractedly and reverted to the Southern woman's tried and true defense. "Oh…let's don't talk about it right now, we're just gonna get each other upset." I'll think about it tomorrow; tomorrow is another day. "Are you gonna get that outfit? Because I think I do like this purple thing, and besides, we're runnin' out of time, and we still have to look at shoes…" I can't deal with this. Tris is drinking and won't talk to me…and now Sammi June wants to be a pilot. I can't. Not now. It's just too much.

Trembly and flushed, Jessie fled to the dressing room.


* * *

Sammi June was hiding in the White House rose garden. Not literally, of course; the garden was crawling with people, roughly half of whom she estimated were security personnel of one kind or another, the other half, except for Sammi June and her family, being more or less famous. Sammi June had shaken hands with the president and the first lady, and had had about all she could take, for the moment, of being awed, impressed and overwhelmed. Like a small boat in choppy waters, she had chosen to drop anchor in a familiar harbor for a while to ride it out.

This was something she'd learned how to do growing up a military brat, moving around a lot, at least for the first ten years of her life. The technique had served her just as well after she'd settled down in one place only to become "the kid whose daddy got shot down and killed." In either case, she'd always been the one who was different and struggling to fit in, which she'd discovered was easier to do if she could find something that felt familiar to her and focus on it. In this case, roses. A rose was a rose was a rose, she figured, whether it happened to be growing in the White House garden or climbing over Gramma Betty's front porch.

It was a warm, sunny spring day-already May, Sammi June realized. Finals time was fast approaching! And the roses were in full bud, some even opening. She watched a small black butterfly wallow drunkenly past, then, after glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, ducked her head to sniff a half-opened blossom. She was disappointed to discover it had no particular scent. Her lips were forming a pout when a voice spoke softly from somewhere close by, making her heart jump and adrenaline squirt through her veins.

"Try this one. It's got a nice smell to it."

Because her pulse was skittering in wild and jerky rhythms, Sammi June made sure to pivot lazily, as if she'd known someone was there all along. With her hands clasped behind her back, she tilted her head in order to study the man who had spoken.

He was tall and thin, probably taller than she was even in her high-heeled boots, which meant he had to be over six feet. He had dark hair, lighter than her dad's, maybe the color of mink. A long, angular face with interesting hollows and creases, a sensitive, smiling mouth and dark-blue deep-set eyes behind rimless glasses. It was a compassionate face…an interesting face, Sammi June thought, which in her opinion was way better than handsome. But since she was annoyed with him for startling her, and with herself for being startled, there was no way she was ever going to let him know she thought so.

He began to stroll toward her casually, as if he just happened to be going in that direction. "Cory Pearson," he said, pausing when he was within handshaking range, though he didn't offer to do so, and instead reached out with his eyes and held on to hers with an intensity that seemed much more presumptuous. And personal. "I was-"

"I know who you are," said Sammi June, giving her head a slight toss and setting her chin a notch higher. "I've seen you on television. You're the reporter who was in Iraq with my dad."

He nodded, and his eyes seemed to darken and retreat deeper into the shadows behind his glasses. "Yes. And you're Sam-"

"Samantha," she inserted in a breathless rush, wondering why.

"Samantha." He acknowledged it with a wry smile. "Tristan talked about you a lot, but I have to tell you, you're not…exactly the way he described you."

"I'm sure," said Sammi June dryly. But she felt an odd little vibration behind her breastbone, and although it was a very warm day, her skin had shivered in a way she found rather pleasant. Even…exciting. "The last time he saw me I was, like, ten. I had ponytails. Soccer was my life."

"Wow." He made a soft, ambiguous sound. "I guess you have changed a lot." And his eyes flicked in a particular way that made something inside Sammi June warm and swell and blossom…something uniquely feminine in nature. Though he'd stopped himself from doing it, he'd wanted to look down, at her. At her body…specifically, at the bare stretch of skin between her skirt and her knee-high boots. She was sure of it. And with that assurance came an unfamiliar sense of power…uniquely feminine.

"Not so much," she said in a husky purr, finally conceding him her smile. "I still play soccer. It's just not my life."

He returned her smile, while his eyes continued to study her with that unnerving intensity-unnerving and yet it made her feel as though she were the most fascinating person on the face of the earth. "And…what besides soccer fills up your life these days, Samantha?"

It must have been his eyes, she thought later. Or maybe it was just something-a gift, a knack reporters had for worming secrets out of people. Because Sammi June definitely wasn't the sort to go blabbing her life story to strangers. But somehow, right there in the White House rose garden, she was telling him about her life-all of it-her college classes and her pain-in-the-neck roommate, even the sort of new idea she had about becoming a pilot.

"Ah," he said, nodding. "Because of your dad?"

"Not really…" She lifted a shoulder defensively; that assumption always irritated her. And then, for some reason, she heard herself saying, "Well…I don't know. Maybe. Do you think something like that can be inherited? Like, it's in my genes? I mean, my grampa Max-Dad's father-worked his whole life for Boeing. So Dad grew up around airplanes. I grew up around airplanes…" She shrugged. "Maybe it's just natural?"

"What does your dad think about you flying?"

"Actually…I haven't told him yet." Her brow knit, and she looked away, studying the rosebud she was fondling. "We haven't really talked that much since he's been back. Not that there's been time. Everything's been so…" Her throat tightened.

"This must be hard for you," Cory Pearson said softly. Sammi June threw him a quick, hard look. He was gazing at her with those shadowed, compassionate eyes…and it seemed to her they could see into her very soul. "Having your father come back into your life so suddenly. You grew up without him…spent all those 'little girl and her daddy' years without him. And now that you're all grown-up…" He left it hanging. Sammi June turned her face away from him and stared fixedly at the rosebuds, which were bobbing gracefully in the afternoon breeze, as if in sympathy. She didn't even try to speak.

"Have you told your mom-about flying?" He said it in a lighter, starting-over tone, and Sammi June threw him a grateful glance and a quick, wry smile.

"Sort of. I mean, I didn't exactly tell her. We were having lunch yesterday with the secretary of the navy and a bunch of other people, and the SECNAV asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, so I…told him. And…I guess my mom overheard." She made a face and added ruefully, "She was not happy. Like, she thinks I'm going to wind up like my dad, or something, I don't know."

"She's got a lot to deal with right now," the reporter said, and added mildly, "You probably could have picked a better time to spring it on her."

Sammi June sighed. "I know. Like I said, I didn't mean to. I wish I hadn't, but…" She paused to watch the toe of her new boots poke at the grass before she added softly, "I know she has a lot on her mind. I think she's worried…about Dad."

He didn't answer, and after a moment she turned to look at him. For once his eyes weren't studying her. He was staring into the distance at something she couldn't see, and his eyes seemed a hundred years old. Her heartbeat quickened.

"Was it…really bad…in that prison?" she asked, the question halting and breathless, forced bravely past the fear that had kept it locked up tight inside her. Until now. Odd, that it should be a stranger who'd give her the courage to voice it. And then, realizing how dumb a question it was, she hurried quickly past it, hoping he wouldn't notice. "Sometimes I try to imagine, you know? What it must have been like for my dad…"