Cold War - Jerome Preisler [128]
“Pete—”
“Not for a day. Not for a single minute—”
She gave him a look.
“Pete, is it only me, or are you aware it’s been months since I’ve heard from you?”
“I am,” he said. “I didn’t intend—”
The sudden anger on her features stopped him.
“I don’t care what you intended,” she said. “You aren’t even making sense. Did it occur to you . . . did you ever once in all those days and minutes of supposedly not letting go think it might be wise to share that information with me?”
Nimec looked at her.
“Annie,” he said. “I was afraid.”
She touched a hand to her forehead in disbelief, rolled her eyes.
“Come on,” she said. “We aren’t two college kids—”
“I know. I know that. But after my wife left me . . . I guess the idea of getting close to someone else . . . opening myself up to a woman—”
Annie flashed him another silencing glance.
“Pete, it isn’t like I’ve been living in a paper bag for thirty-five years,” she said. “I lost a husband. Lost my best friend aboard Orion. I understand those things. But that doesn’t excuse—”
“I’m not asking to be excused,” Nimec said hoarsely. He swallowed again, realized his throat was no longer dry. In fact, it had almost clogged with moisture. “I’m asking you for a second chance.”
Annie was quiet. Nimec waited, trying in vain to read her expression.
“A second chance,” she said.
He nodded.
Silence from Annie again. This time it seemed infinitely, torturously long.
Nimec’s heart kept tripping away in his chest.
Then she met his eyes with her own, locked her eyes on his own.
“Okay,” she said. “You’ve got it. I’m giving it to you. But I’m telling you very honestly there won’t be a third.”
Nimec pulled some air into his lungs. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought it had been an hour since he’d last caught a breath.
“I won’t need a third,” he said. “Won’t let ancient history carry over into my life anymore . . . make you accountable for a bad divorce . . .”
“Pete, enough.” Annie moved closer to him, reached out a hand, lightly touched his wrist. “We both have important things to do.”
“This is important,” he said. “Explaining why I wasted so much time—”
“It is, yes,” she said, still touching him with her hand. All at once smiling gently. “And we’ll pick up on it when we’re back home. Over a quiet dinner. Maybe in front of a warm fireplace.”
He stood there. Very conscious of her hand on his wrist.
“That’d be perfect,” he said. “Soon as I get back, I promise—”
“Shhhh,” Annie said. And then leaned forward and kissed his lips, her own lips slightly parted, their mouths lingering together a moment before she pulled back, the taste of her remaining with him a good deal longer.
Nimec looked at her. She looked at him.
Both of them were silent now.
“Annie?” Nimec said after a while.
She nodded.
“I kind of know you and Megan have gotten tight. . . .”
She nodded again.
He took another deep breath.
“That part about me being afraid . . . ?”
“Will be our secret,” she said.
Over Victoria Land, Antarctica
The Bell made a jarring launch from the USARP expedition camp where it had dropped its load of survival bags, having been forced to touch down at an angle in the steep-walled trench where the dome tents were clustered.
Nimec felt its sudden acceleration in his stomach as Granger throttled up. He held onto the sides of his tagalong seat though he was buckled and strapped in tight.
He glanced out his window. The scientific team that had called out for extra supplies—they had introduced themselves as micropaleontologists, mentioning something to Nimec about collecting flake-sized remnants of fossilized mollusks—stood waving at the bird in appreciation, arms high against a white background.
It struck him that Scarborough and his team must have looked much the same when Granger had become the last known person in the world to set eyes on them.
Then tents and expeditioners alike dwindled to vibrant orange specks under the chopper’s skids, and blanked out of sight as Granger flared off above two spiring crystal-cathedral seracs.
“I’ll have to see if we get any more urgent