Fifteen seconds apart, the jets screeched down on the concrete of Oceana’s long runways. As Maxwell led his squadron to their assigned parking row, he noticed the hangar closest to the flight line. An entire side of the building was covered with a giant yellow ribbon. Then he saw the crowd — at least a thousand — gathered in front of the hangar. They were waving yellow ribbons. A valiant squad of shore patrolmen was trying to hold the crowd back.
As the pilots climbed out of the jets and started across the ramp, the crowd stopped waiting. They surged through the restraining ribbon. Children squealed, women yelled, and the pilots broke ranks and sprinted toward them.
The two groups melded together like a confluence of flooding streams. Women and kids and girlfriends were swept up, whirled and kissed and squeezed. Gallons of tears gushed down all their cheeks, held back during six months of separation and pain and worry.
Maxwell worked his way through the crowd. He knew no one was there to meet him. He had no wife, no children, no immediate family, at least none who bothered with such things. Claire was in Washington, tied up with the Babcock story.
How many homecomings like this had he been through? The Gulf War had been the mother of all homecomings. That was before Claire, before Debbie. His father, of course, had been away.
That was a lifetime ago. Now Debbie was gone. So was his father, at least in spirit. Claire had her own life. The world had changed.
When he’d nearly reached the hangar with the yellow ribbon hanging from the side, he looked back. The crowd resembled celebrants after a World Series victory: yellow ribbons, hugs, kisses, grinning faces everywhere. It was a special moment.
“Welcome home, sailor.”
The voice came from behind him. He turned, and a smile spread over his face. “You’re supposed to be in Washington.”
Claire was clutching a yellow ribbon. Around her neck was the scarf he had bought for her in Dubai. The easterly breeze ruffled her chestnut hair, sweeping the thin linen skirt around her legs. Maxwell had never seen her look more beautiful.
“I told them I had something more important to do.”
He took her in his arms, pressed her to him. He could think of nothing to say. For a long while he held her, closing his eyes against the bustle and the tumult of the crowd around them.
Finally he looked at her and said, “I love you, Claire.”
She smiled. “Took you long enough. You said it without being coached.”
“I’m a slow learner.”
“It must run in the family.”
He was looking at her, puzzling over her words, when he became aware of another presence: a tall figure, ramrod straight, familiar and formidable.
“I think she means me,” said Vice Adm. Harlan Maxwell.
The deep voice triggered a flood of memories, good and bad. “Dad?”
The older man was clutching his own yellow ribbon. “If you and Claire would rather be alone… then I understand.” He looked awkward, unsure of himself.
That was different, thought Brick. One thing Admiral Harlan Maxwell had never been was unsure of himself.
Brick thought for a second; then it came to him. He looked at Claire. “You brought him.”
“It was your father’s idea. He called last night and suggested it.”
“I’m the one who’s the slow learner,” said the admiral. “I’ve been a damned fool. I almost lost you in Yemen, and I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if” — Harlan Maxwell’s voice cracked, and he struggled to keep his composure — “if I hadn’t told my son how… how proud I was of him. That I loved him.”
Brick was stunned. He felt as though he were dreaming. For most of his life he had wanted to hear those words.
His father hugged him, then kissed him on the cheek. Through the cotton shirt Brick could feel the thin frame, the bony shoulders. His father was showing his age. The years had slipped away from them.
They had both been fools, thought Brick. Prideful and stubborn and wrong. They had a lot of catching up to do. This was as good a place as any to begin.
“I love you, Dad,” he said.