Forget Me Not (Love in the Fleet) (6 page)

What had the son of a bitch ex-husband done to her?

Sky asked as gently as he could, “How long has it been since you went tandem?”

She blinked herself back into the conversation. “Couple of years.”

A child called to them, breaking the spell
.
  “Good bye, Dr. Daisy and Lieutenant Sky!” Sky saluted the kid, then turned back and met Daisy’s eyes.
“I’ll see you Saturday at ten.”

Then he strolled to his truck, singing under his breath, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I’m half crazy over the likes of you.”

And didn’t that just scare the crap out of him.

Chapter 6

Hector Morales heard the unmistakable high-pitched whine of a helicopter in the distance as he dipped his paddle into the water, guiding the boat through the narrow channel. The air had thickened since sunrise and he swatted at the occasional mosquito as he sliced his way past gnarled tree trunks, twisted by years of hurricane force winds, and slick mud flats left bereft by the receding tide. Gliding under a canopy of cliffs worn away by the elements, he knew it was only a matter of time before the dangling trees—their roots exposed by too much wind and water—would fall to their deaths on the rocks below. The aircraft would most likely beat him to the rendezvous point, but the
cocalero
did not worry. They would simply have to wait. For he carried the good stuff.

La Perla.
The Pearl.

The finest cocaine available.

Usually the sound of a helicopter struck terror in Hector’s heart. It signified the
yanquis
spraying the coca crops with their poison. Not only would it kill his livelihood, but often killed livestock and sickened the villagers as well. And, when they destroyed the coca farms, they indiscriminately destroyed the legitimate crops at the same time. However, even in this day and age when government programs and the
yanquis
worked to eradicate the coca fields, Hector knew that as fast as they were burned or poisoned, the farmers would replant elsewhere.

The money was that good.

Why could they not leave him alone and let him make enough
pesos
to feed his family or follow through with the promises of helping him change his crop to coffee, rice, or guava? The government programs aimed
to support alternatives to coca production by providing loans and training in exchange for the farmers’ agreement not to grow coca. But the government talked out of both sides of their mouths. In the meantime, all Hector wanted was to put food into the mouths of his children.

He enjoyed the sizeable jingle in his pocket as well.

Hector tried the alternate crops, but they were not worth the time and effort. Growing the coca plant was much easier and more profitable. It had grown naturally in the jungles of South America since time began and was readily cultivated in just about any soil conditions. The natives had always known its value in staving off hunger and fatigue and improving their moods, although chewing the leaves had only about the same kick as the caffeine in coffee. It was after the processing that
coca
became
cocaine.
Hector had become disturbed by the growing use of the drug by the villagers, as more and more turned to the
processed
drug.

Especially the teenagers. He knew this could portend no good for the future.

The natives certainly couldn’t afford cocaine. Much of it was stolen from the processing plants or confiscated from plane crashes. Certainly the people had a right to any surviving cargo for the inconvenience they endured or the destruction to their property. Though the increased drug use disturbed him, the more prosperous he became, the easier it was to tuck away the guilt of being a cog in the wheel that turned the drug industry.

Something else begged for his attention, but, once again, he compartmentalized these negative feelings. Locking them away in a secret pocket in his soul.

He had begun to notice the impact the
cocaleros
were making on the land. Little by little, they were picking away at it. Slashing and burning hectares of forest a day. He shuddered when he allowed himself to think about what became of the poisons he sprayed on his crops to keep the bugs away. Did they disappear into thin air or were they washed down into the soil, or carried with the rainwater down to the rivers? Would the land be healthy for his grown children to farm some day? He could not think about this. Food on their table, shoes on their feet, and smiles on their faces today trumped twenty years down the road.

Hector would simply continue to cultivate the very best and sell it to the man. Let others worry about the increasing drug abuse problem and the environment. That was not his responsibility. He was gifted at growing the finest coca plants and he would continue for as long as his good luck held. Why, they paid him as much as five hundred American dollars a month. And growing coca was definitely not as labor intensive as coffee, pineapples, and the like.
Plus
it was an ongoing operation that extended over the entire year, providing Hector with a continuous source of income.

Many of the other natives took advantage of the easy money by cultivating the coca leaf too, but most of the
campesinos
lived at the subsistence level. Not Hector Morales. Because he grew Pearl, he was the proud owner of running water. His family would also have electricity if they did not live so far from the town, something they must do in order to grow the specialized crop.

Hector knew about the “eyes in the sky” that scoped out the coca fields near towns, and then the “birds” that would arrive,
los helicópteros
, dropping their poison. He’d moved away from the village and planted smaller fields. These he cut and carved out of hillsides in the jungle, making them more difficult for government agents to detect with their spy planes.

Hector’s world consisted of planting the coca shrubs, then stripping the leaves by hand. The harvested leaves were immediately sun-dried on blue tarpaulins on his open-air patios. His wife and children performed that task. The leaves needed to be dry enough to be broken up with their fingers. Often he raked them to hasten the drying process. If the weather turned, as it often did late in the day in the jungle, he would pull the tarps inside before the leaves got wet. If they were exposed to excessive heat or humidity, the leaves would rapidly decompose and his entire crop would be for naught. During the drying process, the fresh leaves lost more than half their weight as the water evaporated. This made transportation easier. The cocaine content in the dry leaves was stable as long as he kept them cool and dry.

Hector did not stay in any one location for long, moving every few years. His motto became, “Use it and lose it.” After several successful seasons of growth, the land would be stripped of all nutrients and would become worthless for coca growth, or probably anything else for that matter. He would simply move to a new hillside when the current one wore out or the hill slid away after the rainy season.

He did not like the idea of moving his children away from their grandparents, their aunts and uncles, and their cousins. He remembered the happy times he’d shared with his extended family growing up, surrounded by them. Their love, their warmth, and their discipline. As strong a part of his life as his own parents. But he also remembered the pangs of hunger that kept him awake at night, the abject poverty that knit his large family together as strongly as did the love.

His children would never know hunger or the humiliation of showing up at church in patched clothing, often barefoot—especially the teens when their feet grew too fast to keep them in shoes. He remembered the shoes his cousins had handed down to him, sporting holes or sandals where his toes hung over the ends. His children would always wear shoes that fit their feet properly. After they had been passed down to the last child, the shoes would be sent to the orphanage. Food in his children’s bellies, new shoes for their feet, and joy on their faces.

This was why Hector Morales grew coca.

All of this flashed through his mind as he queued up to deliver his goods. Finally, he was recognized and his boat was directed to the front of the line. He would deliver his goods to the boss man and where it went next he did not know and he did not care. He’d receive the
pesos
he deserved and be on his way. Hector slid his boat up to the rustic pier, hoisted his bundles to his shoulders, and stepped ashore.

C
hapter 7

Daisy slipped her backpack from her shoulders and shoved off from the rustic pier. She marveled at how good it felt to hold a paddle in her hands once again. The water was smooth and quiet with only the occasional fish jumping, as they sliced their way through the marsh toward the ocean.

She hadn’t ventured near a kayak since Jack left for Afghanistan well over two years ago. Yet she hadn’t had the heart to remove the rack from the roof of her Jeep, as if she might take one of the boats out at any time. Maybe she should have gone kayaking alone these past two years. What better way to bond with Jack’s spirit than to spend the day doing something they had once loved to do together?

Maybe that’s why she hadn’t done it.

Perhaps she was afraid of what Jack’s spirit might have to say.

They hadn’t been on the best of terms when he’d left for his last deployment. She continued to struggle with forgiving him for not leaving an “in the event of my death letter” for her
.
He had left one for his parents, but not for Daisy. Had he wanted to punish her or had he been so preoccupied with his own problems it had slipped his mind?

Jack told her about the letter he wrote her before his first deployment, although he’d destroyed it upon arriving home safely. It contained what she’d expected: how much he loved her, how he expected her to remarry should something happen to him, and how he would have died doing something he loved.

Did those sentiments carry over to his second deployment? Guess she’d never know. Daisy was certain it had been meant to punish her, which was so un-like the Jack she’d married. It reinforced her beliefs. Combat had changed him.

As to whether or not she’d remarry, forget that. Too painful. But she’d been so lonely. Even filling her time with work and volunteer activities hadn’t put a dent in the loneliness. So regardless of Jack’s permission, whether or not she became involved with another man was entirely up to her. Hadn’t Daisy always prided herself on being an independent woman, capable of making  her own decisions?

She suddenly became so angry with Jack, she wanted to do something reckless to punish him, or would that amount to punishing herself?

Daisy glanced back at Brian following her through the narrow channel, flanked by layers of sedimentary rock bared by years of erosion. He wouldn’t be her man of choice for a fling, although it would probably be fun. He made her laugh—when he wasn’t pissing her off, like on the mats at the Y on Thursday. The man had flipped her for God’s sake. Pinned her down. And it scared the bejeezus out of her that it turned her on like nobody’s business. She hadn’t been mad at him. She’d flipped him first. She was more upset with herself that she’d found it so exciting. When he’d laid down on her and whispered in her ear, she thought she’d go mad with desire. Right there in the middle of the YMCA. With children around.

And those kisses the night before. He hadn’t tried to devour her in the Portside Manor parking lot, which she’d expected. If those air-brush kisses were an indication of what it might be like to make love with him…

Forget it. A guy like Brian Crawford didn’t make love
.
He had sex
.

“Did you see that?” He slid his kayak alongside hers and pointed to the sky. “See the osprey with the fish? Watch him. He’s not eating it. See how he circles? He’s showing off for the other birds in that tree? Like he’s saying, ‘Hey look what I got. Not going to eat it. Just going to rub it in your faces.’”

“Must be a male.” Daisy let him pass her and continued with her musings.

There was still the issue of Brian calling her those pet names, even though she’d repeatedly asked him to stop. But maybe that was a good thing. It let her know he was a player through and through, so she wouldn’t have to worry about any entanglements. She doubted he wanted a relationship, not that she wanted one either. Maybe an affair was just what she needed. It wasn’t like she was out there looking for one. But he obviously was.

“How ’bout we paddle up to that island and stop for lunch?” Brian called back to her.

“Sounds good. I hope you like fried chicken.”

“I like whatever you brought, Daisy. I appreciate your packing lunch. But I would have picked something up, honestly.”

“No problem. After you told me all you and your roommate keep on hand are eggs and beer, and now cat food, I thought a trip to the deli last night was in order.”

They beached their kayaks at the edge of the island and found a clearing in the midst of the sea oats. Brian arranged some sun-bleached logs in the shade of scrub palms while Daisy spread out a quilt and unpacked their lunch. It was peaceful here. Quiet and still.

He cracked open a beer. “I’m really happy you came with me today, Daisy.”

“I didn’t have much choice. I’m certainly not going to let the kids down.” Daisy pulled out paper plates and served them both. “What’s the word on the helicopter?”

“I put in the paperwork yesterday. My CO—that’s my commanding officer—he passed it up the chain of command. I’m headed to Norfolk for a class all next week, but I should have a date for you when I get back in town. I’ll let you know so you can alert the Boys and Girls Club
.”
He gnawed on a drumstick as they talked.

“Brian—” she began.

“Remember, you can call me Sky. Or are we still not friends?”

“You want me to call you the nickname you got for not paying attention? You sound like you’re proud of that?”

“Never really thought of being proud of it or not. It’s just who I am. It is what it is. I mean, my buddy I’m staying with next week when I’m on travel? His name’s Philip, but we named him ‘Bill Gates’ eleven years ago because he was such a nerd when we first met.” Brian chuckled as he reached for another piece of chicken. “And we’ve called his wife ‘Lacey’ ever since…” He let the sentence die.

Was he blushing? Daisy doubted anything embarrassed Brian Crawford, but she did detect new color in his cheeks. “Go on. I’m dying to know how
Lacey
got her nickname.” Daisy helped herself to a handful of chips, then sat back and munched, waiting for what was sure to be another humorous story.

“Well, see, she and I were on this Med-Evac flight with Bill and she was whispering secrets into his ear and she didn’t know her microphone was on Hot Mic so everyone on board heard her talking about, well, about her lavender lace skivvies—her underwear. Except Bill didn’t hear her because he was in a coma.”