Author: doc, woefully tardy...
Subject: 'Dancing On Angels' Wings' -- August HBX Challenge


Dancing On Angels’ Wings by doc

AN: This is my answer to the August 2007 HBX Challenge.

Sorry, this piece is so late. Honestly, I started it back in August, but then the Midwest JAG Meet & real life got in the way…not to mention the heavens raining down babies in every size and shape. In between hospital shifts and on-call, I managed to find a few seconds to buckle-down and start catching-up on my challenge pieces again.

For July’s challenge I went for a bit of angst. Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews. I’m thankful to see that most of you trust me enough to read to the end of my silly meandering tales, red-herrings and all. Like I said before, I keep trying to conceive of new ways to write about our favorite duo, and I’m thankful for those who stick with me through the good and the convoluted bad. Smile…

(Pssst… by the way, if you’re still confused about the last story, Jocie (or Jocelyn) was Harm and Mac’s youngest child. Mandie, the 10-year old whirlwind of terror, was actually part of Chloe’s brood…hence, the wish of love to ‘Uncle Harm.’ Based on a couple of the reviews, I think a few folks were still a bit confused in the end.)

For the August challenge I thought I’d give you a break and go for pure unadulterated fluff…with whip cream, sprinkles and a cherry on top. This story takes place in the future, sometime after the series finale. Our favorite couple is in some unknown city of the world on a beautiful summer night.

Hey, you didn’t actually expect me to pick London or San Diego did you? I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment! In my post-JAG world, they’re both serving their country in some form or fashion, but more importantly, they’re hopeless in love and endlessly committed to each other and their tribe of little Rabbletts. So, you can pick the locale, but I get to pick the song.

***

Disclaimer: I don’t own JAG or any of the characters. I just take them out and play with them on occasion before replacing them safe and sound back on the shelf.

Please excuse the omissions, misspellings and errors. The mistakes are all mine. Mom had no part in the proofing of this tale.

***



Dancing On Angels’ Wings

‘To watch us dance is to hear our heart speak.’ ~Hopi Indian Saying


I drag into the house exhausted after another late night meeting, third one this week as it turns out. Another family dinner apparently bites the dust. Thank goodness it Friday! I always hated that phrase, but tonight I want to revel in the trite and worn-out sentiment.

Mac beat me home by several hours. I’m already edgy, tripping towards cantankerous and fully prepared to slump into a miserable, brooding heap, when I tackle open the front door. Damn thing always sticks, especially when it’s hot and the humidity skyrockets, yet another lingering task on my honey-do list. A wave of overwhelming heat blasts into my face straight from the fires of hell. What the heck? That’s when I remember Mac’s earlier call to the office, something about the air conditioner being on the fritz. I was supposed to call a repairman this afternoon, dammit…guess we’ll be spending the night in a hotel.

I drop my briefcase inside the door and struggle with a top-heavy stack of legal files, this weekend’s endeavor of fun. The living room and front hall are nearly dark, illuminated only by the faint light coming from the kitchen. I take two steps into the front hall, when my foot slips on a stuffed bear sending me skating across the hardwood floor. I manage to snag the handrail of the banister with my arm as the top two files escape my snare and papers rain across the floor. I deposit the remainder of my workload on the front hall credenza and lean down to retrieve the snowfall of white decorating the hall floor. Stuffing everything back into its folder, I peer toward the back of the house.

The only sounds of life emanate from the street below. All the windows are wide open and vibrating fans are whirling at hurricane force whipping the living room draperies into a frenzy.

“Mac?” I holler into the empty void. I know she’s around here somewhere; there’s no way she’d leave the house open to intruders. My voice echoes amongst the wind tunnel of the fans and returns to me unanswered.

“Sarah?!”

The sweat begins to bead on my brow and my uniform shirt sticks to my back like the layers of old wallpaper adorning our half-finished dining room. Did I mention my honey-do list? My own fault really…Mac wanted the new French Country two-story in the neighborhood across town. I’m the one that insisted on this huge old Victorian on a half-acre garden lot in the ‘old’ neighborhood. I thought it would be fun to restore the old lady to her original charm. You know, get my hands dirty, build some muscles refinishing the worn maple floors, stripping and staining moldings, painting and hanging wallpaper. Problem is, I underestimated the time and money required to undertake this 5,000 square foot monstrosity of love. So far, the only rooms completed are the kitchen, nursery and the master bedroom and bath. I had to promise to follow through on those tasks or sub-out to contractors, before Mac would agree to move in.

I pull on the front of my shirt and peel it away from chest. Taking the steps two at a time, I round the ornate newel post and head off in search of my wife. I pop my head into the nursery, but find the room dark and stiflingly hot. I hit the light switch bathing the large room in a soft yellow glow.

This room is the crowning jewel of our home. I’ve never admitted this to Mac, but this room was my sole inspiration for buying the house. One day on my way home from the office, I was diverted from my customary route by road construction. I took a shortcut through this old stately neighborhood hoping to escape the logjam of cars sitting along the flagged detour. As I turned the corner and headed away from the river, I marveled at the beauty of the stately old homes built around the turn of the century, when craftsmanship was an art not simply a profession. Slowing my speed, I took the time to really study the details, that’s when I discovered this old place hidden amongst a tangle of ivy, overgrown rhododendrons and billowing trees. I almost missed the ‘For Sale’ sign overhung and toppled by honeysuckle vine.

Circling the block, I pulled up the steep drive constructed of cobblestone pavers and exited the car to peek into the windows. The wide front porch wrapped around the house on two sides. There was a decrepit swing hanging sideways by a rusted chain to the left of the front door. Several of the windows were broken and the front door sagged from the hinges. I pushed against the hulking obstruction and it gave way with a squeak and a groan. Stepping into the large front entry hall, I was immediately taken with the intricate millwork and moldings. Sure they’d seen better days and layers upon layers of paint, but in my mind’s eye, I could envision them restored, stained and polished to their original grandeur. I carefully climbed the wide center stairs and laughed when the third step from the top creaked. I doubted any prior juvenile occupant of this house made a covert escape under parental radar; it had a built-in teenage security system. Even as my heart fell in love with the possibilities, I knew I would never repair that unique blemish that spoke of history and family tales. Of laughing children in knickered suits and frilly pinafores sliding down banisters polished to a lustered shine. Of nervous adolescent girls peering over the rail trying to steal a glimpse of papa interrogating their terrified beau. Or mischievous little brothers spying through the spindles to snag a peek of sister’s first kiss. No that peculiar little blemish would remain as a sentinel alarm for the shenanigans of any future little MacKenzie-Rabbs.

I wandered along the upstairs hall and took in the bedrooms and old out-dated baths, finally ending up in a large sunny room with a huge hexagonal bay. A feeling of overwhelming joy fell over me like a worn welcomed cloak as I passed over the threshold and into the dilapidated space. I turned in slow circles mesmerized by the spectacular room with broken windows and crumbling plaster and knew in that awe-inspiring instant that this jewel-in-the-rough was to be my daughter’s room.

I shake my head to clear the memory and walk around the nursery running my fingers over the restored wainscot, ornate chair rail and trim. Just walking through the doorway raises my spirits and warms my heart. Mac did a wonderful job with the decorations and accessories. There’s a soft fuzzy rug covering rich polished hardwood floors. Eventually, our daughter’s bed will fill the main portion of the room along with the other furnishings, but for this wee baby time of her life, we wanted her to wake-up every morning bathed in the warm glow of sunshine. Her crib is centered in the hexagonal bay, surrounded on all sides by stained glass windows in pastel sherbet shades of peach, yellow, pinks and greens. Down the road, I know with certainty that this will become her playroom. Her childhood secret place of make believe, extravagant dreams and fairytale charm.

I glance out the side window and catch sight of my girls exploring the flowerbeds that line the back veranda and old flagstone walk. I’ve discovered that my Sarah has quite the knack for all things alive and in bloom. Although perhaps, I should’ve guessed that from the start, after all, she always did love digging in the dirt. So, maybe it was excavating dinosaur bones and fossils, but gardening is a still discovery of sorts. And I can attest to her expertise in rekindling life to things long lain dormant and dead, be it a fragile-skinned lily bulb or a shattered heart. For you see, I never felt more alive than in that startling moment when she was gifted to me. Isn’t it funny how life plays out? I was sinking in a quagmire of loss and despair, when my sweetest desire of fate blew in on a soft kiss of air from the breath of an angel. I guess the only way to describe it is one of those rare moments when two lives intersect and inexplicable with just the lightest touch an explosion ignites a life-sustaining connection.

A drop of sweat rolls off my nose and pulls me back to my oppressive reality. Stifling summer heat and no air! With one last heartfelt glance toward my beloved pair, I head off in search of a much-needed cold shower and a dry change of clothes. By then, maybe if I’m lucky, inspiration will strike. Did I mention my honey-do list? I groan at the prospect of a night spent in a cold impersonal hotel. Schlepping around luggage and diaper bags and a portable crib. Much as I love my little rosebud, babies don’t travel light. Shower first! I encourage myself as I shuffle down the hall.

The shower feels blissfully cool against my skin, and I linger under the relaxing spray for several minutes before grabbing a towel from the rack. Tossing the towel aside, I rake my fingers through damp hair leaving a tousle of messy spikes. Opting for a pair of comfortable old denim shorts, I head back downstairs sans shirt. The temperature seems to have cooled an almost imperceptible degree or two. I can only hope the trend continues through the night. The forecast held a chance for rain, and with it the slimmest possibility of a cool front as a harbinger of the thunderstorm.

In the kitchen, I find a covered plate with a wrinkly smudged note attached with tape:


Flyboy,

Salad is in the fridge. Missed ya at dinner, but hope to collect later on dessert! By the way, G sends Daddy kisses…the smudge and slobber are all hers (smile). Hugs and kisses,

Your girls…


A smile skips across my lips as I toss the foil aside to find a thinly sliced floret of aromatic roast-chicken artfully splayed across the plate. Carrying it to the fridge, I retrieve the bowl of mixed salad greens dressed in raspberry vinaigrette, as directed by my soggy love note, and scamper to claim a cold bottle of iced tea before the door slams shut. Tossing everything together in the bowl, I take a long pull off the cold tea before leaning back against the counter to satiate my appetite for food. The promise of a delectable dessert flits and dances around my insides leaving me jumpy and hot, and before I even register my intent, I find my head buried in the freezer. Best bank those thoughts for cooler temperatures, my mind calmly reasons. Other unruly parts of me veer dangerously south, unimpeded and willfully ignoring common sense; they cavalierly calculate the shortest distance between that cool front and a now very appealing hotel.

Snatching my salad off the counter I grumbled around mouthfuls of lettuce as my earlier mood of annoyance menacingly reappears. I’ve been waiting all week for a quiet weekend with my girls, now long-ignored mundane chores threaten to upend my family time. The rumble of thunder echoes in the distance and a sly smile spreads across face. Maybe all is not lost.

I saunter over to the back window and peer into the murky gray haze of dusk. With the storm front approaching, the evening clouds are rapidly coalescing from their former cotton candy fluff to angry rage. A sudden movement below catches my eye as a tiny foot kicks the air. Squinting into the shadows, I see my little rosebud madly dancing in her bouncing seat, arms and legs flying in a frenzied rhythm to a tune all her own. A huge grin lights her face, and listening with rapt attention, I can just make out the faint melodic giggles as the wind lifts and ruffles through her dark tufts of hair.

Drawn like a 2-year old to a forbidden treat, I escape out the back door and sprint to her side. Her smile brightens and giggles turn to overt laughter when she spies my adoring eyes. My fingers tunnel under the ruffles and frills of her sun-suit to find their favorite target caressing the soft warm skin of her round belly. Did I mention my daughter has her mother’s appetite? I lift the fabric away to nibble and drop raspberry kisses along the sweet rolls. Her legs flail wildly as her fingers find a death grip in the spikes of my hair. Peeling her little tentacles from my short locks, my lips begin a covert trek up her neck to nibble at her cheeks. Her laughter turn to squeals and her hands clutch my ears pulling me closer to her questing mouth. Mission accomplished she opens wide to slobber a line baby kisses across my face before sucking on my nose. Pulling loose, I swipe a hand across my gooey wet skin. She reaches for me, porcelain hands wiggling and waving like a little bird in perfect time to her dancing feet.

I finally loosen the frustrating mishmash of safety belts and harnesses, swinging her overhead, “Gracie, my love…Daddy missed you today!”

Her answering smile illuminates my world, warming my heart and obliterating any threat of rain. She is the absolute embodiment of her given name…Bringer of Joy. She’s named after my great grandmother, Beatrice Rabb. When picking through names, we decided to honor those loved ones revered from our past. As an added bonus, the name Beatrice describes our little angel from the moment of her conception. She brings more joy to our hearts than either of us ever imagined to deserve or hoped to achieve. Sentimental emotions aside, we also exercised some common sense. Imagining the nickname of ‘Bea’ christened by school kids who love to taunt and tease, we opt instead to call her by her middle name, Grace. She’s also named in honor of Mac’s aunt, Uncle Matt’s long deceased wife. And as I hold her aloft, watching her dance in my arms, I realize that name appropriately fits too. Her wiggly choreographed movements, even at this young age, mirror the beauty and grace of the other love of my life. Speaking of which…

I pull my daughter to my chest and scan the horizon. As the moon plays hide and seek with angry storm clouds, I catch sight of my wife at the edge of the walk strolling among the roses. She dips to smell a delicate bloom, then clips the fragile flower and twirls it over her nose. I can barely make out the smile that dawns upon her face. The gusting wind bustles around her swirling the loose gathers of her cotton sundress about her legs. In the fading backlight of the moon, I can appreciate the lithe silhouette of her beautiful body through the delicate layer of almost sheer gauze. My heart shudders to a standstill then gallops away with the swiftness of a mighty steed.

Mesmerized, I watch her float to and fro along the path. Her hair billows in the breeze, long tresses framing her face. Rose in hand, her arms arc overhead as she begins to sway to the music of the threatening storm. Tinkling wind chimes provide the sweet melody, while rumbling thunder the bass. And my heart…my heart serenades a rhythm to her feet. She gracefully spins on tiptoes; head thrown back in joy, while the rapture of her being lures me to this temptress of the night. My mind reels and gropes after an image…a vision from my past. Gasping for air in the heady perfume of romance, I forget how to breathe. And yet this elegant beauty beckons, drawing me deeper, and deeper in...

A memory skips just out of reach. I close my eyes swaying in the foggy remembrance at the edge of my mind. The fragrance of honeysuckle takes me back…to a Christmas…long, long past. A little boy proudly bestows a beloved Christmas gift bought with a father’s love. Buried deep beneath the ornate wrapping of paper, ribbons and bows, she quietly waits to perform. The beautiful rosewood box polished to a lustered sheen plays an enchanting melody whilst huddled in its tissue paper nest…and the ballerina danced. At that tender boyhood age of four, I watched mesmerized as she twirled to the tune. Hypnotized by her elegant movements, eyes glazed wide, I could never imagine a more beautiful sight than that ballerina decked in jewels and glitter and a skirt gathered of pink silk. But…

My eyes spring open seeking out my beloved wife as I realize my reality far outshines the repressed childhood dream. I follow her movements, elegant and resplendent in grace. Drawn as a moth to a flickering flame, I find myself hovering just out of reach while never cognizant of taking a step. Mouth gaping open I stare with loving devotion at the priceless jewel in my life…gift of an angel, indeed. The babe in my arms babbles and coos arching her beckoning arms to join in the beautiful waltz. Sweet baby laughter soars on the wind blending with the high notes of the bewitching thunderstorm song. My two exquisite gifts of fate…a kiss of hope and love. Sarah suddenly startles from her moonlight trance roused by Grace’s coos of joy.

“Don’t stop,” I beg on a whispered breath full of awe.

The beguiling smile that drifts my way exudes desire, anticipation, excitement…and an ever-present undercurrent of love. Reflexively I shiver in the hot August heat. Lifting a delicate hand and crooking a finger my way, she whispers back, “Only if you join in.”

My answering smile threatens to split my face, as I step into her embrace, pulling her body flush with mine. The fingers of her right hand softly stroke the bare skin of my back, and her left encircles our daughter. Feet barely moving, we sway in the wind as I hum the melody of our favorite song. By the second verse, Gracie succumbs to the fairytale spell and yawns her reply. Her heavy eyelids begin to droop. Once, twice, three times as her face gently falls to snuggle in the warmth of my neck. Sweet wisps of baby breath shudders against my skin raising goosebumps along its wake. Tiny lips search and suckle at my neck before finally finding her thumb. I look up to share a smile rich in pride and contentment with my bride.

“Think she’s out for the night?” I whisper on hushed breath.

Mac gently brushes the curls from Gracie’s forehead and strokes a finger over the pink rosy cheek, eliciting a pucker of her tiny rosebud lips. “Should be, she’s had a busy day.”

She lifts her face to mine and smiles, “Hey Sailor, missed you…”

“Missed you too,” the words are sighed and mumbled as my lips seek out hers.

“How was your day?” Her fingers leave Gracie’s cheek and gravitate to mine.

“Better now,” I kiss her upturned palm.

“House is hot,” her head finds it’s special place in the hollow of my shoulder.

I grimace against her hair, “Sorry ‘bout that…got tied up with meetings and forgot to call the repairman.”

“S’kay…he’s comin in morn’in,” she yawns.

“Good,” a fat raindrop hits my face, “…storms movin in…house should cools down.”

“Hummmm,” she murmurs against my chest.

“Sarah?” Another raindrop hits my skin.

“Mmmm…”

Weaving my fingers into her hair, I tip her face back to my view. Her lids flicker open, eyes finding mine. “About that dessert?”

“Hungry are you?” a sleepy devil-may-care smile slides across her gorgeous lips.

“Famished,” my lips find hers again in a gentle caress, which rapidly sparks and rages out of control. Tonight’s performance has left me hot, edgy and thirsty for her. We both pull back panting, and I quirk an eyebrow in invitation.

She cocks her head to the side flashing me the flirty Sarah smile. Darn, she knows that one gets me every time.

“What?” I croak back already aware of what’s coming.

Her smile grows impossible wider, rivaling a Cheshire grin. Defiant and Challenging. Damn, the Mac smile…she’s pulling out all the stops. And with just the slightest arch of her brow, I know I’m toast. Aww, no way…The Weekend Honey-Do List.

“Dining room wallpaper?” I mutter resigned.

Laughter dances in her eyes. Amazing, she can control me without uttering a single sound.

“Dessert?” I try unsuccessfully to stifle the hopeful whine in my voice.

Her fingertips trip and tug over the elastic waistband of my shorts before slipping inside. Mischief sparkling in her brown depths, she giggles, “Now that you mention it, Flyboy,” her eyes dart left and right searching the expanse of the backyard, “…there’s not a traffic light to be found.”

She pivots to escape my grasp, beckoning over her shoulder, “I’m starved!”

The heavens pick that moment to open up and release a torrential down pour. We scamper toward the cover of the back veranda, our laughter joining the staccato cadence of the raindrops. Pausing to catch our breath, I hug her close trying to stop the shivering jerks caused by the dampness on her skin.

“Don’cha jusss luv a summmer showerrr,” she mumbles through chattering teeth.

“Um mmmm,” I murmur against her skin, “…perfect weather for…”

“Making love…sweet thing,” her eyes dance with mirth, “…whadda-ya say we…”

The remainder of her words are swallowed up by my mouth.

The End…


‘Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart.’ ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe