LOS ANGELES, CA

Isis didn't take the tall blonde woman's offered hand when she was led into the pleasant and sunny office. Instead, she moved past her with icy indifference, dropped into the well worn sofa, and stared her smiling face down angrily.

"How many times do I have you tell you people? I didn't try to kill myself. I need to get home to my daughter."

But the woman ignored her rudeness. "Hello, Ms. Knox. I'm Susan Solomon. Can I offer you something to drink?"

She sighed in frustration. "All I want is to go home."

The woman sat in the armchair directly across from Isis and leaned forward with kind green eyes, "I understand, Isis. I'm a single mother as well. You must be worried sick. But I assure you, I've spoken with Miss Cruise and your nanny, and Kore is fine. She misses her mom, of course, but she's okay. Right now, we need to focus on getting you well. How are you feeling?"

Isis raised her lightly bandaged wrist. "I'm fine. It's a fucking scratch: three stitches. I have an accident and suddenly I need to see a head shrinker?"

"Actually, I'm a psychologist," Susan smiled. "Have you ever seen a therapist before?"

"Just in rehab," Isis answered curtly. "But I've been clean since I got pregnant."

"Until this weekend."

"I was dosed!" she insisted angrily. "Ask Terry."

Susan checked her clipboard. "Terry Thorne, your security contractor?" At Isis' nod, she continued. "Yes, that's what he reported to the police. I know this is frustrating, Isis, but can you tell me what happened? The sooner I hear your side of things, the sooner we can get you home to your daughter. What do you remember about that night?"

Isis sighed and sank back into the welcoming couch. Rubbing her head, she tried to make sense of her jumbled memories. I remember seeing my dead husband in my hotel room while I slept in the arms of another man, she thought silently. Yeah, Ice, tell her that and you'll get locked up for good.

Instead, Isis offered, "Everything up to the after party, I remember. Then it gets hazy."

Susan raised her brows in a question, prompted for more, but gently. Upon closer inspection, Isis could tell the woman was genuinely concerned. Susan Solomon was tall and pretty, dressed in a purple skirt and funky earrings that made Isis think of the 60s. Bet she worked her way through medical school as a model, she thought idly. Isis went with her gut most of the time, and in normal circumstances she would have trusted this attractive middle aged woman immediately. But as a mental health professional in charge of sending her home, she was wary about being too honest.

"I remember dancing with Terry," she confided finally.

Susan grinned, and the smile reached her pretty eyes. "Is he a good dancer?" she asked, as if she were dishing dirt with a girlfriend.

Isis smiled despite her concerns, disarmed. "He's the best. Terry taught me how to salsa, and I haven't been dancing since -" she cut herself off abruptly.

"Since…?"

Shit, she berated herself. Now you've blown it. Isis was no good at hiding things, too hot tempered and passionate about everything she did. "Since my husband died," Isis answered angrily. "Is that what you fucking wanted to hear? Now its all going to be about Court, isn't it? I'm telling you, I didn't try to kill myself. I'd never do that to my daughter, leave her all alone!"

Susan's voice was soft, but firm. "Like your husband did?"

The gentle suggestion took her breath away, and she felt tears come in a flood she couldn't hold back. She wanted to deny the suggestion, blaming Court for leaving their daughter as if he'd walked out on them instead of dying accidentally, but when she allowed herself to consider it, she realized that she was angry with him. She did feel abandoned. No one put a gun to Court's head and told him to shoot up. He made that decision on his own.

"Yes," she breathed quietly with resignation. "Jesus, you don't fuck around, do you Susan?"

"Truth always lives where it hurts, Isis," she said softly.

At that moment, it seemed as if all the events of the last few days came crashing down, and Isis lost it. Helen Colbert's cruel barbs, the highs and lows of Grammy night played out in front of the cameras, the expectations and disappointment of her night with Terry, the terrifying nightmare of her dead husband, and being separated from Kore. It was all too much to bear. Along with Susan Solomon's suggestion, she remembered Terry's deep voice urge, 'Just breathe, mate. Let it go.' Isis sobbed out her frustration, fear, and exhaustion.

Reaching for a tissue, Susan offered it and waited for Isis to regain her composure. It took a long time, but she was patient. When the first wave had passed, she asked, "Have you ever talked to anyone about Court's death, Isis?"

"No," she answered weakly. "But that doesn't mean I tried to commit suicide."

Susan leaned forward and offered her hand. "I believe you, Isis, but the seventy-two hour hold is mandatory. You've been carrying this burden alone for a long time, and there's still a lot of pain there, isn't there?"

Isis nodded, mopping tears from her face.

"So let's use this time to talk it over, okay? I think it would be good for you and your daughter. Kore deserves a mother who's happy and strong, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, she does," Isis agreed softly. "So if I'm stuck here, let's talk."

LONDON, UK

Terry crashed the moment he got into his first class seat, slept dreamlessly the entire leg from Los Angeles to Chicago. Must have snored like a bear, he thought later, though no one had complained. After catching his connection, he popped a sleeping pill, hoping for a little more rest. The Ambien gave him a pleasantly fuzzy feeling, relieved the anxiety he always felt on the way back to London. Just before he drifted off, he thought he felt Isis' hand on his arm, smelled her expensive shampoo. He dreamed of Malibu.

When they landed at Heathrow, he showered in the Virgin business lounge and changed. He felt refreshed enough to face the day, though he knew he wouldn't make it for a late night. On the cab ride out of London and into the suburbs, Terry wondered at the blue sky and remembered the lyrics to an old Crowded House song, 'Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you.' Funny that. The sunny days in London he remembered would fit on a short list, and this one was exceptionally pleasant. Perhaps he did bring some of the California sunshine with him. But the walk up to Michael York's colossal Georgian executive home, purchased with family money and a long career in banking, always gave him a chill, made him feel a little inadequate.

When he knocked, the door opened to Marion's smiling face. Her expression changed instantly when she saw that it was Terry at the door.

"This is your fault," she said without preface.

"I'm fine, Marion, and how are you?" he replied, a little more sarcastically than he'd intended. When he leaned to kiss her cheek, she turned away coldly, moved back past the foyer into the reception room. Terry was left to close the door behind him, felt the walls closing in already. "Looking lovely, as always," he called after her into the chilly air. And it was true; the ex wife was manicured and polished in classic Chanel, probably on her way out to Harrods this afternoon. Her blonde hair was cut in a posh flip he hadn't seen her in before. It was nice, took a few years off.

Inside, she moved to a sideboard, poured a stiff drink, and asked, "Does that Aussie charm still work on the birds? Seems a bit thin to me; though you're looking well fed."

Yes, but they do have to be human first, Terry thought, but bit it back. Setting his bag by the door for a quick retreat, he sallied forth. "Listen Marion, I know you're upset. I've flown thirteen hours and come from the airport straightaway to see my son, not start a row with you. I understand you blame me, but you could just as easily blame your father. He was a bloody General, for Christ's sake."

She turned abruptly and raised her voice, "Do not bring Daddy into this, God rest him! He did not want this for Henry."

Christ, here we go. "Neither do I," he said, holding a hand up in defense. "Look, I'm here to support you, love. Cleared my whole schedule so we could sit down and talk to Henry, present a united front."

"I thought you said you were on my side, Dad," came Henry's voice from the foot of the stairs.

Marion's eyes went wide. "You told him what?"

"Ah, Christ," Terry swore.

Marion's husband Michael entered from the kitchen with the newspaper folded under his arm, and everyone seemed to stiffen. Wearing a sweater with leather patches on the elbows, Terry wondered where the staid banker had left his pipe, while he noted more grey at the temples than last time he'd seen him.

Michael held a hand out to shake. "Thorne, good to see you. We've missed the soothing effect you always have on the family."

Terry smirked at the dry sarcasm, gestured to his chin. "Michael. Care to take a poke for old time's sake?"

"No thank you, I'm retired. Have a drink?"

"God, yes."

Henry sighed and entered the reception room warily, hands in his pockets.

Terry turned to take in his son. For the first time, Henry was actually tall enough to look his father directly in the eye. Christ, he's going to be taller than me, Terry mused proudly. The young man was dressed casually in a football jersey and khakis, his blonde hair already shaved for duty.

"Henry, I can't believe it," Terry breathed, and smiled despite his concerns. "You look damned good. Won't be a girl alive could resist this."

Henry grinned, his eyes ducking to the floor shyly. "Cut it out, Dad."

No matter how many football games or birthdays Terry Thorne missed, when Henry saw his father's brilliant smile, he forgot any resentment he felt. That smile was like the sun on his face - he wanted to soak it up. He'd always wished that visiting with Mum and Michael didn't cause Dad to scowl so much.

"So much for presenting a united front," Marion scolded.

Terry leaned in close, put an arm around his son's shoulder and spoke low, "No chance you haven't signed anything, hey Henry?" But at his apologetic look, he turned back to the boy's mother. "He's got his orders then, doesn't he? Nothing we can do to stop him now, property of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. All for Queen and country, just like bonny Prince Harry." Terry squeezed the young man's shoulder in reassurance. "Maybe you'll get to serve with him."

"Hope not," Henry frowned. "They won't let him go to the front. Danger to the troops, they say."

"He'd make quite a prize for the enemy," Michael asserted.

"They could call you to get him back, Dad. Negotiate a Prince's ransom," the boy smiled proudly.

If they were lucky, Terry thought to himself. Most likely, they'd take his head. A chill went down his spine when he imagined the young Prince taken prisoner by Al Queida, his imagination instantly flashing to one of those low-quality terrorist videos. He shook himself forcibly from the disquieting image and covered it with a smile. "Glad it won't come to that," he answered instead.

Terry couldn't resist, reached out and smoothed a hand over his son's shaved head. It made them both laugh, and he was struck to hear his own girlish giggled echoed back to him. He caught him into a hug, and held on tight. "Christ, it's good to see you, boy."

"You too. Thanks for coming, Dad," Henry chuckled. "Rather hoped you might bring Isis Knox, or at least a copy of the new album."

"I'm afraid she isn't too pleased with me at the moment," Terry confessed.

Henry shook his head in disbelief, whispered, "What is it with you and the birds, Dad? They all hate you."

"Seems that way, hey? You'll have better luck," he reassured. Terry's stomach growled, and he rubbed it. "Christ, been yonks since I had a proper meat pie. Can't get them in LA. Feel like going down the pub for some tucker?"

Henry's eyes sparkled. "Just you and me?"

"More the merrier," Terry invited, though Michael looked as if he'd rather eat shoe leather.

"We have reservations at the club for dinner," Marion insisted. "Don't fill up on that rubbish, Henry."

But the teenager just chuckled, delighted with the idea, "Don't worry Mum, I'm never full."

Before Terry could follow his son out the front door, Marion crossed the room and caught him by the elbow.

"Really Terry, the pub? He's just turned eighteen. I don't think you should be encouraging such behavior."

"The boy's of age, love. And if he's old enough to fight for his country, he's old enough to drink a beer." The suggestion didn't mollify her concerns. When she opened her mouth again to protest, Terry lowered his voice: "Marion, he ships out in five days. Now I'm taking my son to the pub for a pint. If you don't like it, you can kiss my bloody arse."

w

It was a long walk to the Prince Albert, but the weather and meat pies were more than worth the hike, and it also gave them more time to talk. Michael had never served, so Henry was eager to quiz his father about basic training straightaway. Terry told him everything he could remember, especially the bit about taking as much soap and toothpaste as you could carry, instead of wasting money and time in the long lines at the base shop.

Ensconced in the pub at a booth near a mullioned window, Terry raised his pint of Guinness and touched it to his grown son's for the first time.

"Cheers, Dad," Henry grinned. "God save the Queen."
"God save you," Terry vowed instead. "Christ, I can't believe it Henry. Seems like just yesterday you were in nappies. Now we're at the pub together." At the roll of his son's blue eyes, he chuckled. "Hey, you're a man now, but you'll always be my child. Someday when you have a son, you'll understand. But let's hold off on that, yeah? Your mum's too young to be a granny yet."

Henry was eager to change the subject. "Dad, I saw the pictures from the awards show. You were with Isis the other night. What happened?"

Terry sighed, took a long pull on his beer. "Suppose I can talk about it; it's all part of the public record now, but normally, I can't discuss clients, you know." Terry smiled to his son, teasing, "Don't quote me to the tabs, or I'll deny it."

"Of course not," Henry said seriously.

Thorne broke the crust on his steak and kidney pie to let steam escape as his stomach complained. Too hot to eat, so he had time to tell the story. "Well, the night started out well. Colbert's mother, she's completely off her rocker, been harassing Isis for years about visitation rights for Kore. But there's no way in hell Isis will let her anywhere near the girl. The woman used to beat Colbert, used drugs, all around bad egg. So when we took the contract, we had a restraining order made against her. When she was served, it pissed her off. So she showed up at the Grammys, started yelling all sorts of terrible things to the cameras, said that Isis had killed Colbert."

"Some people say she did, Dad."

"Yeah?" Terry bridled. "Well they're full of shit. Isis adored him, still wears his ring. Does that sound like a woman who killed him?"

Henry shook his head.

"One thing you've got to learn about these tabs, Henry, ninety-nine percent of what they print is pure rubbish. They make it all up to sell papers. I've seen it all from the inside now, and I can tell you, it's pathetic."

"They're saying she tried to kill herself. Did she?"

"No. Absolutely not."

Henry was absorbed, leaned in to listen intently. "Then what happened? You were with her?"

"Yes, Henry. I was there as her security agent, and as her friend." Terry took a drink before he continued, gave himself a moment to mull over the events of the evening. "Things were going so well. We'd apprehended the mother in law, Isis won the
Grammy- "

"And she kissed you!" Henry interrupted with wide eyes. "Freddy sent me the video clip."

Terry smiled, "Yeah. Well, she was happy to win."

"Cor blimey," Henry breathed, impressed.

"Then she performed the new song, brought down the house. I'd never seen anything like it, but then, what I know about music could be put in a very small pamphlet. Amazing night. So we went to the after party - that's where a lot of business gets done in the industry, you know? The place was crowded, I was distracted, and somehow…" Fucking Jason Montez, he wanted to say, but kept it to himself. "Isis was drugged. Someone put Ecstasy in her drink. When I deduced what had happened, I got her out of there, took her back to the hotel. She fell asleep and so did I, but then I woke up to her screaming. She thought she'd lost her wedding ring, and she was tearing the place apart to find it. She broke the mirror in the bathroom and glass was bloody everywhere. She cut her wrist, accidentally, and she was lucky she didn't hurt herself worse. Then my team called paramedics and they took her to hospital."

"Is she okay?"

"She will be," he answered, though to be honest, he was unsure. Guilt twisted his stomach, and suddenly his longed for meal seemed unappetizing. Terry gazed into his beer as if it held the secrets of the universe. "It was my mistake, Henry. I made a bad call. When my team wanted to take her to the hozzie immediately, I said no. Thought she'd had enough bad press already. This accident, it was my fault." Chris was right, you got too close, mate. Lost your objectivity.

"It's not your fault, Dad," Henry defended. "You didn't give her the drugs."

"No, but she was my responsibility, and I let her down. Her assistant is furious with me, don't know about her manager yet. We could lose the contract…" But Terry caught himself. This time was supposed to be about his son, not his business and personal failures. He turned the conversation around. "So there's a good lesson for you, Henry. Stay away from that shit: Ecstasy, all drugs. Colbert overdosed accidentally. He didn't mean to kill himself, and Isis…Christ. If you'd have seen her, mate. She scared the bloody hell out of me. Just don't touch it; it's not worth the risk."

Henry nodded. "I know, Dad. I never do drugs. I just like a beer now and then."

"Good man. Bit late for that speech anyway, I suppose," Terry chuckled. It was Marion and Michael's doing, steering Henry right in that regard. He had to give them credit; they'd done a fine job.

But the young man was still concerned for his idol. "Poor Isis, she's been through so much," he sighed sadly. "I feel bad for her and the little girl."

Terry was proud to see his son's compassion, but worried for how the service and war might change that. He hoped it wouldn't, while he tried to assuage his concerns. "Isis will be apples. She's a smart woman, surrounded herself with wonderful friends who really care for her. They're not just hangers on, ya know?"

His question was pointed. "Why aren't you with her? You should help her, Dad."

But Terry shook his head, looked his son in the eye. "No, I'm right where I should be. Isis will be okay. She's my client and friend and I care for her, but you're my son." Terry suddenly wanted a cigarette as guilt gnawed at his empty stomach again. "Maybe if I'd been here more often, you wouldn't be going off to risk your neck."

"Dad," Henry's tone was gentle, but firm. "No matter what Mum thinks, this is not about you. It's not your fault. It's my life, and it's my decision. I want to serve my country, and I want to learn about myself, as a man."

Terry scratched at his beard, sighed. "I just want it to be crystal clear that you don't need to do this to prove anything to me."

"I know, Dad. I just want to prove something to myself."

Terry knew what it felt like to be a young man that age, putting himself to the test. Thinking back to his first days in the service, he grimaced silently: We all thought we were bloody immortal at that age. Found out pretty damned quick that we weren't.

"Then I support you. Just be careful," he said, leaning close. He wished they'd sat at the bar then instead of the booth, wished he could put his arm around his son. "Be bloody smart, mate. Listen to your COs. They're a bunch of hard arses, but they know what they're about. What you learn in basic training will save your life." He had to push his own emotions down to deliver the next set of instructions, made his voice official, "Then, if you are sent to the field, keep your head down, take care of your mates, keep your arse in one piece, and come home to us, yeah?"

Henry responded as the good soldier he knew. "I will, Sir. I promise."

"You'd better, because I've got a lot to make up to you, Henry. I need a second chance."

The young man didn't speak into the long silence that followed, didn't confirm or deny his father's assertion, but in his silence, Terry felt his son's longing. It pulled at his heart more forcefully than any words of judgment could.

Looking into his beer, Henry finally murmured, "Dad, was I a mistake?"

The sudden pointed question after the uncomfortable silence unnerved Terry. "What?" he asked, bewildered, unsure if he'd heard right.

"Well, I know you and Mum were young; only a few years older than I am now. I wasn't really planned, was I? Mum won't say it, but I know it's true."

Terry's mind reeled, tried to put himself in his son's shoes, imagine the motivation for such a question. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he couldn't believe that this was the first time they'd had such an intimate conversation, but Henry wasn't a child anymore, he was a man. Their relationship naturally had to change. He made his tone light, but confident. "Son, look at me. You were not a mistake. Get that barmy idea out of your head this instant."

But Henry rose to the challenge. "So you're saying I was planned?"

Terry tried to mask his eyes, but they gave him away. His son's straight brows drew together in an expression that demanded an explanation, and he was impressed with the young man's gravity. He recognized the expression from the mirror.

"Bloody hell," he sighed in resignation. With a long pull on his beer to think, Terry finally responded, "Yes, your mother and I were very young, and believe it or not, we were in love once. Madly. I would have died for her, mate." And if your granddad had had his way, I would have, he thought silently, but wouldn't say it.

"Can't imagine that," Henry chuckled, and it dispelled some of the tension.

"I will always love your mother, honor her, because she gave me you," Terry smiled sadly. "But I won't bullshit you, Henry. You were an accident, but not a mistake. Big difference." Henry's eyes raised, as he listened intently, curious at the distinction. "The way I see it, an accident can be a gift you never knew you wanted, while a mistake is something you'd do over differently. Having you, Henry…Christ that's the one thing in my life I've done right. So you understand the difference, yeah?"

Henry smiled shyly, his eyes on his uneaten pie. "I think so, Dad."

In the comfortable pause, Terry wondered at the years and how they flew. There was something in that determined expression on his son's face that reminded him of not only himself, but his own father. For the first time in years, Terry saw the unbroken line of family, felt proud he had such a worthy son to carry on his name. But he also felt the threat of loss. Hated to imagine burying his own child in a flag draped casket.

"Thanks for being honest with me," Henry added.

"It's the least I can do. You deserve a hell of a lot more from me," Terry answered. "You haven't asked for it, but I'll give you some advice, Henry. Not as a father, just as man who's been through it. When it comes to your life, your decisions, you're in charge. Not me, not your mother, not your CO - though you'd better listen to him or you won't like the consequences. No one knows more about what you want or need from life than yourself. Sure, you want to consider the opinions of those who love you, but in life, everyone out there has their own motives. It sounds selfish, but it's really not. When you get down to it, you have to put yourself first, son. Like they say on an airplane when it's going down, put your oxygen mask on, then help the others. You can't help anyone if you don't take care of yourself first, right?"

"Suppose you're right," Henry smiled, sipped at his beer.

"Strewth, at the heart of it, you've got to listen to your deepest core, that quiet voice inside. You've got a good heart, son. It will never steer you wrong." Terry raised his glass in salute. "When it comes to your life, Henry, you're the boss."

"If you're so smart, why don't you write a book, Dad? Advice for young lads."

Terry almost choked as he drained his pint, caught off guard by the smart comment. "That'd be a short fucking book. More like an email."

"Brilliant. In the Army, I'll have email access even at the front."

Terry marveled at the changes in the world in just his son's lifetime. When he was in the service, letters from home were still delivered by the post. Now he could get messages to his son instantly half way round the world even on the battlefield. With their pies gone stone cold, Terry waved for the waitress, asked her to heat them up and bring the next shout. They ate in comfortable silence then, driven only by their appetites and the new level of ease father and son felt in each other's company. Though the circumstances were dire, Terry felt grateful for this time of healing, a balm of renewal for his troubled mind and spirit.

After the heavy meal and three pints of Guinness, Thorne felt the jet lag begin to take its toll.

Observant and compassionate, the boy noted his father flagging. "You look fagged out, Dad. It's nearly time to get home. Don't suppose you'd be disappointed missing dinner, hey?"

"What, and deny your mother the pleasure of beating a dead horse?"

Henry laughed that familiar giggle. "I'll let you off the hook. We can do something tomorrow," he offered. "You said you went for a run with Isis Knox?"

Terry scratched at his beard, his blood suddenly crying for a cigarette. "I did. We were running on the beach in Malibu pretty regularly, actually."

Henry looked hopeful, but suspicious "Did you really clear your whole schedule just for me? You aren't having some sort of business meeting in town, are you?"

"No, son," Terry promised. "You're my first priority."

Henry smiled warmly, looked a bit shy to ask: "Then would you want to have a run with me, Dad? Maybe in the park?"

Terry caught his breath suddenly, felt tears prick his eyes at the simple request. To mask his emotions, he breathed deeply and teased, "If you think you can keep up, mate."

The young man took the challenge immediately. "What? An old codger like you?"

Terry laughed heartily and reached out to rub his hand over his son's shaved head.

When he'd paid the tab, Terry flagged a cab and dropped Henry home. Telling the cabbie to wait, he went in to collect his bag and give his apologies to Marion and Michael. They feigned disappointment politely, but looked delighted that he couldn't make it.

"Go get dressed, Henry," Marion ordered. "I want to take some pictures with the new camera before we go."

Terry glanced at the tiny Olympus. "Is that a digital? Wait, Marion, would you mind?"

Henry grinned and posed for a picture in front of the stairs, his father's arm around his shoulder.

"Send me a copy of that, will you love?"

Marion looked bewildered and skeptical until Henry insisted, "Don't worry, Mum. I'll show you how."

Before his son could disappear up the stairs, Terry patted the gleaming banister and called, "See you at oh-six hundred hours, Henry. I run early. Your days of lazing about in bed are over. Might as well get used to it."

Henry grinned down to his father's smiling face gratefully. "See you tomorrow, Dad."