AN: Wow. Does anybody remember the last time I updated this story. Okay, okay, I know it's listed right there in the story header, but really, does anyone even remember this story? I know it's been a loooooooooooong time, but I'm going to take the monumental step of posting the next chapter in hopes it will give me the monumental will to finish this story. I hate leaving things unfinished and believe it or not, I've been thinking on and off about this story for quite a few months. I sorry to say I got a little peeved at JAG and Donald Bellasario & Co. with the direction they took Harm and Mac's characters, so I (gasp!) quit watching it. For about two years. Well, maybe not that long, but I don't think I caught even one episode from last season, and I suspect that's pretty close to the truth because I can't recall any important details from it. Hmmm…What season did Mattie appear? Anyway, I happened to catch the Christmas episode from this season and so I kind of felt the rekindling of hope. Kind of. Anyway, to anyone who does remember, I appreciate your long memory and your patience. I suspect you'll need a lot of it if you're anxiously awaiting the conclusion. It will be slow in coming. But it is coming.

All right, I admit, the weather has me a little concerned. Not as concerned as Mac, perhaps, but one of us has to remain calm, at least on the outside.

But the fact is that it's Thursday and, having made the point of checking the weather from three different sources, it doesn't appear that Tropical Cyclone Ana is going to let up any time soon. In fact, she's poised to dump another three inches on D.C. and to storm the beach, literally, for the next three days on Paradise Island. Needless to say, paradise it won't be.

So now I've got to figure something out. Fast. An idea struck me about four in the morning. I don't know how feasible it is—but then, how feasible was planning a Bahaman wedding in under a week?

I just don't know how the logistics will work out with this new plan, with less than 24 hours to execute it.

Oh, well, great battles have been won with a split second decision. (Of course, a great many have been lost, too. Oh, hell, I can see that kind of thinking isn't going to be productive.)

Before I throw in the monogrammed towel, I need to explore all my options.

"Yeah. Yeah. Thank you. You have my cell number, right? Yes. Yes—" I pause mid-scribble as I catch sight of Sturgis heading my way, a stack of files in hand. "Uh, I'll have to get back to you on the rest. Thanks again." I hang up just as Sturgis raps on the door.

I carefully pull my papers together and rap the edges on the desk.

"Sturgis," I smile.

He gives me an amused grin.

"I haven't seen you this shifty and secretive since, oh, right before you and Mac both took off early and nobody heard from either of you until Monday."

My stomach tightens but I only answer, "That? Oh, I took her to pick up her car and then I went flying."

"So you said."

"You think I'm lying?"

"I think there's something more going on than meets the eye."

Sturgis, if you only knew.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't think I, or half the office, doesn't know you're planning on asking Mac out on a date?"

I make a very convincing Pfffah! sound. And mom said that drama class was wasted on someone who wanted to fly fighter jets in the Navy.

"You're going to try telling me you're not?"

Well, technically, no I am not planning on asking Mac out on a date. Sturgis must like the answer my expression tells him because he continues, lowering his voice, "How long have we known each other, Harm? How long have we been friends? You wouldn't b.s. your friends would you?" Oh, sure, lay that guilt trip on me.

"What about you and Bobbi?"

"Oh, I don't think so buddy. This conversation is strictly about you."

"Yeah, me and my relationship with Mac."

"So there is a relationship?"

"Yes." I shrug noncommittally and add with perfect innocence, "We're friends."

Sturgis sighs disgustedly and shakes his head disapprovingly. He looks rather like my grandmother after I've told her what we both know is a bald-faced lie. Pretty soon he'll cluck his tongue and say, "Harmon, Harmon, Harmon."

"Well, okay," I amend, wondering why I'm even admitting this much—but it can't hurt—too badly—right? "So we may be working towards something a little more mutually fulfilling."

He turns back, all signs of disapproval gone as his face takes on an expression of keen interest.

"Really? You and Mac finally decided to go for it?"

"You could say that."

"So this Friday is your special day, huh?"

"You could also say that." If I figure out a solution to this wedding conundrum.

"Your first big date."

"Uh, well, you know, I—"

"So where are you taking her?"

I snap my jaw closed before anything top secret comes out. "What do you mean?"

"To dinner. You're taking her out to eat, right?"

Well, yes, I suppose we'll dine before the wedding. Or maybe after. Waaaaay after.

"Uh, yeah. Um, I haven't decided."

"What's the holdup, buddy? You've got to get your reservations in today if you want to be ready for the big day tomorrow."

Tell me about it.

"You're not getting cold feet, are you?"

"About mar—er, Mac?" He nods. I shake my head no. No, I'm certain that I want to marry Mac.

"Good. So why the indecision?"

I sigh. "I just want everything to be perfect. I mean we've waited so long…"

"My advice is not to over-think it, Harm."

Easy for you to say. Tomorrow represents the single most important day of my life. Tomorrow represents my future happiness with the single most important woman to me in the world. Tomorrow means everything.

"It doesn't matter to Mac if you take her to a five star restaurant or if you buy her a shake and an order of fries at Beltway. All she cares about," he continues, sounding like one of those annoying advice columnists, "is being with you. You got to make her feel special."

Scratch that, he sounds more like a pitchman for a Hallmark commercial.

"Anybody can take her out for an expensive meal, but a true gentleman knows just how to make her feel like a very special lady."

Better yet, excerpt read from A Bubblehead's guide to Dating.

"So you see, it's not how much money you spend, it's what you say—how you make her feel. And buddy that's what you should really be worried about." Gee, thanks, Sturgis.

"Given your history with Mac you have the potential of completely making an ass out of yourself and quite possibly ruining any chance of a serious relationship with a woman you have definite feelings for, whether you'll admit that or not," he adds under his breath. "But, say the right thing and nobody in this office has to worry about wearing a flak jacket and protective head gear Monday morning."

Well, I'm glad we had this little talk. Maybe it's a good thing we're not going public with our relationship and our wedding, and having a traditional ceremony and wedding party, because if you were best man, Sturgis, I think I'd fire you after that speech.

"Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Later Harm. Let me know if you need, you know, any help with the arrangements." He flashes a conspiratorial smile and leaves me to mull over his advice.

It brings an aspect I'd rather not think about. So far, everything has been going great between Mac and I. I've actually managed to chew on a few things without the taste of shoe leather tainting them. I've decided I like not having foot-in-mouth syndrome. And I definitely don't want to reacquaint myself with the sensation the day before my honeymoon begins, short though it be. Which brings me back to the real issue at hand.

I push Sturgis's comments aside and log onto the weather site one last time.

We're screwed.

I push away from the desk and the computer monitor I've been staring at with feverish intensity for the last hour or so.

Any way I look at it or any way the forecasters predict it, Tropical Cyclone Ana is going to drop anchor on Paradise Island by Friday. She won't leave port, by the looks of it, until the following Monday.

In other words, all our plans for a nice romantic wedding on the beach and a steamy honeymoon have been swept away by tropical winds a-blowin'.

Dammit.

Why is it as soon as Harm and I decide to go for something together everything in the universe conspires to keep it from happening? First it was our entire relationship, then our first romantic weekend together and now our romantic wedding.

Is this some kind of cosmic sign that we're not meant to be together? Or perhaps it's another message. That if we fess up, then we wouldn't have to resort to sneaking around—we could just blatantly ask for what we wanted. Say, a weekend off together. Or a week. Or a wedding. With Sturgis and Bud. And Harriet. And the admiral and Meredith. Coates, Tiner, and Gunny. Harm's mom and stepdad. Uncle Matt. Dress whites. Formal ceremony. Flowers. Cake.

Little A.J. dressed in his best suit and tie, holding the satin pillow bearing the rings that signify our love and commitment to one another as the chaplain precedes us in the vows of marriage, while our closest friends and our families look on. Harm, resplendent in dress whites and gold wings, smiling that drop dead gorgeous pilot smile of his, his green eyes so perfectly clear and soft, staring deeply into mine as he repeats each word of promise to me. The quiet sniffle of Harriet behind me, a flicker of motion registered out of the corner of my eye, as she raises a soggy Kleenex to dab at her eyes.

I can just hear her voice, "Oh, ma'am, I am so happy for you! You and the commander will be so happy! Ma'am? Ma'am?"

"Ma'am!"

"Uh, yes, Harriet, did you need something?" I ask, as though I haven't been a million miles away dreaming about my nuptials with Harm.

"Yes, ma'am. Those depositions you wanted on the Muller case are in."

"Oh, thank you, Harriet. You can set them down on my desk." I fight the urge to role my eyes after she glances at my desk with a rather dubious look. Really, it's not that bad. I even went through some of my case files and cleared some off. Currently, my desk looks the cleanest I've seen it, and there's quite frankly plenty of room to add some new file folders without them falling victim to the masses.

She approaches slowly, as though a manila folder might reach out and attack her, and eyes the stacks—neatly piled, I might add—with trepidation. After glancing around she finally settles on one and adds the deposition to the top. We both hold our breath as the pile of files teeters dangerously before slowly, gracefully, dipping to the right and collapsing with an inelegant splat.

"Sorry, ma'am," she says, hastily reaching for the piles of folders pressed against the desk on the floor.

"That's okay," I sigh. I've long since determined the day—the week—is not going to get any better from this point forward. I scoot my chair back and join her on the floor, scooping up papers and folders.

As I go about the mindless task of organizing and sorting papers and folders, my mind, aided by Harriet's casual remarks, slowly drifts to the details of my impending nuptials.

There's still a lot to be done and, as the saying goes, not a lot of time to do it. There's the subject of what to wear, which I still haven't decided on. Should it be something semi-traditional—white, off white—or something completely different? A floral sarong and matching bikini top?

Yikes. What am I saying? Tropical wedding or not, there's no way our kids are going to look back on our wedding photos and see their mom and dad in swim trunks, a string bikini and flip-flops. Nope, there's nothing wrong with a nice dress and some strappy shoes. Of course, then you have sand between your toes, but—

Oh, face it, MacKenzie. You're not getting married to this weekend. There'll be no Mr. And Mrs. Harmon Rabb, Jr. staying at Paradise Condominiums this weekend. There'll be no reggae rendition of the wedding march as you take your place next to Harm on your sandy altar. No moonlit—

"So, do you have any plans for this weekend?" Harriet interrupts.

"Nothing definite." Seeing as I may or may not be getting married. "Why?"

"No reason," she answers quickly. "Just thought you might have something special planned."

I freeze at the implication. Oh, crap, how did she find out? Was I talking out loud?

Given my current mental state, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, but there's no way I could casually mention my upcoming wedding and Harriet still be talking in tones found on the mid-range of the treble scale.

"Well, nothing definite's been planned."

"You mean he hasn't asked you yet?" And there her voice does jump an octave. Harriet stares at me with surprised eyes.

"Asked me what?" Is she…? No way, she can't…What is she talking about?

"Never mind," she replies quickly. "Nothing. I was just thinking… something… else."

"Harriet…"

"It's totally not important right now. Just forget it."

"Harriet, 'hasn't asked me what'?"

Her brow furrows. "What?"

"You said, he hasn't asked me yet. Who's he?" We're not going to work on the "what" just yet.

"Oh, um, Bud!"

This time it's my turn for my brow to furrow. "Bud?"

"Yeah, Bud." She looks as surprised as I am.

"What was Bud going to ask me?"

"Uh, um, I don't remember."

"Harriet?"

"Yes ma'am?" she asks innocently, twisting her ring round her finger.

I consider pursuing the issue. But I'm pretty sure it's going to lead somewhere that I don't want to have to discuss if the situation presents itself. The smart thing to do here, McKenzie, is to just let it go.

"Uh, never mind."