Jan Fields-Dixon, an energetic and hard working professional herself, never gave Scott an inch. “Well, me lord,” she’d remark sarcastically, regardless of where they were or who they were with. “If you’re so tired of the Army, why don’t you quit? I could always use a good wife to take care of the home and all the little chores I simply don’t have time to deal with.”

Going along with the act, Scott would throw his hands up in the air. “No respect. I don’t get any respect. Who do I look like, Rodney Dangerfield?”

Jan, of course, knew whom, or more correctly, what she had married. Not that she was ever given a chance to forget. As a television journalist, she had covered everything from wars to sexual misconduct in the military. All too often she found herself in the awkward position of having to file reports that did not show the Army at its best. Scott, a career soldier, never said a word to her about anything she did professionally despite the fact that he was often the target of close scrutiny and, on occasion, pressure because of her stories. That he allowed her to continue, without comment, never ceased to amaze her. Jan had seen far too many colleagues lose spouses over conflicts of interest that were far more trifling than the ones she and Scott routinely faced. So it was not without good reason that she often found herself thanking her lucky stars that she and Scott somehow always managed to see their way through every tempest and road block that going against conventional wisdom threw at them.

This inconvenience was, of course, a double edged sword that cut into Jan’s career just as deeply as it did Scott’s. Many of her fellow journalists, biased against the military, saw Jan as little more than a mouthpiece for that institution and all it stood for. More than once she had seen her stories criticized not for what they said, but simply because she was perceived as nothing more than “the dutiful little wife of a professional Neanderthal.” Such attitudes, and the need to move about the country, left Jan to face hard decisions as to what her true priorities were, time and time again.

Deciding that he had burned as much time as he dared, Scott turned the shower off. It never ceased to amaze him how Jan had made their marriage work while maintaining her own professional dreams and personal dignity. Even now, just hours before his oldest son was to graduate, he could hear the television in the other room blaring as she did her best to keep her finger on the pulse of the latest development of the day’s hot news story. Anxious himself to hear if anything of value was being released to the media, Scott leaned over and pushed the bathroom door open a smidgen.

“That’s right, Katherine,” a serious, monotone male voice responded to a question Scott had not heard. “The people here are most impressive in the manner in which they are handling the situation they faced.” Scott found himself chuckling. Whoever was doing the yakking on TV definitely wasn’t talking about the FBI.