"Reminiscent"

A/N: Takes place sometime after "The Hide." Sam stumbles across Andrew Foyle again. What will this mean for her future with Adam, and what does it make of her past? Andrew/Sam (with hints of Foyle/Sam).

The late September afternoon whistled around Sam Stewart as she walked through the village, the shopping bag she carried bumping gently against her leg in time with her step. She paused, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her shoulders. Looking at the street that curved away to the left, she swallowed hard, trying to make up her mind. She gripped her bag and looked around her. No one was paying attention to the young woman standing on the pavement. Adam was away in London, so she had the whole day to herself. It was this, and the fact that she was standing so close to a once familiar street, that she determinedly turned to the left.

"Why not?" Sam thought, reasoning with herself, "Why shouldn't I walk past and make sure it looks alright?" Her stomach flopped in anticipation as the house on Steep Lane came into sight. Memories of driving Foyle to and fro, and of the time she had stayed in his back room came bubbling up to the surface of her mind. Even in the midst of war, those moments remained happy. It was the sense of purpose and of being a part of something larger that was so exciting when she looked back on her war years.

First, it was the War Effort that needed her, but then it became, or so she had felt, that Foyle needed her. She missed calling at Steep Lane now and then since he had left for America. She and Adam had received a lovely postcard from him not long ago, and she had put it on a bookshelf in the lounge so she could see it everyday. It was then she had realized how much a part of her life Foyle actually was, as well as how important he was to her – they had been through a lot together.

Looking up at the house now, taking in every detail and remembering those first days of working for Foyle, she sighed. Her chest felt very heavy and her mind whirled, unsure and contemplative. She loved this house – not just because it belonged to Foyle, but also because it had stayed unchanged and familiar. It was a constant – not unlike Foyle himself – in the midst of a world that was changing rapidly.

Suddenly, a movement past the lounge window caught her eye, and she gasped, her heart leaping, wondering if Foyle was home already. Then, thinking this unlikely, her mind went to burglars. The look on Sam's face must have been quite comical, because when Andrew Foyle opened the door all he could do was laugh. He walked down the steps towards her, flashing his warm smile. Sam recovered quickly, and cried, "Andrew!"

"Hallo, Sam!"

Mindful of the neighbors, he took her free hand and pressed it between his own, grinning happily at her. She laughed in amazement at seeing him, feeling pleased. "Come in for tea, Sam," said Andrew, "I expect you're starving."

She smiled at him, "Lovely!" He took her shopping bag and led the way back up the steps.

"I was just about to make a pot," Andrew said over his shoulder as he moved towards the kitchen. "Do come in and make yourself at home."

Sam followed him, looking around at the house, glad to see everything in its place as usual. It was like Foyle had never left, which gave her some comfort.

"Andrew, what are you doing back in Hastings?" Sam asked, coming into the kitchen.

He pulled two teacups from a cupboard and sighed, "Well, what I was doing in London didn't work out, so I thought I would come back here for a few weeks and figure out something."

"You aren't moping, I hope," said Sam with a smile.

Andrew laughed, remembering when they first had come to know each other, so many years ago. "No, I've been quite busy really," he said, making the tea, "I've been changing the attic into a workstation. More likely it will be a place where I stare out of the window for hours on end instead of writing, but there we are."

Watching him go through the motions of making tea, Sam thought how more impatient his movements were, whereas his father always moved methodically. This thought was pushed away as Andrew passed her a plate of scones and a pot of jam. "I say, Andrew! These look lovely – did you make them?" exclaimed Sam, looking at the plate as if she hadn't eaten in days.

"No, I bought them this morning." Andrew turned again, this time with the teapot in hand. He sat across from her, "Shall I pour?"

Sam nodded, already heaping jam onto her scone. "Why didn't London work out?" she asked casually.

Andrew paused, then said slowly, "Well, there was this girl…"

Sam laughed, but not unkindly. He grinned sheepishly at her from the other side of the teapot, "Yes, well…But in all truth, Sam, London isn't really for me. It's too busy, and noisy, and not all conducive for writing. Half the time I was away from London with friends anyway. They all seem to have families who live in the country, so we would escape most weekends. I was constantly being distracted – there are so many places to go and have a good time. But I was soon running out of money and then the girl I was walking out with left me for a chap who sells drapes or something equally boring, so I said to myself, why not come back home and think things through a bit."

"Well, it was very sensible of you, Andrew. Does your father know you are here?"

"Yes, I wrote to him, though I haven't a clue if he's actually received it or not." Andrew leaned forward, grinning, "Can you imagine Dad in America? I thought he'd gone mad when he called me up to tell me! Unfinished business – gosh, he made it sound so grim. Wouldn't say a word about it, of course."

Sam nodded, her mouth full. As he'd been talking she had observed him, curious to see if he looked different. He wore a light blue shirt, nice and fresh looking, which brought out the color in his eyes. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows and suspenders hung limply at his waist. No matter what he wore, or how he wore it, Andrew always looked tidy, yet cheeky. She noticed that his hair was longer, falling over his forehead at random, enhancing the mischievous look Sam liked about him. She found herself appreciating the curve of his shoulders under the thin shirt, and wondered slightly at her thoughts. It wasn't as if Adam wasn't good looking – he was very handsome. "But Andrew will always be different and special in my eyes," Sam reasoned with herself, "He was my first love, and I suppose that must count for something."

Unbeknownst to Sam, Andrew was doing the same thing, appraising her as he talked. He missed her long, curling tresses. It was strange to see Sam after so long. He always thought he would be a bit embarrassed to see her after suggesting marriage in such a haphazard way, but was pleased to feel easy companionship with Sam instead. It was nice to see the ruddy glow in her cheeks was still there, as well as the laughter in her eyes. If it was possible, he found her more radiant than ever, and felt slightly giddy. The new clothes she wore suited her well, and he let his eyes wander comfortably.

They both realized the silence between them at the same time, and grinned, finding each other's eyes. Sam spoke first, "It is so nice to see you again, Andrew. So many old friends have left Hastings. I suppose I would have had to leave as well, if it wasn't for Adam…" She froze, suddenly very aware of the ring on her left hand. It was a simple, silver band that Adam's grandmother had left him.

"Who is Adam?" Andrew asked, trying not to sound too curious.

Sam looked down at her lap, worried she was about to make their lovely tea awkward, "Adam Wainwright – he is my fiancé. We met in London while I was helping your father with a case. He had a guesthouse down here and we were running it together. Now he is working towards becoming involved in local politics." Sam said this all very quickly and then looked at Andrew cautiously.

He smiled ruefully and nodded, "Good for you, Sam – I'm pleased that you've found someone."

Sam thanked him graciously and took a sip of tea.

"Tell me about him," Andrew said, sitting back in his chair, "I'd like to know – that is, if you don't mind."

Sam nodded eagerly, glad to talk about her new life with an old friend. It was easy to talk with Andrew. He was rather like his father in that way, and she remembered many times when they had talked for hours when he'd been home on leave. So, while munching, Sam told Andrew all that had happened since she'd last seen him.

By the time she was done with her news, the tea and scones were gone. They talked a bit more about what Andrew had seen and done in London before he stood and began to clear away the cups and plates. "Come with me a moment, Sam," he said, walking into the lounge, "I'd like to show you what I've been working on." He led the way upstairs, and then up a smaller flight at the end of corridor.

Sam was surprised to see a fairly large, open room as they emerged from the narrow stairs at the top of the house. He had organized and stacked all the old boxes and furniture at the far end, leaving an open space near the window. His desk stood there, to right of the open window, just under the eaves of the roof, and it was already cluttered with papers.

"I knew Dad wouldn't mind if I changed a few things around – he never comes up here. I think it is where he hides away memories." Andrew knelt down, the shape of his strong back pressing through his shirt. Sam's stomach tightened unpleasantly. "This is the little stove I've put in to keep this room warm in winter," he opened a little door, "see?" He grinned like a youngster with a new toy.

She let him take her around the entire room, opening the cupboards and looking through the window at the view of the sea. "You've done a wonderful job up here, Andrew. It's nice and peaceful. Maybe you will be able to get some work done now!" She smiled at him, "Have you been working on anything lately?"

He nodded, pulling a sheet of paper from a pile on his desk, "Here, I'd like to know what you think of this one – it is a poem I started yesterday." Andrew sat on the edge of the desk and cleared his throat, reminding Sam of another man who often did that. She smiled to herself and settled down in an old armchair that was missing a cushion. Andrew began to recite, only glancing at the paper for guidance:

In uncertain times we rally 'round,
Soon finding ourselves duty bound,
But all eager and determined.

Our youth is gone, up in smoke,
And we tell ourselves it's just a joke:
"We'll all be home by morning!"

The Spits rumble, roar, and cry,
The battle's worth half the chance to fly,
And we risk it for a thrill.

But on the ground,
Comes an awful sound,
Of death in numbers scarcely known.

And over coffee, in hushed tones,
Wondering if our words are merely moans,
We say, "Oh, where has the party gone?"

Andrew stopped, "That's all I have at the moment, and it still needs a lot of work."

"It's a bit bleak, Andrew, but I think what you have to say is interesting," Sam paused, hoping she hadn't just offended him.

Andrew nodded, thoughtful, "Yes, perhaps I should be a bit more 'Wordsworth' and write about flowers and nice weather, especially since life is still bleak for most people." He smiled and set the paper down, looking out of the window, "I'm hoping being here will help me get my head on straight."

Sam rose from the chair and came to stand next to him, staring out to sea. "If writing helps you deal with what you had to experience during the war, then you're head is on straight enough," she said, trying to be reassuring.

He nodded, "It's over and we came through it alright, and I shouldn't spoil our afternoon with my musings. Come on, let's sit in the garden and enjoy the sun."

They moved towards the stairs, Sam following Andrew as he descended. About half way down, Sam missed her footing and without warning, tumbled down a few steps and into Andrew. She felt as if her stomach had flown into her throat, and it was hard to breath. He caught her, pulling her to her feet, with her back against the wall for support.

"Are you alright?" he asked concernedly.

His face was close. She could see where he had nicked himself shaving, and his strong hands were around her waist, holding her carefully. The scent of his aftershave filled her nostrils and her mind went blank.

It was the familiar smell of Foyle. It had filled the Wolseley each morning as they made their way to the Police Station, and now it brought a wave of memories. Andrew must have used a bottle that had been left behind. And suddenly her hands were in his hair, pulling his lips down to meet hers. Andrew's surprise was quickly replaced with eagerness, and he pressed his body along the length of Sam's, burying his face in her neck. He let his hands wander, exploring the lovely body he had appraised earlier over a cup of tea. He felt her respond, but then Sam gasped, and pushed him away with force, murmuring, "no, no."

Andrew took a step back, but didn't let go of her, "I'm sorry, I – "

But before he could apologize, Sam spoke, "Andrew, do not be sorry. It was my fault completely… I don't know what came over me. You have nothing to be sorry for, and if anything, I'm grateful for you coming to my rescue."

Still holding her hand, Andrew led her carefully down the rest of the flight of stairs and sat with her on the bottom step. While checking her ankle, he said, "Sam, do you remember when you let me hide out in your rooms when I was afraid of flying and getting burnt?"

She nodded and let him put his arm around her shoulders. He continued, "Never did I want to make love to you more, but your innocence, and the fact that you worked with my father worried me. I seem to remember I tried my best anyway, but I've grown up since then, and I certainly won't try anything with you now."

Sam smiled and sighed, "Probably a good idea, since I'm not sure how well I'd do at fighting you off this time. I don't know why I…"

She shook her head, annoyed at herself. She felt worried as well, because it wasn't Andrew himself who had sent her over the edge, but the memories of another Foyle, and that troubled her. She felt rotten about what had just happened with Andrew, and mentally kicked herself for losing control.

She said nothing to Andrew; instead she passed it off as pre-marriage nerves. He was very kind and understanding, if not a bit amused. He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, "We won't mention it, Sam, and no harm done in the end, especially since you are still in one piece."

They made their way back to the kitchen and Sam retrieved her shopping bag. "You'll come to dinner with Adam and I next week some time, won't you? And if you want, you may come to the wedding with your father. "

Andrew grinned and nodded, leaning against the door frame in boyish fashion, hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Sam."

He suddenly stood up and crossed his arms, looking serious, " You know I always thought…" he paused, glancing at her from under his fringe.

Sam froze again, willing him not to say it, not to think it. She followed his eyes from the old, worn green trilby that hung on the stand next to her, back to her own eyes. She stared back him defiantly. He came forward a few steps, and in a voice that was an uncanny imitation of Foyle's, he said, "Look, if something is bothering you, Sam, I want you to know I'm a friend first and foremost."

Sam looked at her hands, unable to meet his eyes now. "He knows," she thought miserably, "what must he think?" She wanted to tell him everything, and nearly did so, but then the moment passed. She looked into his face and said firmly, "Thank you, Andrew, but I'm fine. I love Adam and I know we have a wonderful life ahead of us."

Andrew stepped back, feeling a bit disappointed that his curiosity had got the better of him, and also that she hadn't spoken freely. He felt he should have let things be and not asked, but he couldn't help it – after what had happened on the stairs, he felt he had to know. Though he had his own ideas, he wanted to know why.

"Forgive me, Sam, I didn't mean to pry. I wish you and Adam all the best, and look forward to meeting him." He chewed his lip in a way so reminiscent of Foyle that Sam had to look away. She suddenly felt like she might cry, so she took a deep breath and picked up her bag. She nodded her head, "You're a good man, Andrew Foyle."

They smiled at each other and left it at that, relieved to be parting on good terms again. He leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek, opening the door for her. "You are always free to come by, Sam. It is nice to see a familiar face again."

And as she waved goodbye, walking away from him, Andrew had the feeling that they had both missed an important opportunity.

TBC?