Disclaimer: Characters belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes.
Rating: T
Genre: Drama
Spoilers: Whole series
Summary: Each chapter is a mini story inspired by a piece of music. There's no real sequence to (or, in most cases, relationships between) the chapters. The story's title is inspired by a quote often attributed to Plato.


Chapter One: "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me"

May 1997

As someone who was always punctual, and went out of his way to be so, Gregory invariably found himself annoyed when someone he was due to meet was late. Tardiness was a sign of incompetence. A signal which suggested the other person did not value his time. Not to mention, he detested waiting for someone else. He had no patience for it.

Tonight's offender?

His wife.

He glared, feeling on display as the only person at a table clearly set for two in the middle of Grenadine's. Their nearly twenty-five-year marriage was clouded with infidelity and dysfunction. He could practically hear the whispers from the other table. They should have divorced years ago, you know. Poor Gregory – can you imagine putting up with a wife like that? Looks like Olivia's fallen off the wagon…again.

Olivia knew he hated waiting. Furthermore, he rescheduled a meeting with a jury consultant for Elaine's upcoming trial to be here. Waiting. For. HER. His watch hung heavy on his wrist, its weight like iron chains, as he resisted the urge to check the time. Again. There was no bother. It would only show what he already knew: Olivia was late. Almost thirty minutes late.

I should just leave.

He paused as a chill raced down his spine. Part of him was disappointed the old antagonism could rear its head so quickly. Just a few weeks ago, he would have left. Hell, he wouldn't even have agreed to have dinner at Grenadine's with his wife a short time ago. But, things had changed between them. Sean's surgery had seen to it. Now, they lived in such a way that he did look forward to seeing her across the restaurant's table. Now, they lived in such a way that he rescheduled his meeting with the jury consultant without a second thought. Now, they lived in such a way that he eagerly anticipated having her to himself for a few hours.

And now, she was late.

The other part of him agreed with the raging voice that hissed from the darkest corner of his mind. He should leave. He should leave her to find the table empty. He should leave her to stand in the middle of Grenadine's, feeling like a goddamned fool. He should leave her to withstand all the whispers.

With an annoyed inhale, Gregory reached for his glass of wine. The thirty-year-old Pichon Lalande may have been the only good thing to come from this fiasco of an evening. He raised the crystal glass, intending to let the nose distract him from his wife's absence, when he heard someone clear their throat. He looked up and found the waiter standing near his left elbow. Instantly, he felt a flood of irritation go through him. The young kid clearly had no concept of what it meant to see someone waiting. This was the fourth time he'd been back to the table. As he lowered the glass, the waiter placed a glass of scotch on the table. "What's that?" he asked bluntly.

The waiter leaned down, his mouth oddly – and, uncomfortably – close to Gregory's ear. "Compliments of the lady at the bar."

Gregory looked up and followed the waiter's gaze. The bar was on the other side of the restaurant, close to where the host stood. Dim lights shone down from overhead, glowing on the warm wood. The woman sat at one of the high stools, one shapely leg crossed over the other. He felt their eyes meet before she smirked and turned away, her posture perfect.

He looked down at the scotch. He was angry. He hated waiting. He hated that Olivia made him feel like a fool. Slowly, he placed the glass of Bordeaux aside and pushed his chair back from the table. As he stood, redoing the buttons of his suit's coat, he murmured, "Recork the bottle." He ignored the clearly amused grin the kid sent him as he reached for the scotch and turned for the bar.

As he crossed the restaurant, the music he barely noticed at his now-abandoned table became louder. A pianist sat in the corner, next to the bar, a jazzy melody resonating beneath his warm baritone. The woman's back was still to him, her hair swept up to reveal the tantalizing flesh of her neck. He cleared his throat, his hand touching the back of the empty stool next to her. "May I?" She glanced up, her eyes flashing as she smirked again and nodded. He slid onto the seat next to her and placed the glass of scotch between them. "Thank you for the drink."

She turned slightly, her body leaned in towards him as she said, "You're welcome."

He raised the glass, the single ice cube clinking against the crystal. "Cheers," he said softly. She nodded, repeated him in a breathy sigh, and watched him closely as their glasses touched.

As he sipped the scotch and let the alcohol warm his chest, she lowered her glass. "I noticed you when I walked in." His eyes turned up, watching the woman over the rim of his glass, as she continued, "And, I thought to myself, 'That's a man who doesn't look like he dines alone'."

He ruefully chuckled into his glass before he set it back on the bar. "I'm not. Not usually."

"It sounds as if there's a 'but' coming."

Gregory leaned in, catching a trace of her perfume. "But, my wife stood me up."

She clicked her tongue and shook her head sadly. "No-class broad."

With a deep-felt laugh that was atypical of him, he turned to her and felt their knees brush together. The laughter was an odd sensation after the blinding anger which coursed through him only moments ago. His hand brushed against her kneecap, his fingers whistling against her silk stockings. "I don't think my wife would describe herself that way."

"That's because you're sitting here with me. Not her."

His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth as her words sunk in. Their old way of living was a bright red light before him, flashing urgently. Beyond the light was the point of no return. He was angry. He hated waiting. He hated that Olivia made him feel like a fool. "Yes," he replied, moving past the point of no return. "Our marriage…has been less than perfect at times.".

She nodded, reaching for her drink. "Mine too. I'm here because my husband is furious with me."

As her head went back, his eyes watched the string of pearls and diamonds clinging to her throat. A larger pearl at the center rested in the hollow of her throat and he found himself suddenly desiring to brush it aside. To feel the flesh of her throat against his fingers. To feel her throat vibrate as she breathed. Slowly, she looked back at him, a smile dancing on her lips. Her smile suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking. "But, enough about them," she said softly, her fingers dancing over the back of his hand.

The opening notes of a familiar song drifted between them and he looked up, his hand falling away from her knee. He hadn't heard it in years. "Let me guess," he heard the woman say as he watched the pianist began to sing, "it's your song. Yours and your wife's."

And every step I take recalls
How much in love we used to be

He smirked to himself as he reached for his scotch and turned back to her. "Not exactly," he replied, his words echoing in the well of the glass.

She leaned in, her eyebrow arched as she placed her hand on his thigh. A pulse went through him as their eyes met, her palm burning through the material of his pants. "Not exactly?"

"Mr. Richards?" Gregory looked up and saw Julius, the maître d', at his side. The older man wore an expression of deep concern as he glanced between the woman and himself. "I noticed you and Mrs. Richards weren't at your table." He felt Olivia take her hand off his thigh as she turned into her glass, choking back laughter. "Is something not to your satisfaction?"

He stood up, resting his hand on Olivia's shoulder. "As it turns out, Julius, neither of us is very hungry."

"Not hungry?" the older man asked incredulously as Olivia exclaimed, "But, darling-"

"Put everything from the table and the bar on my tab. Also, what's-his-name was going to recork the Pichon Lalande and-"

"It's here," he interjected, holding up a slim box with the barely touched bottle of wine.

"Excellent. Have the valet bring our cars around."

The older man nodded, pocketed the bills Gregory passed him, and turned away as quickly as he appeared. Gregory put the box on his abandoned chair as he turned to his wife. "But, darling," she insisted, "I haven't eaten yet!"

He leaned in, his hand trailing down her back to briefly graze her rear. "After your 'come hither' routine, there's no way I'm sitting through several courses of nonsense." No, not now. Not after the way her little game turned him on. Either they left now or they were going to embarrass themselves in the coat check closet.

Her blue eyes flashed as she glanced up and slowly slid off the stool. He knew that flush in her neck. That desperateness behind the way she quickly licked her lips. That urgent way her body pressed against his own, her hips against his groin. Her forearms pressed against him as she splayed her hands on his chest and his molded to her hips. "I am sorry I was late," she whispered, her apology dripping with sincerity as she looked up at him. "I know you hate waiting. But, my last meeting went far longer than planned and-"

He leaned in, his lips against hers as he kissed her for the first time since they left the house that morning. She pressed herself closer and he felt her hands curl around the lapels of his suit coat as she drew him in. This was the balm to the blinding anger from earlier: her presence. The way her body felt in his arms. The way her lips felt against his own. He squeezed her hips and he felt the way she inhaled her gasp. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry you're going to bed hungry," he growled before he stepped back.

Hungry, but satisfied. Mutually.

Olivia tilted her head and smirked as he took the wine box in one hand and her hand with the other. "Did you really remember the song?" she asked as he led them out of the restaurant.

He nodded, feeling her fingers lace through his own. "It was the morning after your first time staying the night." He was living in a condo at the marina club then. After their relationship ignited more than a week earlier, he brought her home, curious to see what waking with her next to him would feel like. She wasn't like his other girlfriends, the ones he never let spend the night in his bed. But, with her, he couldn't get enough. He had seen her every night since they had spoken at Bette's party. It wasn't just lust, although that was a part of it. No, it was the feeling that she was somehow an inherently different woman in his life. However, despite his intentions, he had woken to an empty bed and the rich aroma of fresh coffee perfuming the air. "You were in the kitchen, singing along to it on the radio, as you tried to make breakfast."

"Darling, I did make breakfast," she insisted as he held open the restaurant's door for her. They stepped out into the warm night and he hooked his arm around her waist. "I can't do much in the kitchen, but I could always make coffee and boil an egg."

He chuckled, his arm tight around her as they reached the valet stand. A moment later, he felt her hand slip beneath his suit coat to rub his back. "Oh, and Liv," he began softly, as if he was unfazed, "no-class broad?"

She giggled and glanced up, her hand still as it pressed into the small of his back. The amusement shining in her eyes made him grin as she admitted, "I heard it on an episode of Hart to Hart years and years ago. I always wanted the chance to use it."

Gregory rolled his eyes as he pulled her in, their chests flush together. "Hart to Hart?" he scoffed as she shrugged bashfully. With a soft laugh, her fingertips danced along his jaw. Out the corner of his eye, he saw her car pull up, followed promptly by his. "Let me drive you home," he murmured against her lips.

"But, darling, my car-"

"I'll send Tim back for it in the morning. The kid needs something to do since he's not driving you around anymore."

She watched him for a long moment, her brow arched as a thoughtful expression swept over her face. "Is your car going to run out of gas?" she wondered.

He shrugged as the valet leapt out of the drivers' seat and came around to open the passenger door of his car. He still wanted her as much as he did on the night of their first date all those years ago. That night when he slipped the car out of gear and let it jerk to a stop on a deserted ocean-access road outside of town. "It might," he murmured, remembering the way her hot breath felt against his neck all those years ago as the low sound of music from the car's radio gave him away.

With a sigh, she slipped from his embrace and sauntered over to his waiting car. As she did, she reached up and slowly pulled out the clip holding her hair up. A groan rose in his throat and he bit his lip, watching as she reached up and tousled the newly freed hair. Then, she peeked over her shoulder, flashed him a coquettish smile, and slipped into the passenger seat.


A/N: The chapter title and lyrics are from "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me" (written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David).