Chapter 1
"You know you don't have to do this."
Beverly Crusher looked up from where she was seated on her bed, placing the last of her personal items in her carryall.
Closing it with a decisive snap, she stood and turned to face her friend – and finding the grief of his recent loss still clouding his otherwise handsome face.
"Neither do you," she reminded Jean-Luc Picard gently.
He sighed then shook his head. "I wish I could agree with you, Beverly – but I owe it to Marie to get these matters resolved. I should have done it as soon as we reached Earth…" he began only to let the rest of the sentence fade into silence.
On the long trip home from Veridian III, where the Enterprise D had met its fate, he had been in near-constant contact with his sister-in-law, at first sharing their mutual grief over the deaths his brother and nephew, Robert and René, then slowly moving to matters of short-term importance – then to ones that would have a lasting effect on them both. He had planned to join her in France as soon as they had returned to Earth – but Starfleet had other plans, including an exhaustive and exhausting court martial over the loss of the flagship of the Federation. After too many grueling weeks, that matter had finally been resolved only to be supplanted by the demands of the Admiralty that he oversee the completion of the Enterprise E at the Utopia Planitia shipyards.
The work was far from done, but Starfleet had finally granted him a brief leave: officially because he had was entitled to the bereavement leave, but more because of the New Year's holiday slowdown at the shipyards – and when the workers returned with the change of year, their demands on his time would dramatically escalate as the ship neared completion. Picard knew full well that if he didn't take them time now, there was every chance he might not be back to Earth for months – or years.
Still, to try to resolve these matters that still stabbed so close to his heart was hard enough – to resolve them during the traditional Earth holidays was even more difficult.
"Nonetheless, Beverly," he continued, "it's hardly the way to spend one's Christmas and New Year's, talking with lawyers and accountants," he reminded her.
To his relief, she simply smiled. "I'm not going to be the one dealing with the lawyers, Jean-Luc; that's for you to do. I'm just going along for moral support."
"Nonetheless…"
"Nonetheless," she went on, "I've never been one to really celebrate Christmas – and to be honest, I really don't want to go to Will's New Year's Eve party."
Picard smiled. "Don't tell him – but neither do I. I appreciate what he's trying to do for crew morale – but given my choice, I'd rather have spent it in my quarters. But rank hath its obligations," he said with a sigh.
"Ah hah," she said. "So that's why you claimed you had a headache after the first hour last year: your obligations were fulfilled and therefore you could sneak out."
"I didn't 'sneak'," he said disdainfully. "I informed Will I was leaving – and, if memory serves, I was accompanied by my Chief Medical Officer," he pointed out.
"Who was concerned about her captain's health," she replied.
"And when she couldn't find a cause for his headache, sacrificed the remainder of her evening off to stay with him, just in case there should be a development in his case," he reminded her. "At least this year we both have a legitimate excuse to avoid the festivities. It's purely coincidental that we don't return to the ship until January third," he concluded dryly.
They both laughed then Beverly reached for the strap of the carryall – only to have Jean-Luc gallantly take it from her. "Let me," he said, then slid the strap onto his shoulder – then offered his free arm to her.
A little surprised by the overt expression of affection from the normally reserved man, she accepted it before letting him guide her into the corridor.
"You've had the supplies beamed down to the house?" she asked.
Picard nodded. "Our clothes, supplies, food for several days – you'll have to tolerate my cooking, I'm afraid: Robert didn't believe in replicators…"
"So you've said," she replied. "However, I can do my share of the cooking. I used to be a fairly good cook when Jack and I were newlyweds – though after Wesley came along, I got out of the habit."
He nodded, remembering several of the meals he had shared with the young couple: Beverly had, indeed, been a good cook – but the meals had always lay heavy in his stomach. It hadn't been her cooking, of course, but his own unexpressed feelings for his hostess that had tainted his appreciation of those meals.
But that had been years ago, he reminded himself; now Beverly knew how he felt about her – and though they had tacitly agreed not to move forward with their romantic feelings, they had continued their friendship. Now, he thought to himself with a smile, if there's a lump in my stomach after the meal, it will be from her cooking.
Or mine, he added.
"So what's on the agenda?" she asked.
"We're transporting to Paris first. I have a meeting this afternoon with my lawyer… What?" he asked as he felt a soft chuckle roll through her body.
"I'm sorry – but it's just odd to think of the inestimable Jean-Luc Picard as having a lawyer," Beverly said.
"A necessary evil, even in our time," he said with a sigh. "I can't use our family lawyer, as she represents Marie, so I've secured counsel from a firm in Paris. He'll represent me while I'm away from Earth in matters regarding the transfer of the estate."
"Transfer of the estate?" she countered, surprised.
He stopped in mid-step and turned to face her. "She… Marie can't go back there. Legally, the estate and the vineyards are hers, of course – Robert's will left them to her, but…"
Beverly reached a hand to his face, her long fingers gently stroking the angle of his jaw. "I understand," she said softly, commiserating both with her friend and with the widow of his brother. "She can't go back there," she said knowingly.
He shook his head. "No. I'll be honest, I'm not looking forward to it either. Growing up there was difficult enough – but going back now…"
Going back, Beverly thought, and coming face to face with the reality that he was going to be the last Picard to occupy the house, that his family line ended – with him.
He drew a long breath, then turned away and started walking down the hall once more, Beverly's hand still tightly wrapped around his arm.
"So Marie has initiated the transfer of the estate to me; in return, I'll arrange for the vineyard to continue its operations, and for all the profits to be settled on Marie in exchange. It should provide for her quite well. I'll retain the house for my use when I'm on Earth, but my lawyer will be authorized to act on my behalf should the opportunity to sell the land arise – or to act as executor of the estate if something should happen to me," he added grimly.
He glanced at Beverly, half expecting her to chide him for his maudlin attitude, but found the woman deep in thought instead.
"I should consider something along the same lines," she mused. "Not that I have an estate to leave to Wesley – but there are some personal things that I want him to get. Nana's journals…"
Picard raised a brow in astonishment. "Her journals?"
Beverly glanced at the man then chuckled. "Not all of her journals were filled with erotica, Jean-Luc. There were quite a few that were about Arveda, then when we moved to Caldos." She thought for a moment, then continued, "You know, there was a lot in those journals that I didn't remember."
"Such as?" he asked.
"Nothing significant. What our lives were like. Day to day events. My parents. My brother," she added.
"I'm sorry," he said gently.
She smiled, though her hand tightening on his arm bespoke a degree of forced bravery. "Don't be. In a way, it was… enlightening, having a chance to relive those days that I had forgotten. I'm grateful that the journals survived the crash of the Enterprise; now I'd like to make sure that Wesley gets the chance to see them – if he ever gets back to Earth," she added.
"He will," he assured her, "one day."
He stopped as they approached the transporter room – and she released his arm. There was, she knew, a time and a place for that type of intimacy – but not here or now: not in front of a junior officer.
Still, he retained possession of her bag, as the doors slid open; handing it off to the transporter officer, he gave instructions for it to be sent to the house in LaBarre, then mounted the transporter platform, Beverly taking the position next to him.
He glanced at her, confirming her readiness – then nodded to the officer. "Beam us down, Lieutenant," he ordered.
An hour later, Beverly wished she had thought to bring Nana's journals with her; she had been pointedly escorted out of the office where the lawyer was meeting with Jean-Luc, even though she did not understand more than one word in a hundred as the two conversed in their native tongue, and left to sit on her own in the antechamber.
It had taken her only a few minutes to discover that the hundreds of law books that filled the dark wood room were written in Latin or French – neither of which she could translate readily – and knowing that even if she could read them, law books would hardly make for light reading. The room's narrow windows let in only a glimpse of light on this gray and gloomy afternoon, and what little view they offered was of nothing more than a narrow alley. Bored beyond belief, she settled back in the over-stuffed chair and closed her eyes.
This was not, she thought emphatically, how she had wanted to spend her holiday – not, she added quickly, that she really cared about holidays. Thinking about Nana's journals, she knew that her parents had tried to provide her – and later, her younger brother – with a celebration that carried on some of the traditions of their original Earth culture – but by the time she was old enough to form solid memories, they had moved to Arveda.
In the first year, they had been so busy establishing the colony that the thought of celebrating Earth holidays had fallen by the wayside – especially as so few of the colonists had come from Earth, and fewer yet practiced the old religions. By the second year… By the second year, she thought, almost all of the original colonists were dead, lost in the disaster, including Beverly's parents and her baby brother. Celebrations of any type were impossible with the painfully limited supplies – but even if there had been food or water in ample supply, the thought of celebrating with so many friends, family and neighbors dead was heresy.
Even after she and Nana had moved to Caldos, they didn't bother to resume the old habits, though decorum required that Nana, as one of the town's healers, attend the festivities. Then, as now, Beverly had done her best to beg off, joining in only as long as required before beating a hasty retreat back to the cottage and burying herself in her books.
It had been a defense that had worked equally well when she entered medical school; claiming the need to study kept her from being asked to holiday parties more than a few times – and when she had to attend, she arrived late and departed early.
After marrying Jack though… Jack had been a firm believer in holidays. Valentine's Day, K'lerdath Ru, Federation Day, Feldor joi, Christmas and New Year's – any excuse to share a day with his girlfriend/fiancée/wife – was a good day for Jack Crusher. The melancholy of her youth disappeared with his presence in her life – and when he died, she tried to make every effort to give that same happiness to their son.
Wesley, though, had been the light of her life, wise beyond his years; even as a child, he had seemed to sense her reservation, and found other ways to share the other joys of life with his mother rather than requiring – or even requesting – that they celebrate as the other children at school did.
Not that he was above enjoying getting gifts, she thought with a smile. Jack's parents had always seen that he had gifts to open on his birthday and Christmas morning – but he seemed to truly appreciate when she would buy something for him, and present it without reason or cause. Even now she could remember the delight on his face when she had wrapped some inane gift – was it a pair of socks? – and left it on his bed for him to find and unwrap on one particularly un-noteworthy day.
But ever since he had left the Academy to pursue his education with the Traveler, she had found herself less and less interested in celebrations. Given her choice, she realized she would rather spend the time alone.
Or perhaps not completely alone, she added, remembering the last Christmas holiday on the Enterprise D. She had spent the afternoon visiting with Jean-Luc, looking through his family album, talking about their years together, sharing a traditional meal of roast goose and plum pudding, then sitting together on the couch in Picard's quarters, drinking a bottle of his wine, enjoying one another's company, and sharing one kiss.
And then going back to her quarters. Alone.
I should have stayed, she told herself; I should have stayed, then – and years before.
He was, after all, a fantastic kisser, she reminded herself, thinking back on their few kisses over the years – and remembering them vividly; I wonder what he'd be like in bed? Knowing the man as she did, she suspected he'd be equally skilled in those activities – and being his physician, she knew he was amply capable.
But capable of exactly what? she mused.
With a start, she heard the door to the lawyer's office opening, and jumped to her feet guiltily.
Seeing the slightly dazed look on the CMO's face, Picard smiled. "I'm sorry that took so long. Did you fall asleep?" he asked.
"Just daydreaming," she countered, trying not to blush at the memory of the specifics of her distraction.
He noted the slight reddening of her cheeks, and decided he had probably been close to the truth with his question; turning to the lawyer, he thanked the man then reached for Beverly's hand.
Upon leaving the office, though, he released his grip – and moved the hand to the small of her back. "I do apologize for the length of that meeting, Beverly. It should have taken only an hour – but there were so many details that we had to discuss."
"I understand, Jean-Luc," she answered.
"I'm glad you understand – because it means we've missed the shuttle to LaBarre," he explained.
"What?" she exclaimed.
"Don't worry; there's another one at eight tonight – but that means we have almost four hours here. What would you say to dinner and some window shopping?" he asked. "It's going to be quite late when we get to the house, and I don't think either of us will be in the mood to figure out Marie's kitchen at that hour."
"As long as it's dinner then window shopping, you have a deal," she agreed.
He chuckled. "I know this little bistro a few blocks over…"
A short time later, they were seated in a small restaurant, their dinner having been ordered – and an open bottle of wine on the table between them.
Raising his glass, Picard spoke. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"For?" she replied, puzzled.
"Giving up your holidays to come with me. Sitting in an office doing nothing for two hours. At least tomorrow you can stay at the house while I'm meeting with Marie's lawyer," he added.
Beverly smiled. "One, you know I'm no more fond of the holidays than you are – so it's not a sacrifice. Two, I'm happy to come with you; after all, you've been promising to take me to your home since you and I first met. Three, I know this is difficult for you – and I don't want you to face this alone. You are, after all, my best friend."
Friend, he repeated wordlessly. Of course: we're just friends.
She saw the disappointment on his face – but seeing the waiter drawing close with their meals, she decided this was not the time or place to further that discussion. Maybe later, she added – after the wine.
She tapped her glass against his, took a small sip of the wine, and nodded her approval. "Lovely. Not a Picard wine though," she added, glancing at the label.
"Robert never tried to overexpand the business," Picard replied. "He had a few customers here in Paris, but they were wine shops, not restaurants. He preferred to be able to do one thing – but to do it well. However, you'll have your fill of wines after we get to the house: Marie says the cellar is quite full."
"I hope my cooking will be up to the standards of Robert's wines," she replied. "However, if you're hoping that I'll stay behind whipping up a culinary masterpiece tomorrow, you'll be disappointed. I'm going into LaBarre with you – unless you don't want me to," she added hastily.
"No, no, of course not," he replied in equal haste. "I just thought you'd be bored – again."
"I wasn't planning to sit through another meeting, Jean-Luc," she informed him. "I thought I might take the opportunity to explore your hometown," she said. "You've told me enough stories about it. I'm especially looking forward to finding that boulangerie you are always talking about. And wasn't there a cheese shop?"
"Gerard's," Picard agreed. "The last that I had heard, his son had taken over the business…"
He turned his gaze downward as his voice failed, unwilling to let her see the sudden wash of tears that threatened at the thought that his family would never again pass their knowledge and skills on to another generation.
A warm hand on his interrupted his grief; looking at his companion, she smiled at him consolingly. "It's all right to grieve," she said softly. "It's more than all right. It's important - and necessary. For you and for them," she reminded him.
He hesitated a moment, collecting himself, then nodded; freeing his hand, he reached for his wine glass and raised it to her.
"To what might have been," he said quietly.
"To what might have been," she agreed.
They both drank from their glasses, but before they could continue their train of thought, the waiter appeared at the table, two plates in hand. By tacit consent turned their attention and their discussion to the food.
"This is delicious," Beverly murmured between bites of the chicken.
"I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said. "I came here for the first time when I was on leave from the Stargazer…"
"Before or after you became captain?" she asked.
"Before," he replied, talking around a bite of the sautéed potatoes that accompanied the chicken. "Captain Ruhalter was still alive – indeed, he was the one who recommended that I try this place," he added. "I didn't know it then, but he was quite the expert of French food."
"More than you?" she pressed.
"Maman was an excellent cook," he replied, "but it was country fare. Dathan Ruhalter had a far more refined palate; he taught me to appreciate fine cuisine as well as rustic food."
"He sounds like an interesting man," Beverly said.
"Oh, he was," Picard said enthusiastically, "at least to a young, over-eager and very innocent second lieutenant."
"Innocent?" she teased him.
"Naïve, then," he demurred.
"Was this before or after the incident with the Orion dancers?" she asked.
Picard blazed with embarrassment at the question. "How the devil did you find out about the dancers?" he hissed.
"Jack told me," she replied demurely. "So were they really naked?" she pressed.
He glared at her for a long moment, then managed a "Yes."
"And you?"
"Me?"
"Were you dancing on the bar with them?" she pressed.
"I most certainly was not!" he roared – then, as the other diners turned to look at the source of the sudden outburst, he quickly lowered his head – and his voice. "I was attempting to escort them off the bar – I was not dancing with them!"
"Wearing only your uniform pants?" she furthered.
"I… I…" he tried – then stopped, gave a drawn out sigh and gave up. "It was a long time ago, Beverly; I was young and stupid and naïve. Fortunately, I survived with nothing more than a dent to my pride to show for it – and I should have never told Jack about that night!"
Beverly took another sip of her wine and smiled. "I'm glad you did. Jack told me the story shortly after I met you for the first time – when I thought you were the most arrogant man I had ever met. That story went a long way toward letting me know you were just as human as any other man. Human – and charming, and handsome," she added softly.
He met her eyes – then lowered them again. How many times can she do this to me? he wondered to himself. Hint at something that wasn't, build up my hopes - only to crush them again?
But it wasn't her fault, he told himself. I let it happen, because I keep hoping that she wants something more than I know she does. But she's told me often enough, both in words and in actions, that my friendship is all she truly wants.
"I'd argue that assessment – but I learned long ago that sometimes one should just graciously accept a compliment and say thank you. So, thank you," he replied.
"You're welcome," she countered. "These mushrooms are delicious," she added as she stabbed at one of the fungi, then popped it in her mouth.
"It's the sauce," he replied. "If I remember correctly, it's based on the pan drippings from the bird, reinforced with wine and butter. While utterly delicious, it wouldn't do to eat it too often - and I'm certain that if my personal physician knew I was eating this, she would have stern words for me," he teased.
"I won't tell her if you won't," she promised.
"You know, if we finish dinner early enough, there is a patisserie not too far from here that makes a wonderful hot chocolate," he informed her.
"I don't think your doctor would approve of that, either," she reminded him.
"But what she doesn't know won't hurt her," he grinned. "In any case, it's said that the shop originally served the hot chocolate to the ladies of the street; it was said that they made it with heavy cream to keep them well nourished - and added a pinch of cayenne to the chocolate to keep them extra warm on the cold nights in Paris," he said with a flicker of a smile.
"It sounds wonderful," she said, "though after all this, I doubt I'll be able to eat another bite," she replied.
He raised a skeptical brow. "Well, if you're too full, I guess we could just skip it."
Beverly broke out laughing. "Oh, you know me too well, Jean-Luc! But maybe we can take a long walk first."
Savoring the food and one another's company, they sat at the table, talking and drinking wine until night had fallen – and the shops and homes were beginning to turn on their lights and illuminate their holiday displays.
Sated, at peace with themselves and one another - at least for the moment - the two walked, hand in hand, stopping at window displays, pointing out the holiday decorations.
"I must admit I never have truly enjoyed the Christmas holiday," he said. "When I was young, we would spend the holidays with my grandparents; they moved from LaBarre when my grandfather retired, and all of our relatives would gather there for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I remember playing with them - they often had snow at that time of year - and we would have snow fights or go skating..."
"It sounds as though you had quite a wonderful time!" Beverly contradicted.
"I did - while we were outside and just being children. But once we came inside..."
He fell silent; after a moment, he felt Beverly's hand on his arm, urging him to continue.
"Once you were in..."
"It was... hard. Watching all of my distant cousins talking with their fathers, laughing, hugging... Robert and Father were that way as well - but even then, I knew that there was something different about my relationship with my father. He favored Robert in everything, even in his affections. Maybe it was because Robert was the eldest, the heir apparent, and I was... not."
Or maybe, he added to himself, it simply was that I was not worthy of his love.
"Maman saw it as well," he added hastily. "She tried to make up for it in my life - and the one Christmas I remember fondly was when she and I traveled into Paris - ostensibly to buy holiday gifts, but really just to take some time away from Father and Robert. We ended our day somewhat like this," he added with a genuine smile, looking at her once again, "walking through the streets, looking at the lights and the displays...It was - and is - one of my favorite memories."
"But as I grew older, the holidays became more and more awkward. After I left for the Academy, I only returned once - and then only from habit. Being at home was difficult: there was so much disapproval from Father, so much anger - after that first holiday, I never returned. Maman came to San Francisco once to celebrate with me, but I knew that it had been against Father's wishes," he added.
"I think you mother was a strong enough person to stand up to anyone - even your father - if she thought she should," Beverly offered.
"Oh, she was," he agreed, "but... even when you do what you feel is right, there are consequences. Father could be a very difficult man when he chose to; I never wanted my mother to have to deal with that, so I never asked her back to visit me. And then I shipped out - and there were no more opportunities to be at home for the holidays.
"Although she always remembered me," he added with a grin.
Beverly burst out laughing. "Oh, I saw how she 'remembered' you," she laughed. "Remember? You spent Christmas with Jack and Wesley and me - and she sent you gift to our house. The sweater? It was the blue one with the yellow stripes..."
"Don't forget the embroidered reindeer on the front," he added.
"And two sizes too big."
"And the sleeves two inches too short," he concluded, chuckling.
"And she thought that was an appropriate gift?" Beverly laughed.
"She thought it would remind her somewhat too-serious son that there were always reasons to laugh," he corrected her.
"She was a very wise woman," Beverly said.
The soldiered on, talking and laughing until they finally found the pastry shop. Securing two cups of the legendary brew as well as a bag of croissants for the morning, they continued their walk, ending at the shuttle station just ahead of the departure time.
Finding a pair of seats at the rear of the shuttle, they settled in. Seeing Beverly trying to suppress a yawn, Picard smiled, then said, "We've got an hour before we get to LaBarre. Why don't you try to get some sleep? We'll still have a long walk when we get there – and I have no idea what shape the house is in. We may yet have a long night," he added.
Not as long as I would like, he thought to himself as Beverly leaned against him, her warm softness pressing against him in ways that would, in other circumstances, be utterly delightful. Wrapping one arm around her, he held her close then pressed his lips to the top of her head; closing his eyes he wondered what it would be like to have her pressed against him all night long, sharing his bed.
It wasn't a new thought, of course: the idea of Beverly in his bed and in his arms had been the basis of most of his sexual fantasies for the last twenty-five years. Indeed, it had been the basis for most of his sexual activities for as long a time; the few women who had entered his life had been pleasant diversions – but sex without a real relationship was ultimately unsatisfying, he knew.
That didn't mean that he hadn't wanted to have a relationship with the others, he reminded himself – but they had never lived up to his fantasies of Beverly – and each time, as he realized he was comparing them to his unrealistic dreams, he also realized he was not being fair to them. At best he was doing them an injustice: at worst, he was using them.
And using Beverly, he knew equally well; as long as she was in his heart, he was protected from having to risk another relationship.
And sadly, he thought to himself, he was more than content to spend the last days of his life this way; yearning for a woman who loved him – as his friend.
As the shuttle shuddered to the ground, consciousness returned to Beverly. She stirred - only to find herself encumbered by the warm - and admittedly welcome - arm of Jean-Luc, sleeping on the seat beside her.
Smiling, she freed one arm and poked him gently. "Jean-Luc," she said softly.
He started, opened his eyes, blinked - and gave a sheepish smile. "I fell asleep," he said, his voice rough.
"I noticed," she answered then pulled herself free of his embrace and hastily began to straighten her disarrayed clothes.
Hearing her soft laugh, Picard, who was similarly rearranging his rumpled clothes, looked at her.
She looked back and blushed. "I feel like I'm a teenager again - having to straighten myself before Nana caught me."
He frowned. "Indeed," he grumbled.
She frowned right back at him. "Indeed. Don't tell me you never had a date that didn't end with some rumpled clothes."
"Not when I was a teenager," he replied.
She glared at him. "I didn't mean I was having sex!" she snapped back. "I meant... Didn't you ever... you know... engage in a little innocent - well, relatively innocent - teenage... friskiness?" she asked.
He met her gaze, and with his most imperious tone, replied, "I'll have you know I was never 'frisky', Doctor."
Beverly gaped - then slowly let her mouth close as a smile began to cross Picard's face; she swatted him lightly on the arm. "You're terrible," she said, although the smile on her face belied her accusation.
"Turnabout is fair play, my dear doctor. Just consider it a very small repayment for all the times you've teased me," he countered as he reached for his coat. Standing, he pulled it on then helped Beverly with hers as the shuttle attendant approached them.
After exchanging a few words of courtesy with the young man, Picard led his companion off the shuttle and into the now dark and deserted transportation station.
"I hope you don't mind a walk," he said. "I usually do so when I'm coming home - but I was hoping that there might be a local ride available. Apparently, however, everyone has gone home for the night."
"You said to dress for the walk," she reminded him, "although if had known we were going to do this at night, I would have found a warmer coat," she added, pulling the neck of her coat closer.
Seeing her shiver, Picard wished he had thought to wear a scarf so that he could offer it to her; instead, he had nothing to offer her but his hand.
She took it and the two left the small station.
The clouds that had gloomed the skies of Paris were absent from the village; as they walked, Beverly could see why Jean-Luc had grown up yearning to reach the skies. Here, as they had been on Arveda and on Caldos, the skies were bright with their brilliance, taunting all who saw them with their power and glory.
"So distant," Picard murmured, as if hearing her thoughts. "I can imagine early man, seeing the stars every night, wondering if there was a hill somewhere, high enough so that they could finally touch those lights - but never being able to reach them.
"Maybe that was what drove early man on," he said, "the stars teasing us, trying to encourage us to go beyond the limits we thought we had, to try to exceed those boundaries that we told ourselves existed - and that if... when... we finally tried hard enough, we could, one day, leave this planet and touch them."
"You're a romantic," she said softly.
"But of course," he replied. "I am French, after all."
"Then how come you never got 'frisky'?" she countered.
He glanced at her quickly then broke out laughing. "Touché," he answered. They walked in silence for a moment, then he continued, "The truth is that I was somewhat... isolated growing up. Not sheltered," he amended quickly. "Maman always encouraged me to socialize, to get out and make friends, but most of the boys of my age seemed more interested in sports than in studying. I developed a few close friendships that I still maintain - but for the most part, I was left on my own."
"You're dodging the question, Jean-Luc," she answered. "That explains why you didn't have a lot of male friends - but what about girls? Don't tell me you were shy," she teased.
He stopped abruptly, turning to dace her. "Please, just stop," he said, his voice hard with pain. "I'm fully aware of my failings in personal relationships, Beverly. I don't need you to remind me about it – especially when you were the cause of so much of it."
She stared at him, too stunned, too hurt, to respond. Finally she managed a very weak, "I'm sorry… I wasn't…"
"I'm sorry as well," he replied, his anger unconcealed. "I think that your accompanying me on this trip was unwise. Perhaps you should return to the ship," he concluded.
Beverly stared a moment longer, then nodded numbly. "I think I should as well," she said.
They watched each other a moment longer, then Picard said, "Well?"
" 'Well' what?" she replied.
"Aren't you going to contact the ship to beam you up?"
"I left my badge on the ship," she reminded him. "Why don't you call them?"
Picard sighed. "Mine is on the ship as well," he said. "The lawyer asked me not to wear it to the meeting."
They stared at one another a moment longer. "Then I'll call from the transportation station," she said, glancing down the dark and deserted road.
"They're closed," he reminded her.
"Then I'll get a room in town and contact them in the morning," she said, turning away from him.
"There aren't any inns in LaBarre," he informed her. "We'll call from the house – we're almost there," he added.
She nodded, still too dazed from his verbal assault to react.
Silently he turned back in the direction they had been heading and walked on without looking back, seemingly unconcerned if she followed him or not.
She followed, oblivious to everything around her, until they came upon a row of thin trees that obscured the property behind them. After a brief distance, the dark-shrouded trees gave way to a low stone hedge that finally opened onto a gate.
He turned, taking the path that led from the road to the house, stopping only when he reached the front door. Entering a sequence on the door lock, he gave the heavy wood door a push – then finally looked back at his stricken companion.
"Come in," he said, his anger somewhat ameliorated by the look of pain on her face. "Get warm while I contact the ship," he said, gesturing for her to enter the house – then turned and entered the building.
Motionless, she watched the door for a moment, then slowly entered behind him.
It took her a moment to realize that the house was clad in darkness – to realize that the lights that should have automatically turned on at their entry had not done so – and then to realize that Jean-Luc was muttering curses under his breath.
The muttering grew to a sharp cry as he walked into an unseen piece of furniture; grabbing his lower leg, he let loose with an oath, then cautiously set his foot down, supporting his weight on the table he had encountered – and espying a padd left on the table's top.
Taking it, he turned it on – and cursed again. "The power will be restored tomorrow," he informed her. "Apparently the workers had a holiday party this evening so they couldn't do the work today! They did fill the wood box, however – so we can build ourselves a fire!" he added angrily.
He slapped the padd down on the table, turned to face her, and softened his expression. For all his disappointment in this trip – in his life, in everything! - this turn of events was not her fault. "I'm sorry," he said. "It looks as though you're stuck here until morning." He glanced at the small pile of bags piled in the front hall that represented their personal luggage. "Which bag is yours?" he asked.
She pointed at one, which he then handed to her. "The bedrooms are upstairs," he informed her, pointing at the outline of the staircase on the opposite of the entryway.
"Which room is yours?" she asked.
"I'll stay down here," he replied, not answering her. "I want to get a fire going so we have some heat," he added by way of an explanation.
Still stinging from his rebuke, Beverly simply nodded. Taking the carryall and the suitcase, she made her way to the stairs and the bedrooms.
She opted for the one closest to the stairs. All the faster to make my escape tomorrow, she told herself – then angrily brushed a tear from her face.
Damn him! Damn him! How dare he? I had every right to tell him I didn't want to pursue a relationship! How dare he blame me for every problem he has had with women! I didn't tell him to fall in love with me!
Which didn't mean it wasn't her fault – at least in part – she reminded herself. I had the right to tell him I didn't want a relationship, she repeated – but I didn't say that. I danced around it, telling him that maybe we should be afraid. If I had been honest, I would have said no.
Or yes, she admitted.
Damn him, damn him… and damn me, she added, falling on the bed, burying her face in the pillow, and beginning to cry.
Starting a fire in the great fireplace was a simple enough task; Picard had done it since he was old enough to pile up the tinder, kindling and logs – but that had been some time ago, he realized as thick black smoke began to rush into the room.
Coughing hard as the vapors stung at his throat, he stuck his hand into the chimney, pulling at the long-stuck damper handle until it finally conceded the point and opened with a gush of cold air, dessicated birds' nests and soot. The smoke however, seemed unaware of the debris and began to gush up the chimney.
The coughing seemed less inclined to give up the battle as easily; he gasped and wheezed for several minutes, his throat burning as he tried to clear the smoke from his lungs. Finally, he made his way to the old breakfront that had once housed Robert's brandies. Finding one, he poured a shot into a glass, drank it down – and sighed as the stinging faded, replaced with a pleasant warmth as the liquor hit his stomach.
Pouring a second drink, he capped the bottle, then took the drink to the couch that stood before the fireplace and settled in. He watched the flames for a time, slowly savoring the brandy.
It wasn't Beverly's fault, he reminded himself. She was entitled to say she didn't love him… but she never had, he reminded himself. If she had, it would have been easier; knowing there was no hope, he might have been able to move on. But she hadn't – and hope had lingered, poisoning him against everything that could have been in the undying dream of something that might never be.
My fault, he told himself. I should have just asked her, "Yes or no?"
But I didn't – and here we both are.
Damn her, damn her – and damn me.
He glanced at the glass which had emptied itself as he had studied the fire, then rose, returning to the breakfront once more. The glass refilled, he settled in at the fire once more.
After a time, he reached for the old afghan that used to lie on the back of the couch, pulling it over himself as the day's efforts and sorrows finally took their toll.
Another damned Christmas, was the final thought that crossed his mind as sleep came upon him.