A/N: A new story-a follow-up to "I Keep On Loving You". Not necessary to read it for this one! We don't own CSI or the characters, but we do believe Sara and Grissom find love (together). And we believe in Sara's happiness! Enjoy!

Love Finds a Way

Chapter 1

Unaware of the beautiful sunny day, Sara and Gil Grissom got out of the car and walked across a parking lot with several dozen other people, all making their way inside the one-story elementary school. The fifty-year old building was as institutional as any government funded structure of its time, totally lacking in architectural attractiveness but designed for practical purposes of educating children. A few scraggly flowers growing in pots at the entrance showed some evidence of regular watering—they had not died yet—and were shaded by an overhang edge of the roof.

Once inside, directions, provided by signs and several adults stationed along the long hallway, had everyone going in the same direction. Sara's only comment as they walked along was that she had gone to school in an identical building.

She was nervous in a way she could never remember; she had eaten breakfast and skipped lunch and now she wished she had eaten something. All because of a little boy named Eli. Grissom held her hand in his as he guided them to two vacant chairs near the front.

"I hope he doesn't get stage fright," Sara whispered. She looked worried.

Grissom kept a smile on his face. "He's going to be fine, Sara." He patted her hand. "He knows his part." Knows his part, very well, Grissom thought. For two weeks, he had heard Eli rehearse ten lines over and over; he had memorized the other children's lines until he knew them by heart. Sara knew them too. The boy had practiced for hours with Sara as Grissom had watched. He was smiling because it was the most joyous time he had experienced—seeing his wife become a mother.

Quietly, he chuckled and placed his arm on the back of Sara's chair. Parenthood had settled on both of them in an unexpected yet enjoyable and agreeable way. Eli had become their son through tragic circumstances, but the boy's optimistic view of the world had survived intact—survived and bloomed, Grissom thought. They were a family—Eli was their son—a state neither had thought would ever happen.

This afternoon, as they sat in Eli's school to watch a second grade class play, he realized they were doing what parents all over the world did. Glancing around, he saw other parents—and grandparents—arriving, filling up chairs, in front of the stage. Most of the parents appeared to be young—early thirties, maybe.

Leaning to Sara's ear, he whispered, "Do I look like a grandpa?"

Spontaneously, she turned to face him, a smile on her face, and kissed his cheek. "No—you look like—like—mmmm—the king." She puckered her lips in a familiar and intimate tease before saying, "You look positively scrumptious, dear." Another quick kiss, and then, "If your son is the prince, you must be the king!" She giggled and placed her hand on his knee giving him an affectionate squeeze.

A few minutes later, the curtains across the stage rippled as several children appeared and primly walked to center stage. A general shuffling of feet, a few waves to parents in the audience, and the children, speaking slowly with well-practiced articulation, announced the names of the three 'plays' to be presented.

Minutes passed as the audience watched a familiar children's story acted on stage—a nursery rhyme put into production as children played the parts of characters as well as trees and flowers. Not one fumbled speaking lines. With the last line spoken, the stage was cleared and another set was put in place for the second story.

Grissom realized Sara was holding her breath.

"Breathe," he whispered as a young wicked step-mother and step-sisters appeared in a much simplified version of 'Cinderella'. In a swirl of stage magic, the little girls' dresses became ball gowns and a giant cardboard pumpkin was turned into a coach for Cinderella.

Sara's hand tightened on his knee as the prince of the ball arrived on stage wearing a blue coat trimmed in yellow and red and a sparkly gold crown circling dark curly hair. Grissom grinned as his son danced across the stage with a natural grace that came as easily for him as walking. A clock struck, the small girl who was Cinderella ran from the stage and lost her 'glass' slipper. And then the prince was looking for the foot to fit the shoe among a dozen other tulle netting clad young girls.

Eli's first lines were delivered with aplomb as he went from girl to girl seeking a fit to the shoe. Most of his words were similar—a question asked before moving to the next girl—until he 'found' Cinderella. The slipper fit and the two small children danced across the stage.

Sara was on her feet applauding before Eli exited the stage; she wasn't alone as all the other children's parents did the same for their child. Hearing a loud whistle, Grissom turned to see Nick Stokes and Catherine Willows standing in the back row, clapping hands and smiling. Applause continued as the children from Eli's play took deep bows before turning to make changes in the stage for the third and final play.

On a quiet street across town, a gracefully designed honey-colored building surrounded by lush plants and brightly colored flowers that provided a natural screen from parking spaces made no announcement of its purpose. Low clusters of purple and yellow flowers banked along sidewalks that disappeared around the back of the building. Sunlight glittered through interlaced vines over windows and doorways. The setting gave an impression of a peaceful and unpretentious home—a large home even by Vegas standards—yet there were too many cars parked in front for this to be someone's residence.

Inside, a thin woman struggled and stirred under light-weight bed covers. Slowly awareness returned as the soft darkness gave way to a sickening, nauseating feeling of pain and exhaustion. Michele Stevens coughed, causing her entire body to flinch with the hurt. With great effort, she opened her eyes. It was day—the room was suffused with pale dappled yellow light. She had been sick during the night, throwing up until she had finally agreed to a medication which had put her to sleep for hours. Licking her lips which were dry and cracked, she groaned as she turned. With bleary eyes, she looked around the room and managed to turn her head enough to see the door of the room.

She was grateful to have a beautiful room and a comfortable bed these days. And people who treated her with a sense of dignity that she knew she did not deserve.

Almost immediately, a shadow fell across the doorway and an older woman entered the room walking so quickly and quietly that Michele could hear the soft swish of fabric as she approached the bed.

"Good morning, Michele," the woman's voice was as gentle as her steps were quiet. Along with the greeting, a straw touched Michele's lips.

She sipped cool water with a slight taste of lemon in it.

"How do you feel?"

With an effort, she nodded. "Better—not so bad." It wasn't really better; she'd never see "better" again.

"Let me help you." The woman gently raised Michele's shoulders and turned the pillow, managing to give it a fluff as she held Michele in the crook of her arm.

"Water?"

The small glass with a straw appeared again. "Easy, now," the woman said softly.

A minute later, Michele took the glass in her hand. "You are so kind to me, Nell."

A hospice volunteer at seventy-two years old, Nell had seen it all. Kidney failure, AIDS, COPD, terminal cancer, heart failure—they all entered hospice care knowing the final result. Very few came in like Michele Stevens—a young woman with an aggressive cancer, already in terminal stages when it had been discovered.

Nell straightened the bed covers, asking, "What would you like to wear today?"

Michele gave a weak smile. "One of the blue ones. The judge is coming later."

Nell nodded. The staff and volunteers had taken great care to find clothes that were comfortable, easy to put on and remove, and as a result, the dying woman had soft cotton pants and shirts to wear. She had no friends, no family, who came to visit, but once a week for four weeks, a judge arrived and spent time with Michele.

As a volunteer, Nell did not have access to a patient's records, but she knew—as all the volunteers knew—Michele's meetings with the judge had something to do with the place Michele had been before coming to the hospice facility. Nell knew the young woman had been in jail and had thought about using the computer to search for a history of Michele, but decided not to do it. Michele was a terminal patient, deserving respect and privacy as any other person Nell encountered. The young woman might, in due time, tell her story to Nell.

It took most of an hour to get dressed because Michele was so weak she could do little without help and Nell had no reason to rush her.

"Would you like something to eat?" Nell asked. Some patients ate until the end; others wanted food available but seldom ate, and Michele was one who ate by swallowing whatever liquids she could, often vomiting most of it almost immediately.

Michele was sitting on the bed, a hair brush in her hand. A brief smile formed on her lips. "You always make me feel better—almost normal. I appreciate that—I really do." Sighing, she asked, "Maybe I can drink a small smoothie—one of those made with fruit."

"Will you be okay for a few minutes?"

The sick woman nodded and Nell left the room. Slowly, carefully, Michele's hand, almost transparent with thin blue veins appearing to pop against pale skin, reached for the bedside table and pulled open the top drawer. As quickly as she could, she picked up a small book and opened it, smiling as her finger ran across the surface of a small photograph. She studied the photograph and replaced it in the book which she then placed back in the drawer and closed it.

By the time Nell returned with a pink fruit smoothie, Michele had brushed her hair and managed to pull socks on her feet.

"I would have helped with your socks," Nell said, a gentle chide in her voice.

Michele handed her the hairbrush and accepted the smoothie. "You can help with my hair—I'm afraid it doesn't look very good."

There were no mirrors in the hospice care center. The last thing most dying people needed was a glance in a mirror. Nell brushed Michele's light brown hair and fastened it with a clip.

"There," the older woman said as she smoothed a stubborn curl behind Michele's ear. "I'll bet you had curly hair as a child."

Slowly, Michele sipped the smoothie as Nell talked about the weather; Michele managed to make an appropriate sound or comment to keep Nell talking, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

A/N: Let us know if you enjoyed this first chapter...thanks!