She sits at the lakeside gazing out across the water, enjoying the companionship of the moment. She steals a look at the man sitting nearby and wonders what people are thinking when they see the two of them together. Some people are probably envious: her father is still good-looking enough to draw admiring glances. She thinks, however, that what the discerning person will see (and perhaps be envious of) is their close bond. There aren't many fathers and daughters who would be content to sit in silence together, not needing words to communicate.
She sighs happily. The sound seems to rouse her companion from his reverie, and he turns in her direction and frowns.
The dream collapses: if this was a cartoon, she thinks you would be able to hear the bubble burst. For this is not her father who is sitting with her. She knows nothing about him except that he arrived at the swanky, and expensive, country club hotel four days ago and this is the first time he has ventured outside.
She is staying with her uncle and aunt for the summer. Uncle Mark is the golf professional and Aunt Cat is one of the receptionists; they have a cottage in the grounds and have agreed to take their niece for the summer. Her mother has been offered a job in Wisconsin and says that, at the moment, she hasn't found anywhere to stay where a child would be accepted. Uncle Mark and Aunt Cassie are used to taking in their niece and their niece is used to being farmed out. They are kind but busy and she is expected to make her own amusements and, most importantly, not get in the way of the guests.
Not getting in the way of the guests does not, however, prevent her from watching them. She saw the good-looking guy arrive and was struck, not by his handsomeness, but by his sad, almost defeated demeanour. She watched the next morning, but he didn't come down to breakfast. Her watch from the terrace was rewarded later in the day when he walked into the library. She wasn't the only one who saw him: Melissa – another of the reception staff – spotted him and she walked in after him and began, unnecessarily, to tidy some of the magazines. He had looked at her stonily and put earbuds in his ears and started to listen to something on his phone. Melissa was not easily deterred and made sure to fuss with something on a table in his line of sight and to wiggle her ass in what she probably intended to be a seductive and inviting manner. Good-looking guy simply picked up a book and began to read. Melissa huffed and withdrew but he took no notice and continued to gaze at the book. The watcher noticed, however, that he did not turn any pages.
Today is the first day he has left the building: which is ironic since it is also the first day that the sun has not shone, and the sky not be blue. He walks to the lake, pauses as he seems to check for other people, and then makes his way to the edge of a wooded area a little way from the lake. It takes him a long time to get there, he walks very slowly for someone who is not very elderly to the girl's eyes.
She also takes a long time to get near to him. She takes care to make it look casual, accidental although, from the way he stares across the water, she doesn't think he's noticed her. For a while, she makes herself a necklace out of the flowers that grow among the grass but soon decides she has created a reason for being there and abandons the task. She allows the dream to develop and warm her. She has never known her own father; her mother never talks of him and her uncle has suggested that he never knew of the pregnancy. Perhaps, she thinks, this man is her father and has shown up in the sort of coincidence that occurs in the stories and movies she loves. She knows it is foolish but, for a few minutes, allows herself to wish.
Until she sighs and he turns to look at her with that frown.
NCISNCIS
He doesn't want to be here. Hell, he doesn't want to be anywhere, but he doesn't have the energy or the will to resist those who are making decisions for him. He has allowed them to drive him here, to find him somewhere to get his strength back … he wonders if they really mean get your brain in gear again.
He doesn't care. Or perhaps he does care but not enough to do anything about it. He is cast adrift in his own life.
He has spent three days lurking in the house. He isn't sure why he doesn't simply stay in bed or watch from his bedroom window but there is something which is driving him to obey at least some of his orders. He has been told to get out a little, to mix with people, get some gentle exercise. If asked, he can tell them that he left his room for hours at a time … he won't tell them he hasn't spoken with anyone in that time and hasn't ventured out of the house either.
He won't tell them that the sunshine and blue skies oppressed him. Sunshine and blue skies are meant to be energising and cheering but they have just made him feel guilty and inadequate for not being energised and cheered. He has enough guilt and sense of inadequacy without adding to them.
Today, however, is overcast and cool. Outside doesn't seem quite as daunting. He thinks he can cope with outside today. He has seen the lake from the library window and felt a little drawn to it: it doesn't seem to be a beautiful lake; he doesn't think he can cope with beauty at the moment. Somehow, he thinks that is wrong. Shouldn't natural beauty be something that soothes and heals a battered soul? Perhaps. But it won't work for this particular battered soul. Looking into the murky depths will suit his mood.
It takes him a long time to get to his destination. He wants to find somewhere out of the way. Somewhere out of the line of sight of the building: he doesn't want to risk a helpful member of staff hastening after him with offers of drinks, blankets or newspapers.
Once he is sitting down, he decides the lake is all he hoped it would be. The lack of sun means there are no reflections or refracted light to dance and bewitch. An occasional duck swims across but there is clearly something more attractive on the other side, and they keep on going and refrain from their normal cheerful acrobatics … or should that be aquabatics? He doesn't know although he knows people who would know.
And then he realises he is no longer alone. He hasn't been watching or particularly aware, but it seems that he can't stop the habit of a working life; he has always had good situational awareness and it has saved his life, and those of others, on many occasions.
So, of course, he knows that the girl is there. And he realises that he has seen her before. Lurking in the background, watchful, waiting. Waiting for what? He recognises something in her: he knows what that sort of watchfulness portends. This is a lonely child, one used to having to make their own way. Oh yes, she looks well dressed and cared for but there is another type of hunger about her that he is all too familiar with.
She is making some sort of garland for herself. Such an innocent pastime for a young girl. It could, he muses, be a scene from a movie. He finds himself casting himself as the father, sitting gazing across the water as he also watches over his daughter, waiting for her to bring him the necklace and perhaps throw it over his own neck. He would perhaps protest but the audience would know that, in reality, his heart was warmed by her actions.
He wonders if anyone watching them would think that they are father and daughter, sitting in a companionable silence because their relationship is such that words are not needed. He finds himself warmed by the thought. Relationships have never been his strong point but, for a moment, he allows himself to be lulled into a dream of love and belonging.
He is snapped out of his daydream by the sound of a sigh. He automatically turns in its direction and frowns as the dream collapses and reality roars in.
The girl is on her feet in an instant. The flowers fall from her hands and he sees that her work has been clumsy. She stands and stares at him and then turns to go – but slowly, as if she hopes to be detained. She pauses for a second and then she really is gone leaving a miasma of grief hanging in the air.
He drags himself slowly to his feet, but the girl is long gone, and he doesn't know what he would say to her anyway. The attraction of the place has somehow faded with his emergence from the dream, so he decides to return to the house. He stoops and picks up the half-made garland. He winces at the pain involved with such a simple action. He wonders if Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo will ever be special again.