I don't own anything about The Mentalist and no copyright infringement is intended. I haven't made one red cent from any of this, but I've had a lot of fun.
This story is my contribution to Hope's recent fanfic challenge and I chose this prompt:
#9 Lisbon finds a diary of Jane's in his stuff, which leads her to question his feelings for her and insight into his mindset prior to going after Red John.
I doubt this is the story the prompt writer had in mind, but once I started scribbling, this is where it went. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
The story picks up at the very end of the episode Red John…
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THE STORY OF MY LIFE
Lisbon shifted impatiently in her chair. She'd been sitting at a table in her old CBI office for what seemed like decades, and she was desperate for information. She'd tried to read the actions and faces of the stray FBI agents who scurried by from time to time, but she couldn't decipher their body language. Jane might be dead or wounded, and at this point she needed to know, no matter what had happened.
Just when she was considering standing up on her chair and screaming, Abbott finally showed up, taking a seat across the table from her. He did not look happy. He eyed her for several silent moments before growling, "Where. Is. Jane?"
She closed her eyes and sighed in relief. If he was asking that question, Jane was probably still alive.
"I don't know." She tried to keep her voice even, but it had been a long, emotionally draining day, and there was edge to her tone. "Was he injured?" She had to know what happened, and at this point, what did she have to lose?
Abbott let the question hang in the empty room and stared at her intently.
"Would you please tell me what happened?" she tried again, asking nicely.
But there was no sympathy in Abbott's face. Only an accusing, smug sneer. Suddenly, something inside her snapped. She'd had it with this bullshit. "I don't know where he is, and we can sit here as long as you like and I still won't know!"
"Pardon me, former Agent Lisbon," he hissed, "but I find it hard to believe Jane wouldn't tell his partner of nine years where he was headed."
She snorted. "Then you clearly don't know Patrick Jane."
Lisbon held Abbott's gaze as he sighed and sat back in his chair. After a moment of deliberation, he came to some decision. "At the chapel, we found Gale Bertram and Oscar Cordero, both dead of gunshot wounds."
She swallowed hard. So Jane had shot Bertram/Red John and run? Cordero must have been Blake Association, she surmised.
"Jane wasn't there. In a nearby park, we found Sheriff Thomas McAllister's body."
She gasped. "Wait. McAllister was killed in the explosion at Jane's house…supposedly."
"So you purported in your 'so called' investigation."
Lisbon bristled. Her team had nothing to do with the pathology reports.
"McAllister had a gunshot wound, but it appeared he had been strangled as well," Abbott continued. "We haven't found a witness to that as of yet. The body was found off the beaten path, beside a pond. We'll see what the coroner has to say. We do have multiple witnesses who saw a man matching Jane's description running through the park."
So McAllister was Red John – he had faked his own death. And he was found beside a body of water. The irony wasn't lost on her and she smiled in spite of everything. Jane had done it. After all these years, he'd found and killed Red John. And if he was running through the park, he probably wasn't hurt. Her smile quickly faded, however, as she realized that made Jane a murderer and a fugitive. It dawned on her that unless he was caught – something she didn't want to happen - she would probably never see him again.
It was a lot to process. "You knew this day was coming," he'd told her when he asked for her gun. He was right. She should have been more prepared, but the truth was, she wasn't. She'd always thought she'd be able to control the situation and save Jane from himself. But how could she have foreseen a huge network of dirty cops and the shutdown of the CBI?
"We don't know for sure if any of these people was Red John," Abbott stated. "Jane's on the run, and we will find him."
She just raised her eyebrows. "If he's gone you're not going to find him. And contacting me or any of the rest of my team would be stupid on his part. Patrick Jane is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them."
"We shall see," Abbott said, unconvinced. After all, they were the FBI. He fished a phone out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the table. She recognized it as hers – the one they had confiscated earlier. He punched a couple of buttons and played her voice mail on speaker phone.
"Lisbon. It's done. It's over. I just wanted you to know I'm okay. I'm going to miss you."
Thank God, she thought, as something tightened in her chest. At least he wasn't hurt, and for that, she was thankful.
Abbott's stupid questions went on and on and on, but late that evening she and the rest of her team were finally released. She no longer had her vehicle, so Van Pelt gave her a ride home.
"You okay, boss?" Grace asked as she exited the SUV.
Lisbon wondered if she looked as exhausted as she felt. "I'm fine. Go home. Get some sleep. And I'm not your boss anymore."
When she let herself in, her internal alarms went off immediately. Though nothing appeared grossly out of place, she knew her apartment had been searched. Well, she hoped they'd had fun, because there was nothing here to find.
Despite the insanity of today's events, she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. When she awoke as usual at five a.m., she knew immediately there was something she had to do. She got dressed and grabbed the keys to her Mustang.
She was certain she'd be followed and she also knew there'd be nothing there to tell her where Jane had gone. Which is why it didn't matter if she went, she rationalized as she drove to Jane's extended stay motel room. Why did she feel compelled to go? She wasn't sure. Maybe she simply needed to feel close to him for a few moments. After ten years of having Jane around as a ready confidant, she now found herself without a job, without a clear direction, and without her partner to discuss it with.
She was tough and she was a good cop, Lisbon told herself as she arrived at the motel. After all this got sorted out she'd find another job. Still, she couldn't deny Jane's departure would leave a big hole in her life, and the kind of career she'd hoped for was never going to happen after this fiasco.
Lisbon trudged up the stairs to his room on the second floor. At least there was no crime tape around it, and for that she was grateful. She unlocked the door with a paper clip just like Jane had taught her and slipped into his room. The FBI hadn't bothered being tidy about their search here. The drawers were open and the mattress had been shoved aside. They'd taken the screen grids off of the air vents. Very thorough. Stepping over some pillows on the floor, she walked to the closet where his suits and shirts still hung. She absently sorted through them, lifting a shirt sleeve to her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes. It smelled like…Jane.
You can't act like this, she told herself, straightening up and giving her head a shake. That's when she saw it - the ironing board. Jane had always told her if you need to hide something in a hotel room, put in under the ironing board cover. Most cops are men, and they rarely check there. She slipped a hand under the cover, and much to her amazement, she pulled out a dog-eared notebook that looked like the one Jane had kept for his Red John lists. She thought Jane had burned it along with all of his files.
She flipped it open and started reading.
"Dearest Angela,
I know you and Charlotte are well and truly gone and you cannot hear or see my words, but "talking" to you helps me bear the life now in front of me. With reality firmly in my grasp, I begin my mission to find and kill him. Dr. Miller was right – my future is what I choose for it to be, and I promise you I will…"
She snapped the notebook closed. This wasn't Jane's lists. It was a diary. He had kept some sort of personal diary, writing to his dead wife. She instinctually glanced around the empty room, making sure someone hadn't seen her discovery.
Chonk chonk chonk. The sound of footsteps on the stairs outside startled her. They were coming! She quickly repositioned the ironing board cover in place, smoothing it so it looked undisturbed. Then she stuffed the notebook in the back waistband of her pants and flipped her leather jacket out to cover any hint of it.
A distraction – she needed a distraction. A believable reason to be here. Her eyes fell on the old coffee pot Jane used to heat water for his tea, and she picked it up just as Abbott and his two underlings burst through the door.
"Stop," bellowed the big FBI man.
She willed herself to be calm. "You're following me?" She'd assumed they would, but she had to maintain the pretense of surprise.
"Didn't you expect us to?"
Okay, so Abbott wasn't stupid. "I don't care if you do or not. I came here to get my coffee pot before it got thrown out. You obviously know there's nothing here – your people have already turned this place upside down." She swiped a hand toward the pilfered drawers.
"Look, you wanna examine the coffee pot for secret messages, go ahead," she continued, feigning irritation. "I'd just like to have it back after you're done." She put on her best, "whatever" face and held the appliance out to Abbott. It had never been hers, but they didn't know that.
Abbott nodded to one junior agent, who took the worn pot from her and lifted the top, peering inside. He turned it around and upside down, examining it carefully. Satisfied it contained no information, the man shrugged at Abbott.
"Very well," Abbott said, and motioned for him to give the pot back to Lisbon, who was doing her best to look extremely bored.
"Thank you. Can I go now? This is all I wanted."
Abbott remained suspicious, but he had no reason to hold her here. He moved out of her way and motioned her toward the door.
As she exited, she turned back and addressed the two junior FBI agents – the ones who had no doubt been assigned to follow her. They looked wet behind the ears, and she felt a twinge of indignation she hadn't rated more experienced tails. "I'm going to the grocery today, too. And the bank. Just a heads up." She frowned. "But not necessarily in that order." And with that, she turned and walked out.
She drove straight to the bank. There was a definite chance this diary contained some information the FBI could use to find Jane, and they could never know it existed. She certainly didn't want to read it. Not only should she not be reading Jane's private thoughts, she also didn't want to know anything that might help compromise his whereabouts. She needed to be able to honestly claim she didn't know anything.
When she got to the bank she went straight to her safe deposit box and buried the diary under the various papers she kept there. She'd have to take something out as cover, but that was easy. She kept a spare Glock in her box, and since Jane had relieved her of her gun, this was a perfect alibi.
Sure enough, as she exited the bank, one of Abbott's men stopped her. "What did you get in there?" he asked. "A fake passport for Jane?"
"My spare Glock. Wanna see it?"
He looked a little embarrassed as he nodded 'yes.'
"It's not loaded." She pulled the pistol out of her back waistband and held it up for him to see.
"Oh right, yours was found on one of the dead guys," he said, throwing a little cop-style shade.
She ignored the jab. "It's legal. I have a permit."
Needing a gun was something a law enforcement person would understand, and this satisfied him. "Thank you for your time," said the young agent.
She took a deep breath and walked to her car. The diary was safe, and she had plenty of time to think about what to do with it.
NINE MONTHS LATER
It was seven o'clock on a Friday night, and Chief Teresa Lisbon poured herself a well-deserved glass of wine. She'd just completed her first three months as head of the Cannon River Police Department, and she was off this weekend. She changed into jeans and a comfy sweater and cranked up her gas logs to offset the chilly drizzle outside before snuggling into the couch. There was some leftover pasta in the fridge for when she got hungry, but in the meantime, she was going to kick back a little.
The wine soon worked its magic, and she felt its warm glow spread through her body. This state of relaxation gave her thoughts room to wander. Everyone in Cannon River had been welcoming, and she definitely enjoyed a less stressful existence. But she did miss the CBI – the excitement, the edge, and most of all, working with Patrick Jane. She did not miss having to clean up the political messes he made, of course. But she yearned for his teasing wit, that sunshine of a smile, and most of all, having someone notice when she was having a bad day. Even though she had no idea where to send it, she had the sudden urge to write him a letter.
Wow, she thought. That's exactly what Jane had done years ago, except he'd written his dead wife. She'd kept Jane's diary without ever peeking inside. It was safely tucked away in what she called her 'Jane box.' In addition to the diary, there was a bag containing the pieces of his old aqua teacup, plus a few trinkets he'd given her over the years. Silly of her to keep perhaps, but harmless. It was difficult to accept she'd never see that confounding man again, but really, wasn't that the story of her life? Always left to fend for herself. She padded to the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine. Her thoughts drifted back to that unread diary. She was profoundly curious about what actually went on in that head of his. He would never know if she read it, would he?
And that's how ten minutes later she found herself curled on the couch with Jane's diary in hand. She took another generous swig of wine. God forgive me, she thought, and she opened the cover.
Two hours later she had cried four separate times and called Jane a son of a bitch twice out loud. She'd also laughed more times than she could count, and now her heart ached with missing him. That old carnie "psychic" had been right. She'd been a little in love with Patrick Jane and she still was. She needed to get over that, and maybe this would be the beginning of her catharsis. Despite any lovely words he had written, he was gone forever, and she had to move forward.
She went into the kitchen, reheated some tortellini, and snarfed it down while standing at the island. Then she drained the last of the bottle of wine into her glass and returned to the living room to reread a few of the entries. She flipped back and forth through the book, picking passages at random.
"…made a big step forward today in the process. The CBI has hired me as a consultant and I have unlimited access to the Red John files. I promise you, I will find him and kill him.
I'm on a team – I know that would make you laugh. The agent in charge is a genuinely good person and is used to dealing with dysfunctional flawed men, so perhaps she will put up with me. She's the reason I was hired. I caught a killer for her with makeshift Tarot cards. She put me to work rather than pitying me, and it felt good to feel competent again. A lovely woman, this Teresa Lisbon. You would like her.
There are a couple of other agents. Cho – no nonsense, an avid reader. I suspect he will approve of my mission. Rigsby is well meaning. Not a mental giant – the competent and steadfast type. He likely had a rocky relationship with his father and wants to prove himself a better man."
Damn. He pegged her from the start as someone he could manipulate. But he also appreciated her. There was that. She thumbed through the pages. The entries were frequent during his early days at the CBI, but as the years wore on, they became more sparse. The last year there only a handful of (enlightening) entries.
The diary contained plenty of things she definitely shouldn't have read:
"That thing I do with my tongue that you love? I'd give anything to be able to do that for you tonight, my darling…"
There was a lot more detail along those lines, too, and she read every titillating word. If nothing else, it served to validate her suspicion that Jane would be fabulous in bed. And since she was no longer his boss and she'd never see him again, it wasn't inappropriate for her to think about those things any more. Hell, maybe she should have seduced him way back when. While she knew that was the wine talking, she wondered if she could have…
Enough of that. She admonished herself and turned back a few pages. Early in the diary there were a lot of "remember when" entries. Things like:
"Remember that night at Garland's with all the Bloody Mary's?"
"Remember that time you forbade me from buying that desk? It was quite beautiful – all that hand carved walnut. I told you I could write my life story on a desk like that, and you said it didn't go with our furniture and that I hadn't lived enough to write my life story. You were right on both counts. Little did I know I would have been writing a tragedy."
"The sunset was beautiful tonight – delicate lilacs and pinks, much like that November at Big Sur. You would love the smell of the gardenia hedges in the park, too. The air had that
'going to rain soon' heaviness you always talk about."
A surprising number of snippets involved her:
"…told Lisbon about my psych ward stint today. I am deeply ashamed of it, but it feels good to have someone who knows that about me and still accepts my company."
That was the day she realized Jane trusted her, and that she might be the only person alive he did trust. Over the years she'd tried her best to treat that confidence with care and responsibility. It hadn't been easy. She read on:
"What is it about music that brings back such vivid memories? I heard Fur Elise played on the piano and I saw you and Charlotte so clearly. I would give anything to hear you play again my dear. I made a girl remember a horrible thing today. It was for the best. You can only deal with such things after you accept them as facts. That's the only way I got out of the psych ward – by accepting that you and Charlotte are gone for good. I hope it will help her, and it may have saved Lisbon's life. I was relieved. Not sure what I'd do without Lisbon these days. She has become my touchstone."
A tear trailed down her cheek as she continued to read.
"I'm back. I was nearly drowned and lost my memory for a few days. Forgive me, my love. How could I have forgotten about you and Charlotte? Lisbon saved me from myself yet again."
Not all of the entries were flattering to her.
"The Bosco/Lisbon dynamic is interesting. They worked together and he fell in love with her, though he was already married. Easy to do. She had feelings for him at some point, too, but Lisbon would never sleep with a married man. She can still control him, and I won't deny I rather enjoy the fact she sides with me against him."
And later:
"Sam Bosco died today and made me promise to see after Lisbon in his dying breath. As I had concluded, he loved her deeply."
Jane was right about her and Bosco, though she had pretended otherwise, even to herself. Poor Sam. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and turned back a few pages, noting Jane's occasional self-reflective comments like:
"I should never have listened to my father. How different my life might have been."
"I watched a man commit suicide today – he was dying of cancer and didn't want to be autopsied, so he requested I be present. I am reminded how fragile life is, my dear. Gone in seconds. I helped give him a peaceful end, at least."
Steiner. He was talking about Steiner. She'd always wondered about that. Poor guy. She read on. Sometimes Jane got a little close to home for her:
I met Lisbon's ex fiancé on a case today – a broken engagement was a personal detail she had failed to mention to me. It was enlightening. Lisbon needs someone challenging as a mate, and Greg would soon have bored her to tears. I did note the wistfulness in her eyes when she saw his children. She is dedicated to her work and carefully conceals the deeply traditional part of herself. I see her maternal instincts shine when she deals beautifully with children. Teresa deserves love, and I hope she finds the right man someday. An honest, interesting man who will make her the center of his universe. I hope she gets to experience the joy of parenthood."
Having children. Not something she wanted to think about at present, so she quickly turned to something less serious:
"I rather like Walter Mashburn. A scoundrel to be sure. Intelligent. Fascinating. A man who understands being bored is the worst thing of all. He has his eye on Lisbon and she is intrigued by him. Not sure how I feel about that."
She laughed at that one, and relished the notion that Jane had been jealous, in his own way. A later entry confirmed it.
"I think Lisbon slept with Walter. On one hand I'm happy she allowed herself the pleasure, but another part of me is jealous as hell. I've no right to feel that way. I will never be able to offer Lisbon that kind of love."
And while his views of himself were usually tinged with self-loathing and guilt, he did give himself credit now and then:
"I was able to return a lost child to his mother today. It gave me joy. If not me, then at least someone. Lisbon got her man, Volker, in the process. I'm relieved. I was worried he'd gotten into her head."
And then there were the ones that broke her heart. Early in the diary there was this:
"I will never deserve to be loved again. Maybe I never did."
And years later:
"Rigsby's son was born tonight. He is gorgeous. Remember the first time I held Charlotte? I couldn't stop crying and you made fun of me, but I know you felt it, too. Rigsby's not the brightest bulb but he will be a good father. Better than me, by far."
There was one that must have been written after Jane shot Hardy.
"I got very close to him in that basement today, but in roared Lisbon to 'save' me. She doesn't understand how little my life means – its only worth is in the killing of Red John. Then I surprised myself by killing Hardy because he was about to shoot her. Apparently, she has become important to me, and I must take pains to hide that from Red John."
There was a big gap while Jane was in Las Vegas, and these entries followed:
"Couldn't take this with me to a flop house in Vegas. It was a long six-month debauch but it almost worked. Someone must have accidently tipped off the FBI – maybe even Lisbon, though not on purpose. She's a horrible liar."
"Red John obviously knows Lisbon is my weakness, but he doesn't seem inclined to kill her – at least not himself. I am thankful."
"I have hurt Lisbon deeply with my Las Vegas scam. She doesn't understand – this kind of thing only works if you are all in. This may be tricky."
The wine, the hour, and Lisbon's full belly all conspired to make her eyelids droop. She turned to the last entry in the diary:
"I have him in my sights, Angela. Now the only problem is figuring out how to keep Lisbon safe and prevent her from interfering. I fear I will have to be cruel. I do love her and owe her so much. She's been the singular bright spot in my life these last ten years. I wish for her a far better man than me and a happy, fulfilling life.
I've never allowed myself to think of a life after I destroy this monster. If I should survive this, what will be the point?"
Teresa closed the diary. Jane was gone and she needed to get over it. Story of her life, really.
A DOZEN YEARS LATER
Lisbon was on her way to interview a suspect's aunt when she saw the desk. It caught her eye in the window of an eclectic antique shop as she walked down a row of small shops. Later she would wonder if finding it was divine intervention, though Jane would never buy that explanation.
Whatever led her there, she knew she had to get it the moment she saw it. The carved walnut desk was a gorgeous, unique piece, and looked exactly as she had imagined the one he'd described in his diary so many years before. She ducked into the shop and spoke with the elderly proprietor, a sharp gray-haired lady.
"Ah, the desk. This is a favorite piece of mine," the petite woman admitted. "I only wish I knew more about its history. Every beautiful piece of furniture has a story, you know," she said conspiratorially. "I can tell you it's been well cared for. Solid American walnut, early 19th century. The tales this desk could tell…" she said with a sparkle in her eye. "It would be a lovely desk to write a book on."
"Yes, it would," Lisbon agreed as she ran her hand over the rich, dark wood. The grain was so fine you could scarcely see the rings.
"Are you a writer?" the woman asked.
"Oh, heavens no," Lisbon scoffed. "This would be for my husband. A birthday present."
"Ah," the woman smiled. "A very special one."
Lisbon splurged and bought the desk on the spot. The shop owner was more than happy to hold it for three weeks until she could have it delivered as a surprise for Jane's birthday. Then she would face the real dilemma – whether or not to admit to Jane she'd read his diary. There was no other way to explain her knowing he wanted a carved walnut desk. He would never chalk that up to coincidence. She decided to worry about that later.
THREE WEEKS LATER – JANE'S BIRTHDAY
Lisbon had planned well. She'd arranged for Jane to take her car to be serviced at the dealership this afternoon, apologizing to him for asking that favor on his birthday, all the while knowing he wouldn't mind. She had timed things so he would get out just in time to pick up their son Christopher from school, therefore keeping him in town all afternoon.
Then she'd taken a half day off on the sly so she could be home when the delivery truck arrived at the cabin. Jane's current desk, a plain utilitarian one, sat in front of a window overlooking their pond. Adding support to her theory of divine intervention, when she measured, she found the new desk would fit perfectly into the spot.
The delivery people were right on time and soon had the antique desk nestled into its new home. When they were gone she dug out the stained glass desk lamp she'd bought and set it up, switching on the light. It was perfect! She could already imagine Jane sitting there, lost in thought, scribbling. Infinitely pleased with herself, she switched off the light and busied herself tidying up the room before her family returned home.
There was always a bit of clutter around these days, she mused, but that was part of having a nine year old boy in the house. Before long the room was neat and she sat down at the desk, letting out a tremendous sigh. She still wasn't sure how honest she was going to be with Jane about this. They'd been married for ten years now and she'd never once mentioned the diary. For all he knew, it had been thrown out back at that Sacramento extended stay motel.
Jane was Jane. When he saw the desk, he would suspect she'd read his words, but would he know? Would he ask? Would he care? Should she tell him right up front and apologize for reading?
It's not like she was worried about his reaction. Their relationship was rock solid and happy.
Yet there was still no denying she had invaded his privacy way back when and she wasn't looking forward to owning up to it. That said, if she hadn't known his true feelings from the diary, she might have kept her distance from him when he'd returned from that island. Things might have gone a whole lot differently.
She bit her fingernail. She had an hour to decide…
An hour later when she heard the purr of Jane's car in the driveway, she was still debating. She would have to play it by ear, and she walked out the front door to greet them. Lisbon had learned a thing or two about showmanship from Jane over the years, and she wanted to get the full effect of the reveal as he entered the living room.
Jane was out of the car quickly and his face lit up in a glorious smile when he spotted her on the porch. Christopher soon exited as well, wearing a backpack and an equally radiant grin – something he had inherited from his father. Seeing these two so delighted to be home would never get old.
"Mom!" her son greeted her. "You're home early!"
"It's dad's birthday, remember? We're going out to eat."
"Oh yeah. El Blanco, or something like that, right? The place with the cannoli?" His face drooped. "Wait. I don't have to dress up, do I?"
"Nope. You can go casual. You're fine."
Jane gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Tires are rotated, oil changed, m'dear." She could see him pondering silently, wondering why she was already home, but he didn't ask.
"Thanks for doing that, especially on your birthday. But now I have a surprise for you," she said with a playful tilt of her head.
"For me?" he asked with glee.
Sometimes he was such a child. "C'mon," she said, taking his arm. "Close your eyes. No peeking!"
"Okay, okay," he said, putting his hands over his eyes in dramatic fashion.
Christopher was intrigued now, anxious to see his father surprised. It wasn't a common occurrence. He trailed behind them as she led Jane into the living room and stopped in front of his present. A large blue bow adorned the surface of the desk.
"Open your eyes." She focused on Jane's face as he dropped his hands to his sides.
Jane took in the sight before him. She watched carefully as the emotions played across his face. Stunned surprise. Delight. A hint of sadness. Love. His eyes filled with liquid. She had rendered him speechless and she was proud of that.
"Like it?" she prodded.
He nodded solemnly. "It's gorgeous," he said in a whisper. "Just what I always wanted," he added. The wheels were turning in his head, and he peered at her with a curious, intent gaze.
How could you know?
In a moment, his eyes flashed ever so slightly. It had come to him. He looked back at the desk, running a finger over the intricate carving. Then he turned his eyes back to hers. The diary. You found it and you read it.
She waited for a verbal accusation, but instead he squinted one eye closed and said, "Looks like I have some writing to do…"
"Mom surprised you, Dad!" Christopher piped up, delighted.
"It's not the first time," Jane chuckled, giving his son's head a playful rub. "Never, ever underestimate your mother," he said wryly. Then he turned back to her. "Thank you, Teresa. This is a wonderful present." He drew her in for a tight bear hug.
She breathed a sigh of relief. He knew, but he wasn't going to talk about it. And judging from what went on in their bedroom later that evening, he was anything but angry with her.
The next day, he began to write. His new project never interfered with their family time, however. He was careful about that. Occasionally she would wake in the middle of the night and tiptoe to the living room only to see him hunched over the desk, hard at work. After a few weeks, she couldn't stand it any longer. "Are you going to let me read it?" she asked.
"When it's done."
Meanwhile, Jane's stack of papers slowly grew thicker and after every writing session, he locked his work away in his desk drawer. She supposed she couldn't blame him for that.
They were busy over the ensuing months, and writing became part of his routine. There was never any shortage of bad guys at work, and Jane continued to do occasional consulting with the team. He didn't neglect his duties as the sponsor of the middle school chess team, either. (Christopher was already playing far beyond his 4th grade level.)
At his suggestion, they even hosted a Lisbon family reunion. All three of her brothers and their families showed up, and it was heartwarming to see Christopher playing with his cousins. Jane spent a lot of time interacting with her brothers, learning about the "sibling experience." She laughed, accusing him of collecting dirt on her, but it felt good to be close to her brothers again, and she was grateful Jane had suggested the reunion.
Life was better than she had ever hoped it would be.
MONTHS LATER – LISBON'S BIRTHDAY
"What a fantastic birthday," Lisbon said as the three of them arrived back at their house. After spending their Sunday afternoon in the park, her 'boys' had surprised her with tickets to an outdoor jazz concert. The weather was gorgeous, the BBQ was delicious, and the jazz was sweet and hot. She couldn't have asked for a better day.
By the time they'd settled back in at home it was well past Christopher's school night bedtime. Once they had him tucked in, Lisbon pulled their son's bedroom door closed and turned her attention to her husband.
"Thank you. I had a great day."
"There is one more thing," he said, smiling gently. "I have a surprise for you."
She began to protest. "I don't need any…"
"Shhh," he said. He took her hand and led her into the living room.
The room was dark except for the desk lamp, which illuminated a thick stack of paper in the center of Jane's walnut desk. She understood instantly and her head snapped to look at him. "You're finished?"
"Yes."
"Can I…can I read it?" she asked, already on her way across the room.
"Of course," he nodded and followed close behind.
When she got to the desk, she stared down at the manuscript and hesitated. "What? That's a weird title for your life story," she said, looking back at him with a frown.
"My life story? Whatever made you think I was writing an autobiography, Teresa?" He held her gaze with that focused stare that assured you he understood everything about you. He knew why – he knew it all. Of course he did.
"No, m'dear, I didn't write my life story," he continued. "I wrote something infinitely more compelling." He smiled that 'gotcha' smile, and with shining eyes he explained, "I wrote yours."
Her mouth flew open. He ignored her stunned look and beckoned her to sit. Too overwhelmed to reply, she eased into the desk chair and ran her hand over the stack of pages, reading the cover page out loud.
"The Angry Little Princess. By Patrick Jane."
She reached for his hand, giving it a little squeeze, and he kissed the top of her head.
"The author is a hack, but the story itself is wonderful," he whispered. "Happy Birthday, Teresa. Love you."
The story of my life. She turned the page and began to read.
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THE END
Thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed my contribution to the fanfic challenge, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you are so inclined.
Hayseed