She kept a respectful distance within the massive crowd gathered on the cemetery grounds.
The group of mourners formed a large and nearly complete circle on the grounds — encompassing the tasteful arrangement of flowers, photographs and urn of ashes in the center — but standing at a wide enough span that nobody's view was obscured by anyone else.
Had the funeral been held indoors, she doubted there would have been even any standing room left.
The man they were memorializing today had touched so many lives, and now those who remained of them had gathered to say their final good-byes.
There were easily three-hundred people here, out of the many thousands he must have known who had already passed on themselves.
What a legacy he'd left behind. Her educated guess figured that every one of these people were connected to him somehow through his work.
She'd met him because of his work. And she'd befriended him in part because of hers.
But she herself hadn't seen the man in nearly four decades. Now she never would again.
And neither would his widow, she thought to herself, feeling genuine sadness for the other woman.
His widow wasn't difficult to spot — she stood in her rightful place of honor in the center of a smaller group nearest the memorial centerpiece.
Two tall and handsome grown young men flanked her on both sides, and there was no mistaking the familiarity of the widow's two hands clasped with those of the young men.
Mother and sons.
They would miss him most of all.
On the other side of each son stood a beautiful young woman about the same age, and the observer counted five darling children and one precious infant rounding out the group.
Ten white wooden chairs had been unfolded and set in a single row beyond the centerpiece, but as the funeral service hadn't yet begun, nobody was actually sitting down.
Feeling like an outsider peeking through the windows of someone else's house, the woman focused her attention again on the grieving widow.
The woman's shoulder-length hair had turned from its dark brown to a very attractive silver, but even across the distance she could see that the woman's face was just as fresh and youthful as ever.
Time had not been as kind to Heather Kessler.
Sunglasses hid the permanent bags under Heather's eyes, but they couldn't disguise the sunken cheeks or the weary lines etched on her face. The scarf on her head concealed thinning hair that had once been thick and luscious. Her hands, veined and wrinkled, ensconced within black gloves.
She and the widow were roughly the same age — probably no more than a year apart, in fact. But comparing them side-by-side, a person could easily mistake one woman for being nearly a generation older.
Heather looked every bit of her eighty-one years. Envy of the other woman's seemingly eternal youth and beauty was a bitter pill to swallow.
The only semblance that remained of her former self was the large crucifix at her throat and a set of oversized and mismatched rings that forever adorned Heather's fingers. Even when she wore gloves, there were always at least two rings on the outside of each glove.
The widow, on the other hand, wore minimal jewelry — an elegant diamond ring on her left hand, and a tasteful silver pendant around her neck.
Almost as if she realized she was being watched, the widow lifted her eyes, her gaze landing squarely on the newcomer standing silently by herself.
Heather's breath caught in her throat at having finally been seen.
The widow gave her a long, unwavering stare, her eyes narrowing just slightly.
Heather flushed under the scrutiny. Most of her pride had abandoned her when her looks had, and too often now she felt inferior to the women whose beauty hers had once surpassed.
Perhaps she shouldn't have come after all. Yet she couldn't stay away. Gil Grissom had been her friend too, once upon a time. She had as much right to be here as anyone else did.
Rooted in place, she waited as Grissom's widow excused herself from her sons and approached.
"Can I help you?"
The widow's tone was not aggressive, yet neither was it very welcoming.
With a wrinkled hand covered by black glove, Heather removed her sunglasses and bravely faced the other woman. "Hello, Sara."
She expected open hostility, because that had always been their particular trademark.
But the time that had ruthlessly aged Heather had apparently, in contrast, gently mellowed Sara, because there was no hatred on the other woman's face, no malice. Only recognition, and a little bit of curiosity.
"Heather."
She smiled ever so slightly, her grey eyes crinkling at the corners. "You remember me."
"You're not the type of person who's easily forgotten," Sara answered levelly, not returning the smile.
Heather knew better than to pretend that Sara meant that as a compliment.
Never one to beat around the bush, Sara got right to the point. "What are you doing here?"
In a tone of cordiality — Heather had no desire whatsoever to cause a scene — she explained to Grissom's widow her presence at his memorial service. "I came to pay my respects...but if you'd rather I leave, I understand."
Sara regarded her coolly, having the full authority to remove from the grounds anyone whose presence she did not approve.
"You can stay," she consented at length.
Heather released a breath. "Thank you."
It was on the tip of her tongue to give Sara the same empty 'I'm sorry for your loss' phrase that people erroneously believed to be a comfort.
It had never comforted her. Not when her daughter was brutally murdered, and not when her granddaughter was accidentally killed.
So Heather didn't bother with it. She searched her mind for something better to say.
"Grissom was loved by many."
"Yes," Sara answered. "He was."
"Nana!" A little girl of about six years old ran up to Sara, stretching out short arms and wanting to be picked up.
"Hey, sweetie," Sara bent down to the child and straightened again with the girl in her embrace.
"I miss grandpa," the girl sniffled, wrapping small arms around Sara's neck and laying her cheek on Sara's shoulder.
Sara rocked the child in her arms, rubbing her back soothingly. "I know, honey. Me, too."
"You're a grandmother?" Heather spoke with a tone of wonder coloring her voice. "I never knew you and Grissom had children."
"We adopted," Sara answered simply.
At the other woman's questioning look, she elaborated. "After we fostered a pair of brothers for several years, adopting them just made sense."
She shifted the sad little girl comfortably in her arms, smoothing the child's flyaway curls with one pale and smooth-skinned hand.
"She's beautiful," Heather offered about the child Sara cuddled.
"This is Tom's youngest, Maggie." Almost in afterthought, Sara added, "She's my little shadow...she doesn't like to let me out of her sight for very long."
"Which one is Tom?" Heather asked politely just for something to say, her heart still yearning for her own long-deceased daughter and granddaughter.
With Maggie still in her arms, Sara turned to face the same direction Heather did, indicating the rest of the family still gathered solemnly near the row of folding chairs.
"Tom is the one with brown hair, and Daniel is the blonde."
"Handsome boys."
"Yes," Sara agreed. "And they both married wonderful girls."
"That's nice," Heather quietly responded, hiding her shock that the other woman still stood there conversing with her as if she wasn't who she was.
A man approached them, his low voice interrupting any other words that may have been exchanged. "Mrs. Grissom, we're ready to begin your husband's service."
"Thank you, Mr. Chambers," Sara answered him softly. To Heather, she merely said, "Excuse us."
Heather nodded. "Of course."
She watched the other woman with child in arms return to the family who loved her and friends who adored her.
Regret was a cruel mistress. If not for the one man constantly caught between them, the two women might have actually become friends. Or at least not been enemies.
Discreetly Heather chose a place from which to stand and observe that would keep her out of the family's immediate line-of-sight.
The memorial service was long and unhurried. To Heather's surprise, much more was said of Grissom's life as a family man than of his work as a career man.
No minister presided over the service; instead, family and friends stepped up to eulogize.
First to speak was Sara, who talked about her beloved husband and the life they'd had together which spanned, in total, over more than five decades. Every ounce of affection for the man of her heart was reflected in her trembling voice, in her red-rimmed eyes, in her frequently shed tears.
When Sara couldn't speak any longer, her adopted sons Tom and Daniel stepped up to reminisce on the man who had become their father. Next, the boys' wives related sweet memories of their father-in-law, and even the children all told their favorite things about their grandfather.
Then came the opportunity for friends to speak — and speak fondly they did. Anyone who had something to say about Grissom was given the chance to say it.
Indeed, what a legacy he'd left.
Though she'd counted herself as a friend of Grissom's too, Heather wisely refrained from taking a turn as well, knowing that her speaking would have been deemed neither appropriate nor appreciated by Sara.
Heather was not even a footnote in the epic love story of Grissom and Sara. But she was okay with that.
She would never have been able to even come close to giving him — or any man, for that matter — the kind of love and devotion that he'd found within his family.
As incredibly small as that family was, the obvious bond shared among them was tremendous.
Grissom had been unbelievably lucky to have that.
Heather hung back until the memorial service was finished, the crowd dispersed, and the photos, flowers, and urn of ashes were gathered by the family.
She couldn't explain why, but she wanted to talk to Sara one final time before leaving the widow to her grief.
Overwhelmed by all the dozens of hugs she'd been given, Sara Grissom felt relief when the last hugger finally let go of her and headed for the parking lot.
She spied Heather Kessler still lurking under a tree, and somehow sensed that the other woman wished to speak with her again.
"You go ahead," Sara told her family. "I'll be there in a while."
Her little 'shadow', Maggie, gave her beloved Nana one more hug before taking her father's hand and moving toward one of the last few vehicles parked nearby.
Sara quietly sat down again on the nearest chair, a silent invitation for the other woman to join her and speak whatever was on her mind.
Tentatively Heather perched on the next seat, facing forward so the woman beside her hopefully would not feel like she was in an unwanted spotlight.
Sara dabbed her eyes with a tissue, took a cleansing breath, and patiently waited for whatever it was that Heather felt the need to say to her.
"I was mistaken," the other woman offered gently.
Drained of energy again from continuing to mourn the loss of her husband, Sara tried to keep the hard edge out of her raw voice. "Mistaken about what?"
"All this time, I thought Grissom's legacy was his work. But I see now that it's his family. His children, and grandchildren." Heather paused to finally look at Sara, finishing softly, "His wife."
Sara swallowed back the fresh sting of tears. She looked at Heather, looked away, wiped her eyes again, took a breath.
"He was the best friend I ever had," Sara whispered.
Heather gave her a silent little nod. Grissom had said the same to her about Sara once upon a time.
"I'm...sorry if my presence here was an intrusion. It wasn't my intention."
Sara didn't respond to that. She briefly closed tired eyes, inhaled, and opened them again.
Assuming the silence was confirmation that she was indeed intruding, Heather tactfully viewed it as her cue to leave.
She rose from her seat, taking three steps away.
"Heather."
She stopped, turned, waited.
She didn't know what words to expect now, but she braced herself to weather the worst of them.
"We're having a...a modest gathering at the house later." Sara took a small notepad and pen from her purse, wrote an address and time, and handed the torn-off little scrap to Heather. "Come by if you like."
"You're comfortable with having me in your home?" Heather voiced in surprise.
"No," Sara answered quite honestly with a shake of her head. "But I figure the best way to lose an enemy is by gaining a friend."
Her words brought tears now to Heather's eyes. "Thank you." She accepted the peace offering at face value and put the note safely in her pocket.
Sara had never been friendly to her before. Of course, Heather had never given her a reason to be.
Perhaps it was Grissom's decades of influence that prompted Sara's benevolence toward her now?
Because if you asked Heather...aside from his family, Grissom's greatest legacy was his kindness.
The End