To Love Someone

Chapter 1

Slowly, climbing from the depths of a deep stupor, Gil Grissom felt he was struggling up a mud-slick slope, only to slip back every time he touched consciousness. His right arm, tucked underneath his chest, was stiff and refused to move for a minute or two. Vaguely, he thought if he moved his arm, he might return to reality. Slowly, his hand found his face. Finally, he managed to open his eyes.

Seeing red, he shook his head, blinked his eyes twice, and managed to run his hand over his face before his brain focusedand his memory gathered bits and pieces to bring him fully awake. The red was the pillow under his head. He rolled to his back, found his feet tangled in a light-weight coverlet and kicked it off.

His shoes were no longer on his feet; he couldn't remember removing them.

The room was almost completely dark but pale slivers of light reflected by a mirror gradually brought the furniture into focus. The fog of deep sleep lifted and he clearly remembered. Ornate draperies hung from tall windows and dark furniture in the room combined to create a dignified gloominess. Good for sleeping, he thought. But not a place he wanted to stay.

Slowly, he sat up, folding the blanket haphazardly into a compact roll and placing it on the pillow.

Several minutes passed as he sat on the bed, surprised to find that he felt rested for the first time in weeks. He checked his watch; seven hours had passed since he had lain on this strange bed; he'd been asleep almost that long.

His eyes found the wooden chair, returned to the corner of the room, after Heather Kessler had sat by the bed. His hand raked through his hair and across his face as he remembered her words.

Earlier, before offering him a bed, she had said relationships were often over before they ended. And then, in the bedroom, she'd wanted to talk about Sara and relationships.

"People think love last forever," she said. "We all think that. It can last a long time, even after the other person has gone away, one can still love…"

He'd stopped her.

"Tell me about your granddaughter—or your practice." He had almost added, "You don't know Sara" but he'd kept quiet.

She had talked about Allison and he'd gone to sleep during the one-sided dialogue about the child's school.

In his sleep, he'd dreamed and now, reaching for his shoes, he smiled. His life was filled with baggage: a condo, a dog, his mother, a career. In his dream, he'd changed, decided to let things sort themselves out, and he had, in his sleep, made a decision.

Maybe it was time for his dream to come true.

Slipping his feet into his shoes, he shoved off the bed and almost missed the folded piece of notepaper that fluttered to the floor.

A note; Heather had written: 'Dance lessons with Allison. Food is in the kitchen. Good luck whatever you do.'

Instinctively knowing the house was empty, he found a bathroom and then wandered to the kitchen where he found a covered plate filled with pastries and a bowl of fruit. He decided to skip the offer of food.

He knew he could stay until Heather returned, but decided to leave—neither was the kind of friend who needed goodbyes. Writing a short note on the one she'd left him, he propped it against the fruit bowl.

Walking through the house, he reflected on the story he had heard from Heather about this house. She'd purchased it, along with most of the heavy, dark furniute, from the estate of the original owner. It had been built by a wealthy man from Chicago but his family had neglected the house until the roof needed to be replaced and Heather had arranged a satisfying purchase for buyer and seller. She'd smiled when he described the house "English tutor".

"I don't see it as a particular style," she'd said. "I like to think of it as an extraordinary house."

Grissom had laughed at her words; certainly a good description from an extraordinary woman. Silently, he counted the years since he had met Heather Kessler and remembered the occasion. It did not happen to him often, but when he had met Heather, he felt a current of fellow feeling emanating from her to him. Later, years later, he had read about it—actually quite common—when two people met and instantly got along; possibly subconscious, sensing of sympathetic chemicals, which led to rapport, a friendship—possibly to love.

He'd found friendship with Heather; he'd found love, too, an instant connection with a woman who was blissfully unaware of her generosity, her kindness, her beauty.

Now, as he eased the front door closed, he knew his future was with the person he loved.