She looked again, aware that something had blipped on her radar; some little thing maybe out of place or wrong or . . . . A quick scan while the commissioner was reading the report-
In her opinion the office was always a little overdone, Abby thought to herself. Old-fashioned with all the dark wood paneling, and certainly all the accent pieces carried over the machismo of law enforcement. But it wasn't as if her boss didn't have reason to display what he chose to share, and at least it was all tasteful, which she appreciated. No tacky or kitsch police memorabilia here, just earned awards and degrees, elegant displays, family photos—
Photos.
She glanced at the desktop and there, just under the banker's lamp was a tiny silver frame—a new one. Barely two inches tall, Abby judged, gleaming in the morning light. Of course she was only seeing the back of it from this angle.
Curiosity flared up, and her detective skills kicked in. Months earlier Abby had noticed that her boss wasn't wearing his wedding ring anymore; he'd replaced it with a pewter band decorated with Celtic knots. She'd seen the change but didn't quite have the courage to ask about it. Frank Reagan was a good boss, but he'd always maintained a slightly formal tone with her; an avuncular distance that she appreciated. Still . . . while he generally played them close to the vest, these were slightly alarming signs.
She rose up and moved to the window, pretending to fiddle with the drapes, giving herself a moment to look towards the frame.
"Abby, you're in my light," Frank murmured, not looking up at her.
"Sorry. Did you want these open a little more?" she asked over her shoulder.
"They're fine. So when were these numbers last updated?" he motioned to the sheet in front of him. "Old data is worse than no data."
"Tezerick ran them last night . . . is there something off?" she leaned over, bouncing her glance between the columns and the image in the frame.
Frank said something but she missed it. Missed it because the photo startled her into a momentary synaptic misfire.
It was a photo of a woman.
She knew the woman in the photo, yes she did. And it wasn't Erin or Nicky or the late Mrs. Reagan.
No, this was someone completely unexpected, and Abby realized she was about two seconds behind the conversational cue. She drew in a quick breath. "Sorry I completely missed that. Could you repeat the question?"
Frank glanced up at her. "I asked where's the projection for next year's budget. Are you all right?"
"Fine," Abby was quick to assure him, "Ah, isn't it on the second sheet?"
As they flipped through the pages, Abby shot another quick glance at the photo to confirm her discovery.
Yep. The thin face, long silver hair, bright smile . . . definitely her, no mistaking the features of the woman who'd Heimlich-maneuvered her ages ago.
She also realized that Frank had caught her gaze and that he was now looking at her in that patient way of his. He was as open right now as he would ever be to the question, so steeling herself, she asked it.
"Um . . . why do you have a photo of Doctor Clowderbock on your desk, sir?"
Frank waited a beat, holding her gaze for a moment before answering. "Because there's no room for it on the display cabinet behind me."
Abby gawked and the tiniest curl of a smile came up under Frank's heavy mustache.
"Kidding. Actually, she's here," he nodded towards the small photo, "because we're affianced. So I'm concerned about this line-"
"Wait!" Abby broke in, startled. "Affianced? As in she's your fiancée?"
Frank gave her a patient glance. "Yes."
"When did this happen?" Abby demanded, and then flinched. You didn't demand things of the Commissioner, but she was in it now, like it or not.
Frank sighed, and leaned back. "Over Christmas."
Abby hesitated, feeling a little at a loss. "Um . . . congratulations. Sir."
"Thank you." He did smile then, and for the first time in a long time Abby saw genuine pleasure in his quick gaze. "Feel like a little bet?"
She glanced at the frame. "Like how long it's going to take either Sid or Garrett to notice the photo?"
"Exactly," he rumbled. "It only took you seven minutes to pick up on it."
She blushed a little. "I like the details of this room," Abby admitted. "I'm . . . attuned to them."
"Details matter," Frank agreed. "So . . . any estimates?"
"Garrett, a week. Sid . . . a few months, if at all," Abby shrugged. ""So when's the wedding?" She asked, finding the idea appealing. Having known her boss for years she always suspected under his generally calm demeanor that he might be a little lonely. It tickled her to think someone had slipped through his orderly deference.
"That's still a work in progress," he winced a little. "At least the church one; negotiations are taking some time. However," Frank brightened a little, "that reminds me; did you confirm that lunch appointment with Judge Howard?"
"Yes, it's on for Tuesday next week," Abby replied, connecting the dots a split second later. "Hold on; he's marrying you?"
"Well technically he's marrying me to Briar Rose," Frank pointed out. "Only fair; I asked her first."
Abby planted her hands on the edge of the desk to steady herself as she glared patiently at her boss. "You're doing this deliberately, aren't you?"
Frank took a breath and she watched emotions flicker over his face. "I don't mean to have fun at your expense, although it's a bit of a bonus. Yes, we are going through a civil ceremony next week with a religious one at a date to be decided upon later. As you know we've all just gotten through a fairly big wedding so I don't blame her for wanting things to be low-key."
Abby nodded, straightening up again. "I don't recall seeing her at Jamie's nuptials."
"She was called in for an emergency C-section," Frank admitted. "But she's in the early photos at least."
"At least," Abby agreed, softening a little. "Well congratulations again, sir. I'm really happy for you."
Frank smiled at her. "Thank you, Detective."
-oo00oo—
It was just after five on Saturday morning. She watched him pack the cooler, trying not to chuckle at what was clearly a manly ritual for him. George too, seemed interested, but mostly because the scent of bait hung in the air.
So all those alternate Saturdays when you weren't coming with me to the Farmer's Market you were out fishing?" Briar Rose asked as she wrapped the remains of their breakfast casserole in foil.
"Yes."
"Do you ever catch anything?"
She didn't mean to sound doubtful; Frank looked a little hurt by the question. "Yes," he muttered, adjusting his baseball cap.
"All right then," Briar Rose reassured him. "Fish is a healthy meal, and I know how to cook it. Whatever you bring home I can prepare."
Frank pretended to be busy with the cooler. "Well it's not a sure thing you understand. No guarantee we'll catch anything on any given Saturday. It's more about getting outside and enjoying the experience."
"Exactly," she agreed, fighting a giggle. "All about spitting on the bait and hoping for a bite."
"Spitting on the bait?" He looked over his shoulder at her.
"Well yeah," Briar Rose looked surprised. "That's what my father taught me when we went out for trout at Glenwood Pond. You load up the hook and spit on it, then cast. It's supposed to make the bait work better. Unless you're fly-fishing; you don't DARE spit on one of those fancy lures."
Now he was looking at her with a strange expression—half surprise, half almost lust. "You never told me you knew how to fish," Frank accused.
"Sweetheart, you never asked," Briar Rose replied, picking up the casserole leftovers and tucking them into the refrigerator. "I may have lived in New York for the last thirty years but I'm still rural at heart." Turning back to him she added, "Don't you dare think about me in waders!"
"Too late," Frank murmured, smiling so his dimples showed. "Oooh what a mental picture!"
"Sorry, I'm strictly a hook and bobber fisher," Briar Rose assured him. "Fly fishing is for rich people. All right then. You and Danny have fun, all right?" She held out the coffeepot, topping off the thermos in his hand and when it was full, added the sugar before Frank screwed the top on it.
"You could come," he offered, but Briar Rose shook her head.
"Another Saturday. You two need to share time together. Besides, Nicky and Erin are helping me move some things and you don't want to get roped into that."
He smirked and kissed her before picking up the cooler and heading out. Briar Rose watched him go and smiled to herself; it amused her how easily this lifestyle change had happened. After the shooting at the hospital Frank had brought her here to the house on Harbor Terrace and bit by bit it had become the default. She'd tried returning to Dyker Heights, but found she didn't sleep as well on her own, and the solitude she'd once embraced was not nearly as fulfilling as it once was.
Not that she'd ever love the noise and clash of the Reagans full-time, but as Frank had shown her, there were enough floors to the house in Bay Ridge that she could escape to peace and quiet whenever she wanted. He'd given her the entire dormer attic in fact, having the walls painted in her favorite shade of sage, and arranging for the better pieces of her furniture to be delivered there.
"It just makes sense," Frank had told her. "We are getting married, so we might as well start setting things up to your liking."
Briar Rose appreciated that sentiment more than she wanted to admit. It was still difficult to wrap her head around the idea of marriage, let alone being the second Mrs. Reagan. The house had seemed intimidating at first, but she'd come to realize that while it held sentiment and memories it wasn't a shrine, and that she was wanted here by all of them.
And that was both comforting and scary.
Her phone pinged; a text from Erin. /On our way. Bringing smoothies./
Briar Rose glanced down at George. "All right Fuzzy Boy; let's go see what more we can bring back."
-oo00oo-
The breeze was fresh, and the day clear; Frank took a look out over the water, admiring the pale skyline as he did so, enjoying the morning. He'd always been an early riser, ready the face the day as soon as possible.
Danny however, was yawning, his night-owl tendencies apparent. He was leaning against the pier railing, one hand on it, the other wrapped around the reel of the fishing rod in a loose grip. Frank hoped nothing hit the bait hard; his son was going to get one hell of a finger slash if that nylon line started to pay out quick. He almost said something, but Danny shifted his grip a second later.
"Long night?" he murmured to his son. "We could have cancelled."
Danny shook his head. "Nah. I needed to get out. Sometimes you don't realize you're in a rut until something like fishing sounds good."
"Fishing is good," Frank replied a little defensively. "Makes you slow down and think."
"Yeah well at this rate I'm thinking mostly about how we'll probably have to stop at the market and pick up something from the fish counter if we're going to have a dinner tonight," Danny grinned though to lighten the sarcasm. "Think anyone would believe we caught a big fillet of salmon? Or a pound of deveined shrimp?"
"Ye of little faith," Frank snorted, and settled back, watching the thin filament arching out from the tip of his rod. The breeze picked up, flicking across the bay, ridging up the water between Staten Island and Brooklyn.
Danny reeled in a little of his line, the clicks ticking as he did. "So . . . it's this coming week? The civil one?"
"Thursday," Frank comfirmed. "Amos Howard's agreed to do it if we buy him lunch first."
Danny gave a brief smile. "Bribing a judge . . . doesn't look good."
"Not so much a bribe as a contribution to his waistline," Frank replied. He caught his son's expression and shifted closer, blocking some of the breeze as he turned to him. "Okay, let's have it."
Danny gave a sigh, returning the look. "It's just . . . hard to grasp, exactly. I mean we all need to move on and keep living. I get that. That's kind of what Reagans do. And Briar Rose is nice enough. She's not trying to be mom, thank God. It's just . . . I looked into her, all right?" The defiant glance told Frank where the conversation was headed, and he set his expression.
"I know you did."
Danny gave a hard sigh. "Of course you did. So you know what I'm talking about here."
Frank waited a beat. "The medical marijuana prescription."
Danny's head whipped around, his gaze wide. "What? Wait, that's not . . . I meant the three times she's been held for disorderly conduct . . . what do you mean she's got a prescription?"