Author's Note: I'm trying something new with my posts: notes. For those of you who regularly read my work, you will notice the story didn't start off with a mystery. Or someone in the hospital. That's because this one is a mood piece. And no one gets injured for a change.
So, I guess that means I'm trying two new things.
Addendum: I want to apologize for the delay in getting this out. My personal life blew up at the beginning of the summer, and I haven't been able to write, but now it's time to get back in the game. Thanks for your patience.
Thanks to my reviewers: pen4lew, ukfan101, hlahabibty, Caranath, max2013, zenfrodo, Kristy, Guest, hollyboo2001, LazyPanther, Barb, and everyone who has read and/or followed but not left a review.
Back to the story.
The noise was soft, a frequent clicking sound that wove its way into Frank's head, reminding him of... Something. What was it? Morse Code? No. He listened, concentrating, trying to find a pattern. A cacophonous burst of clicks would be followed by a few seconds of silence or a few quieter, more measured noises. It reminded him of something. Static on a phone line? He sighed and shifted, his mind running through other possibilities as he dropped back off to sleep.
"Frank?" Callie's voice crackled in his ear. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here, Cal." He let out a breath, waiting for her response. The conversation was dragging. Again. They had gone through class updates and the news from home in the first few minutes. Now there was a silence that Frank desperately wanted to fill but wasn't sure how.
"You got so quiet, I wasn't sure." The words echoed in the receiver, bouncing off one another before disappearing into silence.
He swallowed, wanting to fill the empty space any way he could. "I'm always here for you, Cal. You know that."
A beat. A few staccato clicks covered what Frank thought was a sigh. "I know." Callie's voice was soft, and in its tone, he heard something new – a hint of sadness. "Did you solve that case you were working on over spring break?"
"Yeah, and Joe's doing all right." He heard the hitch in her breathing, and closed his eyes, frustrated with himself for using those particular words. Smooth move, Hardy, he thought.
"What happened to Joe this time?" The edge in her voice came clearly from across the country.
"Nothing serious." He shook his head, wishing he hadn't said anything. Lately his talks with Callie felt strained, and more than anything he wanted to recapture the easy feeling from high school. "Just a few stitches." Obviously this conversation wasn't going to do that. Just like the last few hadn't.
"Stitches..." He heard air being forced through her lips and could imagine her standing one hand brushing the blonde hair from her forehead, her eyes closed, her teeth clenched together. "And you?"
He cleared his throat, forcing an offhand tone into his voice. "A few bruises. A sprained wrist. All minor."
There was another click on the line. "Minor... Frank, we're not kids anymore. What you do is dangerous." She sighed, her feeling of irritation clear. "How many times have you been hurt or nearly killed?"
"I don't keep count." It took a concerted effort to keep the lightness in his words. "I bet my mother does, though. Or Aunt Gertrude." He kept talking trying to fill the silence on the other end of the line. "She's got all kinds of stories..."
Callie's voice cut across his words. "I'm terrified that one of these days the phone is going to ring, and it's going to be you telling me that something's happened to Joe." The words tumbled from her mouth as if she couldn't hold them back, her breathing suddenly much faster. "Or worse. Joe telling me you didn't come home."
There wasn't much he could say to that. He held his breath, finally hearing another sigh come through the receiver. "Cal..."
"No. Never mind." He heard her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. When she spoke again, her tone was lighter and more brittle. "So, when are your classes over? I should be home on May twentieth."
Frank shook his head, knowing she wouldn't be happy with his response, and tried to sound more cheerful than he felt. "Good. We'll overlap by a few days. I'm back the sixteenth."
"Overlap?"
"My first summer class starts right before Memorial Day." He held his breath.
"You're taking summer classes again?" The lightness was gone. The edge was back in her voice. So was the sadness.
He sighed. "Double major, Cal. It's hard to get all the classes done without taking some in the summer."
"And in January?"
"And in January." He held his breath, waiting for the possible explosion.
There was a long pause before she spoke again. "Okay." The word was practically a whisper. "I'll see you for a few days in May, then." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "I have to go. Study session. Have a good week. Talk to you soon. Bye." The phone went dead.
The dream dissolved, and Frank flinched, keeping his eyes closed as he tried to will away the memories it had evoked. A sudden burst of rapid-fire clicking came from his right, sounding like television-show gunfire, followed by a puff of air.
Making sure to keep very still, he forced his eyes open a crack, squinting into the light as his surroundings came into focus, and relaxing as he remembered where he was. Bayport. Thanksgiving. Anna... His eyes flew open, and he wrenched his head to the left, looking for the clock radio on the nightstand. A hiss escaped from his mouth as his collarbone reminded him why that was a bad idea, and his vision blurred.
"Frank?" The note of concern in Anna's voice was unmistakeable. "Are you all right? What do you need?" There was the click of a laptop being closed, then he felt the mattress shift as she knelt on the bed, leaning over him.
"I'm fine. Just moved too fast." Her face came into focus, and he reached up to run the tips of his fingers over her cheek and down to the shoulder of the tee-shirt she wore. One of mine, he noted with a smile. "How long was I asleep?"
She glanced at the clock over his shoulder. "A while. It's just past midnight."
He shook his head, wincing as he did. "I slept through dessert. I was looking forward to those cookies."
A smile danced around Anna's lips. "Your mother told Joe to save some for you."
"You're optimistic. You've met Joe, right?" He sighed. "Oh, well. There'll be enough food tomorrow. Or today."
She reached out and took his hand. "Did I wake you?"
"No. I had a dream." His shoulders tensed, and he took a breath, forcing them to relax. "Nothing big. Why are you still up?"
"I was working on something. And thinking. Mostly thinking."
Her voice sounded calmer than it had during dinner. Or the last few days, he thought. He leaned back so he could see her face. "Are you all right?"
"Surprisingly, yes." She disengaged her hand from his and lay down on her side, her left elbow bent, her head resting on her hand. "No one's yelled at me or come after me with a baseball bat as of yet."
"And why would anyone do that?" Frank tried to keep his tone light and joking. "Has Joe been making up stories about weird family traditions?"
"No." Her dark eyes grew unfocused. "He did say something odd about one Christmas..." She shook her head and turned her gaze back toward him, a decision evident in her expression. "I meant because of what I did to you." Her voice was matter-of-fact, and she held up her right hand, cutting off his words before he could speak. "I know, I know. It was nerves. It was shock. It was a case of temporary insanity. But I still feel badly about it. And for the first time, I'm going to say this out loud." She swallowed, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "I was afraid your family might hold it against me."
Frank felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. "Was?" He reached out and took her free hand, tracing patterns on her palm with one finger. "What changed?"
She let out a breath. "Joe set me straight. He said he'd never seen you so happy. And your parents actually seem pleased to have me here. So does your aunt." She paused, a wrinkle forming on her forehead. "At least I think she does."
"She is. Pleased. When you get to know her better, she becomes a bit easier to read." Frank snorted. "Believe me. If she didn't like you, you'd know." He thought for a moment. "A couple of Joe's old girlfriends didn't pick up on it, but you're a lot smarter than they were. More intuitive."
"Not when it comes to people." She pulled her hand away again and pushed herself up into a sitting position. "Books and scripts I can figure out, but reading people? That's not high on the list of things I'm good at."
"You read me well enough." He smiled at her.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail and started twisting it into a knot at the back of her neck, a look of intense discomfort on her face. "Um, no. Don't you remember...?"
"Only at first." He smiled, the memory of their initial misunderstandings still strong in his mind. "We got past that minor communication glitch," he said, relieved to see her nod in agreement. "Anna," his curiosity was now ablaze, "what did you think my parents were going to do?"
"Yell." The word was automatic. "I figured they were going to read me the riot act."
"What made you think my folks were going to yell at you? They adore you." He made sure to keep his voice gentle.
She took a deep breath, dropped her hands to her lap, then looked back at him, her face a smooth mask. "That's what parents do."
The dispassionate tone of her voice shocked him more than her words. He stared at her for a long moment, his mouth open, things she had said to him over the past months suddenly dropping into place, her discomfort over the Thanksgiving invitation finally becoming clear. "Anna, I'm sorry. You never talk about your family, and I didn't want to pry. It never occurred to me. Your parents..."
She shrugged, her eyes flickering down to her hands. "Yelled. When they spoke to me at all. It was their preferred form of communication." A slight tremor went through her body, but her voice stayed steady. "It's why I went to live with Pierre. After the..." Her chin trembled, and he watched as her jaw clenched, a flash of pain in her eyes.
"After the assault." He finished the sentence for her. "That's why he was made your guardian?" She nodded, her jaw still tight. "And your parents were okay with that?" He could hear the anger in his voice and tried to tone it down, not wanting to interrupt.
"They suggested it. Actually, they threw me out." The corner of her lips twisted, and her eyes grew hard. "They figured since I wasn't able to work after it happened, I should be – how did they say it? – a burden to someone else's pocketbook."
The air whooshed out of Frank's lungs. "They said that to their own daughter?"
"Pretty much those exact words." She let out a shaky breath. "It's not the kind of thing you forget."
Frank reached out and took hold of her hands, squeezing them gently. "So you went to live with your agent."
She nodded. "They signed me over to him. Made Pierre my legal guardian. Once I started working again, they sued him to get me back. To get control of my earnings. It didn't work. He kept it out of the papers. He said he'd always protect me. That he would be my family." A lopsided ghost of a smile appeared on her face. "You know how that worked out."
"I'm sorry," he said, "I should have realized..."
"Don't apologize." The smile became more real. "You had no way to know. You're not the only one whose whole life story doesn't appear on the Internet, and it's not like I said anything."
"Do you want to go? We could find somewhere, just the two of us. My folks would understand."
She shook her head, her dark hair moving like a curtain over her shoulder. "No. I think I need to see what a real family holiday is like. One that I haven't read the script for."
"We can supply that." He tried turning his head toward the clock again, stopping this time as he felt the twinge in his neck.
"Closer to one now," she said, trying not to yawn. "We should probably get some sleep. Why don't you get up and I'll get the covers set."
She jumped lightly off the bed and walked around to his side, helping him stand for a moment while she turned the bedclothes down then getting him settled before turning off the light and feeling her way back around to her side. Frank let out a strangled laugh as she tickled his foot in the process.
"Stop that," he said, wrapping his arms around her when she snuggled close. He could feel her smiling, and was just drifting back to sleep when he felt her stir.
"What was your dream about?"
Frank blinked a couple of times and stifled a yawn. "My what?"
"Your dream. You said I hadn't woken you up. What was it?" She leaned her head on his chest. In the dim light he could just make out the shape of her head.
He swallowed, not wanting to lie to her after she had just opened up to him about her past, but not knowing what to say.
"Frank? Are you okay?" There was a note of concern in her voice, and he could sense her arm reaching over him toward the light.
"I'm fine." He pulled her arm down over his chest and let out a breath. "Callie."
Her whole body stiffened. "Oh." Her voice was small.
"It was a conversation we had. Right before she broke up with me." He thought for a moment, trying to make sure he chose the correct words. "It doesn't hurt anymore. Remembering. I have you to thank for that."
"Me? I don't understand."
Frank cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I'm going to explain this well, but here goes." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "With Callie I wanted to have fun, have adventures, keep things light. With you, I want everything else." He could almost feel her eyebrows going up and hurried to explain. "Don't get me wrong. I want us to have fun, too, but with you I want... life." He sighed. "I think I'm tired. I'm not saying this very well."
Anna sniffed. "No," she said, her voice catching, "you're doing fine." She kissed his shoulder. "Thank you."
He pulled her closer to him. "Now it's my turn for a question. What were you working on?"
"A paper for my Shakespeare class. Hamlet. Five pages on the meaning behind the words in Ophelia's flower speech using only the methods of formalist criticism. No secondary sources."
"You'll need to explain that to the layman," he said, shifting slightly so she could stretch his neck muscles. "I got 'paper' and 'Hamlet'. You lost me on the rest of it."
He felt her smile up at him. "Formalist criticism means you can only use the words on the page to interpret what the author means. It's like detective work. You have to use the clues you find." She stifled a yawn. "And it's due Monday morning."
"That hardly seems fair." He tilted his head to the side, and breathed in the scent of her shampoo. Lavender and mint. "I mean, it's Thanksgiving."
She gave a delicate snort. "Professor Lake is British. 'Thanksgiving' didn't hold sway with him." She yawned again. "Actually, he told us we were lucky. Since we don't have class on Friday, we have an extra day plus the weekend to finish." Another yawn. "I'm almost done. Just the final edit to go."
"Tell me about it."
"It's not that interesting," she said, her words growing more indistinct.
"I read spreadsheets for fun," he said, a wry note in his voice. "I'm sure I'll find it fascinating. Tell me."
He held her close as she talked, the pauses between words growing longer until all he could hear was the slow and steady breathing that indicated she was asleep. He reached out and moved a stray lock of hair from her neck, kissed it, then tucked it behind her ear before closing his own eyes, making sure he still held her close to him.
