Chapter 2: Conversations of Steele

Fred hadn't dropped her at home until a little before nine-fifteen on Saturday evening. She'd gone straight upstairs to shower, then slipped into one of Remington's pajama tops, before going back downstairs to the kitchen. Making herself a cup of tea, she rummaged through the cabinets and refrigerator in search of something to eat. She'd managed a slice of pizza at lunch, but had turned down Donald's offer to make dinner. Finally, opening the freezer she was relieved to find it was stocked with any number of meals that Remington had pre-made as if he'd known she'd arrive home before him. Settling on the mouth-watering shrimp and callaloo soup he'd made the week they departed for England, she put it in the microwave to heat while keeping a careful eye on the clock. By ten o'clock her bowl and tea cup had been washed and put away and she was tucked under sheet and comforter in their bed when she reached for the phone.

"Steele, here," Remington's rich, and surprisingly alert voice, came over the line.

"You're awake," she noted, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"For you? Of course, I am," he hummed. Her warm laugh was like a tablespoon of honey when one had a sore throat… positively soothing. "You survived the children, then?"

"I've made a decision, Remington," she said in lieu of an answer.

"Oh? About?" Laura making a decision after what was presumably a trying day seldom boded well.

"I've decided to go back on the pill next weekend." She closed her eyes and waited for the sound of abject disappointment in his voice when he answered. Instead, he chuckled. Opening her eyes, she frowned at the receiver. "I'm serious, Remington. I'm going back on the pill."

"Made them your spaghetti again and they staged a revolt, did they?" he teased.

"Mr. Steele," she said slowly, the warning in her voice clear, "I have spent the last eight and a half hours, scrubbing more floors than I have in the last year and doing more loads of laundry than we normally do in a week. I have watched Mindy throw up on Danny, only for Laurie Beth then to throw up all over me, after which I had to use every ounce of the self-control I used to hold you off for four years just so I didn't get sick myself."

"Your cooking's not as bad as all that, love. At least I don't recall you every poisoning someone with it," he deadpanned. Running her tongue around the inside of her mouth, she tried not to laugh at his absolute audacity but in the end a wide smile spread across her face, displaying a set of dimples he'd have paid to see about that time, then her laughter trickled over the line to his ears.

"You're incorrigible," she admonished.

"So you've said repeatedly across the years." He grew somber. "Ah, Laura, I wish I were there to see the smile I hear in your voice." She fingered the bed next to where she lay.

"I wish you were here in our bed with me," she admitted quietly. She heard his sharp intake of breath. It was still rare she'd make admissions such as that, implying she needed his presence as much as he did hers.

"As do I, mo chéadsearc, as do I. I could just hop on a —"

"No, you won't," she cut him off. "Tell me about your day."

"Thus far it's begun most wonderfully, as I received a phone call from my lovely bride only shortly after I awoke. And now? I'm envisioning her lying in our bed at home wearing…" He frowned. "What are you wearing?" Her laughter wafted across the wires again.

"Your pajama top," she offered.

"Color?" She glanced down at herself.

"Blue."

"The royal or navy?"

"Navy."

"A lovely shade on you. Reminds me of a piece of lingerie with which you tempted me only two nights past. Mmmm, yes, a lovely way to start the day, enflaming my imagination as you are." She sighed and shook her head.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked, laughing again.

"A man can only hope any number of wicked things once I arrive home," he suggested in a deeper tenor. She could see the waggle of his brow in her mind's eye even though he was a thousand miles away.

"Oh, I think you can count on it," she assured, then tilted her head to the side in thought. There was a time the idea terrified me, but it's nice, she smiled to herself.

"What's that, love?" She frowned, feeling she'd missed out on a part of the conversation somewhere.

"What's what?" He smiled in his bed in their townhome. Caught you thinking aloud, did I?"

"Whatever it is you believed would be terrifying but instead is nice." She crinkled her nose, realizing she'd done it again. Reaching for his pillow, she brought it up against her and wrapping her arm around it, shrugged her shoulders.

"Knowing you so well that I can picture you, right now, lying on your side, head propped up by your hand, as though you were lying in bed at home talking to me. Your hair sticking up on the sides and hanging down over your forehead, your face with its morning stubble." She rested her chin on his pillow. "And, I'd wager," she drew out the last word, "Since I'm not there to wear it, you're wearing both the top and bottom of your pajamas." He was chuckling before she was finished. She'd nailed him down to the pajamas.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Think you know me so well, eh? What color are my nightclothes? Hmmmm?"

"Maroon." He raised his brows at that.

"I've always suspected you were witch. How could you possibly know that?"

"Because it's your favorite pair on me," was her smug reply, smiling at his answering laughter.

"Think you've one up on me, do you, Mrs. Steele?" Shifting to lay down on the bed, she curled up on her side, wrapped around his pillow.

"You know I do," she smiled.

"My navy top—"

"Uh-uh. I told you that. It doesn't count," she admonished.

"Hair down—"

"My hair is always down when I go to bed. It's a given." Indeed it was. It seemed he was forever removing a piece of hair out of his mouth or swiping the lot of it out of his face. And he loved every moment of it.

"As I'm not there to keep your feet warm, a pair of those hideous socks that reach your knees. You know the ones, with the colored rings about the top." She laughed as she wiggled her toes, kept warm by a pair of exactly the socks he was describing.

"Go on," she encouraged.

"You were sitting against the headboard when first we began to speak, but by now you're lying on your side, wrapped around my pillow, facing my side of the bed, I imagine." She laughed quietly.

"You're very good at this," she conceded.

"I ought to be. I've been studying you for years. You're a worthy subject." Closing her eyes, she smiled.

"'Sometimes I know exactly what you're going to say, most of the time,'" she told him fondly.

"To Have or Have Not, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Warner Bros., 1945," he recited automatically. "Are you saying I'm predictable, Mrs. Steele?"

"Only some of the time, on most of the days, Mr. Steele. Tell me about your yesterday," she requested.

"Mmmm. After I regretfully parted way with my bride at the airport, I dropped round the market to lay in a few more supplies. On my way to Hardwick, I posted a package to you—" A smile lifted her lips.

"You did?" she asked, inordinately pleased.

"Just a little something I think you'll be needing. You should have it by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. When I—"

"What did you send me?" she interrupted. Predictable as the rain, he smiled to himself.

"Just a little something I think you'll be needing," he repeated. You'll not be getting more than that from me, love," he informed her, laughing at her grunt of dissatisfaction with his answer. "Shall I go on?"

"Mmmm," she hummed, snuggling more deeply into her pillow then tightening her arms around his and inhaling deeply his scent while enjoying the tranquilizing tenor of his voice.

"When I arrived at Hardwick, Thomas kicked the staff out of the kitchen so together we could tackle the veal dish you were so fond of in North Carolina. After, we whipped up a batch of the white chocolate cream cheese mousse for which he'd wanted to share the recipe with me. Even I must admit it's spectacular. Decadently rich, you'll absolutely—" With a quiet chuckle he stopped the recitation of his 'yesterday.' "Laura?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"Sleep well, mo chuisle. We'll speak tomorrow. Hang up the phone now, love."

"Alright," she agreed distantly.

Turning to lay on his back in their bed in London, he was left laughing, for she'd hung up the phone without ever saying goodbye.


Sunday morning, Laura dragged herself out of bed at seven, then tossing on a pair of khakis, a short-sleeved polo and a pair of flats, she pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail. Forgoing makeup, she was in the Porsche by twenty after the hour. Despite stopping for coffee, she pulled up in front of Frances and Donald's at two minutes before eight. The bug seemed to be of the twenty-four hour variety for the girls were awake and tentatively eating some toast at the breakfast table when she arrived. Danny, however? He'd come down with the bug overnight. She kept their girls occupied throughout the morning, braiding their hair, playing go fish, and plying them with Jello, made the prior night by Donald, and 7-Up.

Only after Donald assured her a half dozen times he was back on top of things, did she depart. A quick stop at the grocery store on the way home, and by two-thirty, she was standing at the kitchen counter peeling open a carton of yogurt. She frowned after spooning the first bite in her mouth, then shriveled her nose at the second. Dropping the carton into the trash, she reached into the refrigerator for a second time and snatched out a small carton of chocolate pudding. Opening it and taking a spoonful, she rolled her eyes.

"Perfect," she purred, before wolfing it down while giving some consideration to going for a run or sitting down at the piano. Ultimately, she found herself book in hand, portable phone at her side and glass of ice water sitting on the ground, stretched out in the hammock on the terrace, enjoying the mild March afternoon.

The trill of the phone ringing startled her from sleep. Feeling around on the hammock she finally located it and, never opening her eyes, hit the button to answer it.

"'Lo," she mumbled into the receiver.

"You sound much as you did when last we spoke," a bemused tenor with just a bit of Irish brogue said into her ear. Her lips lifted in a smile as she carefully turned to lay on her back.

"I fell asleep on you last night, didn't I?" she asked, absurdly pleased by the surprise phone call.

"That you did," he confirmed with a chuckle, "Then to add insult to injury, hung up on me with nary a goodbye said."

"I didn't!" she exclaimed, laughing.

"I quite assure you, you did," he chuckled. "Paint me a picture, Laura."

"Paint you a picture?"

"Of you, right now. What are you wearing? Hair up or down? Where are you?" he asked, as he stretched out on his back and covered his eyes with an arm.

"Ummmm, khaki's, light pink polo, brown belt, no shoes. Hair up in a ponytail. In our hammock."

"Lovely," he hummed, envisioning her. "Another Sunday lost," he commented with no little regret.

"We can spend all next Sunday afternoon in the hammock, if you'd like." He sighed deeply.

"There's little I'd like more, but I'd wager a near impossibility," he lamented. "I haven't stocked the cupboards in weeks, and have cringed many a time these past two days imagining you cracking your teeth trying to eat stale croutons." The comment earned a swipe of her tongue at the inside of her cheeks and another wide smile as she shook her head.

"There's a big difference between not enjoying going to the grocery store and being incapable of it, Mr. Steele," she told him with mock irritation. "As a matter of fact, I went today."

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Did you purchase anything beyond yogurt, a couple of pieces of fruit and those little chocolate pudding cups you used to hide behind a five-year-old box of pancake mix in the loft?" Wrinkling her nose, she squirmed in the hammock. He chuckled quietly, able to see her doing just that in his mind. "As I said, a run to the market will be required."

"What time is it?" she asked, in attempt to change the subject. Peeking out beneath his arm, he glanced at the alarm clock.

"A little after one," he supplied.

"Why are you still awake?" she inquired, her brows rising. "I'm going to be calling you in only a few hours."

"I don't sleep worth a damn without you near," he told her, frustration peppering his voice, "especially…" he trailed off, unsure if he was willing to traipse into potentially volatile ground.

"Especially what?" As his silence drew out, she grew frustrated as well. This was the most difficult part about the miles between them. She'd known it would be. She just hadn't expected it this soon. Their old habit of shutting down, retreating, hiding, too easily done with distance between them. She concentrated hard on softening her voice, trying to draw him out. "What's going on in that head of yours, Remington?"

"Damn it, Laura. I'm worried," he exploded, launching himself out of the bed to pace. "You return to work in the morning. DesCoines' insane daughter is still prowling about out there… somewhere. We've no idea when she's going to show again. For Christ's sake, we don't even know who she is! Who knows where the bloody hell Anna is, but my every instinct tells me she's plans in mind for us otherwise why would Roselli have bothered? When you're out and about, there's no one watching your back. And we both know, if there's a case, if there's a clue, if there's a suspect to pursue, you won't wait, let it rest, until I get back." By the time he'd finished, her fingers had found her brow.

"That's a lot going on in there." The words left her mouth without conscious thought and she grimaced at how dismissive they'd sounded, even to her own ears.

"Laura," he choked out in a strangled voice, while rubbing an anxious hand across his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, then took a second to gather her thoughts. "The summer you left," she began, then blew out a harsh breath. It had been nearly two years since the night she'd arrived at his apartment to find him gone, but the memory of that night, how she'd felt, was still like a physical blow. "The summer you left," she tried again, "Not knowing if you were safe, if you were hurt, if you were in trouble? I understand all too well what you're feeling right now. But you need to give me at least some credit. I didn't take on cases then that put me at risk without my partner to watch my back and I won't now." Across the Atlantic, Remington sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into a hand supported by an elbow to knee.

"Minor and Anna?" She held up a hand and shook her head.

"Tomorrow morning, I'll see what progress Mildred's made on getting DesCoines' visitor log. If she doesn't have it, I'll try another avenue. I'll also call Meyerson and will ask if he can touch base with his contact at the INS and see what he can find out about Anna." She blew out a soft puff of air. "I promised to stay safe. It's a promise I intend to keep." Stretching back on the bed again, he slung his arm over his eyes and nodded. "You need to get some sleep, Remington."

"If only it were so easy," he mumbled.

"Turn off the light. Let me know when you have," she instructed, her mind whirring with how to relax him from thousands of miles away rendering touch, presence not an option. What she did have at hand, however, was his very vivid imagination. Doing as bid, he rolled to his side and turned off the light.

"It's off," he informed her, wondering what she was about.

"Lose the shirt, Mr. Steele." Dropping his arm and raising his brows, he gave a short laugh.

"Laura…"

"Lose the shirt. We're going to take a Sunday afternoon nap together," she informed him. Feeling more than a bit silly, he did as she asked, and tossed the shirt to the end of the bed before pulling up sheet and comforter.

"Done."

"Alright. Close your eyes. You and I are lying in our hammock. My head's laying on your shoulder, my hand on your side, one of my legs over yours. It's a mild, day. High seventies, a gentle breeze. A neighbor cut his grass today, you can smell it in the air. The sun is lowering on the horizon, letting it shine right on us. Can you picture it?"

"Mmmm," he hummed. She'd described one of many such afternoons they'd shared together since moving into their Holmby Hills home.

"What would we be doing if you were here?" He laughed warmly at the inquiry.

"Ah, love, I assure you making me think about that is not the way to encourage sleep." She laughed huskily while rolling her eyes.

"Talking. We'd be talking," she corrected. "Tell me about your day." He grinned on the other side of the line.

"Wouldn't that also run contrary to your goals? Hmm?" He had her there, she had to admit.

"Alright. I'll tell you about my day. When I got up this morning, I went back over to Frances and Donald's. Mindy and Laurie Beth were feeling better, but still timid about putting anything on their stomachs. Danny came down with the bug overnight, so…" she filled him in on the entirety of her day. At first he asked a question here or there, then eventually fell completely silent. "Remington?"

"Hmmmm," he hummed in answer.

"Hang up the phone, sweetheart."

"'Night, Mrs. Steele."

"Good night, Mr. Steele."

With a smile on her face, she went inside to change into running clothes.


"Steele, here," Remington's surprisingly awake voice came over the line.

"You're up," Laura replied, clearly surprised. He scrubbed at his head with a hand.

"Didn't we have this same conversation yesterday?" he bantered.

"Five years of you not wanting to climb from bed before ten warrants my surprise," she needled.

"Extraordinary circumstances, such as my wife being a continent away, inspire change, temporary although it may be," he retorted. "You, however, must not be as affected as I, for you remain steadfast to your own shortcoming."

"Oh, and what shortcoming is that?"

"You're late," he pronounced with laughter in his voice. "By half an hour, might I add."

"Late by design. I wanted to give you a little more time to sleep. I realized something while I was running tonight, Mr. Steele." He wasn't sure if he should be alarmed by the statement or not.

"Oh? And what was that?" he asked cautiously.

"We never read Daniel's letter." Of this he was well aware. It had occurred to him they might read it before she left, but had shoved the thought aside. He needed more time to digest how he felt about Daniel's duplicity, time he could scarce afford while getting to know his father and worrying about Laura left to her own devices thousands of miles away.

"Mmm, no, we never did. We'll do it together when I come home."

"Alright," she nodded her agreement. "Tell me about your yesterday."

"First, paint me a picture," he requested.

"I don't know how much of a picture I can paint. I'm in bed, wearing your royal blue pajama top, hair down." She wasn't about to admit she had his pillow clutched in her arms, pressed to her front.

"Lying?"

"On my side, facing your side of the bed." He closed his eyes, seeing her as clearly as if she were there with him now.

"Delightful," he hummed. "Thomas and I spent the day at Derbyshire – Which reminds me. Thomas knows a breeder in Argentina who, he assures me, breeds superior Criollo ponies. The finest of horse for polo—"

"No," was her unequivocal answer before he could spin his spiel.

"Think of the benefits of owning my own—" She lifted her eyes heavenward.

"Out of the question." His lips lifted in a bemused smile. She couldn't very well make him return a gift from his father, now could she?

"Now, Laura—"

"Remington," she interrupted again, "Setting aside the ridiculous price tag I'm sure is on the head of whatever horse you have in mind, after you own the horse there are unending costs: stabling, grooming, feed, vet bills, not to mention a responsibility to spend time with the animal. Now, we can continue discussing this, in which case I'll hang up and go to bed, or we can move on." The statement rankled, but given a horse would be delivered to their doorstep on the heels of his return it occurred to him it would not be the wisest of decisions to relay his offense.

"Derbyshire is..." he searched for the word, "… impressive might be an understatement. Two dozen horses housed right now along with Thomas's own hunting mounts, with space for another two dozen. Four paddocks, three training arenas, a state of the art breeding facility. Thomas had a couple of the hunters saddled up so we might tour the outer grounds together. Near on a thousand acres of woodlands, a lake, two smaller ponds. A veritable cornucopia of game for those inclined to hunt, which I can honestly say I've never taken a liking to." Laura's deep yawn rolled across the line, lifting a smile to his lips.

"And you and Thomas? How are you getting along?" While she knew Remington would get caught up in all the trappings, largely due to disbelief that this was his birthright, her concern lay with father and son building something real and enduring.

"He's a good man, love," he admitted quietly. "A bid staid, as you know, but I've come to realize although he's lived his life in proverbial luxury, that had he it to do all over again, he'd gladly give the lot of it up if it meant Aislin living…" he stalled and cleared his throat, "… watching me grow up. 'The damnable fears of youth,' he's termed it more than once."

"You seem to have some regrets of your own," she observed. He scratched at his chin as he considered that thought.

"Ah, Laura," he sighed, while shaking his head in the negative. "Had you asked me that question a decade ago, I may well have provided a long list of just such regrets. Now? Had things been different, I'd never have known Daniel, Marcos, Elena and the family. And above all? I'd have never found you. So, no, I don't think I'll be saying I've any regrets. A wish or two, perhaps, would be a more apt description."

"And what would those be?"

"Aislin, to start. I was with her for several months. I wish I could remember anything about her, if only a mere sensation, but I don't." Her lips tightened with her own regrets for him.

"I can understand that." She yawned again. "What do you have planned for today, love?" He grinned at her drowsiness-induced reference to himself with the endearment he used for her.

"We meet with the solicitor this morning to address the details on the transference of the entailments, and after? Two days dedicated to me becoming familiar with the workings of Agri-Britain. Thomas understands I'll not have a part of running the business, but it seems by virtue of my existence alone, I'm a voting member of the board." He smiled a crooked smile as he recalled the thought that had come to him earlier that day. "Imagine I'll find myself in a silo being buried by grain again?" Silence greeted the question. "Laura?...Lau-ra," he drew out her name the second time, speaking much louder.

"Ummm, yes, I hope so," she mumbled. He chuckled warmly at the thought of the fun he'd have the next day.

"Say goodnight, Mrs. Steele," he directed.

"Goodnight, Mr. Steele," she dutifully answered before hanging up the phone.

In London, Remington hung up the phone and climbed from bed to shower and prepare for the day that awaited.