Chapter 2: Faith

Laura arrived at Remington's apartment on Wednesday evening at five after seven. They'd agreed to meet for dinner following what they both believed would be a protracted afternoon appointment with BJ Sinclair. Her feathers were still a bit ruffled when she arrived and knocked on the door. After all, Sinclair… Ms. Sinclair… had insisted Mr. Steele leave his associate… her, the actual owner and detective!... behind and attend the meeting alone. She'd spent a lifetime fighting against the stereotypes women faced every day. But to have a woman… a woman… act as dismissively towards her as numerous male clients in past years had been insulting beyond belief.

Dinner, some dancing, wine before the fire and if all went well some quality time mak-, she scurried away from the words, in the sack afterwards will go a long way to improving my mood. She laughed shortly to herself. For years, evenings spent with him had been the highlight of her day and since returning from London, their time together had become all the more important, all the more meaningful. Yes, a dose of her Mr. Steele, his natural good humor and optimism was exactly what she needed.

She knocked again, her brows knitting into a frown, before glancing at her watch. Finally, it occurred to her if he'd been running behind he might be in the shower and not have heard her knock. Fishing through purse, she pulled out her keys and let herself in.

And knew immediately he wasn't there. His keys were not on the credenza where he always lay them. There were no sinful smells of dinner cooking wafting through the air. The bedroom was dark. Must be working his charms, she laughed quietly to herself. If the lateness of the meeting is any indication, we'll have a lucrative contract from BJ Sinclair on my desk within the next day or two. She had to hand it to him: Allergy to legwork or not, he had a gift for turning potential clients into actual ones.

Well, if he could work this late putting the contract to bed, so to speak, she could at least surprise him by having dinner waiting on him when he arrived home. Walking into his bedroom, she picked up the phone and dialed the number to their favorite Chinese restaurant. Once the order was placed, she retrieved from her purse the current novel she was reading and made herself comfortable on the couch to await his return.

The Chinese food was delivered at eight with still no word from Remington. Schmoozing a client was one thing, but this was verging on the ridiculous… not to mention it was putting a serious kink into her hoped for plans on the evening.

At nine o'clock, with a puff of frustration, she picked up the living room extension and called Fred. No, he hadn't seen Mr. Steele since he was dropped off at the client's home that afternoon. He, himself, was awaiting Mr. Steele's call to pick him up.

By ten o'clock, she was beginning to become concerned. Remington looked forward to their evenings together maybe even more so than she did, although she found that difficult to believe. As much as, then, she silently amended. She couldn't imagine a single circumstance in which he would not have tried to reach her to tell her their evening would have to be postponed.

When the hour hand of her watch landed on eleven, she threw up her hands before putting on her shoes. Apparently, she'd attributed too much importance on these evenings, at least where he was concerned. Well, she was through with waiting for him to return home when it was clear he was enjoying himself too much to even give her the courtesy of a call. She'd be damned if she'd stroke his ego, as finding her there, waiting and worried, would surely do. She tossed the Chinese food in his kitchen trash can then stalked out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Then lay staring at the ceiling over top of her bed until the wee hours of the morning. Could it be he was out there, hurt? Even worse? The very idea made her heart clench as though a vise had just been clamped around it. Each time the notion would appear, she shook it off. No, the louse had just stood her up, nothing more, nothing less. That conclusion brought no comfort, as it left her questioning everything about the past weeks and her belief the addition of the title 'lovers' to their status of partners and friends had meant as much to him as it had to her.

Thursday morning, she walked into the office exhausted, red eyed and her emotions careening between furious and frantic. Neither Fred nor Mildred had heard a peep from their bogus boss. Mildred, who was still struggling with her own feelings about discovering her formerly cherished chief was part charlatan, wrung her hands one minute with worry over him and in the next minute watched Laura with something akin to pity in her eyes. Having had enough, Laura retreated to her office, slamming the door behind her.

Harry Cranston appeared in the offices of the Remington Steele Agency shortly after lunch bearing one promissory note which effectively granted him sole ownership of the business Laura had poured heart and soul into creating, then building. She defended Remington voraciously, on the surface at least, insisting to Cranston there was absolutely no way, short of drugs or coercion, that Remington would have used the Agency as collateral during a high-stakes poker game. When Cranston handed her the document supporting his claims, the floor shifted under her feet. She'd know the large, scrolling signature anywhere. Just as the name Remington Steele had once been hers, so, too, had this signature. He'd devoted a good deal of time to being able to execute it at will so comparison of records prior to '82 and those after would be indistinguishable. The devil's in the details, he'd reminded her.

She retreated to her office and immediately placed a call to Reuben Saltzman, the Agency's attorney. At Saltzman's insistence, she had Mildred fax a copy of the promissory note to his office. She returned to her office to wait… and hide. Dropping down into her chair, she rested her elbows on the desk and pressed her fingertips of both hands to her brows, blinking rapidly.

He wouldn't have… would he? She sucked in a deep, pained breath. Despite the fact she hadn't been able to trust him fully with her heart yet, for years she'd trusted him as her partner with her very life. What was the Agency if not that? Her blood. Her sweat. Every penny she had to her name. Gone. One hand in a poker game and it was all gone. Her entire body shuddered and she choked back the sob that bubbled up in her throat.

Suddenly she shoved back from her desk and stood.

No! Looking up at the ceiling she blinked back the threatening tears. If forced to choose between Cranston's story and the man she knew as Remington Steele, she would believe in her friend, her partner. The man that clung to her hand after she'd fallen from the beam at the Federal Reserve. The man that had given her a story, and hope, after her home had been bombed. The man who had chosen to face DesCoines on his own, rather than to risk her future. The man that had held her and cried over what he'd believed was her lifeless body. The man who even when he'd lost his memory had still known, instinctively, that there was more between them than merely business.

The man who'd been rendered nearly speechless when she and Mildred had presented him with a passport in the name of Remington Steele.

She didn't know Cranston from Adam, but she knew the heart of the man who remained missing.

No, she'd stand by Remington Steele and would believe in doing so they'd come out on top, just as they always had.

Sleep did no come any easier that night than it had the night before. In that moment of hazy awareness before sleep sweeps you away, in the early light of the predawn hour she whispered into the air of the loft:

"Where are you, Mr. Steele?"