Chapter 4

The Shopping

The long dawn, the warmth in the room, jet-lag, and comfort caused sleep to stay with Sara and Grissom until mid-morning. A cell phone ringing finally brought Grissom's hand to the stack of books. He fumbled, knocking books across the floor; Sara protested his movements with her own moan of objection.

She said, "Don't," just as Grissom said "Hello, Grissom." He had yet to accept the French method of dropping the "H".

He talked several minutes pulling Sara into his arms, slipping his hand beneath her breast and cupping it gently in his hand. She kissed his chest as he continued a one-sided conversation, mostly in English. Sara moved to his neck, tickling his throat with her tongue. He grinned, finally flipping the phone closed. He slipped down into the bed maneuvering under her body.

"Tell me again why we are living five thousand miles apart?" His asked, his voice husky with early morning wakefulness. He felt a ripple move her belly.

"It's the nuttiest thing I'll ever do." Her throaty giggle said more than words as she moved her mouth lower on his chest. She teased his belly with her tongue, using her fingertips to tap his ribs as a signal to roll.

Grissom made some noise that rumbled from deep within his chest as he followed her silent directions. He was barely awake, he thought, and she had already aroused him. He slipped hands around her arms, tugged and got "Not yet" as a response. Another minute passed as he felt her wet lips and warm breath against his skin.

He growled, "Enough, woman!" He was to the point of explosion before she moved against him, a grin on her face.

Face to face, they made love, slowly, with deliberate and unhurried kisses in those intimate places of lovers. Sara's deep, sexy laugh fueled his desire as they prolonged their feelings, their need to be together, in this bed, time and place. Even after a long, peaceful night of sleep, the two lovers slipped into a restful nap.

When they woke, within minutes of each other, her soft brown eyes met his intense blue ones. "It's time to shop, dear," he whispered.

Living in Paris, they had learned a new and different method of shopping. No large shopping centers anchored by a mega-store sat in the middle of gigantic paved lots. The freshest bread was purchased at boulangeries and vegetables and fruits from local farmers; cheeses from fromageries—all found within a few blocks of the apartment. The neighborhood supermarket was no larger than a twenty-four hour convenience store in Vegas, yet stocked a variety of foods for preparing the simplest meal or a gourmet dinner. Grissom, who had never liked to shop, had learned to enjoy the process. He spoke stumbling French in the beginning but could now speak well enough, and was well known by the shopkeepers, that he used shopping as his personal tutor.

At some point, he explained the telephone call—an invitation to accompany a professor and his family to a special archeology dig north of Paris for the next day. "It will be fun," he explained. "We'll get back in plenty of time for the party."

Before noon, they were outside and the sun was shining again. They walked with the crowds to one of the temporary holiday villages that sprouted in numerous areas of the city. Most resembled Swiss chalets or gingerbread houses or thatched roof cottages or open booths and sold every possible trinket, food, beverage, toy, and gadget imaginable. Grissom tried to enter every shop, buying a bottle of wine, a bag of candy, little cakes and muffins, nuts, a dog toy, miniature Santas, carved birds, an angel, a beehive the size of a thimble—small souvenirs "for others" he said . When he stared longingly at a meat pie, Sara nodded, realizing some time ago he would never be a vegetarian.

With bags already heavy, they made their way along one of the famous shopping avenues of designer names with stores filled with dresses, coats, bags, shoes, and jewelry. Only one window caused Sara to stop as she admired the unusual jewelry—crystals and colorful stones appeared to be woven in a mosaic effect of tiny flowers and butterflies, birds and leaves. She had stopped for less than a minute when Grissom pointed to another shop.

"It's a honey store. Les Abeilles means the bees."

Inside they found only honey—lavender honey, opera honey, Paris honey, dozens of labels. The sales lady explained the different names indicating where the honey was produced; the Paris honey came from hives kept in the city. The 'Opera honey' from hives near the Paris Opera House. And Grissom purchased four jars.

They ate as they shopped, finding jam filled pastries, chocolate crepes, glazed fruits, spinach quiche and, of course, Grissom's meat pie. "We smell like a kitchen," Sara told him as he crossed the street to another food cart. "I don't think I can eat another bite."

"Yes you can—we need lots of calories, and this guy has the best!"

The vender knew him, giving a greeting of "Mr. Grissom" in accented English. "And the pretty lady comes today—Sara, yes?" He was curling batter into hot oil twisting it into the shape of a pretzel, flipping it once before lifting it out, and rolling the fried dough in a dry mixture. Sara smelled cinnamon. Paper was folded around the fried cake with the care of wrapping a present and presented with a flourish. "The best!"

Carefully, she tasted. The two men watched. The sweetness was first followed by the sharp sensation of cinnamon with another flavor—citrus, she thought. She made an agreeable sound and chewed. If one could taste a cloud, this would be it—puffy and sweet with a hint of salt inside. Unlike a donut, this treat tasted of a light sea breeze.

"Delicious," she said, adding "delicieux!"

When Sara thought they could carry no more, Grissom insisted on one more stop—a florist—where he was again greeted by name.

"M. Grissom!" The woman's voice sang across the flower stalls. "She is here, yes!" A younger woman came from the back. "Marie, get the last one—we have saved it!" A small evergreen was placed on the counter. Grissom grinned.

Sara was speechless—they had never had a Christmas tree. She could not remember the last time she woke on Christmas morning to see a decorated tree. She did not see the point of cutting trees just to watch them die.

Grissom was reading a card to her as the two women carefully covered the tree, as with everything else they had purchased, it was wrapped as carefully as a gift. Suddenly, she understood the French. The tree was a living tree, to be returned after Christmas day and planted in a park.

The older woman spoke in English. "This one is special. It will go to Versailles—you have seen it? The forests are being replanted after a storm destroyed thousands of trees. Return the tree to us and it continues to live—oui?"

Sara nodded, tears in her eyes. She realized Grissom had planned this. All of those little trinkets he had purchased "for others" were going on their three foot tall tree. She stood there like an idiot, arms filled with shopping bags, tears running down her face.

"Happy tears?" the woman asked.

"Mais oui."

The tree fit on one of the end tables. No lights, per instructions, but Grissom's trinkets covered its branches. Sara had as much fun unwrapping each item as she had hanging them. She placed a little lace angel at the top of the tree and stepped back.

Grissom had watched. For a person who professed a disinterest in holiday decorating, Sara was having fun. Every ornament he had purchased had been placed and replaced at least twice on the tree.

"It's perfect," he said as she turned.

She smiled. "Thank you—I can't remember the last time I decorated a Christmas tree."

He waved his hand for her to join him. "Next year, we'll do it again—bigger tree, more stuff."

She studied the tree. "Maybe we should put it over there." She pointed to the half wall between the sofa and the bed. "We could see it from the bed."

He chuckled.

A/N: Two chapters in one day! Thanks for your comments! Enjoy!!