Things are begining to reach a climax...

Part 4: various voices

Hetty

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man normally in possession of his senses goes to pieces when in the presence of a woman giving vent to her emotions. Not that God granted men as much common sense as women, of course – but that is another matter and not for discussion at this time. Sadly, I can report that both Mr Deeks and Monty react in a typically masculine fashion to Miss Blye's uncharacteristic outburst, which is to say that they demonstrate that peculiar brand of ineptness known only to men and do nothing. To be more precise, both man and dog just sit stock still, with matching pussy-struck expressions of horror on their faces. How absolutely typical.

Clearly, some outside interference is required, and as they are too far away for a swift kick in the shins, I have no option but to favour them with another of my extensive repertoire of justly-famous stares. (Note to self: obtain hockey stick forthwith and keep in immediate vicinity at all times to avoid being similarly constrained in the future.) I select the one that says "Do something. And do it now, before there is blood for breakfast". Let me assure you that the blood will not be mine. You will no doubt be as relieved as I ms to know my glare has to have the desired effect, because they both spring into action: Mr Deeks reaches out a nervous hand and pats Kensi on the shoulder, while Monty goes one better and licks her face. On the whole, I think I prefer Monty's approach, for however gauche (not to mention wet) it might be, there is an element of charming spontaneity about it. Perhaps Mr Deeks might do well to take a leaf out of his book?

"Kensi?" His voice is soft and low, almost husky, one might say, and there is a tenor in it that I have never heard before. Just for a brief moment I let myself imagine a man speaking to me in that tone of voice and it is a good thing that I have remained seated throughout this encounter, because I am almost certain that my knees are trembling. I really have no idea why I am behaving in this way.

There is no response. Kensi refuses to look up and her hair has fallen down on either side of her face, shielding it further from view.

"Kensi?"

Is it my imagination, or is there a slight tone of desperation in Mr Deeks' voice? Like me, he has never seen Kensi react in this way before and it is most disconcerting. I feel quite uncomfortable, but that might be because I am holding my breath and suddenly find my lungs are screaming for oxygen. It must be the ale that is causing my habitual sang froid to desert me, because I can think of no logical reason why I should be so affected. And you can quote me on that.

And finally, just as I am convinced he is frozen to the spot, Mr Deeks moves, putting his arm around Kensi's shoulder and pulling in close, so that her head is resting on his shoulder. She reacts instinctively, wrapping her arms around him, moving her head to that it tucks in under his chin. There is no need for further words, as they remain locked in an embrace, two bodies fitting perfectly together. I have often been praised for my impeccable sense of timing: I know when to make an entrance and I also know when my presence is no longer required. This is definitely one of those times. My work is done and there is no need for me to be here. Gesturing to Monty, we make our escape, leaving the young people to come to their senses.

Outside, the air is unseasonably warm and still, the sunshine concentrated by the white-painted walls of the inner courtyard of the Mission that has become my private sanctuary at times of stress. Despite long years of residence in California, I still cannot help thinking that Christmas should be crisp and cold, preferably with a generous dusting of snow. Mulled wine and mince pies are best enjoyed around a roaring fire, after all. But despite everything, I can feel the spirit of the season enveloping me, like a well-loved quilt being slipped around my body: soft, familiar and entirely welcome.

"Merry Christmas, Monty," I whisper and the dog rolls his eyes at me and then wanders over and gives the gnarled olive tree that lies at the centre of the courtyard a thorough watering. From the sublime to the ridiculous, indeed. It strikes me that I haven't drunk nearly enough. Of course, there is an ample sufficiency of Theakstons inside. The only problem is that Kensi and Deeks are there too and I really don't want to disturb them.

Bugger. I really do need to plan things a little better next year.

"Why aren't you a St Bernard with a barrel of brandy around your neck?" I enquire of Monty.

He gives me an uncompromising look and then scratches himself thoroughly. If he has left fleas on my carpet I will have a bone to pick with Mr Deeks, true love notwithstanding. Ah well, there are worse things to do on a bright Christmas morning than to sit in the sunlight, and there are worse companions to have. I'd kill for another beer though.


Kensi

"I'm glad you're here," Deeks whispers into my ear, in a way that sets my skin alive. "I'm glad you're here and not in Hawaii. Really glad. It makes this the best Christmas ever."

"But I didn't get you a present," I say, sounding completely pathetic and unlike myself.

Sometimes I spend so much time kicking ass and acting tough that I forget who I am deep down inside. And no matter how hard I try to hide it, the fact is that the inner me is as tough as marshmallow. My dad knew that… but then I could never hide anything from him. He knew everything about me. I've never let another man get as close as that again, because losing my dad was the worst thing ever. I made a mistake letting Jack into my life – but he never knew the real me: I was too scared to let him get that close. But I still hurt when he left – I still felt like my world had fallen down around my feet and that it was all my fault. Since then, I've guarded my emotions, too afraid to let anyone ever get close to me again, in case they leave me. I don't think I could stand to be hurt again.

The thing is that I find I am tired of hiding my heart. And more than that, I am tired of being alone. I just want to be wanted. And I want Deeks too. I want Deeks and I need him. I just need him so much that it physically hurts. I've never needed anything or anyone quite so much in my whole life. My throat aches with the effort of choking down my tears and my head is pounding fit to burst. I don't know why I am so hung up about the fact I didn't get Deeks a present.

No. That's a lie. I know exactly why that bothers me so much – it was the look in his eyes. I can't forget the way Deeks looked me yesterday – his gaze was first full of hope and I just dashed that all away, so that it was replaced by this sorrow and most of all this incredible loneliness in his eyes that just made me feel hollow inside. With one look he managed to strip everything away from me, leaving me empty inside. I never knew I could hurt someone so much. That's what I can't forget. Every time I closed my eyes last night I saw Deeks and that look in his eyes that seemed to say I had destroyed him and the guilt was eating me up.

Somehow I manage to summon up all my courage and lift my head to look at Deeks and I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. There's that familiar look in his eyes – the one I saw before. The look that is full of expectancy, like he's just waiting for me to let him into my life. I know in an instant that this is what I've been waiting for and that Deeks is the one I've been looking for. And that blows away the very last vestiges of fear so that I finally pluck up the courage to allow myself to do the one thing I've been longing to do for so long – I let myself fall into his arms. Miracle of miracles, Deeks' arms enfold me and I finally feel like I've come home, after far too long an absence.

"But I've got you, Kensi. I've got everything I ever wanted." Deeks is so sincere and he makes it all sound so simple.

And he's right: it is simple. It is so very simple to move even closer so that I'm sitting on his knee, in fact. I'm sitting turned around so that I'm facing him and Deeks is kissing away my tears.

"Don't cry, Kensi. I can't bear to see you crying."

"I'm only crying because I'm happy."

It's true. I feel like my heart is going to burst with happiness. And then my hands are on either side of his face and I'm kissing him, like I've kissed him a hundred times in my dreams. Only the reality is so much better. The reality is kind of mind-blowing, if you want the truth. And the best bit about it? Deeks is kissing me back. He's kissing me like yesterday, today and tomorrow are all rolled into one so that there is no going back. How could I not love a man who kisses like that? And who needs Hawaii anyway? Although Deeks and Hawaii would be an awesome combination of sun, surf and sex. No, wait a minute – I can have all that right here. All that and more. Because right now it feels like anything is possible.

Sitting with Deeks' arms around me (and why haven't I noticed what great arms he has before? Strong and well-muscled, and with the cutest golden hairs on them. Maybe I've been too focused on his amazing butt? It makes me wonder what else I've overlooked about Deeks – and what there is in store for me to discover…) I realise that for the first time in a long, long time I feel whole again. Possibly for the first time since Jack walked out. I've been looking for someone to share my life with for so long. The hunt for my dad's killer has kept me pre-occupied, but not that occupied. I've still had time to be lonely – too much time. It strikes me that we are alike in that, Deeks and I – both essentially gregarious people, who find themselves alone when it really matters. Only now we've found each other, when we didn't even realise we'd been looking.

"I went looking for you last night," I confess.

"You did?" His arms tighten around me, and his voice is coloured with disbelief. It's as if nobody has cared enough to do that for a long time.

"Uh huh. At the soup kitchen. But you'd already left." I try not to let the lingering disappointment I still feel over that come out as I speak, but it's too raw and green.

"Funny, because all the time I was there, I kept looking out for you. I kept thinking that you'd come."

"I did come. Only I was too late."

"You've got me now. And I've got you and I'm never going to let you go."

That sounds perfect to me. There's nothing I want more. For a moment, I wonder why Deeks goes to the soup kitchen each Christmas, year after year. There must be a reason. Maybe one day I'll ask him about it. Maybe one day I'll tell him about my Dad. I might even tell him about my Mom – but not today. There will be time for all that. Right now, I just want to enjoy being with him.


Angela

I knew. I knew the moment I saw them together last Christmas: this was the girl Marty had told me about. She was "the one", according to him. Now, when he'd said that, I didn't say anything – of course I didn't. I just let him talk, telling me all about Kensi while I watched the way his whole face lit up as he spoke about her and I felt my heart start to lift up. It's been a long time coming, but Marty deserves someone of his own. I've tried my best, but he was always looking for something else – or more accurately, for someone else. Right from the first moment I met him, that was always the case. I've never seen a child more in need of love and attention. And I've fostered over thirty children in my time, so you can trust my judgement. But for some reason, Marty was always special to me. Maybe because he was the one who stayed with me the longest – and still stays in my heart today. Or maybe it's because we met on Christmas Eve, over twenty years ago…


"Mrs Deeks – Angela – you know I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."

I'd known Jarvis Allen for ten years, and as social workers go, he was one of the best. He wouldn't spin me a line, I knew that. It had to be bad if Jarvis was standing here in my living room on Christmas Eve, practically begging me to take in another child in danger. Still, I wasn't ready to take on another child – and certainly not at such short notice. Each time one of my boys or girls left, there was a lingering sadness, an emptiness in the house and in my heart. Annie had left two weeks before and I was still at the stage of missing her desperately. It was like I was mourning and I just wasn't ready to go through all that again. Besides, it was Christmas Eve and I was up to my eyes in preparations, and the bed in the spare room (Annie's bed) hadn't been made up with fresh sheets…oh, there was a hundred reasons I wasn't about to give in to all Jarvis' wheedling.

"This kid needs a home for Christmas. And you're the only person who can give him what he needs." Jarvis always was good at flattery. "This boy needs you, Angela."

"And what exactly might that be?" I asked tartly. I wasn't about to buy a pig in a poke, you see.

Jarvis looked me dead in the eyes. "Love. And understanding. And patience. This kid's been through a lot and he doesn't need to go through the system as well. You're his last chance. It's not too late for him – not yet. He's a good kid, but he's been through a tough time. He needs someone like you in his life to set him on the right path."

"How old is he?" I kept my arms firmly crossed, hugging my chest, because I didn't want Jarvis to think I was weakening.

"Eleven."

Well, that was all he needed to say. Just a boy. Who could reject a child that young – and on Christmas Eve, of all days? Not me, that's for sure. Of course, Jarvis knew that. Which was why he had the boy sitting out there, just waiting in the car and with a suitcase sitting right beside him. Sly like a fox, that's Jarvis. I still see him, you know. He usually comes in here in the afternoon, when all the hard work's done, as I like to tell him. Of course, he's not getting any younger. Neither am I, of course.

Anyway, that was how I met Marty Deeks, only of course he was called Marty Brandel in those days. He started calling himself Deeks about a year after he moved in with us, and he changed his surname as soon as he was legally able to. I was so proud that day – and Marty's continued to make me proud every day since, even if he does drive me half-mad with worry. Why couldn't he just have stuck with that nice, safe job as a lawyer? But then Marty never did things the easy way – it was always his way or the high way. Stubborn isn't the word for that boy. But he met his match in me. Or so I thought…

"My name is Angela," I announced, looking at the scrawny little boy, with a shock of hair so fair it verged on white and blue eyes that were round with trepidation. He didn't look eleven – he looked a whole lot younger. Until you looked into his eyes. And then you realised this child had seen far too much.

"I'm Marty," he mumbled, and then held out a hand, with fingernails gnawed halfway up to his elbows.

I'm a pretty good judge of character, and this didn't look like a boy who'd shot his own father out of malice – this looked like a child who was scared half out of his wits. There was just something about Marty that day – the way he stood there, looking like a dog that's been kicked so many times it just accepts pain as its due – that made my heart go out to him. No child should ever have the far-seeing look in his eyes that I saw in my Marty's that day. I wanted to take him into my arms and give him the biggest hug, only I didn't. He had to learn to trust me first, to find out that I wasn't going to hurt him. It took a while, but gradually he opened his heart. Me? well, I fell in love with Marty the day we met, and that's the truth. He just needed to be loved so badly, and I had all this love to give, all stored up and just waiting for the right person to give it to.


Oh yes, that boy took hold of my heart and he's kept it in the palm of his hand ever since. I never had a baby born to me, and I've cried more tears about that over the years than you could ever imagine. Behind closed doors, of course. I never said much about it, not even to my husband, but I felt empty inside, like I wasn't a real woman or something. And then Marty came into my life, and he needed me in ways I could never have imagined. That boy helped to make me whole again. The truth is that I needed him just as much as he needed me. But now it's time for him to move on and make a new life for himself.

I've got high hopes that Kensi is the person Marty's been looking for. He brought her here to help out last year, after all, and he's never done that with a girl before. That has to count for something, doesn't it? Kensi came back this year, and that has to mean something too, doesn't it? Even if it was too late. You know, I was so tempted to phone Marty last night and tell him that Kensi was looking for him, but that would have been interfering. Some things have to just work themselves out. If it's going to happen, then it will happen. That's what my husband, Bill, always says. Which is kind of strange, seeing how Bill loses too much money betting on the ponies, but nobody's perfect, after all. And there aren't too many men who put up with a string of children landing on their doorstep, each with their own problems. So I just count my blessings and try not to interfere too much.

The thing is, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe last night I said a bit more to Kensi than I should have. I called her "the one", because that's who she is, in my mind at least. I could have bitten my tongue off the moment I said it. The thing is that when I said that, there was this look came over Kensi's face, so that she looked like someone who's just won the lottery or something. Only supposing I got it wrong? That thought sat uncomfortably and I hardly got a wink of sleep last night.

Truth be told, I am still worrying about my big mouth when Bill drops me off at the soup kitchen this morning, before he takes his mother for her traditional Christmas visit to the cemetery. Yes, you heard me right. Doris sure does know how to put the dampers on any celebration, that's for sure. For years I had to go along too, so when the call came out for volunteers to work here, preparing and serving meals to the homeless, you can bet I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Anything to avoid yet another trip to "my dear departed James' grave", as Myrtle insists on calling it, in these doom-laden tones that would wipe the smile off anybody's face. Her "dear James" indeed. Don't make me laugh. They'd been at loggerheads almost from the day they married and hadn't spoken to each other for at least ten years before James died. And that made for some interesting family meals, I can tell you. I used consider serving up Pepto-Bismol with the dessert course, that's how bad it was. Anyway, the year Marty came to live with us, I wasn't going to subject him to a day with Doris Deeks, so I brought him here with me – and it's been our tradition ever since.

But this morning, there is no sign of Marty – or of Kensi. And my heart just clenches up inside of me. All I want is for my boy to be happy and to find someone of his own. That's not too much to ask for, is it? It's a good thing I'm here, with plenty of work to do and to keep me occupied, because otherwise I'd be fretting.

I don't want much for Christmas. All I want is for my boy to be happy. I want that more than anything. Marty's a good man and he deserves to be happy. He deserves to have someone of his own and to build his own life – he's waited a long time for that. Oh, I know all about the girls, of course I do. A good looking man like Marty isn't going to be left alone for long, after all. It wouldn't be right. I wasn't born yesterday, as you can probably tell just by looking at me. So, there were girls – lots of girls. So what? I'd have been worried if there weren't, to be honest. I never asked for details, of course, and Marty never volunteered any, just like he never brought any of them home to meet me. Until last Christmas Eve, when he turned up here at the soup kitchen with Kensi. Of course, he'd told me about her, but he just made out that they worked together, but I knew. I knew the moment I saw them together that she was the one, the one he'd been looking for all these years. A mother always knows these things.

But now I'm getting worried, because it's gone eleven and there is still no sign of Marty. Oh Lord, I hope I haven't gone and ruined everything…

"Angela!"

There is no mistaking that voice – or the figure that strides across the kitchen to take me in his arms and my heart leaps with joy. My Marty has grown tall and strong, and he's a good looking boy any mother would be proud of. It would be nice to know where his own mother is, but she hightailed it that night Brandel was shot and she hasn't been heard of since. So Marty stayed with me and Bill, and we did our best by him. Now, some people might think that I'm the one who's given a lot for not very much in return, but that's not true. Our pastor gave us a sermon last week about paying it forward and as I listened, I realised that I was the one who has benefited the most from taking Marty in that day, no doubt about it. He just completed me and gave my life a new purpose.

When Marty eventually lets me go, I take a good look at him and I can see that he looks different. So does Kensi, who is standing close beside him. Last night, she was subdued but today it's as if she's all lit up inside. And she can't stop looking at Marty, standing there beside her and holding onto his hand as if she'll never let it go. And Marty? Well, he just looks like all his Christmases have come at once. I couldn't ask for a better present.

I don't say that, of course. Instead I just hand them each a potato peeler, point them in the direction of the vegetable preparation area and tell them to get on with it. Marty smirks in that way he has and Kensi swats him on the butt. I think she's going to be just perfect for him. A mother always knows, you see – whether her son was born to her, given to her by God or just plain turns up on her doorstep one Christmas Eve. It doesn't make any difference where your child comes from – you just love them, hurt for them and you damned well hope and pray they will be happy. Well, today the Good Lord has answered all my prayers today – and then some.


Slushy plot bunny insists that there has to be a fifth part to this story. And he is pleading with me to finish this story before Christmas...