Chapter Four (Wishful Thinking On Freud's Part…)
Harold Finch was out of sorts. Reese had guessed it correctly. Something was amiss in 'Finch World'.
A feeling..a nagging doubt about..something. Something he could not put his finger upon. An elusive tick that kept getting under his skin like a bad itch he could not reach.
Nothing was exactly wrong, but something in his world was just not right.
He had been experiencing this..restlessness for three weeks now and it was not getting any better, ever since he found out.
He was smart enough to sense the greater jest of the problem and male enough to wish to deny it's existence.
She was seeing someone else. After two years, it was about time but still..
She was seeing..someone else.
Finch had tried, in the beginning, to be philosophical about the matter. It had to happen sooner or later. Of course it must. She was a beautiful woman. Sweet and kind and good..and beautiful, with that deep auburn hair and big blue eyes that showed her every emotion. She still held the world in awe.
It had taken him months to break through that shy, introverted shell. But, he hadn't minded the process one bit.
And she had come at just the right time in his life. He had very much needed a break from the hellish routine established over the years. A pace, he himself, had set.
The Machine was built..it was finished. He could afford some down time. He had even gotten out –of-doors that day. For a walk in the park. A stupid thing, he supposed, as it was the dead of winter but the sun was out and it felt wondrous after so long a period of forced confinement.
Well, no one had really forced him..he was happy in his work. Happiest when confronted by an impossible task which required patience, due diligence and..modesty aside, a great deal of intellect in one's chosen field of endeavor.
Harold Finch knew his virtues but he was also well aware of his many faults. He hoped, one outweighed the other. It was one thing of which he was never really all that certain, however.
He was good at many things but human actions..reactions..interaction, had often left him a little befuddled. But only when his own emotions were interwoven into the equation.
** Union Square Park, January 6th. 2009 **
He had seen her that fateful morning. She sat on a park bench, sketch pad in hand. He had discretely walked behind her, viewing the drawing. She was a painting, a winterscape..the south section of the park, where the trees were covered with a new layer of fresh snow. In the sunlight, Finch likened the scene to a Currier and Ives print. She did an excellent job with only three hues. Black, dark green and sky blue. She had a good eye..an artistic one. She was a decent artist, but not an exceptionally talented one. She also had been shopping, evident by the two small carry-alls filled with colorfully wrapped gift boxes. Christmas had already passed, so..the bags stumped Harold but his mind had more important things on which to dwell.
She had to live close by. If his nerve failed him this day, perhaps the fates might grant him another meeting. He scanned the surrounding buildings. Surely she didn't carry the small tin of paints about with her everywhere she went, but her purse was like any other woman's these days..large and cumbersome.
For all Finch knew, the kitchen sink could be lurking in that thing.
He watched her closely, knowing his window of opportunity was short. It was cold and she would want to be on her way eventually, but fortunately, his mind was quicker.
He did not usually bother with the fairer sex for his work was all consuming and women had a tendency to expect a little more than he could comfortably give in a relationship but..the project was now complete.
It was a fairly decent day, however, from his prospective, who had been cooped up for so long, in the massive complex needed to create his 'dream'. Everything seemed fresh and exciting and new again to his overloaded senses.
Impulsively, he purchased something, normally, he would never buy, especially for himself but he was hoping it would not truly be for 'himself'..well, in the long run.
He was momentarily thrown by the vendor's question.. 'What flavor?'. His perceptive gaze ran the list of what seemed a hundred different varieties of ice cream. "..Vanilla." he made the decision because he was a decision maker.
The guy looked at him oddly, what with one thousand flavors from which to choose, but the one dip of 'vanilla' was reluctantly delivered over. 'What ever floats your boat, Mister.'
Finch had kept a running check on the woman who looked just about ready to bolt.
She hadn't noticed him at all but seemed content to observe those around her.
The park was surprisingly full of people coming and going. Shoppers, returning their unwanted items., Harold surmised, for most seemed loaded down with parcels. Once again, he had missed Christmas this year, and New Year's Eve last week. He, himself, did not 'do' holidays, working diligently through most of them over the past seven years.
Nathan Ingram, his employer and great friend, had often tried to pry Finch away at such times but it was a useless task.
Harold had felt terrible each time Nathan had arrived on scene, stylishly wrapped presents in hand. He was so wrapped up in the project, there seemed no time to break away, even to purchase a dear friend a holiday gift.
'I..didn't get you anything.'
'Your friendship is payment enough..this is just..' the handsome man had shrugged jovially, presenting his surprise. "my way of saying, I'm so very glad you are in my life..old friend.'
Harold had graciously not refused such kindness but he always felt badly. He could have taken a moment or two, surely..but again, 'human interaction'..not one of his strong suits..sadly.
He approached her, having sat his mind, which once accomplished, was impossible to switch to the 'off' position.
"It's really quite delicious." He began without preamble, holding the cone out as a sort of peace offering. "Would you like one?" A strange man, in the park yet..striking up a conversation just out of the blue, as it were, he suddenly felt rather foolish. So..he tried the truth. "I couldn't think of anything else and..I wanted rather badly to meet you."
He hoped the line wasn't too cliché or corny..or offensive. He hadn't done this in a very long time.
She was startled, instantly folding her pad shut, intending to leave with her purchases, clearly, gathering her bags hastily. He had flubbed it rather badly, he assumed from her expression. The blue eyes looked him over, a slight frown puckering her forehead. An intelligent forehead, he noted. A quizzical air became her, he thought.
Harold waited patiently, hoping against hope, his infamous mind could come up with something if he just let it do it's own thing. Would she give him that precious time, though.
She studied him critically, taking in the long winter coat, stylish black loafers and expensive grey slacks showing out from under the knee length garment. Her gaze flicked the grey silk scarf draped around his neck.
"..It's the middle of winter." She motioned aimlessly to the cone.
"I would have preferred a hot beverage..chocolate perhaps." Harold compromised, glancing at his cone as well. "That vendor was too far away." He indicated a man down the cleared walking path about three hundred meters away, who offered more appropriate wares. Harold shrugged helplessly. "You would have taken your leave."
He returned his gaze. "..I couldn't take the chance."
The silence was uncomfortable for the man so he filled it. "..Who buys frozen confections this time of year is, admittedly, a total mystery to me." It had served it's purpose, so he walked to the nearest trash receptacle, depositing the cone.
"You did." She pointed out, her eyes shining with amusement, watching him return.
"A necessity, as I have explained." He reminded respectfully.
She slowly replaced the bags unto the bench, still undecided, he knew. "Do you often pick up women in the park?"
"..Yes, frequently." He tried humor but kept a perfectly straight face. "Of course, I usually do not NEED to resort to bribery, what with my charismatic good looks and all."
A smile. Well worth fishing for, he decided.
"I am ridiculously wealthy as well..just in case that fact might weigh your decision..to have coffee with me?" he moved his entire body in the direction needed, his feet firmly planted into the slush of the path. He sought the small establishment he had passed earlier and hardly noted. "Just there..across the way. Lots of witness..people." he amended drolly. "Just in case you are still a little wary of odd men in parks who approach you welding ice cream cones."
"How wealthy?" she boldly spoke up, but then seemed instantly mortified.
"Oh.." he pondered the fact overly long, keeping his tone controlled.. calculating. "I could purchase an island or two were the notion to strike me and isn't it vulgar..the turn of the conversation." He allowed her to see the amusement in his eyes. He found he enjoyed looking at her. She was beautiful even in direct sunlight.
"Not at all." She objected shyly. "A working girl has to plan ahead these days..'working girl' in the sense, not THAT kind, not that there is anything wrong with such a profession. To each her own, is my motto. Could you buy a plane to fly to these islands..were the notion to strike you?"
"..Yes." he was hard pressed to hold his smile.
"A big one?" she stepped closer. "Enough to seat..six, say?"
"..Yes." his eyes twinkled with amusement. The moment lengthened, and for a millisecond, he was lost in those mesmerizing eyes.
"Well," she stepped once, extending her gloved hand. She wore a matching tam of soft, white fleece which complimented that red hair to perfection. Her skin was alabaster and sprinkled with tiny freckles. "My name is Grace."
Harold instantly sought the contact, taking the small appendage in his. His leather gloves swallowed the tiny fingers. "Harold Finch. It's..VERY nice to make your acquaintance..Ms..?." He fished openly.
"Grace, will do for now..Harold." She corrected easily, the amazing eyes examining his features meticulously. "..I could sketch your face. It is very unique."
"Are you suggesting I should come up and see your etchings…Grace? " he teased gently, reluctantly having to release her hand for she tugged just enough to suggest he should do so. "I have to warn you. I am not that type of man." He liked the sound of her name.
"More's the pity." She muttered shyly but..he had heard, which produced his first true smile.
"You are an artist..impressive." he lifted noble brows, holding her gaze willfully, having motioned to her pad.
"A ' wanna-be'. At the moment, I make my living illustrating covers for magazines."
"A lucrative vocation in this town."
She seemed suddenly ill-at-ease. "My purchases are nonperishable so.." she glanced at her packages by her feet, having difficulty, he sensed, unaccustomed to the situation. "Maybe I will take you up on that offer of coffee. My nose is cold, my feet numb..like you, Mr. Finch…"
"Harold." He lifted a scolding index finger as a reminder they were now on first name basis.
"Like you..Harold, I foolishly rushed out today in inappropriate footwear." She showed her lightweight tan boots which set well with the heavy wool of her darker slacks and bright blue overcoat which was cinched snugly at the small waist, showing her shapely figure off to perfection.
Her cheeks had a healthy pink glow, her lips, while rather unremarkable, were perfect for her facial features.
"I have boots." He remembered purchasing several pairs over the years. He frowned down at his footwear, stained white now from all the slush and salt of New York City's street maintenance efforts. "Somewhere."
"Let us rest our weary feet at a friend's establishment." She offered her arm, smiling up at him. "The food isn't fancy at Marco's..but the atmosphere is inviting."
"Do you live in this neighborhood?" he retrieved her packages, she..her pad, which she held close to her chest, and he was only too glad to slip his arm through her's, allowing her guide him back to the park bench where their encounter had originally began..but..
She cast him a look which reminded him.. "Oh, that is correct. No personal information is to be exchanged until it has been firmly established that I am not an axe murderer. Forgive my breech in proper etiquette..Grace." The more he said the name, the more he enjoyed the process.
"A girl can't be too careful these days..Mr. Finch."
"I will pay you to stop referring to me as..that."
** The Library October 12th, 2012 **
The cell rang jarringly.
Finch started from his reverie, suddenly all business. "..Yes, Mr. Reese. A problem?"
"A tiny one." Reese walked the narrow hallway from his room, the one he had taken last night. He hadn't slept much, only dosing off an hour or so. Fusco had to return to duty so he got the night shift. He was a night person anyway, so, it was fine. "Our Ms. Collins and/or Fellows is in dire need of a change of clothing. She forgot to pack a case last night in the hustle of departure."
"What do you want me to do about it?" Finch was puzzled. "Go buy her some things. You have your cards."
"And..who watches the ladies while I'm out?"
Finch then saw the problem. "..Oh." he was vexed. "Well, can' t the two women share some clothing? Surely one was circumvent in …"
"One is five ten, one..five four."
"I see." Finch didn't really but he sensed it was supposed to mean something significant. He sighed heavily. "I suppose it's on me then. We are to stay away from her apartment, correct?" he had learned much from watching Reese over the months they had been together. "Mr. Reese..what exactly will I be purchasing?"
"The usual stuff." Reese shut the refrigerator door, having secured cream cheese for his bagel. "Oh, and Finch..we're almost out of coffee."
"Excuse me?"
"David doesn't like this brand." He read the label on the can. "She prefers Colombian."
"Oh she does, does she." Finch bristled. "David?"
"Yeah and Fusco says, can we get some doughnuts in house." Reese enjoyed pushing the man's buttons, knowing Finch did not like being reduced to the roll of 'gopher.'.not one bit, if his tone was any criteria by which to judge. "Now, me? I'm happy with whatever is on the shelf but we do have guests now, remember."
"Guests?" Finch found the word objectionable. "I should not refer to them as such. We offer a safe haven, Mr. Reese..not a five star hotel..with Concierges service."
"That doesn't sound like you at all, Mr. Finch." Reese tsked woefully. "You are usually the consummate host."
"What exactyly does Ms. Fellows need?" Finch snapped irritably.
"Oh, probably a couple pairs of jeans, maybe." Reese shrugged, pouring his first cup of coffee for the day, crossing to the breakfast table with it's four wrought iron chairs. The cushions were ecru, the padding lush and comfortable. "Some Tees..she needs shoes, I know. Size six. And undergarments, of course. Your call on those."
"WHAT?" Finch's well-breeding slipped considerably. "I..don't know anything about..those items!"
"Oh, that's right. You haven't seen her in person, have you." Reese found himself enjoying this situation way too much. His tone gave none of his inner glee away, of course. "..We can't expect her to wear the same thing she came with. It's not her fault someone is trying to take her out, now, is it? What's she supposed to do?"
The silence was deafening.
"Most women prefer Victoria's Secret's I hear." Reese turned the screw just a tad. "I like Fredrick's, myself."
"There is something terribly wrong with you." Finch clicked off, staring at the opposite wall for several seconds, gathering his equilibrium.
The cell rang, and Finch clicked his earpiece angrily. "WHAT?" he answered peevishly.
"She wears size six in jeans..medium in tees…36B in..well, you know." Reese..smiled wickedly.
"Did you ask her?" Finch asked incredulously. In the few seconds since they clicked off? Surely not.
"No." Reese's silver-toned reply came instantly.
"Then.." it confounded Finch. "How do you KNOW?" The man was dumbfounded.
"I'm a guy." Reese clicked off..then smiled slowly, returning to his steaming cup of coffee. His work here was done.