For a long time, Sara tossed and turned in bed, her mind racing. Snippets from his note played around in her head, and she found herself analysing every single word for hidden meaning. The gift of the plant, she could explain, its congratulatory message obvious, but the tone of his note had been so sad and regretful, as sad and regretful as the look in his eyes as he'd stood in the lab hallway congratulating her. Could all this talk of better late than never and doing things differently with hindsight be his way of reaching out to her?
What if he wasn't as happy with his life as his few cryptic words spoken during the case had led her – led all of them – to believe? Living on a boat, on the ocean, was pretty solitary, as her short journey aboard the Sea Shepherd had taught her. You could be at sea for days, weeks, without seeing civilisation. And she knew from experience too that cell coverage was indeed very poor, even if she was loath to admit that to him. What if he was ready to call it a day and come home? How would she feel then?
Don't get your hopes up, she told herself again. His life is away while yours is here. Remember that when he had the opportunity to come back to Vegas, he chose to take another assignment abroad and stay away. And even if he returns, you are divorced now.
She heaved another sigh and hit a fist to her pillow, plumping it up, before restlessly turning over onto her other side. And what should she make of his dinner invitation, she wondered then? Was that as casual as it seemed? He'd asked her out to dinner, no big deal. Dinner didn't have to mean date, she knew that. He probably only wanted to talk, catch up on old times – two friends sharing a meal and a little time together. He still cared for her, of course he did, even if it wasn't love any more or at least not the kind of love he'd once felt for her.
After yet another anxious turn, she sat up in bed. She had known sleep wouldn't come, and she'd been right. With a sigh, she switched the light back on and reached inside the bedside table for her book. Her phone lay there, teasingly close, but she refrained from picking it up. She raised her pillow against the headboard and opened the book at the marked page, fixed her eyes onto the text, but saw none of the writing. Her gaze lifted from the page, once again drifting over to her phone, and she sighed.
What's the point? echoed in her mind again, when he'd only be leaving again.
Aren't you even a little curious, a little voice asked inside her head? Don't you want to find out what he's been up to in the last two years? Whether he's moved on when you've been unable to? Whether he is as happy as he sounds?
Or maybe seeing him again and talking face to face with him would help her finally get some closure, help her begin to understand what went wrong between them, start facing up to the fact that maybe she should shoulder some of the blame for the divorce, that it wasn't just because of the long-distance, or him.
She knew she could have tried harder, should have tried harder to save her marriage. Sure, he was the one who'd first said the words, suggested they took a break and parted ways, got a divorce. It had hurt like hell and had sent her on a quick path of self-destruction that had only come to a head with the Basderic fiasco. She'd come close to losing her job then, her freedom and sanity, on top of everything else that was going wrong in her life. And yet with the help of work and the support of her friends she'd come through stronger.
Was he to blame for what happened then, as she had believed then? Was he to blame for something he still had no knowledge of? She had needed someone to blame, had been so…angry. But with hindsight she'd realised that she'd made her own choices, as he had, and if they were the wrong ones then she had no one to blame but herself. At that particular point in time she'd been so full of hatred and resentment that signing the divorce paper when they'd come through the post had been a damn sight easier than facing up to her inadequacies as a woman and a wife.
She closed the book, tossed it on the bed, then got up and pulled on her robe. Grabbing her phone, she padded her way to the lounge. Sunlight flooded the room, and she toggled the blinds, shutting some of the light out. She put her cell on the coffee table next to her broken necklace, reached for the remote and tucking her legs under her on the couch turned the television on. Her gaze flicked over to the lobby and the plant, then to her pendant and with a sigh she slipped her hand in her pocket, pulled out his note and read it again.
With hindsight, wouldn't everyone do everything differently?
No, not everything, she thought then. She didn't regret coming to Vegas when he'd called her, asking for help, all those years ago. She didn't regret staying on either. Nor did she regret all the wasted years, waiting, hoping, wishing, until he finally found the courage to face up to his feelings for her and allow her into his life, into his heart. How could these feelings have changed, she wondered again? How could he have given up on them like that?
Tears built, prickling the back of her eyes. There were a lot of things she did regret though. She regretted leaving when she had, as she had, when she'd left the first time, when she couldn't take any more of the job, of her life. She'd told him she'd self-destruct if she stayed and she still believed she would have. She regretted not including him more in the process so that he could have understood better and maybe been better equipped to helping her. And maybe if she had, she wouldn't have needed to leave in the first place.
She reached for the pendant and fingered it, wondered if Grissom had recognised it when he'd seen her wearing it, if he remembered. That was, if he even noticed. She'd told Brass earlier that it was one of her favourites, and it was. She and Grissom had only been in Paris a month when one Sunday afternoon they'd gone strolling along the river with Hank eagerly pulling on his leash. Grissom liked to browse the Bouquinistes stands, looking at old books and photographs, postcards even, while Sara would lean against the stone low wall behind the stands, cast her eye out and watch the Seine flow by.
She smiled as the recollections flooded her, could almost feel the sunlight warming her face. It was in the early days of their Parisian adventure when everything was still new and exciting, before she'd grown restless. That particular day, she'd wandered off to a nearby jewellery stall and was admiring the gold teardrop pendant when Grissom caught up with her. He draped his arm over her shoulder and turning her face toward him she smiled. Hank whined at her feet, and laughing Grissom bent down to ruffle his coat.
He'd slipped in hand in hers, taking Hank's leash from her, and they'd wandered on, hand in hand, taking in their new surroundings, marvelling at every new thing before eventually stopping for ice cream. The ice cream van was an old-fashioned Citroën H model that had Grissom entranced on account of its pig nose shaped front and corrugated bodywork. They waited in line, bought matching cones and then happily walked on home. Unbeknown to her, once they'd returned to their Quartier Latin apartment, Grissom had gone out again to buy her the necklace and pendant, simply placing the tissue-paper wrapped gift in front of her at dinnertime.
Did she regret her decision to leave Paris, to leave him, to return to Vegas? Part of her did, because she knew that ultimately it had contributed to the breakup of her marriage, but the other part didn't. Which said a lot, really, all things considered. She looked down at the note on her lap and sighed, then reached for her cell. She should have replied to him straightaway, not left him hanging. He'd taken a chance, made a bold move by his standards, and she should have been more considerate of his feelings.
She retrieved his earlier text, read back over their brief conversation, a smile forming at the mention of Home Depot and Betty, and pressed reply. She was composing a message of apology in her head, when her cell chimed with an incoming text, startling her.
You sleeping?
Her lips curved up in an amused smile; he knew her too well. Of course, she could pretend she was and not reply, but he would know it was a lie. How could she sleep when he'd taken over her thoughts entirely? Smiling broadly, she quickly typed, No.
I'm sorry I put you on the spot, came his reply a minute later, but I'd really like for us to have dinner before I leave.
She sighed; it all sounded so final.
For old times' sake?
This text elicited a wide smile and a shake of the head. He was being insistent, she'd grant him that.
Please?
Her smile became a grin, and she pinched her bottom lip in anticipation. How could she say 'No' to him when he was being so sweet?
Dinner would be nice, she typed, and before she could change her mind sent.
His reply of a smiley face made her laugh out loud.
She waited for more, for details of a time and place, but no more text messages came. The television was still playing in the background, and after changing the setting on her cell to sound and vibrate Sara stretched out on the couch with the cell in her hand on her chest. If there was to be another text she'd know instantly. She felt lighter, happier, for accepting his invitation. What did it matter if it was a one off? Even if he only wanted to talk about the case, or his mother, or even the ocean, she knew she'd love hearing about it. She was ten minutes into the programme when she stopped fighting her drowsiness and fell into an undisturbed sleep.
When she finally woke, it was nearing five pm. She straightened up on the couch, wiped her face and rolled her shoulders to ease the soreness. The television was still on, and reaching for the remote she switched it off. While she'd been sleeping her cell had slipped out of her hand and fallen to the floor, and she picked it up. A text message was waiting for her. Work, was her first thought, but no. Her heartbeat lifted as she read the message which had been sent nearly four hours previously.
Table's booked. 6.30 at Veggie House. I'll be waiting.
Veggie House used to be a favourite of hers, but she hadn't been there in years. Her smile faded. In fact, she hadn't been there since the last time he'd been in town. Still, she mused, it was thoughtful of him.
Not wanting to send the wrong message, she took care choosing her outfit. In the end, she settled for clothes she'd be comfortable in – black tailored pants, a favourite cream blouse she'd had years and her fitted khaki jacket – put on a pendant with no history. She thought about straightening her hair, but then opted not to and combed it in its usual style. She applied the barest trace of makeup to her face, a little mascara and lipstick. Her eyes lingered on her bottle of Jimmy Choo perfume hesitantly. Generally, she didn't wear any for work, but today she squirted the smallest of amounts onto the crook of her neck.
She left the house and got to the restaurant with plenty of time to spare, parked the car curbside a little distance away but within sight of the restaurant's entrance. She definitely didn't want to be seen to be there first. Time ticked away with no signs of him arriving though, and her heart sank. She desperately tried to remember what car Betty drove, searched for it in the restaurant's parking lot but came up blank. Of course, it had been a while since the two women had seen each other and Betty could have gotten a new car. Or he could have taken a cab. Still, she waited until 6.30 on the dot to pull into the lot.
She'd barely got out of the car when she saw him through the restaurant plate glass window. He must have been there, waiting all the while. Somehow the knowledge filled her with confidence that their meal would go well. He was seated at a table a little to the back and was staring straight ahead, looking earnest and slightly apprehensive. It was only then that Sara realised that he was probably as nervous as she was, meeting again like this without the safety of the job or a crowd.
Her smile trembled, as she remained rooted to the spot and watching him for a beat longer. This was it, she thought, her last chance to turn back. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath and willed her nerves – or was it excitement? – to settle. When she reopened her eyes, he was looking at her. Their eyes met, and she had to work hard at keeping the sudden surge of love and emotion at bay. She raised her hand and smiling softly gave him a small wave. Relief registered on his face before it lit up with a smile and he pushed to his feet, making to stand.
Sara locked the Prius, then blowing out a breath decisively walked up to the entrance door, let herself into the restaurant and indicated his table to the waitress that greeted her. She plastered a smile on her face. She would be strong, and present a happy and serene exterior. She was in a good place in her life. She didn't want him to glimpse at the turmoil and confusion he was causing.
No more turning back.