CHAPTER SIX
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[contains spoilers for "Santabarbaratown 2"]
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He overheard a conversation between Juliet and Spencer.
It was about four o'clock, and Spencer came loping in sans Guster, heading for Juliet's desk. Carlton, before Spencer spotted him, picked up his phone and turned his chair slightly in the other direction; this usually worked to keep Pineapple Boy at bay. Besides, he had a few legitimate late-day calls to make.
But Juliet was Spencer's target anyway, and out of the corner of his eye, Carlton saw him settle on the edge of her desk. "Hey, future housemate. It's Friday and you know what that means!"
"You need to bring in the trash cans?" Her tone was bright. Carlton didn't trust it.
Spencer, however, was oblivious. "No, my little pushpin, it's date night!"
"Pushpin? You're using a small pointy item designed to affix items to bulletin boards as an endearment?"
"That's a thumbtack, Jules."
"Never mind. I can't tonight; I'm having dinner with Carlton."
Carlton was on hold with a forensics lab, and the Muzak was not enough to drown out their conversation. (If it had been, he'd have turned down the volume on his phone.)
He could feel Spencer's disbelieving gaze.
"Seriously? Okay, cool, I'll tag along and then," he added as he lowered his voice, "we can ditch him and go have some real fun."
Her tone iced over. "No, Shawn. You can't tag along. I'm having dinner with my partner, who's been out of town all week long, so we can catch up."
"Catch up on what?" he asked with clear disbelief. "He sat through some boring-ass meetings, probably ate all his meals in his room and played Angry Birds on his iPhone pretending they were squirrels while Cops reruns were blaring in the background. Maybe Forensic Files. Did you know they renamed that show? It's called Mystery Detectives now. Is that lame or what?"
If anything, her tone got chillier. "Shawn. Let's try this conversation again. You come in after four o'clock, say it's Date Night, I say too late, I already have plans, and you say oh I see, how about tomorrow?"
He looked at her suspiciously. "You want me to actually go out and come in again?"
She sighed heavily.
"Look, your dinner can't possibly take that long. Call me when you're done and I'll rescue you from the tedium."
At that, Carlton spun slowly in his chair, the phone still to his ear. It was just a dial tone now, but that didn't matter.
Juliet glanced at him and then back at Spencer. "Go. Away. Now."
Spencer followed her glance and glared at Carlton. "Fine day when the impending roommate gets rejected in favor of the crabby cop."
Carlton said loudly into the phone, "Hello, is this Cry Me A River, home of the World's Smallest Violins? I'd like to order the Teardrop 1000—that's the one Shoji Tabuchi used to play Whiny Ass Lovah, right?"
Juliet burst into laughter, and Carlton smirked. Replacing the receiver as Spencer scowled, he got up and walked away, sure that even if Juliet kept their dinner short to appease her boyfriend, he'd at least scored a point or two off the self-centered dork.
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El Cielo was crowded—it was Date Night—but they were semi-regulars and the hostess found them a very small table at the back. It was hard to hear, so rather than sit across from him, Juliet took the chair at his left.
"Much better," she said. "Wow, this place is loud."
He didn't mind, because she was leaning in toward him and that was nice, since she smelled good and it was only a matter of time before she—or worse, Spencer—opened the Statler file and put an end to any dinners alone.
Don't think about it.
He started talking about the conference instead, about their mutual acquaintances in the field, and Juliet reacted as she always had, with interest or amusement or an eyeroll when called for. She asked questions, seemed to want the answers, and when he asked her about the week there in Santa Barbara, she readily told her own tales and kept him involved in the conversation.
She was just so… damned… nice, and she seemed to really… like him, and he couldn't understand why except that familiarity breeds acceptance (not just contempt), or maybe it was "better the devil you know," but either way… he found her simply wonderful, pretty much all the time, and he regularly thanked God for having developed a pretty good poker face to hide how he felt.
Half-expecting her to wrap things up so she could go be with Spencer, he was surprised when the waiter tried to drop the check and Juliet said no, she wanted dessert, and did Carlton mind?
Not at all did he mind. The waiter went off with orders for sopapillas and flan, and Carlton settled back, comfortably full and relaxed.
"There is something else I wanted to talk to you about," she said quietly.
He stilled. "What is it?" Was this it? It?
"Jerry Carp. The night we took him down."
Steady as she goes.
"I think it was you who took him down."
She smiled, tilting her head as she considered him. "I wouldn't have known to go over there if you hadn't texted me. And you wouldn't have known to text me unless you were in it up to your hips."
This was not their first go-round on the topic; she'd quizzed him the night it happened, and he'd lied as smoothly as it was possible to lie to this perceptive woman, saying Spencer must have had some outside help but it wasn't him. She didn't buy it, and made it abundantly clear she didn't buy it, but it was far too soon to come clean while there were still bodies to be moved and paperwork to be filed.
"Come on, Carlton. I want to know what I owe you."
He scowled. "You don't owe me anything. Why the hell would you think that?"
"You helped Shawn. Somehow I don't think that was entirely for him." She was leaning in close again, searching his face for answers he didn't want to give.
"He was out of control."
"Yes, he was."
"He was going to get himself or someone else killed."
"He was. We all knew it. But you stepped in—I just want to know how deeply."
Carlton finished off his beer and faced her squarely. "Why? What difference does it make? We got Carp. We took down Julian Drake. Spencer survived his own insanity and Henry's walking around today nearly good as new. That was the point of all of it."
"It makes a difference to me. Because what you did to help Shawn helped me too."
He felt himself flushing; maybe the dim lighting would hide that. "Ripple effect."
Juliet smiled and put her hand on his forearm. "You don't have protect me. I want to know it all. I already assume you acquired and planted the explosives and probably worked out the plan of attack. I know the bodyguards got sick—as sick as Gus—so I assume you screwed with their food—Shawn would never have done that; food is his god. I also know the lights were out for a while and Shawn probably could have done that on his own but not without some guidance, someone to get him to focus. His way is to just run in and start talking everyone to death. What went down was a carefully orchestrated plan—a Lassiter-quality plan."
Carlton shook his head slightly.
"He was wearing a damned Kevlar vest, Carlton. That was all you."
He sighed; there was no point in continuing the lie. "Okay, yeah. I helped him. I told him what to do and when to do it. I knew it wouldn't go that way because he was too spastic to do what he was told, but I figured having the plan would at least mean partial success." He glanced at her hand on his arm—it wasn't moving, and it wasn't holding him still; it just felt warm and calming. "He might still have gotten his head blown off, but without a little outside help, that was going to happen anyway."
Juliet was still gazing at him, and finally she sat back a bit and patted his arm before dropping her hand. "Thank you. I know you don't have any reason to think so, but you can trust me."
"What are you talking about? I trust you, O'Hara. On and off the field, with my life and way the hell too many of my stupid-ass secrets."
It was one thing to have Statler suggest he didn't trust her—and he didn't see how the man could be right—but to hear her say it was fundamentally wrong. He would have to make them both see.
A flash of uncertainty—pain—crossed her face. "I just feel like I have a lot of lost ground to regain. A lot of ways I maybe made you feel like you weren't first, on the job and as my friend."
Carlton's chest tightened, and before he knew it, he'd reached out and grasped her upper arm. "O'Hara. Juliet. Listen to me. We've been partners a long time and we've had our differences but I'm still here, and I hope you're still here, because we're a good team. I won't deny that your boyfriend causes me a hell of a lot of grief, and sometimes you're going to be tainted by what he does, but it doesn't affect my trust in you."
She lowered her head a moment, then gave him a faint smile, her eyes misty. "We're a great team."
He smiled back and released her arm, and Juliet shocked the hell out of him by moving in rapidly to kiss his cheek.
"What was that for?" he asked, feeling a deep teenaged-boy-worthy blush.
The waiter returned with dessert plates and forks, and Juliet sampled her flan without answering him, but he was sure he saw some color in her cheeks too.
The feeling of those soft lips against his skin was still moving through his system, one glorious wave at a time.
"Because," she said. And then, so gently… "Would you tell me about Lucinda?"
Hell, she was going to kill him yet tonight.
He took a slug of water, wishing it was beer, and tried to read her expression. "What would you like to know?"
"I heard… I heard she died. A year ago."
He swallowed. "Yeah. Car accident up around Napa."
"You didn't say anything." It wasn't accusatory, or even wistful; rather a quiet remark as if she weren't really surprised but wanted to say it anyway.
"We never talked about her before. I didn't really know… how to start a conversation about her after it was too late." He felt stiff.
"I'm sorry, you know. She was too young." Her gaze on her flan, she ventured further, "Did you keep in touch?"
The waiter reappeared with an offer to refill his beer and he gave a heartfelt yes.
To Juliet, he said, "No. We ran into each other at conferences now and then. But once she left here, we lost contact fast."
It wasn't completely intentional on his part, but he'd always suspected Lucinda's silence was deliberate. Before she left town, she said she didn't blame him for her ouster, and she didn't regret their affair, but… that was all. Just 'but.'
And he understood, too. Wounded as he was by the abrupt exposure of something he'd thought private and personal, wounded by a difficult and long-term separation he hadn't wanted, wounded by having his professional reputation—not to mention hers, which fact still shamed him—tarnished because of his own failure… he understood 'but' in every language there was, and most especially the language of the heart.
"I wanted to blame Spencer for the whole debacle," he heard himself say, and Juliet looked at him intently. "For awhile, it worked."
"He didn't have to out you publicly. There was no need for that."
"He was trying to avoid being arrested." Where was that beer… "But if it hadn't been him, someone else would have speculated. At least he did it fast and simple. It was over and she was gone before half the department even knew a thing. We barely got the case wrapped up before Vick shipped her out."
She rested her head in her hand while he accepted the fresh glass from the waiter, and watched him take a large swallow with that same faint smile. "Did you love her?"
Carlton set the glass down steadily.
"It's none of my business, I know."
He wanted to say no it's not or please don't make me talk about her or I have to leave now.
But it was Juliet, and she'd never asked before (he didn't count the short and tense conversation years ago when she started off by saying she didn't approve of interoffice romance), and Lucinda was gone and it was Juliet asking. Juliet, whom he did trust with (most of) his secrets.
"I cared about her," he finally said. "I wanted her, because she was the first woman who'd wanted me in a long time. I might have been a little in love with her. But it faded, because it wasn't real and it wasn't meant to be." After a moment, he amended himself. "No. It wasn't supposed to be."
Juliet nodded thoughtfully, had another spoonful of flan, and demurred when he offered her some of the sopapilla.
"I don't want to move in with Shawn," she said, still quiet.
Carlton's senses were prickling, and he didn't want to make any sudden moves for fear she'd vanish. What the hell could he say?
"I don't know how to get out of it yet, but I know I can't do it." She turned her solemn face to his again. "I'm not ready for parenthood, and living with Shawn would be like taking on a toddler. I don't have time for it, I don't want to be the one who pays all the bills, and…" She sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking."
He struggled for the right thing to say. "It's not what you were thinking; it's what you were thinking with: your heart."
Juliet smiled. "I guess so. Thank you for telling me about Lucinda."
Another pendulum swing, then. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
"Don't be. It's enough that you didn't shoot me down when I mentioned her name. I call that progress."
"Cheers, then," he suggested, ready to get back to safer ground for both of them, and raised his glass to bump hers. "To progress."
Her eyes alight, she drank as deeply as he did, and he thought he could do a lot worse for himself than belong, heart and soul, to a woman like Juliet O'Hara.
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Over the weekend, Juliet reflected on her dinner with Carlton. It had lasted well beyond dessert, because she simply wasn't ready to go home. She drew him into further conversation despite knowing he must have been tired from his travels, although he didn't seem to want the evening to end any more than she did.
Her sessions with Dr. Gentry made her question briefly whether she'd wanted to prolong their… connection… because she wanted to avoid Shawn. It also made her question whether Carlton's motivation was merely to show Shawn up after the mini-contretemps at the station earlier.
But… what she'd read in the log, as well as what she saw in Carlton's manner and his vivid blue eyes, told her plainly that he enjoyed her company and wanted to be there.
It was flattering, true. Dr. Gentry would ask her if her ego was at work.
Therefore, she'd have to confess she found it increasingly difficult not to stare into Carlton's gorgeous eyes, the longer they talked and the more they drank, and although she didn't dare touch him again, not so much as a hand to his arm, she felt as if somehow they were closer in that crowded restaurant than they'd ever been before.
Crazy, of course. Fire-playing-with in a big way. She no more needed to let herself fall—forget fall, she couldn't even afford to lean—for her partner than she needed to move in with Shawn. Shawn the Boyfriend.
Shawn the Soon-To-Be-Ex-Boyfriend.
Shouldn't you really take care of that little problem first? Ending the relationship it took over five years to get off the ground in the first place?
Dr. Gentry would probably go on to ask if her need to smooth her relationship with Carlton—to earn his trust, to make him understand he had hers, fully—was making her consider him in a way she might not otherwise, given the Shawn Issue.
He might even suggest again that she talk to Shawn. Really talk to him. Find out what level of commitment he was really making, down to rent-sharing and bill-paying and grocery-shopping and lawn-mowing.
And she would not be able to argue with such a suggestion.
While she knew without a doubt that any attempt at joint therapy with Shawn would be an absolute waste of everyone's time, did she not owe him a chance to…
To what? Lie? Be someone he wasn't? Do twenty years' worth of growing up in a week?
Carlton was damaged but he was also whole. He was a man. He was a full-fledged man who valued her and respected her and supported her, and while "perfect" would never be part of any description of his psyche (his eyes, yes; those were perfect), he was imperfect in ways which suited her fine.
You can't just feel this way because you know he cares for you. Don't be so shallow.
Her shallow side shivered: but he's a damned good-lookin' man, embarrassed as he'd be to have you say that. The eyes, the lean build, the tantalizing glimpse of chest hair, the long graceful fingers, the sense of contained strength and speed… Lawdy, he was delicious.
(That particular thought came along Friday night while she was still tipsy from dinner and dessert and talking and drinking and more talking and drinking.)
(Though it still rang true on Sunday afternoon when she was stone cold sober.)
Just slow down, she told herself firmly. Slow down.
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Carlton emailed Dr. Statler on Saturday to see if he could 'chat' with him first thing Monday morning.
It meant he skipped his morning run so he could be at his laptop at 5:30, three hours behind the east-coast doctor.
CL: I feel like an idiot adolescent with a crush.
StatlerPsyD: Is this the reason for the early-morning conversation?
CL: Yes.
StatlerPsyD: I take it something happened since our last chat?
CL: I got home. She wanted to have dinner to catch up. She even put the asshat off in my favor.
StatlerPsyD: She hadn't seen you in a week, and you *are* close.
CL: He didn't like it.
StatlerPsyD: Are you smirking?
CL: You can't see that.
StatlerPsyD: You're smirking. How was dinner?
CL: Phenomenal.
StatlerPsyD: Specifics, please? My coffee hasn't kicked in.
CL: We must have spent three hours there, just talking. The waiter thought we were a couple.
StatlerPsyD: You obviously feel this was different from other meals out. I'm sure over the years you've had countless dinners.
CL: Yeah, but this… yeah, this felt different. She asked me about my former partner. That's never happened before.
StatlerPsyD: Interesting. What made her bring it up?
CL: She found out Lucinda died a year ago.
StatlerPsyD: I recall we spoke about your affair with Lucinda a few weeks ago, but you never mentioned her death. Was Lucinda still in your life in any way?
CL: No. That was all over, like it was fifty years ago and happened to other people.
StatlerPsyD: What was your partner's attitude when she asked?
CL: Careful. She didn't ask me why I didn't tell her.
StatlerPsyD: What kind of answers did you give her?
CL: The truth. It's hard to lie to her.
StatlerPsyD: It should be hard to lie to everyone.
CL: You know what I mean. She also told me she doesn't want to move in with the asshat. She didn't say much but it was pretty obvious that ship's taking on water.
StatlerPsyD: What are you going to do?
CL: What do you mean? I'm not going to do anything. It's got nothing to do with me.
StatlerPsyD: That is a correct response, although in your case I suspect it's motivated by fear rather than common sense.
CL: Thanks for the vote of confidence.
StatlerPsyD: When I tell a lie, you'll call me on it.
CL: Pffffffbbthhtppt.
StatlerPsyD: That's what I thought. Did any trust issues happen to come up in this three-hour conversation?
CL: Yeah. She said I could trust her even if I didn't think I could, and I said I trusted her completely. And I do, Statler. We've discussed this.
StatlerPsyD: Yes we have, and our last conversation brought the conclusion that you trust everything except her personal relationship with you, because ultimately you don't trust yourself.
CL: I think you're rewriting things.
StatlerPsyD: How would you restate it?
CL: The way you said it originally. That my trust issues revolve around her relationship with the asshat.
StatlerPsyD: Sounds the same to me.
CL: Did I mention I don't like you?
StatlerPsyD: Never. Why did she say she thought you couldn't trust her?
CL: We were talking about a case involving the asshat.
StatlerPsyD: Hmmm.
CL: Hmmm what?
StatlerPsyD: It just seems odd she'd phrase it that way *now.*
Carlton stiffened, staring at the screen.
StatlerPsyD: But then again, it came up during the prank call incident, so perhaps the timing means nothing.
CL: Fine. Give me a heart attack and then take it back.
StatlerPsyD: Well, if the expression of this fear *was* prompted by her reading of our first chat, it certainly sounds as if your dinner was something she enjoyed and engaged in of her own free will. Regardless of whether she is receptive to your feelings, I believe she is making her trust in you and her personal regard for you as friend and partner very clear. I assume she doesn't normally volunteer private details of her life with her boyfriend?
CL: It's pretty rare. Thank God.
StatlerPsyD: So if she read the log, her reaction is not in the 70% negative range you predicted.
CL: 29% neutral, then.
StatlerPsyD: As you wish. Have you arrived at an answer to my question from the other night? About what you'll do if you find out she did read the log?
CL: That wasn't the question. And yeah, now I see YOU smirking. The question was what I would do if her reaction was negative.
StatlerPsyD: And the answer?
Evaporate. Leave town. Become a monk. Live with monkeys. Fling poo at tourists, especially those with too much gel in their hair.
Give up the ludicrous idea of ever loving anyone else, and leave town, because he was already essentially a monk, and he'd practically been living with monkeys all these years with Spencer and Guster.
StatlerPsyD: CL?
CL: Give up.
StatlerPsyD: Is that your advice to me on this line of questioning?
CL: No. It's what I'd do. I'd give up hope and move on.
StatlerPsyD: Hmmm. Okay. Now we know your answer, I can get to work changing your mind.
CL: Yeah, right. People don't change my mind once it's made up, Statler.
StatlerPsyD: Really?
CL: Really.
StatlerPsyD: You changed your mind about the value of therapy. You changed your mind about whether you would throw your partner to the wolves if the boyfriend kept pranking you. You changed your mind about whether you could even keep working with your partner after the original upset over a year ago. Maybe people can't change your mind—but YOU can.
CL: And when there's no point?
StatlerPsyD: That's when my work gets interesting. :-)
CL: I don't like you.
StatlerPsyD: You'll be in touch in a few days.
CL: I don't like you.
CL: But I'll be in touch in a few days.
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