A/N: And another chapter from Martin Andrews pov! Enjoy!
Deliberate Decisions
Chapter 7
Martin Andrews drove through Las Vegas in a daze, following the voice activated system in the rental car, until he arrived at the residence hotel across the street from the hospital where he would work for a month. He had parked the car so he could see the hospital—the dark glass reflecting the lights of Vegas, people hurrying to and from the building. He was satisfied with the temporary job he had; if only for a few weeks. Emergency trauma physicians were an elite bunch; most worked for a decade and then moved into another specialty area. His long-term plans were uncertain; he'd give himself five years of trauma before moving on to something else.
Sighing, he reflected on his past. He had gathered enough information once he had the name of his father to find the man, learned where he worked, postponed contact until he was emotionally ready, and then all his planning had shattered like a dropped china cup once he had entered the crime lab.
He had not planned well, not as well as he should have, for the unexpected—he wanted to leave the envelope and wait to be contacted, but instead he had spilled his life to a stranger—the wife of his father. She had been upset yet sincere; he hoped she would read his mother's diary. And then he smiled, realizing for the first time that Sara, tall and slim, dark hair and eyes, shared similar physical characteristics with his mother.
Sitting in the car with the air conditioner blowing cool air on his face, Martin attempted to replay his conversation with Sara Sidle. He could feel her eyes probing him; she had dark eyes like his mother and grandfather but her eyes were laced with gold sparks—maybe it was her reaction that caused the fire in her eyes. Sara's dark hair and oval face were not much different from dozens of women, but there was something about her that Martin could not quite nail down, something that set her apart from other women. Maybe it was her height, something in the way she stood and looked at him; or maybe it was the direct way she had confronted him. He wiped his hand over his face. He had never had anyone recognize him because he looked like someone, but she did.
Martin took a deep breath reaching farther back in his memories. He had had an easy childhood—born with a silver spoon in his mouth that had become gold-plated as he grew older. His grandfather was the largest land owner in the area, employing a dozen men year-round and a hundred more when crops were picked. His mother was a strong and capable woman who took care of everyone, especially her son, with a creative intent. Until he was six and sent to school, he had not given one thought to an absent father. It had taken another five years before he asked his mother and grandfather about his father.
As then, he laughed. His mother was always laughing and she had laughed as she related a story of a short romance with a smart, handsome young man who had as little interest in marriage as she did. He was a "love child" she said in the truest sense of the term. After she returned to the farm where she had grown up, her father welcomed her home, perhaps not delighted at the prospect of her pregnancy, but by the time the baby was born, he welcomed his grandson with pride and joy usually associated with one's own child.
His grandfather's response had been: "Never met your father. Never needed too." And then slapped a hand on Martin's back, saying "All this will be yours one day, son." They had spent the rest of the day riding a tractor around the farm. Not long after his question, his grandfather granted Martin's wish and provided a few acres for an organic farm "so the bugs wouldn't have to die."
In Martin's eighth year of school, he took a standardized exam and blew the top off previous scores in the local public school. His grandfather was impressed and from that year, Martin had been sent to summer camp—space camp, math camp, science camp—at any university offering a program. He skipped his junior year and at seventeen, was admitted to Stanford. His grandfather presented him with a new car and a limited bank account, wished him well, reminding his grandson that the farm would be waiting for him. By the time Martin finished medical school, his mother was dead; his grandfather would live a few more years, never giving up his idea that his grandson would return to live on the farm.
Martin returned enough to give the old man hope, but he had found his passion in the emergency rooms during his intern days. Now, his mother and grandfather dead, with enough wealth to easily live a modest life if he chose to do so, he wanted to meet his biological father—see the man whose genes had formed his looks, given him blue eyes and curly hair, and who, with some certainty, had given him the intelligence and fortitude to pursue a medical degree.
Shaking himself out of his memories, he got out of the car, took his suitcase from the trunk, and entered the hotel that would be 'home' for a few weeks. He could wait for Dr. Gil Grissom to return; his wife—Martin grinned and shook his head—his step-mother would get in touch with him. Martin had sensed the curiosity of a scientist in the woman; she would make a decision before her husband returned.
A/N: More to come!
