The Ryans Visit
One Saturday morning early in August, Booth got up earlier than the family and went for a jog around the Open Farm property. He waved to Mrs. Haarmacher weeding her tomato patch, and stopped to talk to Mr. Haarmacher whose head was hidden by his F150 pickup's raised hood as he tinkered with its engine. The guy reminded Booth of Pops at a younger age; always reluctant to hire a mechanic and certain he could coax his truck into cooperating again with just a little shade tree TLC. Moving again, Booth marveled at how much more relaxed he felt, and how much more soundly he was sleeping. His Nightmares still flared occasionally, but were becoming less frequent and severe.
(Nights during his convalescence healing from the cauterized stomach wound were nerve-wracking. He had dreamt of his brother being shot in the firefight with Masborian's thugs, of tossing the incendiary into the van which served as his crematorium; dreamt of being 'tripped' on the way to lunch in prison and surrounded by inmates to block the guards' view as he was kicked, pommeled, and punched repeatedly by some thug incarcerated by his FBI investigations. He awoke drenched in sweat from reliving his capture in Iraq, flung into a stinking filthy dirt-floored cell, interrogated over and over, finally flipped upside down in the chair he was bound to, nearly biting through his tongue in pain as falaqa fractured his feet.)
Booth shuddered just recalling that period. He stopped, leaned over, drawing deep breaths to calm down. Resuming his run, he realized how right Brennan had been to seek this respite. And how instrumental Cathy Ryan had been in his restored equilibrium. Her suggestion of Open Farm had helped both their family and its owners contemplating retirement. He decided to invite the Ryan's for a weekend before their summer lease ended.
Making a second circuit of the farm, Booth let his thoughts wander. The intersection and crossing of lives was ironic. A year before his death, Pops had spent an afternoon reminiscing about his days on the Philadelphia police force. He happened to mention an evidence-collection seminar he'd attended in Baltimore in 1970, presented by a homicide lieutenant named Emmett Ryan. The two men had subsequently worked a couple of interstate cases, exchanging information which convicted a particularly elusive crime boss. Hank Senior lamented his colleague's untimely death at 52 in a plane crash just after his promotion to captain.
"I tell you, Shrimp, that guy had a nose for deception and a talent for spotting clues others didn't see. He could tell when a suspect was lying; and his assumptions about leads were most often spot-on. He made connections between seemingly unrelated tips some informant would divulge, and next thing you know they'd make an arrest. If he hadn't died in 1974, Emmett Ryan would have been Baltimore Police Academy superintendent before he retired."
At the time, Booth had just listened intently as he always did, loving his grandfather's stories. When Brennan met Cathy Ryan after speaking in Baltimore, their developing friendship led to dinner with husbands in tow. Booth's conversations that night with Jack Ryan made him remember Pop's story and the two men realized their elders had known one another. Busy schedules in two different cities limited their time together but the two couples had become well-acquainted with much in common. Some people just feel like you've always known them.
Booth glanced at his FitBit watch. He'd been jogging two hours. He hurried his pace, returned to the farmhouse, and showered. Brennan was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for an omlette. Delighted with Booth's plans, she fired off a text to Cathy Ryan to issue an invitation. Surprisingly, the Ryans were free two weeks later, and drove down Friday evening. Christine had a Woodchuck Scout campout and Hank spent the weekend with Jeffrey, giving Jack Hodgins a captivated audience of two little boys who adored bugs as much as he.
Booth directed Jack Ryan to the tobacco barn parking area, and unlocked the largest suite in the building. Jack grinned at the spacious king size bed facing a private hedge-screened sunporch. Their host led the way to the oversized jaccuzzi and Cathy Ryan sighed contentedly.
"This weekend is going to be almost as good as our honeymoon."
Her husband rolled his eyes.
"I said almost, Honey, it doesn't quite beat the Bahamas, but you've gotta admit, it's dang close," Cathy countered. "All that's missing is the wine and chocolate."
"We've got those back at the farmhouse," Booth assured her. 'Why'nt you guys change and we'll eat soon. Bones has made her nutmeg macaroni and cheese and my Gram's marina sauce for our pasta."
"My brother-in-law's Italian, and I can eat homemade pasta sauce anytime," Jack Ryan declared.
The two couples spent a luxuriously lazy weekend, sunning and swimming at the beach with no little people to protect. The women window-shopped while their husbands sampled nearly every flavor offered at Dolcezza Gelato on the boardwalk. Having the same security clearance, Booth and Jack Ryan swapped stories of interesting cases, not discussing details as much as sharing insights and philosophies.
By the time Sunday evening came, all four agreed they hadn't slept better in ages.
"Thank you so much for having us," was countered with "Thank you so much for recommending this place," as the two couples parted.
"That was an excellent idea, Booth. We must get together with them more often," Brennan remarked on their drive back to DC. "Cathy also gave me several suggestions for properties to look at; the Wilmer Eye Institute property manager does real estate part time and knows this area well."
"Sounds like a very effective plan, Bones. I like this area; the weather is nice and the pace isn't frenetic like DC. Autumn ought be a good time for looking at properties around here. I don't think we need a place as fancy as Open Farm, but a few extra bedrooms would be nice for visitors. I can buy a riding mower if need be, but I don't wanna spend my time doing any more yardwork than necessary."
"Those parameters seem sound to me. Perhaps we should consider a one-story house so we can still come here when our patellae, anterior cruciate, posterior cruciate, medial collateral, and lateral collateral ligaments begin to deteriorate; no stairs to climb. I'd like a sunny office for writing, and enough land for a small garden."
"Patellae?" Booth chuckled. "You sound like you burped up an anatomy book! Why am I not surprised?" And he leaned over to kiss her.
"Booth, please! Watch the road. Your abdominal injury is finally healed. You don't need another!"
"Okay, Dr. Bones, as Parker used to say!"
