A/N: Thank you for the tremendous and encouraging response! Keep reading! Keep reviewing!
After All
Chapter 7
After all the stops and starts…we keep coming back to these two hearts.
Waves caused the boat to rock a bit as the wind changed direction; more of a ruffling of water against the hull that barely registered with the two occupants tucked into the V-shaped berth.
Grissom had fallen asleep quickly even with the arc of light touching his eyelashes, reflecting a golden tint that was not visible when he was awake. His hands were clasped across his chest, a position that Sara had always found amusing.
Sara's hand rested on the head of her sleeping lover as she read the entry in his journal. Across the top of the page, he'd written the date and another number but she paid scarce notice as she began to read.
The entry began with a description of the weather, ocean conditions, and his location based on GPS. In the middle of the page, he had written about a phone conversation:
I'm concerned about Heather. Her conversation was distressing—more depressed now than weeks ago. She repeated several times that she was not suicidal but discouraged at circumstances. I have no answer or solution for her.
Sara read the entirety of the entry and found no other mention of Heather. The last sentence was a line from one of Shakespeare's sonnets:
I summon up remembrance of things past.
Keeping a finger on the page, she looked at the sleeping man, head on her lap. Relaxed, he appeared to be ten years younger than he had when he arrived in the lab just a few days ago; when he had shown up to help Heather Kessler—over two years since he'd been in Vegas. And he'd maintained contact with the woman.
Irritated, Sara bit her lip; she would never understand the man she loved with every cell in her body. She flipped several pages in the journal, quickly scanning sentences to find another mention of Heather Kessler.
Each entry was dated; the number at the top of the page descended as she turned pages; he was counting something, she thought. There was always a line from a sonnet to end his daily writings. And then, ten days prior to his last entry, she turned the page and found it—two things.
Another mention of Heather; they had talked on the phone about Heather's granddaughter. Sara read his words, covering three pages, relating the conversation—Heather had closed her therapy practice and was literally wandering around her house in a very depressed state.
He wrote: Other than being available to listen, I don't know what else I can do. She promises she is sad, not suicidal. She is angry at the world. After her involvement with Jack Oakley, I know she can do things she'll regret.
At the bottom of the page, he'd drawn a face. Clearly, not Heather. Sara recognized her own face in profile, her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. Her confusion grew. He had divorced her; he had stayed away. He had broken contact with her.
She turned pages and found an established pattern. Reports of whale sightings, a pod of dolphins following the boat, a call to the Coast Guard about an overloaded, unmarked boat heading to a remote coastline, several calls to Fish and Game, all recorded in the journal. Occasionally, he had sketched sea creatures; often, he had drawn her face.
Deciding to read from the beginning, she turned to the first day—actually January 1. He wasn't on his boat but wrote about several ball games he had watched. A couple of days later, he wrote about pulling a long fishing net out of the ocean and had made a list of the diverse sea life he'd disentangled; only a few had survived.
Most days, he gave an account of a solitary life with an occasional mention of meeting people who were doing similar work. He never mentioned names.
He recorded names of sighted ships, but tried to stay away from primary shipping lanes. He often followed fishing vessels for hours. Sara decided he had reason to believe certain boats were involved in criminal activity but she had no idea how he made that decision.
In early February, she found the usual report of weather and sea conditions and then several lines had been marked through before he'd written:
I have so many memories—her smile, her frown when she concentrates, her eyes wide with curiosity or rolling with laughter. Her eyes soft with love and desire—how I want to be the object of that loving gaze, to feel the warmth of her body again. What have I done? I know I'll never love another—why did I rush to judgment? Why didn't I return when she asked? Why was it so important to stay away? I don't even remember…
She brought her hand to the wetness on her cheek; hurriedly brushing it away. He had written about her. Remembering with amazing clarity, she recalled his cold words of "it's for the best" and "so you can move on". She had never understood why he had initiated a divorce; she thought he had found someone else or desired to be single—most of all, he no longer loved her.
For a few minutes, she let her thoughts replay the confusion, the missed phone calls, the interrupted and postponed weekends until they had found little to talk about. When his mother died, he had returned for a couple of days, obviously anxious to return to the project in South America. Their parting had been loving, supportive—and then he had not returned. She had believed he no longer wanted her, that he had found someone else.
Signing the divorce papers had been the most heartbreaking moment in her life, but she did as he had asked. Because she loved him even if he no longer loved her.
Yet, this diary—his journal—revealed a different circumstance. He loved her; he had thought of her daily. Her face in ink was drawn on many pages—sometimes no larger than a quarter, other times, the sketch took up an entire page.
Continuing to read, she turned page after page finding the first mention of Heather Kessler in late May. Her granddaughter had been killed.
A few days passed before there were more details; Heather had called to express her appreciation for flowers. Grissom had written:
Heather is inconsolable. Her voice is pained and tear-filled, sobbing that had rendered her incapable of speech several times. She had donated the child's body for transplants so others might benefit and the telling of that caused more grieving sobs.
I am torn—I might do some good if I went to Vegas—but she says she will work through her grief. Jerome has been with her—and her long-time housekeeper. I have my own past to face in that city and while her loss and grief are no comparison to my own self-made misery, I can't face the possibility of going to Vegas and seeing Sara—or not seeing her, knowing she has moved on.
Would she see me? I'm a fool, a selfish one, to put my own feelings ahead of a friend's tragedy. I can be a long-distant friend, a sounding-board for Heather's grief but I am not ready to face my own pain—what I have done.
Sara closed the book and wiped her eyes. For two years, more than two years, working until she could collapse with exhaustion into fitful sleep, she had lived believing her beloved Gil had left her—no longer loved her. They had been so foolish, so full of misguided pridethat neither would contact the other.
Closing the book, she tucked it on the shelf, leaned over and kissed the forehead of the man she loved. Moving his head to a pillow as she scooted beside him, he made a weak grumbling sound as he woke and rolled toward her.
He asked, "How much did you read?"
"Enough."
With a quiet chuckle, he asked, "What does that mean?"
"You love me—and I love you." She fitted against his chest. "And I want to see a whale—up close, but not too close."
Another quiet chuckle. "We will—we will."
Tucking her ear to his chest, she heard the steady beat of his heart. She whispered, "I do love you, Gil. Always have."
She felt the touch of his lips against the top of her head followed by, "I love you, dear girl, I believe from the first moment we met." His lips found her forehead and he kissed her again.
In another minute, he was asleep, his arms wrapped firmly around her. Sara, however, stayed away for a while longer, thinking about what she'd read. This man she loved was an enigma, a mystery, but she had the rest of her life to work with this beloved puzzle. A gift, she thought, and with that she was asleep.
A/N: We've asked some of you-now, others-chime in and help us decide. This story can go for one-two more chapters. Or it can be much longer. Suggestions?
