A/N: Thank you to IkilledKenny for her infinite patience in waiting for this story to unfold. As usual, it's taking much longer than I anticipated. Special thanks to all of you who read and review. I truly appreciate it!
Picking Through the Wreckage
It's very difficult to keep tabs on your wife when you don't want to admit to anyone that you seem to have lost her. Lorelai turned out to be no help. When you gently probed for the name of the hotel that Emily and Rory would be staying in when they got to Vienna, Lorelai simply mumbled about it being something 'majestic, imperialistic or ritzy' before remembering a pressing matter that she needed to talk to Sookie about and then darting into the inn's kitchen. Very late one night, you swallowed what was left of your tattered pride and dialed a Paris telephone number, only to be greeted by an answering machine message that was as vague and flighty as your sister-in-law, and reminded you disturbingly of your own daughter.
You know that you are being pathetic. You know that you should give in, hunt her down, beg her forgiveness, and plead with her to come home. You know that you are weak, but somehow you can't let yourself give in and take that one last step. Doing so would be admitting defeat, and you have witnessed Emily's triumph enough times to know exactly how smug her smile can be. You yearn to see her again, but the one thing that you don't want to see is that victorious gleam in her eyes. It's bad enough that you know that you are less of a man without her; it would simply give her too much power to know that too.
Life is a battle, and you either enter it armed or you surrender immediately. Your mother's words haunt you. They haunt you and they taunt you, because you know that your devotion to her was only one of the many, many reasons that Emily was now gone. No. You fall back, you regroup, and you draw up another plan of attack. Well, not really attack, you simply want to track her movements. In battle, it's important to know your enemy's every move. You just never thought that Emily would be your adversary.
Your mother would be so pleased. That was no secret now. She would be dancing a jig if she had known that Emily had left you. That is, until she became incensed on your behalf. Trix never approved of your marriage. Trix never thought that Emily had what it took to be a Gilmore. What Trix didn't know was that it was you who did not have what it took. What she never saw was that it was Emily who made you strong. She ran your household as if she were a general issuing commands, and if orders were not followed to the letter, the fool who dared to defy her wishes was immediately subject to court martial. No, Emily was the one who was fearless in battle. Trix would never give her the credit due to her, and it was your fault for not making your mother see. And now Emily was gone, but she had not surrendered. And you know that as far as Trix was concerned, the 'surrender immediately' part was never really an option. It was a good thing that you decided not to place her ashes on the mantle. She would surely rise up like a phoenix if she knew how quickly you would surrender the last of your pride, if only Emily would let you.
You reach for the phone and dialed the number written in Emily's immaculate script. "Yes, Ralph Hastings, please," he said smoothly. When the gentleman in question came on the line, he sat back in his chair. "Ralphie? Richard Gilmore. I seem to have misplaced Emily's itinerary. Would you be so kind as to fax me another one?" he asked smoothly. "Thank you so much," he said with a sly smile as he leaned forward and chose a celebratory cigar from a humidor once owned by Victor Hugo.
He hung up the phone and stared at the humidor that was once his father's and then was bequeathed to him by his mother. He turned to face the credenza, his eyes lighting on another humidor; this one made in 1917 and once owned by a lieutenant in the First World War. He stood up slowly, holding the unlit cigar clutched between his fingers as he gently cradled the humidor Emily had given him and carried it to his desk. There, he transferred the cigars from Victor Hugo's humidor to the one belonging to the nameless, faceless lieutenant, but given to him by the woman he loved.
**
Cool stone corridors were an excellent place to cool your jets. Stained glass filtered the sun, saving you from its harsh spotlight, and granite and marble slabs with deeply etched names and dates are your new obsession. You find it comforting to tour the old churches, the ones with their graveyards preserved under time worn stones. People seldom talk when they tour these places. If they do, they speak only in hushed, muted tones, and the only reply one expects is a soft hum of acknowledgment.
You know that your grandmother thinks you are morbid. You feel her watching you when she thinks you are unaware. You know that she is worried. But you can't talk about it. Not yet. Not to her. Not to anyone. It isn't that you don't want to, you simply can't. For weeks, the words have piled up in your throat like rocks cascading one on top of the other. Each e-mail from Lane elicits another rush of them, but it has come to the point where you can hardly type the words, much less speak them aloud.
The irony isn't lost on you; you haven't lost all of your faculties, just the ability to speak your mind. The fact that you can't seem to find the right words to say seems a perverse, yet fitting punishment for your sins. You are a Gilmore after all, and Gilmores are never at a loss for words.
The words - thousands of tiny pebbles of could have, should have, and would have saids - pile up around you until you realize that they are more dangerous than boulders. The need to let them out presses on you; filling every space inside of you, cutting off precious air, suffocating you from the inside out. So, you seek refuge in these places of silence, where nothing should be said. You spend your days in blissful quiet so that when the evening comes, you can muster up enough strength to talk about what you saw and what she bought, that it can pass as polite conversation. You seek haven in those places where the silence is as divine as forgiveness from above. You hope that the forgiveness will come from above, because right now, you are having a hard time finding it within.
**
You can't go back, you know that. All you can do it go forward. Either that, or stand still.
Will you just stand still?
Yes, standing still seems to be the safest option when everything is crumbling around you. If you stand still long enough, things will stop falling apart, and then you can start to rebuild them; piece by piece. Each day, you perfect your Sisyphus routine, pushing that boulder up that hill, knowing it will roll back to the bottom before the dawn breaks again.
So, you build on what you can. You focus on what is good. You learn to ignore everything else.
You ignore the postcards that Lane has taped to the doorframe in the diner. When Luke quietly asks you if you want him to take them down, you shake your head quickly, and simply pretend that they don't matter. You ignore your father's quiet disapproval when he asks about Rory's travels and you don't have any answers, playing it off as if you have no interest in the never-ending rounds of museums and galleries they are sure to be taking in. You ignore your lover's quiet sighs as he creeps from your bed in the pre-dawn light, and cling to the delicious secret known to only the two of you. Well, the two of you and Sookie, but she has been sworn to silence under the threat that you could sic Michel on her newly re-staffed kitchen.
You don't want anyone to know. You know that it's selfish. You know that it's silly. You can't help it. This is yours and yours alone. Okay, it's his too, but you know him well enough to know that he's not about to shout it from the rooftops. He'd hate being under the scrutiny that your relationship would surely invite. You can't risk that. After all, he hasn't proved to be much better at this whole relationship thing than you have. No, the rooftops aren't safe. You don't want it exposed, for fear that someone or something will try to destroy it, and you need it. You need him far more than you have ever needed anyone. Anyone except Rory, that is.
It's too new, too fragile, and too precious. You want to lock it away where no one else can ever touch it. You want to pick up the crumbled pieces of your life and use them to build something to protect it. Something strong, something impenetrable, something that will last. You want to lock him up in Fort Lorelai and hunker down, because you have fallen in love with him, and that scares you more than the threat of nuclear annihilation.
**
You can practically smell the credit card smoking in your handbag. You have cut a swath through some of the finest stores in Europe, and you are proud that you haven't bought him as much as a necktie. But you have seen some he would have loved; silk, subtle patterns with just a dash of flair. Three countries later, your younger sister's words are still tormenting you. You know that she's right. You know that you have over-reacted. You know that your behavior has been childish, and yes, a tiny bit erratic. You know deep down in your heart that no matter what he did or did not do, he didn't do the one thing that could possibly have justified your behavior.
You had made it through the first week fueled by indignation and bolstered by Hope's calming presence. You muddled through the second one by immersing yourself in your granddaughter's cultural explorations, but soon came to suspect that she would probably have preferred to be making her expeditions on her own. You step back, giving Rory the breathing room that you could never bring yourself to accord Lorelai. You had already learned that lesson the hard way.
You focus your energy on seeking vengeance on his hard earned money. After all, you earned it too, in a way. It was paid for in tears. Tears shed over canapés and cocktails, tears brought on by an urgent plea for him to sacrifice you at the altar of his sainted mother. Tears of sorrow for a beloved friend lost, and tears of pain when there was no one there to console you. You need vengeance for the little slights and the greater wrongs. You crave retribution for the hotel phones that do not ring. You sink into bitterness, resenting his silent perseverance, knowing that his ability to exist without you casts your own inability to live without him into harsh relief. You wish that you had never sent him that dry cleaning ticket. You hope that it never got there. You pray that the cleaners have donated his precious grey suit to a homeless shelter. And then you breeze past a carefully crafted window display of a fine tobacconist, and hope that he enjoys his smelly cigars while he can, for soon he will not be smoking them in your house.
**
You've never been the 'Let's hold hands and skip through a sunlit field of wildflowers' type of guy, but suddenly the thought appeals to you. Suddenly you want to invite everyone you have ever met to witness you plucking the petals off of a daisy one by one asking the eternal question. She loves me? She loves me not?
But you don't do that. For one thing, you can't stand the sight of daisies anymore. But more than that, you fear the outcome. Is it wise to pin all of your hopes on the chance that a damn daisy would have an even number of petals? You figure it's probably just as wise as pinning those same hopes and dreams on a woman so far out of your reach that you can barely touch her, even when you stand on the tips of your toes.
She doesn't want anyone to know. She doesn't want anyone to see. She wants the cover of darkness, not the light of the sun. She wants them to hide. Dinners in Woodbridge and Litchfield, and movies in Hartford or Woodbury, and nights tucked away in the safety of her bedroom. You try not to let it bother you. You try to tell yourself that it doesn't matter, that you're lucky, that you finally have her, that you are living the dream.
Who needs a bunch of small town busybodies sticking their noses in where they don't belong? Who wants to have their every move reported via phone tree? Who wants to be forced into attending the seemingly weekly festivals and rummage sales that pop up in the town square? Certainly not you. You hate that stuff. And even if you didn't have to sneak out of her house each morning before Babette and Morey wake up, you still wouldn't want that anyway.
But still, it bothers you when she walks through the door and sits at your counter as if you hadn't made love to her just hours before. You know that you have. It irks you when she calls at the end of a long day asks if you're coming over. She should know that you are. And it pisses you off that every day you struggle to break down that wall between you brick by brick, only to find that she has added a whole new layer on top. You just don't know if you have the strength to break through.
A part of you wants everyone to know. A part of you wants the world to know that she is yours and you are hers. Hell, it's not just a part of you; the urge to scream it vibrates in every fiber of your being. You want to point to her and say, 'She chose me'.
You find yourself staring at the sledgehammer that leans in the corner of you closet. You remember how good it felt to slam it into the wall between this building and the next. You remember how cathartic it was to point to the crumbling plaster as if were proof that you intended to keep Jess around, one way or another. One night, you stand in the open closet door in your underwear trying to decide what to put on, and you reach for it. You test its weight in your hand, hefting it up onto your still damp shoulder as if you could strike the blow that would open it all up.
But you know that you won't. She's right there, just out of reach. What if you let go and the force of the hammer smashes it all to pieces?
You fumble for the answer. Every night, you shower and dress, forcing yourself to present a slightly improved version of you, just in case she might be ashamed to be seen with a guy who lives his life in flannel and a backwards baseball cap. Every day, you pour her coffee and answer her inane and annoying questions, hoping that you are putting on the show that she will enjoy, the one she wants everyone to see. And every morning, just before dawn, you hold your breath, waiting to hear the one word you want to hear most in the world: Stay.
********************************************************************************
"The good news is that you are no longer the headliner, Jerry Cutler found out that his new wife lied about her age, and she is apparently older than the wife he dumped for her," Lane reported as she clutched the phone tightly. She paused and bit her lip hard. "Wow. Maybe that wasn't the best thing to say," she said softly.
"No, no, it's no problem," Rory rushed to reassure her friend before the words got trapped in her throat. "Have you, uh, has he said…"
Lane sighed heavily. "I've run into him twice since my last e-mail. Still nothing. Canned peas are on sale three for a dollar, though," she said wryly.
"I see."
"Rory, I heard that he and Lindsay, well, I guess they're still talking," Lane said gently.
"Oh, well, good. Good. They should talk," Rory answered, searching the plush hotel room for someplace to hide.
"I don't know if it's talking like they are trying to work things out, or talking like they are trying to divide things up, but Suzy Butler said that she saw them at Weston's the day before yesterday," Lane said cautiously. "I wasn't sure if I should tell you, but I think that you should know. I think that I would want to know. Did you want to know?"
"Yeah, I want to know," Rory whispered.
After she hung up, a strange wave of relief washed over her. He still hasn't asked about me. He was talking to Lindsay. Rory stared at the packed suitcase sitting just inside the bedroom door. He told you he's leaving her? He told you he's moving out, they're getting divorced, he's got a lawyer, they've divided up the monster-truck season tickets? Rory flopped back on the bed, letting her feet dangle just above the floor as she blinked up at the ceiling. Yes, he had taken the ring off. Yes, he had said that things were not working out with him and Lindsay. Yes, he had said, 'I love you, Rory.' But no, he had never said that he planned to leave her.
She pushed herself up off of the bed and hugged herself tightly as she walked to the window to stare down at the Grand Canal. Below her, a tall, thin, dark-haired woman ignored the more sensible water taxis lined up in front of the hotel and crossed to a waiting gondola. She grinned as she pulled her friend down into the teetering boat and then spoke to the gondolier in rapid fire Italian. Tears filled her eyes as she watched the two women collapse onto the seat, dissolving into fits of laughter. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, and pressed her hand to her heart before whirling away from the window and crossing to the bed to finish packing a few last minute items into her messenger bag.
****
"Yes, for the sitting room I want orchids, the best you can find. Roses in the main bedroom. Reds, oranges, gold; a veritable inferno of color. Pale pink and lilies for the smaller bedroom. Something young, sweet and fresh looking," Richard said with a satisfied nod.
He listened for a moment and then sat forward in his seat, picking up his fountain pen and making a note next to 'Hotel Eden - Rome' on the faxed copy of Emily's travel itinerary. "Yes, but only one arrangement per room. Nothing too ostentatious. Simple, elegant, but overwhelmingly vibrant," he instructed firmly.
He waited patiently as the concierge repeated his request back to him in heavily accented, but impeccable English. "Yes, and remember, Mrs. Gilmore prefers still water to sparkling," he cautioned.
Richard nodded again as he focused on the airline information printed just below the hotel's name and address. Four more days, and she would be home. Only four more days, and she would be back where she belonged. Only four more days, and I'll be able to make everything right again, he told himself as he hung up.
Richard stood and stretched, cinching his robe a little tighter at his waist as he switched off his desk lamp and shuffled to the door in his slippers.
****
"How are you today?" Hope asked gently.
Emily sank down on the edge of her bed, sighing into the receiver as she fielded her daily check-up phone call. "I'm wonderful. A man pinched my bottom in the Piazza San Marco yesterday."
"Was he delicious?"
"He was round and perspiring, and he had about six hairs on his head," Emily said with a wry smile. "His scampi looked delicious, though."
"Well, I have often found some nice scampi can be far more satisfying than any man," Hope answered sagely. "Any word?"
"None." Emily reached out to touch the arrangement of sterling roses bundled into a bowl at her bedside.
"And you leave Saturday?" Hope confirmed.
"Yes. We are off to Rome today, and then we fly back Saturday. We'll stay the night in New York before heading home."
"You'll feel better when you are home. Richard was never one to go too far out on a limb. He's probably waiting for you anxiously. I'm sure that once you talk, really talk, you'll be able to work this all out."
"I suppose I'll have to call him so that we can make arrangements. God forbid, Richard should make any arrangement for himself," Emily said bitterly.
"Arrangements?"
"Well, I'm not going back to that hotel. If anyone is going to leave, it should be him. That's my house. Everything in it is mine," Emily said stubbornly.
"Now, Emily," Hope began sternly.
"I have to go," Emily said brusquely. "The bell man his here to collect our bags."
"Call me from Rome," Hope insisted.
Emily's fingers tightened on the receiver. "I'll call you, but it isn't going to change anything," she agreed quietly, before placing the receiver back on the cradle.
She sat straight, pressing the palms of her hands to her skirt and smoothing non-existent wrinkles. Lifting her chin, Emily drew in a deep breath and then lifted the receiver once more. She pressed one button on the phone and then drummed her nails impatiently on the nightstand. "Yes, this is Mrs. Gilmore. Were you going to send a bell man up, or shall we simply schlep our luggage down to the lobby like guests at the local Holiday Inn?" she demanded.
****
Lorelai walked through the door late Wednesday night with a grocery bag clutched in one arm and a handful of mail in the other. She had run to the supermarket in Woodbridge after failing to escape the Dragonfly in time to catch Doose's before they closed. The meager groceries in the bag were to soothe Luke's increasing worry that she was actually going to eat the molding cheese in her fridge. The mail was an accumulation of two days worth because she had been so tired when she finally got home Tuesday night that she didn't think that she could make it all the way to the mailbox. Of course, she had sufficiently recouped her energy by the time she heard the back door close and Luke's boots fall at the foot of the stairs.
She looked down at the slippery handful of magazines and junk mail and sighed as she tossed it onto the table. She unloaded a package of fresh cheese, a box of Bagel Bites, a carton of eggs and a small carton of milk that she hoped would translate into heated kisses, a shorter lecture and a little less tension in his broad shoulders.
She put everything away, prominently displaying each item on its own shelf, except for the Bagel Bites, which took up residence next to an emergency pint of Ben & Jerry's. Lorelai prodded the pile of mail on the table, giving it a cursory glance to see if there looked to be anything of interest. When nothing caught her eye, she turned toward the living room, contemplating the wisdom of a long, hot soak in the tub. She made it two steps before the call of Chunky Monkey became too insistent to resist. She sighed as she walked backwards toward the counter and reached for the silverware drawer. She liberated a tablespoon and carried it to the freezer, where she allowed herself to scoop out one heaping spoonful of frozen ambrosia.
Lorelai opened wide and shoved the spoon into her mouth as she replaced the lid and let the freezer door swing shut behind her. She pulled the spoon from her lips as she passed the table, and out of the corner of her eye spotted a corner of an expensive linen envelope peeking out from under the latest issue of InStyle. She paused and reached for the creamy envelope, frowning as she spied the Paris postmark.
Shoving the spoon back into her mouth, she danced from foot to foot as the frozen treat numbed her teeth. She slid one finger under the flap and hurriedly tore the envelope open. When she unfolded the perfectly creased sheet of notepaper, her eyes widened in recognition as she saw the shockingly familiar penmanship that graced the page.
Dear Lorelai,
I suppose I should offer my apologies, since this note is almost two decades overdue. I have no excuse other than stubbornness, but considering what I have heard about you and your life, I am sure that you are familiar with the trait.
I have had the pleasure of meeting and becoming better acquainted with Rory, and I would be even more unforgivably remiss if I were to let another day go by without telling you what a wonderful job you have done raising that incredible girl. I know that you must be terribly proud of her, and you have every right to be. Brava, Lorelai, Brava!
I am old enough now to admit that I do indeed have some regrets in my life. Admittedly, they are probably too few considering all that I have seen and done in my life. One of the biggest regrets is the memory of how I turned from you when you needed me most. I have no excuse for my behavior, but now that I have met Rory, I think that you can at least understand what it means to love someone so fiercely that you would protect them at any cost.
The price I paid for my love for my sister was the opportunity to share in your triumphs and tragedies. I dare not beg your forgiveness for I know that a note dashed off on impulse is far too little, far too late. I will, however, ask you to try to understand why I did what I did. When you left, you dealt what I feared would be a fatal blow to my beloved Emily.
I am gratified that you were able to maintain some semblance of a relationship with your mother, even if it is for Rory's sake alone, as Emily believes. For your sake, I hope that the years have given you the distance and wisdom that you need to truly appreciate your mother for who she is. I know that she has always been as much as a puzzle to me as I am sure she is for you, but her love for you is no less abiding than your devotion to Rory, despite what she will allow you to see.
I hope that you are having a wonderful life, my beautiful little Lorelai. Despite my pigheaded silence, I have thought of you often over the years, and I hope that you have everything that you have ever dreamed of. I have every faith that if you have not already, you will find a way to capture those elusive dreams soon enough.
With love,
Auntie Hope
(As you can see, I still dream of being Rosalind Russell when I grow up. Tell me, have you grown up to be Madonna as you once wished?)
Lorelai sank slowly into a chair at the kitchen table, pulling the empty spoon from her gaping as she re-read the letter she held in her trembling hand.
She didn't know how long she sat there, memorizing every word the filled the page, studying the perfectly even slant of each line, every impeccably formed letter, and the rebellious flair with which each word ended. She wasn't exactly sure what she was feeling as she read it over and over again, but she knew without a doubt that that the voice she heard in her head was Hope's. She flattened the letter on the table, smoothing that perfect crease with her thumbnail until it lay flat, staring back at her.
She jumped when she heard footsteps on the back steps, and quickly shoved the letter under the pile of mail at the center of the table. She turned in time with the twist of the doorknob, and smiled with relief when the door swung open and Luke stepped over the threshold.
"Hey," he said, blinking in surprise as he spotted her at the table.
"Hi. I just got home," Lorelai said as she stood up. She glanced down at the spoon still clutched in her hand, and then shrugged slightly as she stepped to the counter and dropped it into the sink with a jarring clatter. "Are you hungry? I got Bagel Bites," she said with an enticing smile.
****
Rory sat perched on the edge of her bed, a hot wave of homesickness bubbling up inside of her like molten lava. She's been fighting it back since Venice, but it kept coming back, rushing through her body, burning through her veins until she was sure that there could be nothing left inside of her. At least, nothing but an overwhelming urge to be back where she belonged.
The only problem was that she wasn't sure that she belonged there anymore. She wasn't the same girl that left in a flurry of small town scandal. She wasn't the earnest college student that they were all so proud to call their own. She wasn't the Ice Cream Queen, or a pilgrim or Esther. She certainly wasn't the innocent young girl whose need to be helpful led to the creation of the 'Rory Curtain' that hung in Stars Hollow Video.
The only thing that she knew for certain was that she was still Lorelai Gilmore's daughter. And at that moment, she missed Lorelai Gilmore more than words could say. She stared at the phone, wondering if she could make the words she needed to say come from her lips. She wanted to. She wanted to say them so badly that she could taste them. They lingered there at the back of her throat, bittersweet.
She closed her eyes and concentrated as hard as she could, forcing the most important word onto her tongue, and at last, speaking it aloud to the empty room.
"Mom."
Rory opened her eyes, and stared at the phone once more. But as she reached for it, she realized that she didn't have any words to back the first one up.
****
This was her favorite time of day. Whispered conversations with her cheek pressed to his shoulder and her fingers tracing lazy circles in the soft hair that covered his stomach. "I got a letter from my Aunt Hope," Lorelai said softly.
"Aunt Hope?" Luke asked. His brow furrowed as he searched his memory for any mention of this particular relative.
"My mom's sister. She lives in Paris. She met Rory."
"Met her? They hadn't met before?"
"Well, technically I guess they had, but Rory was only a few weeks old," Lorelai explained.
"Oh." Luke puzzled over this revelation, trying to figure out how someone gets lucky enough to only have to deal with their relatives every couple of decades.
"I haven't heard from her since I left Hartford."
"Not at all?"
"Nope. Not even a note when I was supposed to marry Max. Maybe she was the one that sent the fascist ice cream maker," she mused.
"Fascist ice cream? Do I want to know?"
"The ice cream wasn't fascist, the machine was a Mussolini or something like that," Lorelai said as she pressed a soft kiss to his bare chest, and smiled enigmatically.
Luke smoothed her hair with the flat of his hand, pulling her into a gentle hug as he smirked up at the moonlight playing across the ceiling. "She just wanted to tell you that she met Rory?"
"Yeah. She said that I did a good job raising her," Lorelai said quietly.
"You did."
"Doesn't feel like it."
"You did. No matter what you two say to each other, or what either of you does, nothing can change that," he said adamantly.
"We don't say anything to each other," she whispered, unable to trust her voice.
"You will." Luke tucked his chin to his chest and shifted on the pillow to look down at her. When she raised her eyes to his, he looked into them and said with the utmost confidence, "You will. No one can talk like you two."
"I hope you're right," Lorelai said as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, kissing him softly as he lifted his hand to her head and cradled it protectively.
****
"Mr. Gilmore?"
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Gilmore is on line one," his secretary announced through the intercom.
Richard slowly lowered his pen as his eyes fixed on the flashing red light on his phone. He pulled his glasses from his nose, and folded them carefully before tucking them into his breast pocket. He smoothed his palms over his hair and took a deep breath before reaching for the phone.
"Hello, Emily," he said in a carefully pleasant tone.
"Hello, Richard," Emily replied crisply.
"How are you? Are you having an enjoyable trip?"
"Very enjoyable," Emily said primly. "Rory has been soaking it all in."
"Wonderful. She is a bright, inquisitive girl, and the more she can see of the world, the better."
"Yes." Emily paused for a moment and then launched into the purpose of her call. "We will be coming home this weekend."
"Oh?" Richard asked innocently, smiling to himself as he leaned back in his chair.
"Yes. We will arrive in New York on Saturday and stay the night at the Plaza before returning home on Sunday."
"Well, I will look forward to seeing you both on Sunday."
"Yes, well, that's why I'm calling. I think it would be best if you were to move into the pool house," she said brusquely.
"The pool house?" Richard asked blankly.
"Yes. We can have it redecorated if that would make it more comfortable for you."
"Comfortable?"
"Unless, of course, you have made other living arrangements," Emily said stiffly.
"No. No, I have not made other living arrangements," he said slowly.
"Well, very well, the pool house should be adequate until we can decide the best course of action."
"Best course of action?" he asked, his voice rising steadily.
"Yes. I would appreciate it if you could move your personal things out there before we get home on Sunday. Just ask Shriva to pack whatever it is you'll need," she instructed. "Goodbye, Richard," she said firmly, and then hung up.
"Shriva?" Richard stared at the dead receiver in his hand. "So, that was her name," he murmured as he placed it back on the cradle. He sat back in his chair, covering his mouth with his shaking hand as he turned to stare out into the employee parking lot.
****
"Luuuuuke!" Lorelai called as she breezed through the diner door Friday morning. His lips curved into a smile that he had to bite back quickly as he carried an armload of plates into the dining room.
"Pipe down," he growled under his breath. Her eyes lit, and he knew that she was thinking, 'That's not what you said when I called your name last night,' or something along those lines. There were times when he wished he didn't know her so well. "I gotta deliver these," he said gruffly as he danced around her.
Lorelai watched as he deftly juggled the orders. The moment the last plate was in place, she smiled and called, "Luuuuuuke! I have something for you," in a sing-song voice.
His eyes swept the packed diner, checking to be sure that the lunch crowd was suitably satisfied before he turned to her, unthinkingly leaning in to kiss her hello.
Lorelai reared back, her eyes widening as she made a show of covering her nose and mouth. "Do I have something on my nose?" she asked loudly, covering for his slip up.
Luke's eyes were flat as the color rose in his cheeks. "I was trying to see what it was. Ink, I think," he muttered as he headed for the safety of his counter.
"You are a poet." Lorelai rubbed her nose vigorously and then lowered her hand. "Better?" she asked with a pointed stare.
"Sure, whatever," he said as he busied himself making a fresh pot of coffee.
"Don't you want it?" Lorelai asked, glancing around nervously as she gestured in his direction with a white envelope.
"What is it?" he asked without turning to look.
"Something that belongs to you."
Luke's head jerked up as he frantically tried to remember what he could have left at her house that would fit in a standard business envelope. "Belongs to me? Did you get my mail?"
"Nope. It's something that was yours, and then you gave it to me, and then I'm giving you a part of it back. Just as we agreed," she added in a lower voice.
"Huh?"
"Would you just take it?" she said, sliding the envelope across the counter as he had months before. "Right on time, actually, a week early," she said with a giddy smile as his hand covered the envelope.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It's your first payment," she hissed between her teeth.
"Lorelai, I…" he began, the tips of his ears flushing a deep crimson.
"You will take it," she said firmly. "You will never regret investing in the Dragonfly, my friend. We are book solid for the next two weeks and it isn't even foliage season," she crowed.
"Luke, you invested in the inn?" Patty called from the table near the door.
Lorelai turned and smiled at her. "He did. He was our go-to guy," she said with an emphatic nod.
"Supposed to be a silent partner," Luke said darkly.
"Pssht," Lorelai said as she waved him off. "We are on a roll! We never would have made it this far if it weren't for you, and I don't care who knows it." Lorelai's beaming smile faltered as she turned back to him and caught his ferocious scowl. "Come on, Luke, you should be proud," she cajoled as she glanced nervously over her shoulder. "You helped your friends, and we are not going to let you down." Lorelai turned back to him, trying to convey her gratitude and excitement with her eyes.
"I think it's wonderful that you invested in the Dragonfly," Taylor piped up from his stool at the other end of the counter. "People helping people is the backbone of a community. Besides, it's always wise to diversify your holdings," he said officiously as he gestured to the window between the diner and the Soda Shoppe. He nodded approvingly, causing Luke's face to flush even more. "I would be a fool to keep all of my eggs in the market," Taylor said, chuckling at his own joke.
Luke stuffed the envelope into his back pocket and grunted, "Thanks," as he whirled to pull the half full pot of decaf from a burner. "Who needs decaf?" he called to the crowd, and then skirted the end of the counter without giving Lorelai another glance.
****
That afternoon, Lorelai's cell rang as she signed the last of the invoices Michel held on a clipboard. Without bothering to check the display she flipped it open. "Hello?"
"It's me," Rory said quietly.
"Oh. Hello."
"Bad time? Are you busy?" she asked hesitantly.
"Uh, trying not to be," Lorelai answered as she walked toward the door. "How are you doing?"
"Good. You?"
"Good."
There was a long pause, and then Rory said, "I was at the corner of Bark and Cheese today."
Lorelai smiled as she stepped out onto the porch and headed for one of the wicker chairs that flanked the door. "Bark and Cheese? Really?" she asked with a fond smile.
"And it's exactly the same."
"Exactly the same? Was there a tiny, little Italian dog in a basket barking the whole time you were there?"
"Not this time, but I definitely had flashbacks," Rory reported with a smile.
"Did you have a nice piece of cheese with your coffee?"
"I still say I said the correct word for 'cream' in Italian. I even pointed at my coffee when I asked for it. How could I be asking for cheese?" Rory argued.
"But cheese you were brought," Lorelai said smugly.
"Stinky cheese. The worst, don't forget."
"That you proceeded to eat," she reminded her daughter.
"Because I hate people who make mistakes when they order, especially in a foreign country, and then make a big to-do when they get the wrong thing. Ugly Americans. Yuck," Rory said with a shudder.
"Aha! You admit it was a mistake. You did say 'cheese!'" Lorelai crowed.
"I know French, a bit of Spanish, but my Italian, not so good."
"Being trilingual is plenty for a young lady."
"Yeah." Rory sighed sadly. "Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry.
Lorelai exhaled with relief as she smiled sadly. "It's okay."
"I screwed up. I screwed up so bad. I handled everything wrong."
"Oh, honey."
"I keep reliving everything over and over. It's such a mess. I just want to fix it. I have to fix it," she said vehemently.
"You will."
"I can't wait until I get home," Rory said quietly. "I'll be there on Sunday."
"Enjoy your time in Rome. Have some espresso and limburger for me."
"I will." She hesitated for a moment, and then said sincerely, "I love you, Mom."
"I love you, too. Bye."
"Bye."
Lorelai closed her phone and curled her fingers around it tightly as she pressed it to her heart. She tipped her head back and stared up at the hanging baskets of flowers that decorated the porch. She rolled her head to the right, and smiled as she stared at the spot where she had stood still. Lorelai inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of the flowers as she conjured up the memory of Luke's arms around her. She looked down at her phone, and then flipped it open with her thumb.
When he answered the diner phone, she smiled warmly and said, "Hey, it's me."
"Hi," Luke answered cautiously, turning away from the counter and pulling the phone cord behind him as he ducked into the kitchen.
"Rory just called. They'll be home on Sunday," she told him; hope coloring her tone and turning the simple words into something brighter, something better.
"Oh, good. Good. Was it good?" he asked, cautiously optimistic.
"It was good," Lorelai assured him. "How are things with you? Good? Have you been flooded with investment opportunities? I hear Kirk was thinking about buying some spiders so that he could get into the web hosting business," she joked. When Luke didn't respond, she fidgeted in her seat and said, "Get it? Spiders? Web hosting? Not into cyber-humor?"
"Yeah, I got it." Luke chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment and then said, "Listen, Lane's coming in at five and Caesar is going to close. I think we need to talk."
Lorelai's heart leapt and then began to beat rapidly. "Luke, if this is about the check…"
"Yeah, well, we need to talk about that too," he said grimly.
"Why do I have a feeling that this is going to be a bad talk?"
"No, no, not bad. We just, there's some stuff that I… I just think we need to talk," he concluded wearily.
"Well, I can tell it's not going to be good," she grumbled. Lorelai pushed her hair back from her face and then pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I have dinner with my dad tonight," she reminded him. A faint hum of static punctuated the silence that hung heavy between them. "I guess I'll call you when we're done," Lorelai said at last.
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Talk to you then," he said gruffly.
"Yeah, bye," Lorelai said as she lowered the phone, flipped it shut and dropped it into her lap.
Okay, maybe I shouldn't have told everyone that Luke invested in the inn. He's a very private guy. But, he should be proud of that. Look at this place. Look at what we've done.
She turned to look at that magical spot just in front of the inn's wide, welcoming door. He's just as much a part of this place as the rest of us. If it wasn't for Luke, okay well, for Rachel, we wouldn't have even known about it. And now look at it. Look at us.
Lorelai jerked her eyes from the spot where he had first kissed her, and stared hard at the porch rail, wishing that she could reach it from where she sat.
Things are moving too fast. Things go up too high and then the bottom drops out too quickly. I'm not strapped in. I don't have a harness to hang onto. I'm flying without a net. What if he lets go?
Lorelai pulled her upper lip down between her teeth as she blinked back a rush of hot tears and wished that she could reach that damn rail.
****
Richard stood at the mirror in his closet knotting his bow tie. The new valet he had hired after firing Emily's maid hovered nearby, collecting the items that Richard wished to have dry cleaned, including the shirt with the stained cuff that he had just discarded. His eyes drifted to the rows of neatly hung suits reflected in the mirror, immediately locating the only garments still cloaked in the thin plastic the dry cleaner had draped over it.
"And would you like me to take this one to your tailor to have the alterations you wanted done, Sir?" Robert asked as he nodded to the still shrouded suit.
"Oh." Richard cleared his throat as he gave the tie one last adjustment. "No, thank you, Robert, I'll have to see Antonio for a fitting," he lied quickly as he pulled the jacket he had removed a short time before from the hanger that Robert had efficiently hung in on. He shrugged into it, and then shot the cuffs on the fresh shirt. "I will be having dinner with my daughter this evening, I shouldn't be too late."
"Very good, Sir," Robert replied with a stoic nod as Richard swept from the room.
Richard jammed the key into the Jaguar's ignition and twisted it, anxious to escape the house that had felt like a tomb for the past two days. This would be the fourth dinner he had shared with Lorelai since Emily and Rory's departure. The fourth evening filled with stilted conversation, and carefully worded inquiries. The fourth time he had deliberately chosen awkward pauses over oppressive silence.
The first time he had gone to dinner at the Dragonfly, he told himself that he was merely doing his paternal duty by supporting his daughter's initiative. He had left at the end of the evening, warmed by Lorelai's enthusiasm, and proud of what his child had built. The second time, he justified his trip to Stars Hollow by acknowledging, if only to himself, Robert's shortcomings in the culinary arena. He certainly had no trouble with appreciating Sookie's tremendous skill as a chef after a week of dining on the much simpler fare his valet could provide for him. But, last week had been a very difficult week. He was lonely, and uncertain. He had spent too much time alone in a too quiet house. Last week, he hadn't even bothered searching for an excuse as he drove to the tiny town thirty minutes from home. And when he had opened the menu and found meatloaf, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots on the list of specials for the evening, it was almost more than he could do to keep from breaking down and weeping with relief.
That evening, he arrived at the Dragonfly to find Lorelai at the center of the whirlwind of activity that she seemed to leave in her wake wherever she went. As they were seated, Richard frowned, noting the weary look in her eyes, and the wan smile she offered to their young waiter.
"Is everything all right?" he asked solicitously.
"Everything is fine, Dad," she answered in a distracted tone. "It's just been a very busy week."
"Ah, well, that's good, isn't it," Richard said encouragingly, hoping to ease the deep furrow that marred the pale skin between her eyebrows. "You certainly seem to be doing well here," he commented as he scanned the bustling dining room.
Lorelai nodded as she took a sip of her water. "So far, so good." She opened her menu, forcing a bright, fake smile as she nodded to his menu and said, "You're in luck. Sookie has both the stuffed pork chops and her magic risotto on the menu tonight."
****
Luke sat slumped in his chair, nursing his second beer and an extremely bruised ego. Everything he needed to say to her, everything he wanted to ask her, played on a continuous loop in his head. He stared unseeingly at the baseball game on the television, letting the bottle dangle from his fingers as he tried to remain calm. But calm was not coming easily to him at the moment.
He was angry. He was hurt. He felt used. He felt confused. It amazed him that she was able to keep it all so separate. It boggled is mind that the same woman who whispered his name in that achingly sweet voice could dodge his kiss. It made his heart ache that he was the one she wanted to hold her when she cried over the pain and confusion her daughter had caused; but she wanted to keep him at arm's length when it came to sharing a meal with her father. And, it made his blood boil that that she seemed to think he was good enough to screw her senseless nearly every night, but she didn't want the neighbors to see him walk through her front door.
Luke took a long pull on his bottle of beer and then scowled at the label. I let her do this. I let her set the boundaries, running to her like a goddamn lap dog every time she called, he thought with a disgusted snort. I let her use me. I let her keep me apart from the rest of her life. I have no one to blame but myself, he thought morosely. But no more. It ends tonight, one way or another. Well, after she's done having dinner with her dad.
Luke lowered the bottle of beer and raised his left hand, turning his wrist to check his watch. He knew that they would just be starting dinner. He knew that it would be at least an hour or two before he heard from her. Apparently, Gilmores simply do not eat and run. From what she had told him about the Friday night dinners she attended at her parents' house, there would be drinks, followed by a salad course, entrée, and then dessert. Sometimes, if they managed to make it through dinner pleasantly enough, there may even be an after dinner drink. And so, he had to wait.
I should be used to waiting for her by now, he thought darkly. I've spent the past eight years waiting for her. I'm tired of waiting. I shouldn't have to wait any more.
Luke shifted in his seat, reaching behind his back to feel for whatever it was that kept poking into him. His forehead creased as he felt the stiff white envelope he had stuffed into his back pocket earlier that day, and he yanked it out from under him. His lips thinned into a line as he glared at the offending piece of stationery, remembering the day that Lorelai had sat at his counter and tried to interest him in looking at the dragonfly logo printed at the top left corner.
He placed the bottle on the floor and pushed up out of the chair, his eyes locked on the logo. "The inn that I invested in," he murmured as he tore open the flap and pulled out a check drawn from the Dragonfly Inn, Incorporated account. He didn't even bother looking at the amount before tossing the check and the envelope onto the end of his bed. He hurried toward the bathroom, stripping both of his shirts over his head and dropping them carelessly to the floor before starting the water in the tub.
Ten minutes later, he stood in front of his closet in his underwear; freshly shaved, and his hair curling damply at his neck as it broke free from the tracks of his comb. He pulled a pair of black dress pants from a hanger, and then selected a bright blue shirt with a button down collar. He dropped them onto the bed on top of the check before going back to his dresser to rummage for a clean white undershirt. Soon, he stood pulling a stiff black belt through the loops on the pants, flexing his toes in the thin black socks he had hastily yanked onto his feet.
Once the tab of his belt was safely tucked into the first loop, he bent down to search for a pair of seldom worn wingtips. He tossed the first one out of the closet before squatting down to peer more closely into the darkened space. He spotted the other crushed under the head of his trusty sledge hammer. Slowly, Luke clamped the heel of the shoe between two fingers as he wrapped the other hand around the smooth wooden handle and stood up.
He stepped back, pressing his lips together as he studied the abused wingtip in one hand, and then the heavy hammer held tightly in the other. With a slight nod, he leaned the sledge hammer up against the end of his abandoned bed, and scooped the other shoe from the floor before dropping down onto the mattress to pull them on. Once the last lace was firmly tied, he stood up, hiking his pants up at the waist a bit, and pressing the front of his shirt down into his pants once more. Luke loaded his keys and wallet into his pockets, and then spared the sledge hammer one last look before he strode from the room determined to do what he needed to do.
********************************************************************************
Sometimes, the better part of valor is to know when to surrender. Sometimes, it's all you can do to push your way out from under the rubble of your failed marriage and climb your way to the top of the wreckage. You stand poised on the brink, looking at the strewn pieces of nearly forty years, wondering if it you should give rebuilding one last shot. But you know that you can't do it alone. It's a two person job. You've been doing it alone for months now. It's too hard, living two people's lives when there is only one of you.
You pull the black satin mask down a little more, making peace with being the bad guy, resolving to walk away. You stand there, balanced precariously atop the crumbled bits of stone and mortar, chastising yourself for your arrogance in thinking that your marriage was built to last a lifetime. You know better than anyone that strength of will is a formidable force, but one person cannot win a war all alone. There's only thing you can do when you are the last person standing.
Emily shifted onto her side, pulling a mascara streaked white handkerchief from under her pillow as she pulled off her mask and wiped her eyes one last time before surrendering to the inevitable.
**
You count the seconds, knowing that they are ticking by too slowly. You watch every forkful of food as he lifts it to his lips, knowing that you can't make him eat faster, no mater how badly you want him to. You answer his questions, ask a few of your own, crack a couple of jokes that fall flat, and then try one more, pathetically gratified when your father deigns to chuckle.
Neither of you speak of the elephant in the room. Neither of you so much as glance at the two empty chairs at a table that was originally set for four. Neither of you dares to peek at the heavy gold Rolex on his wrist. For as much as you want this dinner to go faster, you dread what you may hear later.
You stare at the asparagus on your father's plate and begin making nonsensical deals with yourself.
If he doesn't dump me, I'll eat whatever disgusting vegetation he wants to put on my plate. If he forgives me for outing him in front of the entire diner, I'll swear off coffee, no wait, onion rings for a week. No, a month. A month with no onion rings. Please, I'm not ready for this. I don't want to have this talk. THE talk. Hey, if he doesn't dump me, I won't talk anymore. Ever. How's that for a deal? I screwed up, I know it, but everyone screws up sometimes, right? It's not like I rented a giant light up billboard that says, "I'm in love with Luke Danes." It's not as if I ran to Patty and gave her every teensy weensy little detail; where he touches me, what he smells like, how he tastes, why I can't sleep without him there…
You blink and look up, vaguely aware that your dad has asked yet another polite question. You apologize and make some lame excuse about needing to check on the supply of pillow mints, and then flee.
**
For once, you are grateful for Lorelai's distraction, because it matches your own. You wonder if you should say anything to her. Then again, you have both been so careful over the past month, it seems a waste to lay everything bare at this late date. After all, it's not as if she's ten years old anymore.
An image of a ten year old Lorelai, freckled and bright eyed, her dark hair tamed into two neat plaits over each shoulder swims in front of your eyes. You blink it away, knowing that you need not explain to the Lorelai sitting across from you that mommy and daddy will no longer be living in the same house.
You watch as she toys with her risotto, for a moment you find yourself uncharacteristically curious as to what could be troubling her. You spear a piece of asparagus and remind yourself that she is no longer your little girl, but a grown woman with a grown daughter of her own. She doesn't need you anymore. She never really did. Just like her mother.
You try to focus your thoughts, and then clear your throat gently before asking about the inn's capacity for the fourth time in as many weeks. You jump as she jumps, snapping out of her reverie and clearly not having heard a word that you said. Just as you are about to reassure her, to tell her to eat her dinner because she so obviously is running herself ragged, to promise her that you don't need to talk; she jumps up and practically runs from the table, muttering something about mints.
You stare down at the remains of your pork chop and tell yourself sternly that you had better finish it, despite your waning appetite. Heaven knows, that it could be the last decent meal you see for a while. You slice off another bite, and glance around the dining room, noting the now empty tables, and wishing you had thought to bring a newspaper to read.
**
Home. You just want to go home. You want to shake off the cold that chills your body. You want to lie with your head in your mother's lap and feel her fingers in your hair, holding it back, stroking it softly as you regurgitate the words that have choked you for too long.
You're tired of running. You're tired of hiding. It's time to do something. It's time to make something happen. Or not happen. Ever again.
Either way, you need to set things right. You need to fix it. You hope that you can fix it, because you really want to go home.
Screw Thomas Wolfe. I will fix it. I'm going home.
**
This could be a huge mistake.
You know that as you climb the steps of the inn. You pause; standing in the exact spot you stood nearly a month before and took the biggest chance in your life. You're about to do it again. You're about to hoist that sledge hammer and break down the door. Not literally, of course, doors were too hard to come by for this place. No. This was all just figurative. Well, as figurative as it can be when you are gambling with your own heart. This is it. You're about to push everything you have into the pot and lay your cards on the table, and hope that you can take her. You just can't take this anymore.
You used to tell yourself that having a little bit of her would be enough. You used to think that you could have a marriage where you only gave as much as you wanted to give. You used to think that there was only one woman that you would ever love. Now you know that none of those things are true.
Luke sank down into one of the wicker chairs that flanked the door. When Rachel left, I survived. When I married Nicole, I knew that I'd never be able to give her what she deserved to have. The first time I saw Lorelai, I knew that she was different. I didn't know how, and I didn't know why, but I knew.
He sat forward, wringing his hands between his knees and then rubbing his sweating palms together nervously. He breathed in through his mouth and then exhaled slowly, focusing on expanding and collapsing his lungs as if he would forget how to breathe otherwise. He looked over at the spot where his lips first touched hers, and was struck by three undeniable truths. Having a little bit of her is torture. I want to give her everything that I have to give. And I love her. I love her so much more than I ever thought that I could love anyone.
Maybe that was my big mistake, but there's not a damn thing that I can do about it now.
