Chapter 10: Personal Inventory

While Laura's temper ignited, Remington's continued to simmer. He'd tried taking out a bit of his frustration with the mallet upon ball during the polo match, but it had done nothing to improve his mood although he'd managed to draw several sidelong glances from Monroe. At brunch, he'd been taciturn, at best, his mind focused on his stubborn, hard headed, difficult wife. Monroe no longer resorted to surreptitious looks but regarded him openly. Shifting in his seat, Remington blithely ignored him and his unspoken questions. By the time they'd arrived at Camerote's to inspect the system, lack of sleep catching up to him and ongoing irritation with Laura saw Remington barking at several of Monroe's men, inspiring Monroe to grab him by the arm and to escort him into an empty office. Closing the door behind them, Monroe stood with his arms crossed, eying his friend. Remington held up both his hands.

"I was out of line out there," he admitted. "I'll make my apologies and set things right."

"See to it that you do. The last thing we need is three of our finest installers walking because they've unjustly been the target of your pique," Monroe admonished. "Care to tell me what's had your temper on edge since last evening, Mick?" Remington rubbed the back of his neck, tipping his face towards the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"Not particularly."

"I see. I'll not press. You know where to find me should you need to talk, old friend."

"I appreciate that, mate. I'll see to those apologies now." Remington clapped is friend on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Once the apologies were made, Remington left the store after signing off on the system installation. Climbing into the Auburn, he closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face. Monroe's instincts had been correct. He did need to talk things through. The problem was, the person to whom he'd normally turn in times of emotional turmoil was herself the source of it. Putting the car into drive, Remington headed to the academy in hopes a solid round or two of fencing would help him burn off some of his anger.

It took some experimentation, but Laura finally managed to find a position that both protected her healing ankle and allowed her to be comfortable. Once situated, she drove into LA proper. Purchasing a stack of magazines offering holiday decorating ideas, she stopped at a little bistro for lunch. By the time her meal was consumed, she had a list in her hand of the items she would need to decorate the house for Christmas. A call to Jocelyn netted all too willing assistance, and the two women spent the afternoon shopping at Kirklands, Crate and Barrel, Pier One, and last, but not least, Ikea. Still angry and unwilling to confront Remington if he'd decided to return home, Laura offered to take Jocelyn for an early dinner at L'Ornate.

Arriving home at nearly seven-thirty, Laura's heart clenched when she didn't find the Auburn in the drive or under the carport. Her anger had fizzled and morphed into guilt somewhere around the time her salad had been served. By the time their dinner plates had been cleared and she and Jocelyn had settled in with an after-dinner coffee, remorse for her duplicity had set in.

Listening to the silence of the house surrounding her, she was reminded of when she'd arrived at Remington's apartment a year and a half ago to find him gone. She'd sensed the lack of life, the lack of his warmth in his flat as soon as she'd walked through the door, just as she could now. And then, like now, it had been her deception that had left her standing in an empty room, alone and full of regret.

With quiet determination, one slow step at a time she made her way up the stairs towards their bedroom. Wearily, she sat on the edge of the bed then eased herself backwards until she sat with back pressed to the headboard. Propping her healing leg, she wrapped her arms around the other bent knee and allowed her mind to work through the events that had brought them here.

If she were truthful with herself, and when her outrage with him had waned she'd begun to be, Remington was not simply angry. He would have seen her careful wording of their agreement for the deception that it was. The violation of his trust would have cut deeply. Then to add insult to injury, she'd also broken her promise to him not to put herself into a position where life and limb might be injured without someone there watching her back. Granted, she'd not believed for a heartbeat that the surveillance might put her well-being in peril, but all Remington would see was the end result: her battered, then stuck underneath her assailant.

Her argument, her very truthful defense of that broken promise wouldn't hold water. She'd believed she was going to do nothing more than take some pictures of a cheating spouse. But, she had to ask herself, if she'd known what she was actually walking into, would it have made difference? Would she have still gone, alone, to wrap up the job? It wasn't a proud moment when she admitted to herself she would have… and would still have broken that promise to him. She was, after all, Laura Holt, the woman who stood on her own, needed no one, could do the job as well as any man… probably even better. Her independence, imagination, and tenacity had allowed her to con an entire city into believing the mythical 'Remington Steele' existed. She'd built the Agency up from nothing into an internationally renowned detective agency on her blood, sweat and tears. It could be said the success of the Agency was because of her willingness to place finances, life and limb on the line.

But, her mind niggled at her, it wasn't just your own efforts that made this Agency what it is, now was it? She shook her head in answer to her own question. No, it wasn't. During the first two years, Murphy and Bernice had been intricate parts of starting the Agency, of perpetuating the fraud. While the Agency was heading in the right direction, it still consistently ran in the red.

Her eyes lifted to consider the sketch of Remington brushing his lips over her knuckles on the night he'd revealed he'd absconded with the identity of her mystical boss. That night had marked the true turning point for the Agency. The Agency had received an astounding amount of press exposure, due largely to the suddenly flesh and blood man who had charmed the audience both in appearance and in the way he'd been so fast to pay accolades to his associates. In the months that followed, her carefully laid out plan of networking the 'front man' only served to draw more press. But it was their partnership – his instincts and unique 'skill sets', her cool logic and ability to relate the unrelated - more than anything else, that had made the Agency the success it was today.

She had no doubt she would have had the Agency operating in the black without Remington, but it wouldn't be the internationally known without their joint efforts. It wouldn't be as financially solid as it was. And it wouldn't have been nearly as much… fun.

Five and a half months ago, she'd been prepared to walk away from the Agency as the threat of deportation loomed over their heads. She'd realized then, if made to choose between a life with Remington or the Agency, the only choice that could be made was the former. Yet, yesterday she'd put that life with him at risk… for what? She pressed her fingertips to her brows, as she accepted the harsh reality of that answer. Last spring, at the Friedlich Spa, he'd nailed her to the wall with an accusation and she'd resented it. Oh, how she'd resented it.

"You! You want to have complete control!"

And there was the long and short of it. After Remington had taken charge of the office twice in as many months… no, had adeptly taken charge, she corrected… she'd felt… replaceable. Had felt that every decision made for the Agency no longer needed her input. He'd come into his own over the years, and was now every bit as capable of running the Agency as she. Maybe some part of her had been afraid he'd take note of exactly that and had needed to prove that he still needed her to take the lead, to keep things moving ahead, to make sure all the t's were crossed and i's were dotted, and to assure the clients their case was always the priority for Remington Steele Investigations.

Bullocks. She could hear him saying it now.

She'd been insecure… jealous even. And because of it, she'd set out to prove a point. What was the saying? By hook or crook. She knew Remington went out of his way to make her happy. She knew he'd take her at her word, even if his instincts warned him not to. And she'd used both against him.

She mentally popped herself in the head, then took a second to mourn the 'good old days' when they avoided discussing how they'd wronged or injured one another. Duck and hide. It had been so much simpler then in many ways. And so destructive. Who knew how many years they'd lost because of it. Like it or not, there were confessions to be made and apologies to be sincerely offered.

Sliding to the edge of the bed, she grabbed her crutches and stood. Not up to traversing the stairs again, it seemed book and bed were in order. Digging through the hamper, she pulled out the dress shirt Remington had been wearing yesterday prior to changing and storming out. Inhaling deeply, his scent, as it always did, gave her some peace. Slipping out of her own clothes and tossing them into the hamper, she buttoned herself into his shirt.

It was only as she turned to leave the closet that she recognized something was missing. Closing her eyes and mentally picturing the closet as it was just the day before, her eyes flew open. She traveled the length of his rack, not finding what she was looking for. With a great deal of dread, she moved slowly to the bathroom. At only a glance she saw his shave kit was not at the end of the counter where it normally stood. Numbly, disbelievingly, she left the bathroom and returned to their bed. Slipping under the covers, she turned out the light. Sleep. Escape. Sometimes, in order to maintain one's sanity, escape was a necessity.

She stared at the ceiling above her as head and heart insisted he wouldn't have left her. History was not repeating itself. This was Remington, not Wilson, not her father. They'd waited too long to have this. They were too happy for him to abandon this.

But in that place, deep in her heart, where her fear of never being enough to make someone stay lived, those old fears came roaring back to life. Rolling to her side, ankle be damned, she reached for Remington's pillow and wrapped her body around it. When she finally drifted off to sleep, her beleaguered heart was hanging on by a thread to its faith that when she woke in the morning, she'd find her husband sleeping beside her where he belonged, where she needed him to be.