A/N: Long chapter-enjoy!
Murder without Guilt Chapter 11
While Grissom worked, Sara spent most of a day walking through Pere Lachaise Cemetery—Grissom thought it odd that a cemetery was a tourist attraction, but agreed this one was unlike any he had ever seen. It was one of Sara's favorite places in Paris; a peaceful and beautiful oasis in the middle of a busy, noisy city. She avoided the famous American singer and meandered among the large crypts with names no one knew, shaded by one hundred year old oaks, maples, ash, acacias, and hazelnut trees covered with new spring-green leaves. The flowers were some of the most beautiful in Paris—beds of red, purple, and yellow bloomed and swayed in a gentle wind against backdrops of granite, marble, sandstone, and decorative brickwork of tombs and crypts.
She had entered by a back gate so she walked downhill, taking time along the way to see the bullet holes in the Wall of Federates where Communards were executed. She stood for a few minutes before the heart-wrenching memorials to the dead of prison camps, airplane crashes, soldiers and victims of war and disasters. She walked passed the art-deco lipstick covered tomb of Oscar Wilde, the stone carved balloon basket with two men who died before anyone knew about diminishing oxygen levels, and the reclining sculpture of a lover with a strategic bulge in his trousers, worn smooth by many touches of other lovers. There were simple structures of wood next to the ostentatious monuments of the very rich. She recognized most of the famous: Moliere, Balzac, Piaf, Rossini, Isadora, and Chopin. At Chopin's tomb, one she always found, she was amazed by the countless flowers placed by fans from all over the world for a man dead over 150 years.
Sara had a second agenda on her stroll—one she would not mention to Grissom yet. They had not talked about a baby name and she was making a mental list as she strolled. She did not want a daughter named Sara—too confusing and every child needed its own identity. Perhaps Grissom's mother's name, or even her mother's name, could be a middle name, but she thought a French name would be nice. A connection to where this baby got its start, she thought with a smile. She had already crossed several names from her list; Grissom was adamant about his name, saying "the only time I've ever liked my name is when you say it", so she would have no little Gilbert. However, she thought, the French pronunciation was beautiful but knew she would never get her husband to agree to that.
She noted names she would not bestow on a child, and many she would: Marie, Suzanne, Sophie, Claire, Anna, Camille, Giulia, Juliette, and for a male child there were the names of Claude, Judah, Leon, Henri, Gerard, Victor, Pierre, and Guillaume. She sat on one of the many benches and wrote names inside the back cover of a small journal. Finishing her list—she liked them all—she closed her book and looked at the tall ornate crypt in front of her. A sculpture of a noble head sat in an alcove above a carved mourning angel—a stunning work of art among hundreds of other elegant forms. Her mind translated: Marshall Suchet, military or politician, she thought, but knew no more about him. Then, her eyes found his given name and she smiled. Reopening her book, she wrote the name at the top of her list of names.
Near the end of the week, a researcher working with Grissom presented him with two tickets to the Opera Bastille, the modern opera house of Paris, for a performance of Tosca.
Sara slept most of the afternoon, an unexpected drowsiness coming over her as she was packing a small box of possessions and mementos they had collected in their time in Paris. She had taken a few things back with her on previous trips, but the books, several sweaters, tiny hand-made ornaments for Christmas, a carved bug, a small painting were carefully packed into the box.
By the time Grissom arrived, she was trying to decide what to wear—two options: total black, sweater and pants, or a blue dress she had worn on several other occasions.
"Wear the blue," he said as he reached for his own black clothes. "It looks good on you and I love that color."
She stepped into the dress, adjusted the straps on her shoulders and turned for Grissom to zip it. Instead of doing what she expected, his warm fingers touched her skin as his hands slipped under the fabric and moved to her chest causing her to make a soft shriek before giggling.
"Zip the dress, Romano!" She commanded as his lips touched the back of her neck. His hands cupped her breasts and he pulled her body against his.
"Maybe we should skip the opera. Stay here—play with what comes up?" He teased.
"Nope, you accepted the gift. We're going."
His hands remained where they were; his fingertips played with her nipples. "I think your boobs are getting bigger."
"Zip me, stud muffin!" She wiggled and giggled again as he nuzzled her neck.
"I don't think I can zip myself up," he said as he pressed into her backside against the cleft of her butt and pumped against her several times.
Sara laughed. "Zip me up, lover boy, and I'll take care of you—your pants now. And I'll take care of the rest of you later!"
Slowly he withdrew his hands, but not before he let his fingers slip to her panties where he ran thumbs inside the narrow waistband and to her back where he made pseudo-pathetic sounds of pain and agony as he zipped her up.
"You know you have my pity," Sara purred as she pulled his pants together, tugged the hook in place, tucked his enlarging member snuggly inside, and gave it a kind pat with the palm of her hand. "Down, boy. Your turn comes later." She snickered as she kissed the smirk on his face.
The modern opera hall was a crush of people dressed in everything from simple dresses to dazzling designer gowns and flashing jewels made more dramatic by the blaze of chandeliers. Grissom kept an arm around Sara as they made their way across the lobby. Inside the theater, the aisles were choked as the audience of nearly three thousand searched and found seats.
"The place is always sold out," Grissom explained. "I've tried to get tickets for us for weeks and when Fleming offered the tickets—this might be the last chance we get to see opera in Paris for some time."
They settled into seats; Sara took a moment to touch Grissom's face, pretending to smooth his hair.
"You are handsome in your black, husband," she whispered.
Grissom's blue eyes gleamed with wry humor. "You look exceptionally beautiful in blue, dear. And—there's a glow to your face." He took her hand in his, kissed her palm, and tucked her arm within the fold of his. "I think you might be in the family way, Mrs. Grissom."
Sara leaned against him and kissed his cheek, leaving a slightly pink lipstick mark that she decided added to his handsome face and left it there.
The opera was mesmerizing and opulent and in Italian, which neither understood, but as with most operas, the story was in the music, beautiful and sensitive to the passion on stage as two lovers were pulled apart by the malevolent desires of a corrupt man. The story, well known, was immediately recognized as terrifying and tragic; no happy ending for anyone.
The talented cast was spectacular, no voice wavered as lovers plotted and characters were easily identified as good or evil by their costumes. The chief of police and his associate were dressed as the consummate wicked characters—black military uniforms and shiny knee high boots, and one actor had a scar across his bald head to add to his malicious look.
Following an intensely violent scene, Tosca sang with such passion and bravado, with insecurity and delicacy, the audience experienced with her the heartbreak and atrocious tragedy to come. Sara's hand gripped Grissom's as the grim and ominous stage appeared in Act III. When the male lover, condemned to death, sang of his love and passion for Tosca, his voice sounded as if he were crying.
Sara was one of two thousand who began to cry. Grissom pulled a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and placed it in her hand. Most of the audience cried for the entire third act. When the curtain closed, the ovation was tremendous as applause filled the theater along with many good-natured shouts of bravo from all tiers of the theater. Sara wiped her face and smiled.
"Well done—wasn't it great?" She smiled as she folded the handkerchief.
Grissom chuckled. "Beautiful and well staged—most of the audience in tears—I'd say very successful."
Slowly, they made their way to the metro station, changed subways, and got on the last car with a much smaller crowd of young people returning from their own night's entertainment.
A young woman seated across from Sara noticed the opera program in her hand. "Did you go to the opera?" She asked, speaking in English with a drawl that reminded Sara of Nick.
"Yes, we did. Very enjoyable." Sara answered.
The girl burped and giggled. "Sorry—can you speak Italian—aren't operas in Italian?"
"The story is usually easy to understand just by the music," Sara explained. "You should try it sometime."
Suddenly, Sara recognized a change in the appearance of the girl—one she was recently familiar with, "Oh! Grissom! She's going to be sick!"
Her friends moved away; Grissom grabbed an abandoned newspaper, quickly folded it and tried to hand it to the young woman just as she heaved. The smell of vomit filled the area—a stench of stale beer and undetermined food permeated the car. The kids shouted and gagged along with their friend, moving further away. The vomiting girl grabbed Grissom's sleeve and threw up again. Sara clinched her teeth, hoping her stomach and the others would be strong.
"Sara!" Grissom shouted over the noise. "Find something else—more newspaper." Sara scrambled to fold more newspaper into a paper cone.
In the chaos and noise, no one had noticed the older woman sitting at the end of the car. She walked up to the vomiting girl, pushing Grissom aside, and placed a large plastic shopping bag in front of the girl.
"Utiliser cette," (use this) she said and shoved the vomit-loaded newspaper into the bottom of the bag. She muttered several other sentences before returning to her seat. Sara understood one: "Les Amẻricains doivent apprendre a boire" (Americans need to learn how to drink.)
Grissom removed his jacket as they left the metro station and rolled it up. "Cleaners after this," he grumbled.
Sara laughed at his fastidious attention to the slightly soiled coat—coming from a man who, in the past, could work for thirty-six hours in clothes smelling of decomp. Her arm circled his waist and his went around her shoulders.
"A good night, except for the subway," he said, in a voice as seductive as moonlight on dark water.
"Yes," she leaned against him and let her head touch his and in that way, they walked the short distance to the apartment. Tonight, they were as quiet as mice as they climbed the stairs.
"I'll take Hank out while you shower," Grissom offered. Sara nodded, knowing he would walk the dog to the nearest tree, where Hank would relieve himself, and the two would return in less than six minutes.
"Unzip, please." With her request, his mouth came down on her neck, warm and intoxicating. She suddenly shivered and desire unfurled within her. "I'll get ready," she whispered.
Grissom and Hank returned in less than five minutes. Sara had showered quickly—Grissom was right, the small cubicle with its sloping ceiling was too small for a shared shower. She pulled a thin shirt over her head, decided against it, and slipped between the sheets just as man and dog opened the door. When he saw her, he smiled, crossing the space in a few steps.
"What am I going to do without you?" He asked in that soothing seductive, sexually enticing voice.
"Take a shower," Sara whispered, "quickly," and giggled as his pants were sliding past his knees before he stepped away from the bed.
Grissom uttered a heavy, urgent groan as he got into bed; his hair and skin still wet from his fast shower. His fingers brushed one dark nipple. "Beautiful," he breathed.
Sara fitted her hands around his neck, feeling the heat and strength of his body. The sense of urgency flowered inside her.
Maintaining his hold on her, he reached out and turned off the light beside the bed. Only the glow of street lights filtered into the apartment. Grissom pushed back the covering sheet and arranged himself so he could touch her with both hands.
"I want to see all of you," he said softly. His hands caressed her arms, her hips, moved to her butt before progressing to her legs and back to her thighs. Sara watched as he kissed the bare skin just above the dark triangle between her legs. A shiver moved up her spine in a wave of exquisite intimacy. By the time Grissom got back to Sara's lips, she could no longer concentrate on anything else but his touch. His kisses were slow and intense as she responded.
One place on her body, just below her breasts, caused Sara to react with soft laughter when Grissom's beard tickled her and her soft laughter flowed around them as he stroked her, slowly, memorizing the feel of her body. His fingers found the core of the aching sensation between her legs and when he gently probed, inserting a single finger inside her, she gasped, quietly. He began to work his fingers, two inside her making a sweeping motion while his thumb circled the throbbing bud at her entrance.
Sara's convulsing muscles caused her to twist against him, calling his name, wanting more. He moved, swiftly, settling on top of her, guiding, pushing his erection into her. She held him as he increased the tempo of his thrusts, moving with him as breathing became harsher. Her back arched as he sank into her, and simultaneously, the two lovers climaxed within seconds of each other. In the quiet darkness, they lay together for a long time, without speaking, but listening as their breathing returned to normal.
Years before, Sara had been the first to know there was a connection between them. After loving each other—the actual act of making love—in some way she could not explain, she was bound to him. Not by passion because she knew it to be a strong but transient force, but by something in their nature—their genes—bound them together.
Grissom came back to his senses, aware of a nearly boneless sensation in his body. Sara was still more under him than beside him, her body warm and soft, and very damp in a certain place. He lifted his head enough to see her, eyes closed, her mouth soft with a faint beginning of a smile playing at its corners. Gently, and reluctantly, he pulled free of her tight, swollen center, and moved beside her.
When she stirred and her eyes opened, he was surprised to see the glint of tears.
"Honey, what's wrong?" His knuckle wiped away the moisture at the corner of her eye.
She smiled, broadly. "No, just somewhat intense, that's all."
He pulled her close, and they lay in each other's arms, grateful for every minute, knowing they would separate in a few days for a very long three weeks.
At the same time, both started to speak. "You go first," Sara said.
"What am I going to do without you?" Grissom said as he held her close.
"Don't think about it," she said, and then she kissed him. "It's only three weeks—you have a lot to do. I'll be busy as well and then you will be home—and Hank and Heather and we'll make plans." She nestled even closer to him. "Paris is beautiful in the spring time, isn't it?"
For a long time, Grissom did not answer yet Sara knew he was not asleep. Finally, he said, "I'd like to come back here and rent a place again."
"I'd like to think we'll return one day, maybe we will," she chuckled. "And bring a stroller with us."
The deep rumble in his chest became a laugh. "We'll bring little Sara with us so she can play in the playgrounds."
Sara raised her hand and held up one finger. "We need to talk about names—now's a good time, I think." She reached above her head to a shelf that held several small items including her little book. "I've started a list of names—see what you think."
Grissom switched on the lamp, jammed a pillow behind his head, and brought her into the curve of his arm. A smile played along his lips; his eyes twinkled in the soft light. "Okay, let's see what you've got." His voice reflected the deep satisfaction he felt by her interest in names; he had worried she was not excited about the pregnancy—she had been so cautious.
She showed him her list, explaining her reason for selecting French names; his grin grew. She was happy and for the first time, she was talking about their baby—naming a baby, his baby, he thought.
"I like every one of those names—do we get to use all of them?"
Her elbow poked his rib. "Gilbert Grissom," she teased. "I do not think I'll be octo-mom, or even mother to five or six or seven children. You have to pick one name suitable for a boy and a girl." She laughed. "We could go with Pierre Claude Gilbert Sidle Grissom."
He grunted. "Not Gilbert—if I can't name her Sara, you can't use Gilbert—even its French pronunciation. I'll let you pick out a name—you're doing all the work; I'm having all the fun." He hugged her, kissed her forehead, and placed the little book beside the bed and turned off the light.
"I love you, Sara," he whispered and she responded with the same. He stayed awake until he knew she was asleep. Very carefully, he tucked the covers around her and kissed her again, very gently.
Suddenly, a week had passed in a blur and Sara was packing her backpack and filling a suitcase with things that would not stay in Paris.
"Don't pack so much," Grissom scolded gently. "It's too heavy."
"I'll check it."
"Customs—you don't need to carry heavy stuff," he lifted a stack of books. "I'll pack these to be shipped."
Sara stood, hands on hips, and watched as he placed the books in a growing stack on the floor. "Gil, you will have Heather and Hank and all your things. I can handle a few books."
He reached for her backpack, hefted it several times with one hand as if it were a dumbbell. Items shifted, several things falling to the floor. "This thing weighs forty-five pounds! What have you got in here? Marble angels from the cemetery?"
She giggled and sat on the floor to repack the bag. "More books. The baby things…"
Grissom slid to the floor beside her. "A baby, Sara." His arm went around her shoulders as he picked up a book. "You and I are having a son or daughter—isn't it a miracle?"
She smiled, leaned over and kissed him. "My life is a miracle, Gil."
A/N: Thanks for reading this longer than usual chapter-if you like it, leave a review, makes us work faster!