Life Is What Happens

by Aunt Kitty

while you're making other plans. Long-promised sequel to TGIF & OHIM; people from the past, gunshots, secrets-just an average day for NCIS' M.E. Drama/Minor casefic. T mostly for language; slight AU/Ducky/OFC Final chapter posted; apologies for the delay.

11. Chapter 11: Plans

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Plans

---

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley. Thank you, Robert Burns.

Our vow to keep Fran in a cocoon didn't quite work out as planned.

Ducky called me less than a half hour later. "Francesca and I will be leaving momentarily."

"Is she… okay?" I asked cautiously.

"Mmh. Because Jethro signed her in, he's escorting her downstairs, so I have the opportunity to call you, ah—"

"Without extra ears?"

"Precisely."

The story was short. And unhappy. When Abby and her charges returned with lunch, Fran was quiet and withdrawn to the point it sounded like she was channeling her mother. Misty tried interesting Fran in eating lunch or just chatting about specialty makeup (to no avail) while Abby pulled Ducky into the hall for a tête-à-tête.

"We get up to the cafeteria and someone left the D.C. Ledger on a table. Alyce didn't make the front page of part one—but she was front page of Arts and Leisure, and guess which chunk of the newspaper was right on top? Of course. Great, big picture of her looking so smug, so haughty, so—" Abby's extensive vocabulary had failed her. "So she's already feeling blue, we get our food, and I figured we could run through the bullpen, you know Tony always flirts with pretty girls and that's always a pick-me up—"

"What happened?" I asked. It was pretty obvious it hadn't gone the way Abby hoped.

Ducky sighed. "ZNN was updating the segment Jethro saw this morning. Francesca's picture was included this time. Anthony was startled enough that he said, 'Wow! You look a lot like—' He caught himself sufficiently to say 'Ziva.' Ignoring the fact that Ziva and Francesca have only dark hair and dark eyes in common, the damage was done. Ziva rose to the occasion admirably and thanked Anthony for the compliment, but Francesca..." He sighed again. "Abigail said she seemed to shrink into herself and just followed her downstairs like a shadow."

"Oh, poor Fran…" She didn't ask for any of this.

"Jethro saw what happened. He came downstairs, said I'd worked far too much overtime of late and since we didn't have an active case, why not 'cut loose' and go home early. 'Take advantage of the slump.'"

I have it on good authority (Ducky) that Gibbs thinks my caramel walnut cookies are the bomb. He just earned a lifetime supply.

"Should I leave—"

"No, no. I'm sure what she needs most is rest. Rest and a good, long cry."

"I'll join her," I said wryly. "Well… if you change your mind…"

"I'll call." His voice was gentle. "I promise."

I closed my eyes, fighting the prick of tears. "Am I crazy for now wishing you had been Fran's father?"

"Then we're both crazy. And I knew it wasn't possible."

"Call me when you get home?"

"I will."

/ / /

As promised, Ducky called about 45 minutes later. "I have never talked so much in my life."

I forced myself not to laugh; I love Ducky with all my heart, soul and eyelashes—but he will never play Calvin Coolidge. "Oh?"

He sighed and I could hear the heartache in his very breath. "Francesca is upstairs, resting. She was virtually silent the entire drive home."

"You mean really quiet or…"

"If I had ten cents for every word she spoke… I'd not be able to order from the 'dollar menu' at any fast food establishment."

Yeah—that's really quiet.

"She roused herself enough to talk to Mother—you rather have to, as a matter of self-preservation. Mother confused her with Lily, again; when she questioned repeatedly if she had been shot—" I gasped. "Francesca said that she had tripped on the escalator at the shopping mall. Considering her frame of mind, she was quite quick-witted."

"Better actor than her dad is," I muttered.

"Mother's response was, 'I hope you sue!'"

"What?" I half-laughed.

"Mother has rediscovered… daytime television."

"Soap operas?"

"No—courtroom dramas. They purport to be 'real-life cases,'" he quoted. "I don't know which I fear for more—the future of our judicial system or our educational system."

"How so?"

"Dear heavens, have you heard the grammar and pronunciation of some of the participants? Appalling."

"So Mother didn't balk at Fran staying over?"

"Heavens, no. She's gathered her into the fold. I expect Francesca to call her 'grandmother' any moment."

"Not bad. She's adopted four granddaughters in as many weeks."

"And these need no two a.m. feedings."

"Huh. You haven't seen Evelyn on a midnight munchies raid on the fridge."

"She can fend for herself."

"I'm knocking off early. Actually, I'm being kicked out—Valerie says my place is at home with you, keeping an eye on Fran."

He laughed, a beautiful sound. "Give her a raise."

"She's not due until next month. But you can sign the letter that goes with the check."

/ / /

It was only just past five when I got home (I love not fighting rush hour traffic on the weekends). When I walked in, the house was silent. If you strained your ears, you could hear appliances humming, a clock ticking, but—no dogs. No people.

I stopped in the doorway to the living room/sitting room/parlor/whatever the hell. Ducky was in his favorite leather chair, semi-slumped to the right, book limp in his hands. I'd caught him dozing in that chair two or three dozen times; he always looks so rumpled and endearing it makes me smile. It made me smile this time, too.

Either he heard me or sensed me. "What time is it?"

"Ten past five."

He stretched lightly, wincing as vertebrae shifted and cracked. "Where is Mother?"

"Hello… I just got here?"

He frowned. "Ah. Yes. She and Suzy just left with the dogs."

"How is Fran?"

"You might want to frisk her when she leaves. She is completely enamored of Underfoot, and the feeling is mutual. Last I saw, she was stretched out on the bed, and he's next to her, rather like a furry body pillow."

"He's good at that."

Ducky grinned, that sweet, slightly cockeyed smile that just melts my heart. "I know." Many a time he's awakened to that pillow next to him and purring in his ear.

I perched on the arm of the chair, facing him, and curved my hand on the side of his throat. "Thank you… for having me in your life."

"You are the most welcome addition my life has ever had."

I leaned over and kissed him and snuggled my head into his shoulder. A little awkward, but I didn't care. "Now I know how sailors of old felt."

He slipped his arms about me, lightly stroking my back. "How so?"

"I can just picture them, months and months at sea, finally coming home and they look at the harbor and the feeling of home that must have washed over them…" I sighed and leaned into him. "That's how I feel around you. I look in your eyes and feel like I've finally come home."

"Even after these past weeks?"

"Especially after these past weeks."

I ignored the protestations of my spine for quite some time. Eventually there was a reluctant sigh from my prop. "We should probably do something about dinner."

"Call for Chinese?" I suggested. As soon as I said it, I wanted it. It sounded really, really good.

"Hmm. We haven't been to Happy Dragon in quite some time…"

"No. Delivery," I said firmly. "I'll pay the tip."

"Well, in that case…" he said expansively.

I pulled back to stand up, but stopped. "I love you." You can't say it enough. Aliens could kidnap me tonight and I'd regret not telling Ducky I loved him one last time. I leaned over to kiss him again but was stopped by the doorbell.

Ducky frowned at me. "Who in the world could that be? Suzy has a key. The girls won't be here until tomorrow…"

"Fuller Brush. Avon." I kissed him quickly and straightened up.

"Pampered Chef?" he asked hopefully.

"You wish." I headed to the door, Ducky, stretching and wincing slightly, trailing behind. "Hello…?"

The woman at the door sported a dark blonde asymmetrical pageboy with an expensive frosting job. Her lavender skirt and jacket and sparkling white blouse were equally costly, if my instincts were right. Career Girl Barbie, in the flesh. "Hi. DeeAnn Dabenow. I'm looking for Dr. Donald Mallard?" She flashed a million dollar smile.

My spidey sense said to tread cautiously. "He's tied up at the moment," I said politely, holding up my out-of-her-eyesight hand in a stop, don't move, be quiet motion to Ducky. "May I give him a message?"

She frowned appealingly. "The Navy Yard said he left for the day…"

"Yes. He did," I agreed affably. That's as far as I went. Interesting that she tracked him down to the Navy Yard—on a Saturday.

"But he's not home."

"He's not available."

"Oh, I'm willing to wait."

He's not. And I'm sure as hell not. "I'd be happy to give him a message…"

Another bright smile. "And you are…?"

"Family friend." Yeah, my hinkies were hinkying big time.

"Well—I'd like to talk to Dr. Mallard. As soon as possible. Regarding the shooting."

I blinked. Shit! How did they track Fran here so quickly?

Fortunately, she mistook my silence for lack of understanding. "Last week? Lillian McAllister was shot—here? You did know—"

"Yes, yes." Come on. All the media monitors the police bands. Lily's shooting was buried on page 21 of the Post. Even the local rag put it on page 5.

Aaah, but that was before it was linked to Fran. Or, more importantly (to reporters, anyway), linked to Alyce and Cameron Carson. I forced a smile. "I'll tell him."

She dug a card from her purse. "It's vital I talk to him. As soon as possible," she said earnestly.

"I'll tell him," I repeated. The phone in the living room rang. "Excuse me. Bye!" I said quickly, shutting the door. Ducky was halfway to the phone. "Wait." I hustled over, cutting him off. "Mal-lard res-i-dence, how may I help you?" I almost shivered. That was the chirpy voice from 35 years ago, my part time job plugging cords in a PBX board.

"Dr. Mallard, please?"

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Mallard is un-a-vail-a-ble. May I take a mes-sage?"

"Come on, you gotta know when he'll be back—"

"I'm so sorry, but Dr. Mallard did not leave an itinerary with me." Small answering service, only ten boards, but every operator could send you into a diabetic coma with our trademark sweetness and light.

"No, no, no, I have to talk to him now—"

Back and forth we went. After five minutes he gave me his name: Harold Rodgers. From The Examiner.

"They've never haunted my front door before, and there were any number of high profile cases in my career," Ducky groused.

I looked at DeeAnn's business card. WLRT, Channel 14. Goody. "Ah. But Cameron Carson is a stah, dah-ling. Even Alyce is a celebrity. And that's the draw." The phone rang again. I pasted on a fake smile. "Mal-lard res-i-dence, how may I help you?"

"Sandy?"

Suzy. Sounding frantic. "What's wrong?"

"That's my question! There are two news vans outside the house! They have cameras and lights—"

"Shit!" Dragging the phone with me, I flitted over to the far wall. I set the phone down and twitched the curtain back about half an inch. Yep. Two trucks, one on each half of the circular drive; DeeAnn Dabenow was standing in a spotlight, looking earnestly into the camera and talking even more earnestly. Next to the second truck a walking, talking Ken doll was being tweaked for his own performance.

"What should we do? I can't bring Victoria through that!"

"No, no—" I dropped the curtain and paced the room. Ducky watched me silently, looking perplexed (and a little distressed). "Okay. Where are you?"

"We kept on walking. We're down at the corner. Victoria is visiting with Mrs. Broward."

A kennel club member. Good. "I could snag your keys and drive over, then walk back. That would rescue you. But we can't put Mother through that, you're right."

Ducky gave me a wave. "Suzy?"

I moved the receiver aside. "She and Mother are holed up at Mrs. Broward's. There are two news trucks outside!"

He looked thunderstruck. He strode to the other side of the drapes and duplicated my movements. "Oh, for the love of—"

"Too bad Mother isn't having one of her sideways days," I sighed.

Suzy managed a laugh. "Could you get Mrs. Kemmelbacher down here?"

"Tempting." I paced some more.

Ducky stopped me and held out a hand. "Slip out the kitchen door. Join Suzy and Mother—then the three of you and the dogs come back."

"But—" I protested even as I handed over the receiver.

"I… have an idea…"

"So long as Fran doesn't have to play dress up again," I muttered. "So long as I don't have to play dress up."

I opened the kitchen door and peered out. Good; they were focused on the front of the house. I slipped past the garage and squeezed past the hedge bordering the McKirks'. Mrs. McKirk was staring out the front window, wide-eyed; I put a finger to my lips and she nodded. All those months of exchanging recipes gave us a solid bond. Plus she adored Victoria.

I sauntered casually to the end of the block. Suzy was just hanging up her phone. "We… go home," she said, puzzled.

"Why did he have me—"

She shrugged lightly. "He said, and I quote, 'let Mother be Mother—and let those yappy beasts do what they do best; Sandy will figure it out.'"

"She will, will she?" I looked down at the dogs sitting by Victoria's feet, heads cocked as if to say, we know what to do, don't sweat it. "Let's… go home."

Promising Mrs. Broward that we'd visit again soon, we headed back toward the bright lights.

"Oh, my heavens!" Victoria gasped as we drew closer. "Are—are we at the circus?"

"Roman circus," Suzy muttered in disgust.

When we got near the McKirks', DeeAnn spotted us. She recognized me (and was probably pissed that I'd outflanked her) and started trotting our way, gesturing to her cameraman.

Tyson took exception to this and planted himself front and center. And barked. Loudly.

Funny thing about dogs and genders; women seem to understand that small dogs can be just as dangerous as large ones—men, on the other hand, think bigger is better (for all things). Barbie shied back a bit but Ken blasted past her.

Tyson didn't move.

Isabeau and Contessa did.

It was kind of like a fight in a cartoon, a whirling, swirling cloud of gold and white fur with occasional limbs (human or canine) poking out and occasional cuss words (human or canine) flying through the air. At one point Ken screamed like a little girl.

"Isabeau! Contessa!" Victoria called, her voice distraught. "Be careful!"

I smothered a grin.

"Son of a bitch!" One of the cameramen landed on his butt on the grass, video unit landing safely on top of him.

Another screech from Ken. "Get this rat off of me! This is Armani!"

DeeAnn had taken advantage of the chaos to skirt the brawl and edge toward me. "You were in Dr. Mallard's house," she said with a shrewd look.

"Yep!" I said cheerily.

Victoria narrowed her eyes and stared at DeeAnn. "And who are you?" she asked haughtily.

"DeeAnn Dabenow, WLRT-News." She stuck out a hand, giving us a blinding smile.

Victoria drew back and stared at her. "Who?"

The smile faltered only a hair. "DeeAnn Dabenow, WLRT-14, news at six." She sounded almost hopeful.

"Is it six o'clock?" She turned to me. "Is it truly that late?"

"No, it's only a quarter to six." Suzy piped up.

"Good heavens!" She looked at us both in dismay. "We need to fix dinner. Donald shall be home soon!"

"Donald? Donald Mallard?" DeeAnn jumped on the name. "You know Dr. Mallard?"

"I don't know him, young lady. I am his mother." She sucked in a horrified breath. "You—you—you vixen!"

DeeAnn gaped at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You—you have designs on my son! You look to steal him away from my dear Cassandra!"

I got a big ol' warm fuzzy hearing her protect me. I got the scare of the night seeing her pick up her cane and brandish it like a baseball bat.

"You shan't have him!" she cried. She took a tottering couple of steps forward and wobbled.

"Mother!" I yelped as Suzy grasped Victoria's arm to steady her.

Cooper and Tyson took the fore and aft points. The girls, hearing Victoria's raised voice and my outcry, abandoned their fun and bounded back, barking their trouble, trouble, come quick! alert.

Victoria wanted to advance on DeeAnn, but the dogs weren't having any of that. "Stay away from my son!" she yelled, taking a Babe Ruth-worthy swing. Since DeeAnn was a good ten feet away, she was in no danger of the cane connecting.

"I just want to talk to your son, ma'am," DeeAnn called.

"I'm going to sue!" Ken doll howled. "Those monsters attacked me, they bit me, I'm going to send every one of them to the pound!"

"About the shooting last week?" DeeAnn continued, ignoring her fellow tele-journalist.

Victoria stopped and pulled her cane back, almost hugging it. "You were shot?" she gasped.

"No, no, ma'am, it was Lillian McAllister who was shot."

"My dear, dear Lily…" She glowered. "You shot her!"

"No, no!" DeeAnn took a reflexive step back. "Alyce Cameron shot—I mean, is accused of shooting her."

"You shot my Lily!" Victoria was shaking with fury.

I stepped into her line of vision. "Mother… Mother, it's all right." I gently held her upper arms. "The woman who shot Lily has been arrested. She's in jail." I didn't have to worry about the niceties of calling someone 'the accused' when they were all but caught with a smoking gun in hand. "This woman wants to interview Donald, talk to him about what happened."

"She wants to steal Donald away from you!" she half-wailed.

"I won't let her," I said firmly. "Let me talk to her, okay?"

Without waiting for acknowledgement, I turned back to Career Girl Barbie. "It's very distressing to Mrs. Mallard, as you can see. We need to get all of this—" I waved at the trucks and lights. "—gone. She's quite frail, and if she gets overly excited—" Just think how that would look: while pursuing an interview, we caused the subject's mother to have a heart attack and drop dead in the street. Ba-a-a-ad press. "It would be best if you contact Dr. Mallard at NCIS."

"But—"

"How smoothly will an interview go if you put his mother—who suffers dreadfully from Alzheimer's—into hysterics?"

"Don't talk to her, Cassandra," Victoria begged. "She is a spy!"

"Perhaps you're right—"

One down. I scooted over to her colleague, who was leaning against the brick pier at the end of the McKirks' fence, still bitching about the tears in his pants. I yanked the cuffs this way and that. "You aren't bitten. You weren't even grazed."

"These are fifteen-hundred-dollar slacks!"

Cry me a river. "Shop at Wal-Mart," I suggested. "You were advancing on a senile old lady who's just shy of a hundred years old. Her dogs sensed danger and ran in to protect her." I looked at him, unsmiling.

He quickly calculated the damage to his pants versus the potential damage to his image and gave me a stunning smile. "I'm so very sorry. I never meant to frighten her. I just need to speak with Dr. Mallard. If I could—"

"Call the Navy Yard," I said shortly and turned back to Suzy and Victoria. I gave Victoria a long hug. "Everything will be fine, Mother," I reassured her. "Let's get you home. We're sending out for Chinese food."

"Oh! May—may I get those darling little ribs?"

"As many as you want."

She gave me a happy little smile. "Is Charlotte here, yet?"

"Not yet. They'll be here tomorrow, for lunch. And Lily is making you something special for dessert."

"Oh. Oh, all right."

We collected four leashes and walked the last couple of hundred yards to the front door, the remaining crewmembers respectfully falling aside like a human Red Sea.

"How was your walk, Mother?" Ducky was waiting in the hallway.

"Quite lovely. Eloise has a baby arriving next week!"

Ducky and I exchanged a glance; Eloise Broward is only about 25 years younger than Victoria. If she's popping out a baby next week, she's carrying it concave. (And I'm calling Guinness.) "A baby," Ducky repeated.

"Yes." She gave him a delighted smile.

"You mean a puppy, right? Another Corgi?"

She looked at me and patiently repeated, "No… a baby.'

"Mother—Mrs. Broward is not going to have a baby," Ducky said patiently.

She gave both of us a look that clearly asked 'how stupid do you think I am?' (with a little bit of 'how stupid are you?' thrown in). "Of course not. Her great-granddaughter was born last week and they're all coming to visit!" Shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she hobbled toward the kitchen.

"Thank heavens," Ducky said fervently.

"Amen," Suzy and I chorused.

"So. What was your 'plan?' It seemed pretty 'fly by the seat of your pants' to me."

"It was," he admitted. "I just had faith that the dogs would behave as they normally would… and so would Mother."

I wagged a finger. "It would have served you right if she had running on all cylinders. Of course, if she had, we'd still be out there."

From the top of the stairs came a soft 'miau'—Foot, surveying his kingdom. Or offering to finish the job the dogs had started.

"Is Fran up?" I asked Ducky.

"Not that I've heard. Although she might have heard the ruckus outside—"

"We were that loud?"

"Well… only because the house was so quiet in comparison."

"I'll go peek in."

The door was wide open. Fran was sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing solitaire the old fashioned way—with cards. She glanced up as I walked in. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. You have a good nap?"

"I guess."

I grabbed the straight-backed chair from the dressing table and straddled it, resting my folded arms on the back. "We're ordering Chinese from the Happy Dragon. What would you like? They've got a huge menu, pretty much anything you could want."

She shook her head slightly. "Thanks. But—I'm not really hungry."

"So… you've decided to spend the week here and then fly back instead of taking the train?"

She looked at me, confused. "No—who told you that?"

"Who told me? I told myself. Because if you keep on not eating, Ducky isn't going to let you out of the house. He promised Dr. Webber that he'd keep an eye on you—and he will. Cal or your dad will have to fly out and escort you home." I shrugged. "Or maybe he'll ask me to do it. Hey, I wouldn't mind seeing Phil and Jackie again…"

"No—"

"Yes," I said firmly. I propped my chin on my crossed arms. "Okay. I know you're depressed. I don't blame you. You're had a couple of topsy-turvy weeks and the end was a peak I hope you don't surpass for your entire life. Well—maybe if it's a movie you're working on," I amended. "Do you remember what you said after Alyce trashed your room?"

She thought for a moment, then gave a little "huh" of a laugh. "No, not really." She frowned. "I wonder what she was looking for…?"

"Who knows. Maybe it will come out in the trial." She flinched; I guess she forgot about the wheels of justice having to grind their way forward, figuring Alyce would magically transport from arraignment to a cell for the rest of her life. "You said something about not wanting to wear the clothes again. Then you decided if you didn't, it would be like she 'won' twice." I stared at her with what Ducky calls my laser beam eyes. "Don't let her win. Remember what they say—living well is the best revenge."

A smile flickered, then faded. "How? Every time I turn around… I know it's incredibly juvenile and pre-pubescent, but I can't help but think, 'I never asked to be born.'"

"No, you didn't. But you're here, so make the best of it."

"I know, I know…"

"Don't make me go all Jimmy Stewart and It's a Wonderful Life on your ass," I threatened.

She laughed—small, but a real laugh. "On my ass? No, I just…" He voice drifted off into a sigh. "I can't help but think if I hadn't been born, how different it would be."

I've run into this argument on abortion debate boards. "Well… if you hadn't been born, you wouldn't have existed for us to know about you and miss having you around. That's like me saying I miss my little sister. I never had a little sister. I never even came close to having a little sister. But it doesn't stop me from wishing I'd had one. Mostly to catch the blame when I did something wrong."

Fran laughed again, a genuine ha-ha laugh. "But…" She looked kind of frustrated. "My mother has been in an institution for two-thirds of my life. Someone I'd never even met hated me so much that she tried to kill me and ended up almost killing someone else, a totally innocent person who barely knew I existed—"

"And that is totally not your fault. Okay. Example. Supposedly, years ago, this kid got into D&D and had a live-action game going on in the tunnels under Michigan University, ended up committing suicide over it. I remember it because Rona Jaffe wrote a really lame book that was loosely based on the case. Turns out it wasn't true, but either way—D&D didn't make that kid kill himself any more than losing a game of Monopoly would. D&D wasn't at fault. Neither are you."

"My rational mind understands that, but—"

"Then stop right there and listen to your rational mind." I pointed a finger at her. "Alyce is a doofus." She laughed. "And a nutter. Not crazy, in my opinion, so they'd better not try for an insanity plea." The cops had decided my input didn't need a trip to the station and took my statement over the phone. I tried to sound neutral and non-hysterical but managed to slant things heavily against Alyce. Wasn't hard. "Some people are just wired wrong. And I'm sure as hell not trying to give Alyce an insanity defense—but, face it, to pull a gun on someone when you aren't defending your life or immediate threat to your property, well, your fuses aren't fully in their sockets. Personally, I think she knew about you since way back when and she was bitch enough to keep you and Cameron apart." I had zero proof on this theory—and it even went opposite of what she had said. So, okay, maybe I was painting her with a damning brush.

"I wonder what would have happened if we had known each other." She sighed sadly. "It really, really hurts that I missed all that time with Maxine. With my grandmother," she clarified.

"Well." I rubbed my nose. "You did know her. Sounds like you spent a lot of time with her. You just didn't spend time with her as 'grandmother.'"

"But all those wasted years—"

"She had a stroke. Right before your mom—got worse."

"Yeah—"

"Maxine's IMDb bio glossed over those years. I had to do some archive reading in Variety and the L.A. Times, mostly, to get some snippets. She was lucky she survived. She was sitting out by the pool with one of the tenants. He noticed her speech was slurring and her coordination was turning into nothing and called 911. Saved her life. She got her speech and her mobility back over a couple of years, but she still had big memory gaps until she died."

"I guess I'm lucky she remembered me at all."

"Those pictures you gave Ducky? There was one that I just love. It's just you and Maxine, you were barely toddling age—"

She nodded. "I know the one you mean. I was standing up, holding her fingers. She was bent over, her necklaces were hanging down, I'm surprised I didn't reach up and yank them off her neck."

"You probably did after the picture was taken." She laughed in agreement. "But think of the look on her face. She loved you like crazy. And when her memory did come back, you were part that returned."

"But I lost those years—"

"Kiddo, I've got some relatives I've never even met. I don't mean fifth cousins three times removed. My dad has two sisters and two brothers. So on his side of the family, I have two aunts and two uncles and I've never met any of them."

She looked startled. "Never?"

"Nope. One was a career Navy man. He retired, lives on Guam. We—meaning dad—get a Christmas card each year. The other brother is what you would call a recluse. Lives in a little town beyond the back of beyond in Oregon. No phone, no computer, mostly lives off the land. I think he goes into town once a month. He writes books and articles on woodworking—basically we know he's alive if we see something published. Dad will get a letter back from Uncle Al—if he's written ten or twelve, first. One aunt had a really ugly falling out with my grandparents, she ran away from home at sixteen or so. The only contact has been a couple of newspaper clippings she mailed—her wedding announcement and birth announcements for two kids." I thought for a moment. "Three. And the last aunt is one of those crazy busy people whose letters start off, 'Oh, my, has it really been six years?'"

"Yeah…" She sighed. "If I'd been adopted—well, the regular way—I'd be wondering about a ton of family members I'd never met."

I propped my elbows on the chair back and cupped my chin in my hands. "Exactly. And you've got a good family. I'm thinking every Pollyanna thought I can for your mom, your dad sounds like an amazingly cool guy—"

She grinned. "He is."

"You got aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?"

"Grandfathers, Peterson, Carpenter and McMillan. Grandmothers. McMillan and Carpenter. Dad's parents divorced and his mom remarried," she explained. "Mom was an only child, but Dad is middle of seven."

"Yeowch!"

"Some of them are in California…"

"So you've got grandparents, uncles, aunts—cousins?" She nodded. "And your new extended family, Ducky, his mother—and let's not forget marvelous me."

She laughed. "Definitely not." She looked quite a bit perkier.

"So. Dinner?"

She considered it. "Yeah. Dinner."

"Cool. What do you want me to bring in from the van?"

"Oh, you don't have to—"

I mimed having a gimpy arm. "Hello?"

"Oh. Yeah." She made a face. "I hate having people have to wait on me, hand and foot."

"Honey, you're on your own for dinner. Not cutting up your sweet and sour pork."

She snickered. "Aw, gee, no? Okay… I should probably charge my laptop battery and the phone. And I need a nightshirt. And clothes for tomorrow."

"Happy Bunny?" I suggested.

"Ye gods, I totally forgot I packed that. I would have died from embarrassment wearing that around Agent Gibbs." She launched herself off the bed, managing the feat one-handed.

"Oh, kiddo, he's seen worse when I drop in to see Ducky." I rested a hand on her shoulder as we left the room. "Let's see… Don't try to outweird me, I get stranger things than you in my breakfast cereal… I'm not deaf, I'm ignoring you… Yet, despite the look on my face, you are STILL TALKING!… and the classic, Sorry if I hurt your feelings, I was aiming for your balls."

She gasped loudly. "You wore that? In front of him?"

"Heck, yeah." I grinned. "Actually, I forgot I was wearing it. He didn't say anything 'til I was leaving, then said, 'By the way, you didn't hurt my feelings, either.' I looked in the reflection on the elevator door and turned ten shades of red. And laughed. But he laughed the hardest."

/ / /

Aaaah. Happy Dragon.

Dinner was delicious.

It was also interrupted no fewer than seven times by calls from assorted media vultures. The New York Post. The L.A. Times. ZNN. E! (Ducky threatened to pull the phone out of the wall.) Each time I answered the pone with my Polly Perky voice and promised to give the good doctor the message. And I did. "Carla Goodrich. New York Post. Forgot to write down the number." "I can't pronounce her first name, last name sounded like Western, E! channel and—oh, darn, I forgot to write down the number." Ducky played along, patting my hand and saying, "That's all right. You'll get it next time." On the off chance it was someone important calling, we opted for live versus Memorex. My overacting made Fran and Suzy laugh, but Victoria was scandalized over the number of phone calls.

"Really, Donald! Can't you tell your school chums to please not call during the dinner hour?"

"I'll remind them, Mother."

After dinner, we adjourned to the living room where Victoria settled herself in front of the computer and the rest of us pulled out the double-twelve dominos. Fran watched for one round to familiarize herself with our weird version of play (it's easier than the girls' version of croquet), asking occasional questions. "Okay, I got that you played a ten-three against a seven. Ten minus three is seven. Twelve-two against a double six?"

"Ah, but twelve divided by two is six," Ducky explained. "If you can make a math equation from the two tiles—the end facing out and the two attaching, or all four squares—you can play it."

"Ah…" she said in understanding. She watched the play continue. "I can understand getting bored with regular dominoes," she said distractedly. "We ended up with strip dominoes once…"

Ducky and I exchanged probably identical looks of amusement and turned as one to look at Fran.

"Um, I mean—I've heard it's fun," she said quickly.

"Uh-huh." I gave her a wink.

She watched for another few minutes, her blush fading. "Okay, that makes no sense to me."

Ducky smiled. "Cassandra played a four-ten."

"And you played two-five."

"Two-point-five times four—"

"Is ten," Fran and I said in unison. "This is harder than I thought!" she added.

"It pays to keep your wits around Ducky." (Although the times I've been witless, it's bee fun, too. Just a different kind of, um, fun.)

"I hate to think how you play poker."

Ducky grinned. "Oh, but that's quite entertaining—"

"So," I said, neatly interrupting him before he could spill the beans, "you want another soda? Ducky, you want a fresh drink?" Fran indicated her can was still quite full.

"Thank you, dear. Scotch. Neat." From the twinkle in his eye, I was sure he was thinking of the last poker game. So was I.

"Suzy?"

"Hey, if you're playing barmaid—I'm off the clock, so…" She thought for a moment. "What do you charge for a Russian Sunrise?"

"We can put it on your tab." Figuring we would need extra hands in the morning, Suzy had pulled Ducky aside and volunteered to stay the night, choosing to doss down on the couch since Fran was already in the spare room. I'm with Ducky—I keep worrying that I'll wake up and find she's just a dream and No-Nonsense Neoma is still in residence. (Mental post-it: call John Mulder this week.)

Suzy abandoned her book and joined us at the coffee table. Figuring the news would break soon, we took the pause between games to bring her up to speed vis a vis Fran, Alyce, Cameron—and Maxine.

Fran managed a smile. "I guess this is a good rehearsal for when I have to face the press. Get some practice with friendly fire before I face the wolves."

"We'll sic the dogs on 'em," I promised.

Ducky's photo albums were still on the end table, along with the box Fran had given him. Suzy was flipping through them, paying more attention than she had the other day when I was playing detective. "You definitely have his eyes—but I think you're going to look like your grandmother later on. You have her bone structure, for sure."

"She looks great. I don't mind if I do."

"Ohhh…" Suzy had the goofy look people get over cute baby pictures. "You were an adorable baby!"

"Yes, she was."

As one we turned to look at the far corner of the room, where Victoria was still messaging on the computer. "I'm sorry, Mother. Whom are you talking about?" Ducky asked cautiously.

She looked at him as though he were dense. "Francesca, of course. Mary's little girl. Such as sweet baby." She turned back to her computer.

Only Fran didn't look totally stunned, probably because she didn't know Victoria very well. "Did she ever meet—" I whispered.

Ducky frowned. "Come to think of it—yes. Yes, she did, quite a few times. I still stopped over after I moved out and she often joined me. It never occurred to me she'd remember…"

Suzy shrugged. "Memory is a funny thing," she said quietly.

"I'm not laughing," Ducky said drily.

Fran got up from her place on the floor and walked over to Victoria. "You remember me? As a baby?"

Victoria's look was plainly, 'of course I do.' But her voice was kind. "Mary was such a beautiful girl." She gave me a fond look. "She reminds me of my dear Cassandra."

Holy crap. Maybe she did remember. Granted, Mary and I look as much alike as—well, my van and Ducky's Morgan. But there's more of a resemblance than, say, Ducky and I, rather than our vehicles. Short. Redheads (at least back in the day). Similar facial structure.

"Your grandmother was such a darling woman." Victoria patted Fran's cheek.

I dropped the dominoes I was pulling for the new game. (Ducky almost dropped his Scotch.) "Grandmother?" I echoed.

"She was in St. Monica's Guild. A wonderful seamstress."

With those fingernails? I'm impressed.

"Mother, we lived in Santa Monica," Ducky corrected with a gentle firmness.

She turned and gave him a scornful look. "I know that, Donald. Ten-sixty-one Chelsea Court." (That didn't surprise me. If you ask my mother for her phone number, she'll give you the one from when we lived on Bentwood Avenue, back when I was in grade school. Then she'll give you the next four numbers and finally work up to the one they've had for the past fifteen years.) "And we attended Saint Augustine. As did dear Maxine. I did so miss her when we moved," she said sadly.

Ducky and I stared at each other. "Well, I wasn't in St. Monica's Guild," he muttered.

I snickered. Just the mental image of Ducky sitting in a sewing circle making gifty things for the fall bazaar… Too much.

"Mrs. Mallard?"

Victoria looked away from her computer. "Yes, dear?"

"What do you remember about my grandmother? How—how did you know she was my grandmother?"

Victoria looked amused. "Why, she told me, of course."

Of course.

"Charlotte—Charlotte asked me to be her grandmother." She looked at Fran shyly.

"Would you like to be my grandmother, too?"

Victoria looked delighted, then hesitated. "I shouldn't like to usurp Maxine's position," she said almost formally.

"Grandmother passed away last year, Mrs. Mallard."

She gave Fran the smile that makes Tony DiNozzo sigh and rearrange furniture all night. "My other girls call me Grandma."

Fran grinned. "Grandma it is."

"Oh, you look so much like my Lily when you smile!"

Hmm. Lily's only a year or two older than Fran. Could Cameron—no, no, let's not go down that path.

"Charlotte has to work on her diorama for history. Would you like to watch wrestling with me?"

"I'd love to."

Victoria rose carefully from her chair, then stopped and cocked her head. "What… is a diorama?"

While Fran tried to explain a diorama (she was the most recent grade school student, albeit twenty years ago or so) we popped the most recent video tape in the machine and dragged out a big bowl of popcorn to complete the picture.

"I'm surprised Maxine told Mother the truth," Ducky murmured, playing a 2/2 against my 4/6.

"Maxine probably figured Victoria already knew—being your mother and all," Suzy suggested, playing a double one.

"Well, I'm glad." Fran swiveled back and set down a 12/11 tile and turned back to 'Grandma' and the wrestling match.

"I wish she remembered more," I said. 7/6.

"More often it's the contradiction of memory versus fantasy," Ducky said.

"Sometimes," Suzy said. "She remembers more than you think."

Ducky took the gentle chide with grace. "She seems to be, of late." He gave me a teasing smile. "I blame Cassandra." 3/3.

I stuck my tongue out at him and almost jumped Suzy's turn. (And Fran's.)

"Promised, promises…" Suzy said mildly. "What?" she laughed at our looks. "We're all adults." 9/3.

Even the one turning beet red and trying to concentrate very hard on the match. Fortunately Victoria heard nothing.

"You've been paying too much attention to Cassandra's comments."

"I was going to say she's been paying too much attention to yours."

"Oh, lordy, do I have to have another 'facts of life' discussion?" Suzy sighed, giving us a patient look. But there was a wicked sparkle in her eye.

"Another?" Fran blurted. "Oops." She pulled several tiles, then played a 1/8.

"My grandkids discovered that the old lady didn't freak out over 'the talk' the way their parents did." She cocked her head. "Do I need to—"

"Nooooo," I drew out sweetly. "And…I'm out."

Fran frowned at my tile. "Twelve-five?"

"Twelve minus eight, plus one—" The doorbell rang. "Is five," I ended.

"I hope that's not another news crew," Fran sighed.

"At eight-thirty? I should hope not," Ducky said. He kept his tone light for Fran, but the glance he shot me was plenty pissed.

"I'll kick their collective asses to the curb," I said cheerfully, scrambling to my feet.

Only one person stood on the porch, at the edge of the light, only the lower half of his body well-lit. If there were any news vans, they were out on the street and hidden from view; promising, but he could still be print media…

"Is this the Mallard residence?" He actually pronounced it correctly, ac'cent on the second syl'la'ble; most people say Mallard, even Ducky's longtime friends and coworkers.

"Yes. May I help you?" I kept it short and sweet, but civil.

"May I speak with Dr. Mallard?"

"I'm sorry. Dr. Mallard is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?" (And then lose it?)

"I'd prefer to talk in person. I promise it won't take long."

"I'm sorry." (You have reached a recorded announcement…) "Dr. Mallard is not giving any interviews. You'll need to contact him through NCIS," I said firmly.

"No interviews? Good."

Good? That stopped me in mid-motion of shutting the door. "May I give him a message?' I offered again.

"I'm a friend—well—an acquaintance," he corrected. "From several years ago." The small laugh was uncomfortably familiar.

Oh, shit.

I knew who it was even as he stepped into the light and announced quietly, "Cameron Carson."

I hope he didn't take my silence for stunned adoration. Only half of that was right. "Uh—just a moment, please." I turned from the door. From the angle I was at, I could see Ducky, he could see me, but neither Ducky nor Cameron could see each other. Ducky looked at me, puzzled. I finger spelled C-A-M-E-R-O-N over and over, blessing Abby for suggesting we take an Intro to Sign Language class the prior spring.

Ducky looked baffled; from that distance, it was probably hard to decipher. I spelled over and over as he approached; about halfway to me, he stopped, shocked. "Cameron?" he mouthed. I clenched my fist and wagged it up and down: yes.

He squared his shoulders and joined me at the door. "Yes?" He was curt almost to the point of rudeness, a first.

"Hey, Don." He was smart enough not to go for a big, easy grin and jovial tone. "It's been a long time."

"Yes." But not long enough…

"I—ah—I ditched the reporters at the hotel. I probably should have called," he admitted. Yeah, you probably should have. "But I was afraid you might hang up on me." (We call that 'accidentally disconnected,' dear.) "I promise. I won't take much time."

"Let's—talk outside," Ducky said reluctantly. I knew he was thinking of Fran, only a room away. "I don't think—"

"Ducky?" Fran called. Her voice was higher pitched than normal; Ducky froze. "It's all right. Please. Invite—invite Mr. Carson in."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fran kneeling by the coffee table as before, her back now ramrod straight. Victoria had turned toward us, looking more confused than usual and resting her hand on Fran's free shoulder. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but like most people she could tell when Something Bad was in the air. Suzy was staring at the dominos game, trying to ignore everyone and everything.

Cameron looked at us expectantly. I wanted to be pissed at him for not recognizing his daughter's voice—but, really, why would he?

"Please. Come in," Ducky said, reflexively polite.

I shut the door, praying, please, no bloodshed?

I heard Cameron suck in his breath as soon as he saw Fran and heard a soft, "Oh, Fran…" She didn't even twitch.

Ducky breached the gap, squatting down so he was closer to eye level with her. "Why don't we give you some pri—"

"Please. Don't," she interrupted. "I'd rather you stay. All of you."

I was more than willing. I wanted to make sure that if she blew her cool she didn't pop her other arm taking a swing at him. I took my seat back on the floor, right angle to her.

"Fran, I—" He broke off with a gasp as she turned and her arm in a sling was more apparent. "Oh, god, Fran, I am so sorry—"

A week ago Fran walked through this very room, hoping to meet her birth father. Be careful what you wish for. He quickly crossed toward her and she shrank back.

"Don't worry, my dear, we shall protect you." Victoria—tiny, frail, scramble-brained Victoria—patted her shoulder. The dogs, dozing by the cold fireplace, heard her voice and came a-running, looking at Cameron with great interest.

He didn't fry all of his brains on booze and drugs; he stopped dead in his tracks. "Fran, I—I never knew," he said cautiously.

She nodded slowly. "I know." Her voice was very even.

"I would have wanted—I mean—" His laugh was short and a little forced. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be here, I wasn't expecting—but I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Don always kept an eye on your mother—"

Oooh. Bad call. Fran turned her face away; the glimpse I saw of her eyes before her gaze dropped did not show a kind and gentle look.

"Francis!"

We all turned at Victoria's shocked cry. Francis—yeah, that was his given name.

Cameron gave her a faint smile. "Nobody's called me that for—wow, forty, forty-five years."

"Your mother—she had your photograph on her piano." He fidgeted slightly. Zing. "You look just like your photograph." She stared at him intensely. "Except older. And grayer. And a bit fatter."

Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Oh, god, don't laugh. I'm sure I was visibly twitching to hold control. BIG zing.

Victoria looked at him, anguished. "You—you broke your mother's heart!" Her voice held the wounded accents only a fellow mother can achieve.

He looked ashamed. (I hope to hell he wasn't acting.) "Yes. I did. I was young and I did many stupid things to hurt my mother. I paid dearly for that, but the worst was losing my mother for all those years—and finally losing her forever."

"And, dear, sweet Mary!" She was actually trembling with rage. I was starting to get a little scared; the woman is going to hit a hundred next spring and, while the doctors say she's in amazingly good health, too much stress for anyone is not a good thing.

Fran reached up and patted Victoria's hand. "It's okay," she said soothingly. "It's okay. Mom did just fine without him." (He flinched slightly. Good. Think of the t-shirt; aim for the balls, honey.) "He may have broken her heart—but he didn't break her spirit. Not at first, anyway," she added bitterly. "My mom and dad," she said with particular emphasis, "met while making a picture together. And my dad is the most amazing person you could ever meet. He can choreo a fight scene like nobody else, he's the best stunt driver on the road and he even learned to fence for the remake of The Scarlet Pimpernel and he's darn good, too. My dad is smart and talented and makes blueberry waffles from scratch every Sunday. He showed up for every single school play and concert and game, even if I just wanted to go and wasn't playing or singing or anything! When mom was gone he was the cookie chairman every year I was in Scouts, he taught me how to ride a skateboard, he puts together the most incredible haunted houses—" Like the week before, she was gathering steam and losing track—and control. "He cracks bad puns and collects Little Orphan Annie junk and he calls me Pixilated and when Mom first went away he got me the kitten I'd been begging for for years, even though he's allergic as hell and he visits my mother at the hospital all the time and I love him to pieces and he has never turned away from either of us—" She pulled away from Victoria and scrambled to her feet and spun around to face Cameron, never missing a beat. "And Maxine kept your secret because Mom asked her to and when she had a stroke it sent Mom into oblivion and you and your wife—" She was screaming now. "—freaked her out so badly we almost lost her forever and I don't know what the hell you said, I don't know what the hell she said but your whacked out wife tried to kill me and she's so stupid she shot someone else and she doesn't even think she did anything wrong and I wish, I wish, I wish I had never tried to look for you in the first place!" She burst into tears and plopped onto the floor.

Cameron stepped forward, probably on reflex. When he touched her shoulder, she pulled back.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked. "I hate you!"

SMACK!

As slaps go, it wasn't a big one. It probably wasn't very hard, even. And the follow-through on the swing had Victoria clutching the back of her chair and swaying. But there was a bright pink mark on the cheek of a very shocked Cameron Carson. "You hurt your mother." She almost growled her words (she sounded a lot like Tyson). "You hurt Mary. You hurt my Francesca. And you hurt my Lily. You!" She poked her finger into his chest and he drew back. "Are a very bad man!"

It was comical, in a way. But nobody was laughing.

Fran was shocked into near silence. She worked at catching her breath, looking from Cameron to Victoria and back again. I scooched a little closer and put my arm around her and she leaned into me. Victoria was collecting granddaughters; I was collecting kid sisters.

Cameron stared at Victoria for a long moment, impassive. "Yes. I am," he finally said, barely audible. Keeping a weather eye on Victoria (who looked ready to wallop him again) he walked behind the sofa so he was sort of face to face with Fran again. She turned away, staring past me toward Ducky's office area.

Wow. Ignoring the different expressions—lowering fury versus careful control—there was a lot of familiarity there. Great, big, dark brown eyes. Dark brown hair—well, brown and gray for Cameron. His strong features softened in her face—but there was a definite link. Only a fool would miss it.

"Fran—I never knew."

She turned and gave him full measure of her face. She was back in control—which was probably worse. "You were sleeping with Alyce and my mother at the same time," she said coldly. He didn't confirm or deny. He didn't have to. He turned a slow brick red, glancing around quickly and then dropping his gaze to the floor. "I did the math. I figure Mom was about two months pregnant with me when you and Alyce spent a zillion dollars getting hitched. And, wow, that was before you started raking in the dough. Good thing she had a tidy sum from strutting her…assets…down the runway. And didn't Vera Wang loan her the wedding gown in exchange for publicity? No, that's right, that was for your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary bash. It was Oscar de la Renta when she walked down the aisle." Hmm; somebody had been doing some research on her own.

"This doesn't excuse anything, but—" His voice was very even and he spoke carefully, measuring his words. "People bounced from relationship to relationship. Nowadays they call it 'hooking up.' I never thought—Mary never—" he fumbled.

"What was she going to say? 'Congratulations on your marriage. I got you a baby for a wedding gift?'"

"Fran, I—"

She sighed heavily. "I'm not mad about what happened. Well—not much. What happened… happened." Oh, yeah, the girl is definitely a better actor than he is. I could feel the tension radiating from her. "It's what happened now—"

He visibly flinched. "I—we can't—Alyce's lawyer—" He was all but choking on the words.

"Hey, we're all off the record," I couldn't help saying.

His was the face of a man at war with himself. "Alyce—knew about you."

Fran glanced from the bandage visible beneath her shirt to him; no shit, Sherlock.

"She never told me. But she knew I had been seeing Mary—"

I remembered Alyce's tell-all at the hotel and bit my lip to keep from saying anything.

"I changed my name when I decided to go into the business. I was so determined to make it on my own—I didn't want anyone giving me any breaks because of who my mother was. Plus I, ah, really didn't like the name Francis. But—after we were married, Alyce went to visit Mother… without telling me… to see if she could patch things up between us. Mother had raked me over the coals while I was seeing Mary, telling me she wasn't like other girls, that this meant more to her. And when I, ah, broke it off with her—"

'Dumped her' was probably closer to the truth.

"—and married Alyce—" He glanced at Victoria, probably making sure he was out of range. "Well—I can see why you got along so well. She told me to call her if I ever grew up—but not before. Pissed me off." He shook his head. "I called her about four months later. She wouldn't even talk to me. Hung up on me. Slammed the phone down, actually. When Alyce went to talk to her—well, Sword of Time had been released, the reviews were great but I was still struggling to get auditions. Alyce figured that Mother had contacts all through the industry, that she could sweet-talk her into helping her 'only son'—" He let out a deep breath. "Before she found Mother, she saw Mary." He looked at Fran hesitantly. "And you." His mouth twitched in a vain attempt at a smile. "She, ah, as you put it, did the math. Mother came out to the pool…" He stared off for a moment and shook his head slightly. "I'm sure Mother figured Alyce would tell me—which she didn't, not until this morning. But when I didn't act as Mother thought I should have, she cut me from her life completely. Oh, Fran—" He looked at her imploringly. "If I had known, I swear—"

Fran sighed, but didn't say anything. But she didn't look quite so pissed off. Her mother had kept the secret because she wanted Fran to have, as her dad put it, a 'normal' life. Her grandmother kept the secret because Mary asked her to—and she probably felt it was for the best. And Alyce kept the secret because she was a selfish bitch. In my opinion.

"Alyce—well, now I understand why, but—back then, she was desperate to have a baby. I would have been fine if we did—but we didn't, and I was fine with that, too. But Alyce was crazed about it. She still had a big career in modeling, she never really made it in films—"

(Maybe her lack of talent had something to do with that?)

"I kept telling her getting pregnant would pretty much end it for her. She didn't care, she wanted to get pregnant and she would stop at nothing to do it. She tried everything, spent a fortune on doctors, drugs, surgeries, in vitro attempts—"

(Um, Cameron? TMI. Way T-T-TMI.)

"Nothing worked. She couldn't have children, period. I guess—she—wanted to be on even footing. With Mary. That she was scared it would come out and I'd go back to Mary. It wasn't until Mother had her stroke—and I guess she felt the secret would stay hidden—that she stopped harping about having children."

I stared down at the carpet. I hated—really hated—being put on the same line as Alyce. But hadn't I had those same fears about Ducky only a week ago, that he'd leave me and go back to be a father?

Yeah—but I didn't go big game hunting urban-style. Some consolation, anyway.

But it was interesting. Alyce was so hacked off that nobody had told her poor li'l hubby about his daughter—but she had known all along. Looks like she was a pretty good improv actress. I was kind of sad to see my suspicions confirmed, though.

"I saw Mother often while she recovered. It didn't matter that she had kicked me out of her life—she was my mother, for god's sake."

Ducky and I exchanged a quick glance. Victoria hasn't written him out of the will, so to speak, but there were plenty of times she could be, um, a trial. But no matter what, Ducky would never abandon her. And neither would I.

"When she began to recover—oh, it took months with a speech therapist, but one of the things I could understand that she kept saying was 'baby.' I kept telling her each time that, no, Alyce and I hadn't had a baby. This went on for months. She was getting more and more frustrated with me not understanding. Finally she got so mad, she threw her tea at me. Drenched me in tea and the mug bounced off and shattered on the floor. It was her Cheshire cat mug, the one where the heat made the cat disappear and leave behind the smile—" He shook his head. "Sorry. You remember the stupidest details sometimes…" He sighed, his eyes roving over us in turn. Fran stared back, still hurt and angry, but letting him talk. Ducky's face was impassive, like when I'd worked through the clues leading up to who Fran's father really was: listening to all the information before coming to a conclusion. Suzy hadn't stopped staring at the coffee table, seemingly entranced with the dominos. Victoria looked pissed as ever, but confused; I think she was starting to forget why she was angry.

And me? I was still sorry for Fran. Totally. But I genuinely felt some sympathy for Cameron. If Alyce had told him what she had discovered almost 30 years ago—well, we wouldn't be in the situation we were in. Mary and Maxine did what they did by trying to do the right thing; Alyce probably did, too—but it was 'do the right thing—for myself' as opposed to someone else. Like Fran, some of the crap going on in his life was from the choices other people had made. Granted it all started from his choice to dump Mary and go off with Alyce. But if that's a capitol offense, overpopulation will cease to be a problem.

Cameron's gaze completed the off-center circle and came back to rest on Fran. "The next time I came to visit… I barely got through the door. This time it was van Gogh's Starry Night. And she yelled, very distinctly, 'I hope you burn in hell!' Her speech therapist was ecstatic, she was clear as a bell. I figured it was a case of her personality being altered from the stroke, so I gave her some space, as it were. I sent her cards and little gifts—and about a year later, one came back from the rehab center marked 'discharged.' I rewrapped it, sent it to the apartment complex… and it came back, 'return to sender.'

Ouch.

He stared at Fran a long time. "I had no clue until now—she was trying to talk to me about you. Probably figured I was ignoring her on purpose. I—I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. It doesn't change what happened. I don't expect you to do an about-face and—and invite me to Sunday dinner. And nothing I can ever do or say will erase what Alyce did. You have a great family, a great dad, and I am so glad for you for that. I don't want to replace anyone. There's no way I could, even if I wanted to try. I don't want to horn in, to force myself into your world. Whatever you decide—and whenever you decide it—I'll stand by your choices. No question. No argument."

After a long moment, Fran asked, "What did you say? When you saw Mom?"

He looked uncertain. "That… I'd heard she hadn't been well. That I was sorry to hear that. That I hoped she got better soon. And… that… a long time ago, I hurt her very deeply… and that I was very, very sorry. She… never answered me."

"She hasn't spoken in almost twenty years," Fran said, voice still flat.

"That's what the nurse said."

Until last night, anyway.

"I thought it might draw her out to talk about her artwork—oh, Fran, all those pictures of you, the photos on her dresser, the moment I saw them all, I knew…"

He trailed off. Except for the manic insanity from the TV, the room was quiet.

"Well. Um. I should probably get going…"

Ducky had been silent the whole time, standing off to the side, arms folded. Cameron stopped as he headed toward the door. "They said—" He swallowed, hard. "They said your daughter was shot mistakenly for Fran." His voice quavered.

"Not my daughter," Ducky said. "But she could well have been." His voice was low and gravelly.

"I'm so sorry." Cameron looked absolutely haunted. If he didn't go off the wagon, I'd be shocked. (Actually, I'd be impressed.)

"Excuse me… do I know you, young man?"

Cameron rallied, and gave Victoria a very kind smile. "Not for a long time, Mrs. Mallard. You knew my mother many years ago."

"Oh!" She looked around the room. "Is she here?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry, she passed away a year ago."

"Oh…" she sighed. "That's happened to so many of my friends," she said sadly. The TV caught her eye; distracted, she sat down and was again engrossed in the match.

That earned him a small smile from Ducky. He may get exasperated with his mother, but he loves her to the ends of the earth. The walked toward the doorway, Cameron looking slightly less like a whipped dog than he had a few moments ago.

"We worked together."

Cameron stopped and looked back at Fran uncertainly. "I'm sorry…?"

"We worked together. Once. I did your appliances. Horror at the Wax Museum, Terror at the Wax Museum—Something at the Wax Museum. It was one of my first. Films, I mean."

Holy guacamole, Batman. I wanted to smack my forehead. I could picture her IMDb page perfectly. The few pictures of her working on Cameron Carson. The right questions and he would have known all of this a decade ago.

"Night at the Wax Museum," he corrected almost automatically. "I remember. You have a very light touch." He looked at her hesitantly, hopefully.

Fran flickered a small smile. "Thanks."

Okay, as big, lovey-dovey Hallmark moments go, it was about .25 on a scale of 0 to 10. But the girl gets huge props for making any kind of olive branch maneuver, in my opinion. The man caused a lot of chaos in her life and his wife tried to kill her, for god's sake. If they end up exchanging neutrally worded Christmas cards they deserve a Nobel peace prize.

(Of course, if Alyce is stuck behind bars for a few decades that will help.)

Ducky continued escorting Cameron from the house. Fran began to turn the domino tiles over. "Another game?"

I stopped cold and turned to her, trying not to goggle. She was way calmer than I would have been.

She looked up at me and managed a smile. "A very smart lady recently told me 'living well is the best revenge.'" I bit back a laugh; at least she had been listening earlier. "Sounds like a plan to me." She still looked ultra-stressed; her blood pressure was probably sky high. "I used to listen to this radio shrink—actually, it was a husband and wife team," she amended, seeing me wince slightly. "Not—" she made a distasteful look and waggled her good hand. "They were good—really good—so, of course, they're off the air. But they had a brilliant piece of wisdom." She looked at me very seriously. "Act as if—and the feelings will follow." She let me chew on it for a moment. "I honestly don't want to hate him. Hate takes too much energy. If I can be civil at least… maybe…" She trailed off uncertainly.

I squatted next to her and leaned close. "You aren't pixilated," I said quietly. "You are amazing."

Her eyes were suspiciously damp and her smile a little tremulous. "Hope you still feel that way when my meds wear off."

/ / /

"Could I ask… a favor?"

I looked up from half-heartedly following West Side Story. Fran stood uncertainly at the edge of the room, clad in an oversized nightshirt with a picture from Pirates of the Caribbean on the front. "Sure. What's up?"

"Well, I got my hair brushed—but with one hand, that's all I could do. I'd really rather not hassle with it for the whole trip—I was thinking if tomorrow you could maybe put it in really tight braids, I could ignore it all the way to California…?"

"Sure. Why don't we call tonight a test run? If it looks okay after a night's sleep, I can re-braid it fresh before you leave tomorrow night."

"Oh, Sandy, that would be great. Thanks." She handed me her hairbrush and perched on the footstool in front of me.

Remembering how West Side Story ends, I clicked the remote for something a little cheerier. Escape From the Planet of the Apes? Noooooo, not another romance that dies in a hail of gunfire.

"Oh, I have a friend who worked on that. It sounds like a great movie."

I looked at the screen; I had landed on Family Channel, a special showing the making of Ratatouille and snippets from projects in the works. "Ratatouille? Haven't seen it, but it looks cute." What the heck, I could live with that on the TV. I started dividing her hair.

"Very homey," Ducky laughed, coming into the room and sitting on the couch next to me. "I didn't realize you could braid hair."

"Please. I've had my hair in a braid plenty of times."

"Not like that," he said, watching me work.

Even in a smidge of a profile, I could see the wistful look on Fran's face. "My mother used to do this all the time. She'd twist in ribbons or embroidery thread or tuck flowers in when she was done…"

"I did that for my nieces all the time. Sharon was a real squirmer. Almost had to tie her to the chair. Allie was Miss My Braids Must Be Exactly the Same Thickness and Length. Drove her Aunt Cass bananas." Left, right, left, right, add a bit in each pass… "Evvie talked me into helping out at a Ren Fair booth one year, Braids For Maids? By the end of the day, my hands were so cramped I couldn't get them around her throat to throttle her." I jumped a little at the hand on my shoulder; I hadn't heard Victoria come up behind us. "Yes, Mother?"

A pair of shears appeared over my shoulder; in her shaking hands, that can give you pause. My hands were both occupied, so Ducky took them and placed them on the table. "Ah, thank you, Mother."

She made a "tsk" noise. "Silly boy." She handed him a spool of ribbon. "I thought this might look pretty in her hair," she said shyly.

Fran strained to look without moving under my hands. "Oh, how pretty!" It was variegated rainbow with gold edges.

Victoria tipped her head, watching me unbraid the short bit I had accomplished. "I used to plait my sisters' hair," she sighed. "We would all three sit in a circle in the playroom, each one plaiting the other's hair…"

"Bonding experience," Ducky said with a smile.

"Oh, pooh, Donald, you used to love it when I brushed your beautiful golden curls."

Ducky winced visibly and even blushed. I bit my lip and concentrated on cutting lengths of ribbon.

"Most children enjoy having their hair brushed," Suzy said mildly from her perch on a wingback chair. She had her feet up on an ottoman, knees bent, and was deep into an Alfred Hitchcock anthology she had braced against her legs. "Until the first time you hit a tangle, anyway."

"Well, I always loved having my hair brushed," Fran sighed. "I used to sit and daydream and write stories in my head…" She looked happy and relaxed—a minor miracle, given the day we'd had.

"You write stories?" The bookseller in me perked up. "Publish anything?"

"No, oh, no… it's just… scribbling."

Hmm. Present tense. "Like what?"

She laughed. "Oh… mostly fairy stories, stuff like that. I mean, come on, growing up in the room that I did, that was kind of a given. And…" She looked embarrassed. "Some… really… really bad Buffy the Vampire Slayer stories."

Ducky looked interested. "Oh, you wrote television scripts?"

"Not exactly," she hedged.

"Fanzines?" I asked.

"Um, yeah." She sounded taken aback.

"Way back when, I wrote stories in the Star trek universe. Some of the worst crap ever written—and, god help us, they published a lot of it."

Ducky looked at me in surprise. "You never told me you're a published author."

"Fanzines generally aren't something you put on your resume, honey. Although some published authors got their start there…" I re-divided Fran's hair and laid in pieces of ribbon.

"What are—"

"I'll explain fanzines later, sweetie. I need to concentrate."

Fran didn't need to concentrate. She gave Ducky a short history of fan publication—starting from way before her time. Apparently her mother has quite the collection, having been both an author and an illustrator and getting comp copies all over the place. She even gave him a rundown of science fiction fandom and conventions.

Ducky was fascinated. "I wonder if Timothy knows of this."

"I'm sure he does."

"Oh, you look darling!" Victoria cried. She reached out and tipped Fran's chin up. (Fortunately I hadn't started on the second braid.) "I shall tell Maxine what a lovely young lady you've become."

I'm betting we all had the same thought. Um, Mother—Maxine's dead. There were two answers for that: 1) at her age, she was probably going to be the first one to meet up with her on the other side of the veil and/or 2) hey, I sometimes talk to the dead. Usually in the wee, small hours of the night, but who's to say they aren't listening? Maybe she does, too.

Fran had the best response. She took Victoria's hand, kissed it and held it to her cheek. "Thank you. And please tell her I miss her very much."

/ / / / /

Plans are meant to be changed. Right? Right.

Instead of our usual Sunday lunch with the collected family on the lawn at home, we ended up right down the street from the Navy Yard.

No, Gibbs' team hadn't turned up a hot crime or a cold body. (Truth be told, the top squad of NCIS was spending their weekend going through cold cases—according to Abby, anyway.) No, while conferring with Evelyn and Lily for our plans for the day, it was brought up that Fran had yet to see the store—though we did plan to stop there before dinner.

"I'm dying to see the place, myself," Suzy said in passing.

"I haven't set foot in there, either," was the arch comment over the phone. I could picture the lift of Charlie's eyebrow (she does a great Mr. Spock imitation).

"Well, why don't we make it a field trip day for everyone?" was my flippant response.

Which is how we ended up meeting up in the back parking lot of the store just before noon. Geoff was literally at the door, fixing a sticky hinge, when we filed in: Victoria (who bussed his cheek in passing), followed by Suzy, Ducky, Fran, Lily, Ev (who got her cheek bussed in passing), Charlie and yours truly. "That's all?" he asked blandly.

"We left the dogs in Reston. But I can call for reinforcements," I retorted.

"Abby stopped by to kill some time. She—"

There was a squeal from the sciences section. "Ducky!"

"—is apparently no longer working on bookcases in the old storeroom," Geoff finished.

"We're bringing in lunch from D.J.'s Deli."

He grinned. "I knew there was a reason I showed up for work."

"Yeah. Your cable bill is due."

"Ouch. True, but—ouch."

I had to laugh. I had four paid employees on the premises—and within minutes had even more that were unpaid. Victoria started helping Geoff fix the hinge (she knew the difference between a Phillips and flathead screwdriver ("Plus or minus?") so she actually was a help), Charlie wandered the store, randomly alphabetizing as she went, Ev started shelving the backlog of incoming trade like she had never left the place, Lily was busy straightening up the tchotchkes and Ducky was following Abby back to the storeroom. (He doesn't build boats in the basement, but he's handy with a hammer.)

"Can I help with something?" I started to protest, but Suzy cut me off. "I don't know the store well enough—yet—to be of any help, but I follow orders really well."

"Well, speaking of orders… I called a lunch order in to the deli while we were driving. It's right down the street, would you—"

"Go pick it up? Absolutely. Is there enough room in the station wagon?" she teased.

"I hope so. I love that thing, it makes me think of my years in the Scouts every time I look at it."

"Yep. Hauled Scouts of both genders, Bluebirds, Indian Guides, glee club, folk group—and one kid who insisted on playing tuba all four years of high school. My mechanic has a backlog of spare parts for ol' Bessie. Just in case."

"Well, this shouldn't be quite that bad. I've got sandwich platters, salads, and twelve-packs of soda and beer."

"And don't forget that gorgeous trifle." Lily's surprise had been a raspberry chocolate trifle set in a huge cut glass punch bowl she'd found in the attic. The trifle recipe was one handed down to Victoria; I had all but drooled as I watched Ev carry it in. "I do like how that girl cooks: big."

"And even with the crowd we have, we'll be good. All of the boys are boring in their dessert preferences. Cake. Pie. Cookies. So there's a big cookie tray, too."

"They're turning down chocolate raspberry trifle… for cookies?" she asked in shocked accents.

I grinned. "More for the rest of us."

/ / /

The day was almost ruined by the appearance of a reporter from The Post. Asking for yours truly.

"We have information that the shooting of Francesca Peterson and Lillian McAllister are somehow connected. Do you have any insight on this? You're part of the Mallard family, yes?"

I could feel everyone in the store stiffen and come to a point like tracking dogs. "I'm sorry?" I said coolly.

"Actually, we're looking for Dr. Mallard. He's not at the Navy Yard, nobody's home at the house—but we saw your van there last night, ran the plates—cute license plate, by the way—"

I was set to a slow boil. You low-down, six-fathered, ratfink—

"I am Fran Peterson. May I help you?" Fran was behind him, emerging from the GAMES AND PUZZLES area, a large book carefully balanced in the crook of her good arm.

Go! Run! I wanted to scream. The reporter's eyes lit up like he'd won the lottery. "Miss Peterson, I'm Ted Dimarco from The Post. Could we go somewhere, talk—"

"Here is fine." She looked way too calm.

He looked startled. "Oh. Um, okay, sure." He pulled out a small tape recorder. "Mind if I tape this?"

"Please."

Behind him, I gave her the big-eyed 'do you know what you're doing?' look. She just gave me a tiny smile in response.

"Okay. How do you know Alyce Carson?"

"I don't. We've never met."

He looked startled. "Well—why did she shoot you?"

"Do I look like a mind reader?" she said with a small laugh.

"Ah—well—what about her husband?"

"What about him?"

"You know him, right?" He looked hopeful; maybe he'd get something smarmy and salacious.

"I did his makeup for Night at the Wax Museum."

He waited a moment. "And?" he prompted.

"Well… he said I had a light touch."

"…and…?" He looked at her hopefully. She shrugged. "That was it?" He looked ready to cry.

"Mm-hmm." Her big doe eyes looked so sweet an innocent.

"She tracks you down halfway across the country—" (You flunk Geography, sport? California to DC is the whole country, lower 48, anyway.) "And you know nuthin'?"

"Sorry. You probably know more than I do." She smiled and turned away.

"Wait, wait—could you say something, anything about the shooting—?"

She bit her lip and frowned prettily, thinking hard. After a long moment, she shrugged. "Um… no." She gave him an innocent look. "I guess that's what they call… no comment?" She smiled gently. "Sorry." She turned and walked away—but not before giving me a tiny wink.

He turned back to me. "Hey. I know even less than she does," I said cheerfully and went back to reading customer comment cards. Pix is going to be a-okay with the media.

"But—"

I shrugged. "Sorry. Wish I could help." (Liar, liar, pants on fire!)

"But—"

As if on cue, the phone rang. "Sorry." (Another lie.) "Papyrus, Cassandra speaking, how may I help you."

There was a chuckle in my ear. Ducky. "Want me to rescue you? Send Abigail to distract him? Send Mother to frighten him?"

"Oh, absolutely!" I enthused. "That would be wonderful! As a matter of fact, everything on your list!"

"That could give rise to some interesting ideas."

"You betcha!" I covered the receiver. "This will take a while," I whispered loudly. "Sorry. Maybe you should call Mr. Carson? Or his wife's attorney?" Bwahahaha. Alyce's legal eagles made OJ's "Dream Team" look like the DA who faced Perry Mason all those seasons—and we know how his track record was. Their law clerks probably billed close to four figures an hour, let alone the attorneys. "Now. Give me that list. Line by line," I instructed Ducky.

"Let's see… I think we'll start with a nice, long massage. Head to toe. No—first we have to remove the impediments. Unbutton that blouse very… slowly…"

My eyes widened and I gave the reporter a 'that's all, you can leave now!' look and turned away. "Please. Do continue," I managed. (Is it an obscene phone call if you're enjoying it?)

There was a low chuckle in my ear. "Ah, but will you get any work done?"

"I'll try."

"No… I shouldn't tease you so."

"But I like it when you tease me," I argued. The reporter had given up in frustration and left. "That way, anyway."

"Naughty girl." (I shivered a little when he said that.) "You need to get your thoughts composed. Suzy just arrived and the young gentlemen are unloading as we speak."

"Food. Appealing to their baser instinct."

"One of them, anyway."

I blushed to my roots. "See if you can save a sliver of something for me."

He made a purring noise of assent. "Only a sliver?" I managed a weak "uh-huh" in response. God, I was at the point where he could say "water faucet" and I'd turn it into something dirty. Or he would. What a great relationship, eh?

/ / /

Geoff and Alan and Randy were fools. The trifle Lily had created was indescribably delicious. There were plenty of jokes surrounding me about 'life is uncertain, eat dessert first;' but to be honest, nothing else looked appealing. I concentrated on soothing, creamy chocolate with raspberry crème, whipped cream and delicate ladyfingers and felt much better. (Face it. The day I walk away from chocolate, put me down. Don't bother with therapy or doctors, I'm past living. If my funeral procession goes past Charlotte's Chocolates, I'm getting out of the hearse and shopping.)

"I want this instead of birthday cake." I think that's what Fran said. She sounded like Scarlett O'Hara talking with her mouth crammed full of food while on her honeymoon with Rhett. Not far off, she had at least a full cup of trifle stuffed in her mouth. Her manners were appalling, simply appalling. (I, on the other hand, just kept shoveling it in and didn't bother talking.)

"I'm sure Grandma will share the recipe," Lily said with a laugh.

Victoria gave her a bright smile. "I would love to have this recipe. If reminds me of my grandmother's best trifle!"

"I'll email it to you," Lily whispered.

/ / /

Ev volunteered to stay at the store while we took Fran to dinner and the train depot. She and Lily (and Charlie, of course) were spending the next couple of days at the house to make up for the past week; she would have driven back to Reston with the others, but the work schedule set a month ago was unraveling. All three of the boys had finals the next day and I, remembering what cramming for exams was like, said, yes, leave early—which left Valerie alone in the store. Valerie was fine with staying alone, but Ev wasn't fine with Valerie staying alone. (Neither was I, to be honest. I'm not keen on being there after dark by my lonesome any more.)

Thankfully, Fran made it to the train without being hassled. If this had been one of Maxine's old film noir flicks, the station would have been crawling with reporters. Thank heavens for reality. She and Ducky and I had stopped at the Gypsy on the way; nobody was really hungry, but Fran got a chance to see their decorations and décor and to pick up a t-shirt (a must for any wardrobe).

We got her settled in her cabin (pretty roomy, actually), nailed a porter for a bunch of ice and turned the two small trash cans into ersatz coolers. "It'll last through tomorrow night, anyway," I said cheerily.

"You know, they do have a dining car," Ducky observed.

"Not with food like the Gypsy makes."

In between farewell hugs and kisses, we got Fran settled in. Her laptop was set up on the dresser, her phone charger plugged in next to it—

"It didn't charge! Dang!" Fran shook her phone in vexation. "I knew I should have replaced the battery. I promised Dad I'd call him—"

I patted her back. "I'll call," I promised. "I'll tell him what happened and to look for an email." I gave her a stern look. "We expect contact, too, young lady."

"I promise, I promise!"

Feeling very old-movie-ish. Ducky and I waited until the train pulled out of the station before heading back to the relative quiet of DC traffic.

Still in the parking lot, I called Fran's dad. "Alan? Hi, it's Sandy Talmadge. Just wanted to let you know Fran left on time. She'll be sending you an email—apparently her cell phone is dead. She won't starve on the trip, we left her with tons of food—"

He laughed. "That's my girl. I don't know where she puts it."

"You've got me." Evelyn is the same way. They both eat like they're trying to start a famine and both are skinny wenches. And nice. At least if they were bitches, I could hate them.

"I really appreciate everything you've done." He sighed. "Pix emailed me about your surprise visitor last night. I guess he's trying to be a decent guy. Or something like it."

"She's trying to make the best of a bad situation. Trying hard."

"She has a good heart."

I smiled. "She sure does."

We toodled back to the store, each wrapped in his or her own thoughts. It wasn't until we got out of the van that Ducky asked, "What time will you be home?"

I winced. "Um… Wednesday?"

He looked aghast. "Why that long?"

"Well… I have a real estate agent coming over that afternoon—"

Now he was really stunned. "You're—selling your house?"

"Not a chance. I partied too hard when I paid off the mortgage. But I can get eighteen hundred, two thou a month, easy. Near two schools, good neighborhood—and they'll take care of all the property management stuff for me. I just want to get the carpets cleaned, do the spring cleaning I didn't do this spring, get it all spiffed up before I get graded."

"Ah." He slipped his arms around my waist. "Need a hand?"

"I'll never concentrate if you're there. Too many other things to do."

"Such as…?" He leaned close and whispered in my ear.

Despite turning bright pink (probably cherry red), I grinned. "Hold that list til Wednesday night, will you?"

He gave me a sly smile. "I'll keep adding to it."

He popped inside long enough to say hello and goodbye to Evelyn and Valerie; everyone else had headed back to the house already. Ev volunteered to stay through closing, giving Valerie a chance to go home early on a Sunday for once. Much as she had helped me sort through books the night she spilled the beans about Fran, she helped me sort and shelve the tons of trade Tim Walinski had brought in.

I smiled at the normalcy. Normal. Back to normal. Never thought I'd hear that word, not for a while, not after the past month. Month and a half, really—things started going crazy when we got back from Book Expo and discovered Abby had canned the day nurse.

Day nurse…

Speaking of which…

I clicked through the call history on my cell and found what was undoubtedly John Mulder's number. After several rings, I heard, "Your call is being answered by Audix." A scrabbling noise, then Mulder's voice: "John Mulder." Back to the automaton. "—is not available." I listened to the rest of the spiel. "Hey, John, this is Cassandra Talmadge. Just touching base. Give me a call, let me know what—if anything—you've found out? Thanks." I rattled off my phone numbers and hung up.

Evelyn stood at the end of the gardening section, hand on hip. "You steppin' out on Ducky?" She narrowed her eyes and I barely managed not to laugh.

"Not bloody likely. I was calling John Mulder, Lily's friend. He's looking into Neoma Keithley for me."

"Hope she turns out to be a spy," she muttered.

"Been talking to Mother? She sees spies everywhere." I was only a little surprised by her aversion. She had never mentioned Nurse Keithley in negative tones, but the fact that Charlie didn't get along well with her was probably why she was disliked.

"She just set my teeth on edge. She was too interested in the family money."

"That's what Charlie said."

Ev looked at me, seriously this time. "She was worried Grandma would get bumped off for her money. She's been reading a lot of Agatha Christie of late," she explained.

"Ah."

"I put the leftovers in the fridge. You want I make sammitch you?" she said in dreadful pidgin English.

"No thanks, I'm good."

She gave me a mother hen look. "What did you have for dinner?"

I knew better than to lie. "I wasn't really hungry—"

"All you ate was trifle. And, given your norm, you didn't eat much of that." She narrowed her eyes. "You okay? You look like crap."

"Well, thank you for that kindness," I retorted.

"Seriously. You still messing with that pulled muscle? Maybe it's something worse—"

"It's not something worse and, yes, I have an appointment this week. Jesus, you're as bad as Ducky."

She folded her arms and stared at me as I closed out the register. When I looked up, she had a sneaky smile on her mug.

"What?"

Her smile grew.

"What?"

She closed the distance to the desk and leaned over. "I'll bet you're preggers."

My jaw dropped. Of all the things out there, that had never popped to mind. "Don't be ridiculous."

She was absolutely gleeful. "You are! You are! I know you are!"

"Thanks, heaps."

"Come on! You told me you're tired all the time, you yak up your socks—"

"You have such a delightful way of describing things."

She grinned and danced around like a maniac. "Grandma will be so happy!"

"Shut up."

"I can't wait to throw you a baby shower!"

"Shut up."

"And maternity clothes!"

"Shut up!" I yelled. I lobbed a stress ball (how apropos) at her. And missed.

"Aww, you need to work on that arm, how will you teach junior to pitch?" She could barely get her words out around her giggles.

"You want a funeral? Or a wake?" I growled. This was reaching the 'it's not funny any more' stage.

Evelyn was absolutely gleeful. "That's what you get for dating a guy," she chortled.

"I mean it—"

"I think it's sweet! You'll be a wonderful mother—"

"Knock it off or I'll send you home in pieces. I'm warning you—!"

She sailed out the back door, her giggles floating back like wafting perfume.

I propped my head on my hand. What an end to the day. Now my head hurt, I felt nauseated and there was a vague ache in my gut. I'm not a hypochondriac, but at the rate I was going, she was working me into a nice psychosomatic pregnancy. She'd probably stop and buy baby shower invites on the way home. Oy vey.

The phone on the counter jangled and I gave it a mild glare. I sighed over the second ring and managed to pick it up on the third. "Papyrus."

"Oh, my darling… you sound as tired as I feel."

"In that case… god, do I feel sorry for you. Evvie just left—before I could murderize her."

"Dare I ask?"

Hmm. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. "She's worse than Mother. She's taken all the stress symptoms I have and turned it into a surprise pregnancy."

"She reads those medical references on the web too much. She'd turn a headache into a brain tumor." Good. He was laughing over the concept. "Lily just remembered that Valerie took a message for you and wanted to make sure you got it."

I poked around in the loosed papers and found a pink "while you were out" message. "Chanda?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"I'll call her now. I won't be in until one tomorrow and Tuesday—if that."

"You have that much to do at the house?"

"According to my mother's standards—yes."

"Just make sure to keep next Saturday open."

"What's up?"

"A surprise," he said mysteriously.

"Another stage musical?"

"'Surprise' means 'I'm not going to tell you.'"

"Am I cooking dinner or are you?"

"The chef at the restaurant is cooking dinner."

"Dinner and a show," I joked. "And formal?"

"Well… not formal, but—"

"Not my usually slobbish attire?"

"I wouldn't go that far…"

I looked down at what I was wearing: blue jeans with embroidered patches (some were replicas of vintage patches, some were the real deal that I'd removed from my old dungarees when they no longer fit) and a t-shirt listing the top 100 banned books from 2000. "I would."

"You're biased."

"So're you. You spending the night at my place? Where are we going? I mean in terms of geography, is it better to go home to your house or mine?"

"Geographically speaking… yours. And I have missed the waterbed," he admitted. "It's so nice and cool in this weather…"

"Say no more. Maybe we should put the waterbed in the spare room?"

"Now, that is an excellent idea." (He said that only because he's probably never moved a waterbed.) We made romantic smooshy noises at each other and hung up. My mood was appreciably better as I dialed the phone.

A deep voice answered the phone. "Davis residence."

"Hi, is Chanda available? Sandy Talmadge calling."

"Sure, hang on."

It was a quick call. Chanda wanted me to come out and evaluate—and hopefully buy—boxes of books from her grandmother's house. I penciled her in for Wednesday and locked up the store.

I hit the market, getting something from almost every aisle, made it home in record time and put away all the perishables and then did the unthinkable: cleaned house. Not just fast pass with the vacuum and do the dishes. I mean cleaned. I figured it wouldn't hurt to get an early start; I did a ton of laundry, scrubbed out both bathrooms, I even cleaned the frigging refrigerator. (I don't know if the real estate agent was going to look in the fridge—but it needed to be done anyway.) I was on a roll.

I was also exhausted. By the time I hit bed (and those wonderful, soft, clean sheets) I was ready for unconsciousness and unconsciousness was ready for me. I know I slept, but all I remember was waking up. I stumbled to the bathroom (it smelled wonderfully of lemon-orange-grapefruit CtiriClean), took care of the necessary obligations and made my way to the kitchen. It was kind of nice not having to fight Foot for my breakfast; I decided to go whole hog (oops) and threw some bacon in the microwave while I scrambled some eggs. Raisin bagel in the toaster, juice over ice and I was good to go. I dished everything up and checked the clock. Hmm. Just about time. May as well get it over with.

Out of habit I put my plate on top of the microwave and strolled back to the bathroom. Inside the door, I reached out and grabbed the little stick that would prove to everyone that no, I am not pregnant, so shut the hell up.

I stared at the stick for a long moment, puzzled. (This was the first time I've ever looked at one.) It was as bad as when we did the pH test strips in science class. I had opted for the more expensive test, the newest, hottest box on the market, the complicated one that would tell you if you were even a tiny bit pregnant. No pink dots or blue bars here. So, of course, I was lost. I finally dug out the paper that came with the test. Color range will be from yellow to dark blue. Yellow will indicate a lack of hGC in the system (negative); blue will indicate the presence of hGC (positive). The darker the shade of blue, the greater the amount of hGC. If your test shows a shade of green or you are uncertain…

Could they make this any harder? Jeez. I flipped back to the stick in my hand. Immediately it became difficult to see, my hand was shaking so hard.

Navy blue.

Oh, my god.

I'm pregnant.

---

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