On Tuesday, as scheduled, Monroe's men picked up their new-old outdoor furniture, departing for Tarzana only minutes before the furniture delivery arrived. Laura directed where each new piece would be set up, and by noon she looked with a smile of approval at their backyard entertainment area. All sleek lines with warm colors and cool accents, it was now an excellent complement to the interior of their home. When the three, solid walnut high chairs, made to be positioned directly against the table, arrived, the dining space outdoor would now comfortably seat nineteen, although they were only expecting thirteen plus themselves for the upcoming dinner on Thursday.
With the outside situated, she turned her attention to the surprise she'd been covertly planning for Remington over the last several weeks. Given the limitations created by her crutches, getting everything done on her own would be challenging, but she was determined to have the task completed before he arrived home. Two and a half hours later, she sank back on the couch, surveying her handiwork, inordinately pleased with how it had turned out. She could only hope that her husband would react to it as she hoped he would.
This morning, in accordance with her vow to prove to her Mr. Steele that she was a vested in this marriage as he, she had called Claude at L'Ornate. In an hour, dinner would arrive from L'Ornate and Claude had assured her the waiter delivering it would assist her in setting up a small dining area for two in front of the fire in the living room. Remington should arrive within a half hour of that. Turning her head, she looked at the stairs with a bit of dread. She'd already made the trip up and down those stairs once, but thankfully she'd not be carrying anything this time around. The idea of anyone seeing her wiggle her way up on her bottom, dragging box and crutches up each step at the same time, was enough to bring a flush of humiliation to her face. With a sigh of resignation, and a doleful wish they had remained at Remington's condo until she could navigate the stairs with ease, she pressed upwards on her crutches then approached the stairs.
Fifty minutes later, she made what she hoped would be her final descent down the stairs. She'd kept her attire semi-casual, but guaranteed to kick her husband's pulse rate up a few notches: a long sleeved, backless, black dress that clung to her curves while the skirt stopped a mid-thigh; black stockings with black lace hem, a nod to his erotic fascination with the garment; and only a scant pair of black panties underneath. Allowing her curls to riot, she'd clipped back the front in a black rhinestone barrette. The earrings he'd bought her in New York hung from her ears and the heart locket he'd gifted her with years before dangled from her neck. She longed to slip on a pair of black stilettos to complete the outfit, but since that was not in the cards had slipped on a single black, flat.
Leaning her bottom against the arm rest of a chair, Laura closed her eyes while she pressed a hand to her stomach. She'd shoved thoughts of pregnancy to the back of her mind throughout the day, but as she'd dressed had been unable to keep them at bay. The sleek little outfit she was wearing wouldn't fit her much longer… none of her clothes would. It was only a reminder of how many things would change in the months to come, how many things that would have to change. Preparing the bedroom she'd set aside for 'one day' as a nursery 'now'. Car seats to purchase… Oh my God, what exactly did a baby need for day-to-day life? Baby clothes, diapers, bibs… what else? A daycare would be needed which only begged the question: how would this change her life in terms of work. Remington was protective by nature. With her carrying his child what kind of limitations would he impose upon her? And after the baby was born? She couldn't help but remember his words last winter.
"Supposing you had children? Supposing. Would you intend to continue working? Or would you feed the little tykes breakfast in the morning and then rush off to a nice, juicy murder? I mean, would you call them up at school and apologize because you couldn't pick them up because you were being held hostage."
He'd wanted to know, then, if she planned to remain a detective the rest of her life. She'd told him she didn't know. But here and now she did know: She loved every part of her life. She had a job she both loved and excelled at; a husband that she loved more than she'd wanted to, or even thought possible. She wanted neither of those things to change. Would grasping another part of the dream – children, a family – mean she'd have to give up something else she loved? The truth was, it terrified her to think it might be expected she do just that.
The doorbell sounded, forcing Laura to set aside her thoughts for the second time on the day. Sebastien, one of her favorite young waiters from L'Ornate, as promised, helped Laura set up seating for two in front of the fire. White table cloth spread over the table, candles set near an edge, two services of their wedding china laid out, along with silver and champagne flutes, and the scene was set. She tipped Sebastien nicely as he departed, after setting their meals in the stove to keep warm.
Ten minutes later, candles on the table lit, fire lit, lights dimmed and terrace doors swung open wide, the scene was set, just in time for Remington to walk through the front door. The Agency had been blessedly slow, with Mildred and he both focusing on wrapping up what cases and files they could before they holiday. The doors closed officially at five o'clock for the holiday and would not reopen until Monday morning, which had taken considerable convincing on his part. Laura had at first been resistant, and was only swayed when he pointed out he would be cooking for fifteen and that could not be accomplished in a single morning and afternoon.
Dropping his keys on the credenza in the foyer, he turned towards the living room then stopped, a smile lighting his face. Laura stood propped on her crutches in the doorway.
"What do we have here?" Stepping to her, he cupped her neck and bending down sampled the taste of her lips. Smacking his lips together, he hummed while giving her a little leer. "'That's, uh, quite a dress you almost have on,' love," he told her appreciatively.
"You'll have to do better than that if you plan to trip me up, Mr. Steele," she chastised him playfully, before he gave her a second, lusty little kiss. She blinked her eyes a couple time, trying to regain train of thought. "The African Queen, Humphrey Bogart, Katharine Hepburn, United Artists, 1951." He gave her a smile of approval with raised brows.
"Very good love." He peeked around her shoulder at the table for two. "What do we have here?" he asked again.
"Just a small celebration," she answered, moving aside for him to enter the room, "in honor of our fifth month anniversary." She left him speechless for long moment. It was the first time that it was she who sought out, with purpose, to celebrate the remembrance of their Greek wedding. Words failed him, so he tipped his head, sniffing at the air. "You cooked?" he asked.
"Don't worry, Mr. Steele, I'm not trying to get rid of you… yet," she teased. "Sebastien just left a few moments ago. I asked Claude to have the chef prepare a special order of Filet Mignon au Poivre with parsnip and potato puree, and mushroom ragout. If you wouldn't mind retrieving it from the oven?"
"Of course. And should I expect a special dessert as well? Preferably something in the chocolate family with which to seduce my wife?" he asked over his shoulder as he walked to the kitchen to do as requested. Seating herself and crossing her legs, she intentionally allowed her skirt to clear the top of a stocking.
"Oh," she drawled, "dessert is definitely on the menu." He looked at her as he turned into the kitchen, then sputtered to a stop, his eyes zeroing in on the bare skin between dress and stocking, before skimming the length of that stockinged leg to the ankle. He was tempted to cross the room, knock aside the table and take his wife then and there when she trekked a single finger from knee to stocking top, pausing to toy with the lace. As it was, he could only watch, transfixed, swallowing hard as his body raged to life.
"I suppose we have to eat first?" he asked with no little regret. She smirked at him and nodded, laughing when he gave her the look a toddler might give when his favorite toy was withheld until after a meal.
"Afraid so, big guy. But the sooner we begin…"
"No more needs to be said, Mrs. Steele."
Setting their meals on the table, Remington lifted the champagne bottle from the bucket. Rather than opening it, however, he returned to the kitchen, drawing a curious look from Laura. When he returned with two glasses of ice water, she looked at him questioningly.
"Ah… just in case." He looked pointedly at her.
Silence, thick and uncomfortable, stretched between the couple for several minutes. Taking a bite of the magnificently prepared filet, he studied her while he chewed. He knew she was having difficulty adjusting to the idea she might be pregnant, but it had begun to irritate him. When she wasn't shoving the thought into the furthest recesses of her mind as though the possibility didn't exist, she was moody and shutting herself off from him. Eyes that refused to meet his, the fidgeting with her food, all bespoke that at the moment she was doing the latter. Dropping his fork on his plate, the clattering drawing her eyes to him in surprise, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.
"Alright, Laura, let's have it. Precisely what has suddenly cast a blight over this ... pfftttt… celebration?" he demanded, a sarcastic edge lighting his voice on the last word. Her eyes met his, and held as she slowly set her own fork down.
"Alright. For starters, if I am pregnant, how do you view my life from here forward?" Bewildered by the question, his brows furrowed.
"Whatever do you mean, how do I view your life?" Even as he asked the question, he suspected her answer would irritate him in the extreme but instead found himself trying very hard to present the serious façade she'd expect in response to her concerns.
"My job. Will you expect me to quit and stay home with our child? If I continue to work, are you going expect me to sit at my desk day in and day out so I don't have to apologize to our child for not picking he or she up at school because I've been held hostage, as you once put it? What kind of limits are you going to impose on me?" The more she spoke, the more… amused… he became. Picking back up his fork, he enjoyed another piece of his filet.
"I seem to recall a conversation after the Holliday case that would be pertinent here, eh?" Leaning over his plate for another bite, he looked up at her through his lashes.
"Why didn't you pull me aside and shake me?"
"Ho, would it have done any good?"
She gave a sharp, quiet laugh as she recalled the conversation and relaxed visibly.
"You ask as though I've ever had any form of control over you or even sought to," he admonished lightly.
"But we're married now…"
"That doesn't change who we are, what we are. I could ask the same of you. After our child is born, will you expect me to spend all my days at the office, arriving at eight each day, not departing until six then bringing home work each evening?" She frowned at him.
"Of course not, you'd be miserable. I learned a long time ago that I'll get a lot more out of you if I leave you to your own devices."
"Then why would you expect any less of me?" He sighed, setting down his fork again and reaching for her hand. "The only thing I've ever asked of you is that you not take unnecessary risks without me there to watch your back. I'd hope, should you be with child, you'd remember that now your decisions might place more than just yourself at risk."
"And my role at the Agency?"
"Altered only in so much as you wish it to be." He let out a frustrated breath. "Laura, there has never been anything whatsoever conventional about the two of us since the day we met. Not how we met, our partnership, our romance, even our marriage. I don't suddenly expect us to become the quintessential American family where Mummy stays home with the kiddies while Daddy goes off to work. I fully expect, as I've expressed previously, that if anything we'll defy convention and create a life that works best for ourselves as well as any children we may have." Her mood suddenly improved dramatically due to both his words and the sincerity of them. Flashing a dimple at him, she raised her brows playfully as the sparkle returned to her eyes.
"I can see that of us," she approved.
"What else?" he probed, returning to his meal again, watching as she did the same.
"The nursery. When I set the bedroom aside upstairs, it was a concept, now that it's a possibility I've realized I have no idea what an infant needs. A crib, changing table, both are givens. A car seat for the car. But what else? It's all a bit… daunting."
"I'm sure Frances and your mother will have boundless advice on the matter," he noted wryly. Her eyes widened in horror and she set her fork back down again.
"Promise me, Remington…" He did a double take, stopping his fork midway to his mouth, then after placing the morsel of filet in his mouth, let his hand rest on the table.
"Promise you what?" he asked around the food.
"You won't breathe a word of this to them. Not until we know for certain… and for as long as possible after, if I am" she mumbled the last under her breath, leaving him chuckling quiet.
"I give you my word," he answered simply. She rolled her eyes at the amused grin lifting his lips. Pursing her lips, she shot him a sly little glance, that worried him enough his smile faded and he shifted in his seat.
"I bet your siblings would be thrilled to know you may be a father sooner than planned." She smirked as he sat up straight in his chair.
"Lau-ra," he growled warningly.
"Especially Melina. She might even want to come for a long visit. To be…" she flicked her wrist in his direction "…a support… to you in the months leading up to the birth." she pressed. "And Christos? I imagine there will be numerous calls from him, giving you brotherly advice…"
"Your word, Laura. Elsewise, I may feel the need to introduce Frances and Melina," he threatened, the smug look now on his face, the alarm on hers.
"Remington Chalmers Steele!" Damn. Damn, damn, damn and double damn, she bemoaned as she watched his face light up at her use of his full name. When will I learn that doesn't work with him? she silently berated herself then tried again. "Mr. Steele! You wouldn't dare!" Smile still on his face, he casually lifted the last bit of his dinner to his mouth while holding her eyes with his.
"Wouldn't I now, Mrs. Steele?" he asked, leaning back and taking a drink of water, his eyes never leaving hers. She held up her hands in defeat and laughed.
"Alright, I know when I've lost. You have my word."
"Good enough," he nodded. "Now, what other concerns do you have?" She pursed her lips and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. With a shrug, she dropped her eyes to look at him.
"None that come to mind." She was surprised to find it was true, at least for now.
"Excellent. Then perhaps we can resume our little… celebration… wasn't it?" Remington asked, standing and clearing their plates. Quickly brushing his lips across her brow, he moved to the kitchen to clean up. Laura followed behind on her crutches and with his assistance, perched on the counter next to the sink so she could dry after he washed and rinsed.
The kitchen was cleaned and restored in quick order. As soon as the final plate was returned to its cabinet, he turned his attention to her. A hand slid up each of her outer thighs, slipping beneath the skirt to toy with the lace edge of her stockings. Threading her fingers through his hair, she drew his head down and kissed him, lingering long enough to hint at her ardor for him.
"Not quite yet," she told him, when their lips parted, shivering at the touch of his hands toying with her backside. "Can you help me down? I have a… gift… of a sort for you." Humming in disappointment, he assisted her down, balancing her until she had the crutches underneath of her, then followed in her wake to the living room. He eyed her speculatively as she sat in an arm chair near the fireplace and laid her crutches on the floor. "I made some additions to our Thanksgiving decorations this afternoon," she hinted.
Remington turned automatically to the fireplace, the first place in the house they'd completed decorating. Spying a pair of frames sitting on either end of the mantle, he approached the right side first. His hand reached towards the closest, then turning to look at her over his shoulder, his surprise reflected on his face, he picked up the second picture, swiping his thumb across the image almost reverently.
"Is this…" he had to stop to clear an emotion roughened voice, as what she'd done began to sink in.
"It is," she nodded. "At around two weeks old, like your own," she nodded solemnly to the picture that sat nearby the one he was now holding.
"So small… and not a hair on your head," he mumbled with a quiet laugh. Setting the picture down, he moved to the other end of the fireplace. There he was at three, when he'd been known as Aiden and beside him, a mop topped little lass with freckles dotting nose and cheeks.
"My, my, weel ye look at all those curls," he murmured to himself, as he stroked a finger over them as if he could feel the silk of those tresses against his skin. He looked over his shoulder at her again, and found her still nodding her head as she bit her lip trying not to smile. It was only then he realized his accent had slipped.
"Me, when I was three," she confirmed, head tilted as she watched his eyes glide towards the piano surveying the four frames that had appeared there.
He touched the frame holding the photo of him playing soccer, laughed as he held the picture depicting eleven-year-old Laura playing baseball. He stilled, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, simply staring at the next set of pictures. She'd been prepared for his reaction, anticipating it even. Standing, she made her way to his side, then leaning her crutches against the piano, wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head between his shoulders. One of his hands found hers, tangling their fingers together and the other reached for the picture of him, sitting amongst the ruins sketching.
"How?" It was the only word he could manage at this juncture.
"Elena. It, along with a couple of others I hadn't seen before," she forewarned, "was sent over with the copies I'd asked for." She paused, a little emotional herself at the memory of the note from Elena and Marcos. "Her note said Marcos and she had kept this picture on display in their bedroom for the last two decades." She took a deep breath, warding off the moisture threatening in her eyes, before speaking in a tremulous voice. "They loved you, Remington. All those years while you were alone, fighting for survival on the streets, they were loving you and waiting for you to come home." It wasn't the first time she'd uttered similar words, but the thought still made her heart ache. She felt his slow nod, more than saw it.
"Hope," he muttered, then clearing his throat spoke slowly, quietly. "When I sat amongst the ruins drawing, I was always filled with such… hope. Hope I'd finally found the home where I belonged, that I'd grow up on the island living the incredible life I had been gifted with thus far. But…" he trailed off.
"The explosion," she filled in. He nodded again.
"The explosion. Marcos already looking towards the future and all its possibilities, while I realized I would be little more than a stone weighing them down. Another mouth to feed, another body to clothe." Shaking off the melancholy and stowing it firmly in the past where it belonged, he focused on the picture of her, around the same age, sitting at a piano playing. "Your grandmother's?" he questioned.
"Yes, the same one this piano replaced." Holding her arm, he carefully turned to face her, wrapping her in his arms and tugging her close. Her fingers raked through his hair, comforting as he sought his balance. "There's a certain irony in the fact we both lost our homes at one point in our lives due to an explosion, eh?" She pressed her lips to his neck and held them there, having just been thinking similar thoughts. With a buss to the top of her head, he released her and helped her sit down on the piano bench. His eyes perused the room.
"Dining room mantle," Laura suggested. Remington moved to where she directed. Displayed there, his twelfth birthday, the picture of he and Melina building a sandcastle and the pictures of the Adrokus boys proudly displaying the fish they'd caught. As in the living room, she'd echoed those pictures with ones from her own childhood: Her twelfth birthday, the older Frances building a sandcastle with the younger Laura, and Laura fishing off a pier.
The display on the credenza might have been simpler in terms of number of pictures but what those pictures were of made it more poignant than the ones before. A photograph from their wedding in Greece, they holding hands and facing one another, and on the left side of that the picture of him as a teen and on the either side her at around the same age. He lifted the picture of her and brought it close. Clearly a candid shot, someone had caught her lost in thought, eyes sparkling, a smile twitching at her lips, her long, curly hair cascading freely over her shoulders and midway down her back. Despite the photograph being black and white, he could clearly see the freckles dancing across her face and neck. He looked over his shoulder at her, surprised to find she had retrieved her crutches and was standing behind him.
"Unlike you, love, I can tell you with absolute certainty, if I had known you then, I would have done whatever it required to make you mine," he commented, reminding of her reticence to admit the same when they'd first received his photograph from Daniel.
"Ah, I'd have to disagree." He drew back slightly and looked at her askance.
"And why's that?"
"Because, Mr. Steele, I wasn't quite sixteen when that picture was taken, which would have made you eighteen or nineteen. You would have seen me as little more than a child." He hummed his reluctant agreement.
"Does this conclude my gift then?" he asked, motioning to the table.
"Not at all. Try our office."
There, on a shelf across from their desks, the picture of he and Elena bent over his school books. Next to it a picture of Laura with an older woman sitting next to her at a kitchen table as they appeared to be doing the same. Remington studied the picture, his brows raising when he made the connection.
"Your grandmother?" She nodded her head.
"Olivia Holt," she confirmed. He viewed the picture again, then turned with a grin lighting his face.
"You're the very image of her, Laura."
"I like to believe so." Her eyes sparkled with pleasure from his comparison. He chuckled quietly at the second set of pictures found on the right side of the shelf. His class photograph, and her own from parochial school.
"Remind me we need to pick up that little get up for the grown-up Laura so we might play one evening," he told her, waggling his brows. She raised her brows at him.
"Oh?" she asked, drawing the word out. "Do you have a thing for knee high socks as you do stockings?"
"Only when paired with a plaid, pleated skirt, prim white shirt and fetching plaid tie," he leered.
"I see. Is that the Catholic schoolboy coming out in you?" He winked.
"Something like that." Laughing, she could only shake her head at him.
"Maybe I'll see what I can do about that fantasy one day, big guy." Leaning against her crutches, she patted his chest. "But, in the meantime, would you mind helping me upstairs? I've gone up and down them one time too many today, as far as I'm concerned."
"Lau-ra," he drew out her name, noting his displeasure.
"It's not as though I had a choice. At least not if I was going to get everything done," she protested, as he lifted her from her feet and began the ascent up the stairs. Wisely, he chose not to argue the point further. He spied the pictures on their mantle as soon as they entered their bedroom. Setting her on her feet then waiting for her to steady, he studied the pictures on the right side of the mantle. He, Christos and Zeth, with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. He would have been nineteen or twenty then, as would have Laura in the picture with Frances. And on the other side of the mantle, he and Melina on the beach, complemented by a picture of Laura, alone, wearing a sleeveless blouse tied up underneath her breasts and a pair of miniscule shorts as she stood at the end of a pier stretching out into the Pacific, her eyes focused on the horizon.
"I didn't have anything similar," she shrugged, while she backed up and sat on the end of the bed, laying her crutches aside. "You realize what you have now, don't you?" He narrowed his brows at her, trying to discern her meaning.
"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate, love."
"A past. It wasn't what I'd have wanted for you, but some of the best parts of it are captured in photographs, just like my own. You, shortly after birth, as a toddler, a child, a teenager, then a young adult. And today," she tilted her head looking at their wedding picture, "as a man starting a new chapter of his life." Her words rocked him to his core and it was all he could do to keep his knees from buckling. Instead, he stepped to her, standing between her legs and taking her face in his hands.
"Because of you," he told her gruffly. She took his hand in hers and tugged until he sat next to her. She turned at an angle so she could look at him, as her fingers found his hair, raking slowly through it.
"No," she shook her head. "Because of you. Because despite all of it – the abandonment, running away, living on the streets – you found it within yourself to survive. And along the way you met people like Marcos and Elena… Henri… who saw your heart, your heart which managed to stay gentle… and kind… despite all the cruelty you'd witnessed along the way. I am so thankful for them… for Daniel… for keeping you safe for a time, for giving you the hope you needed so your heart could survive." She lifted glimmering eyes to his. "No matter what happens, five years from now, ten…fifty… I will still be thankful for them, because this life we have… that we will have… is due in large part to each of them. I don't know if there will ever be enough words to express how grateful I am."
Remington's eyes flicked back and forth across Laura's face, stunned even further by her words. Cupping her face in his hands, he drew her lips to his, kissing her with a tenderness that left her shaking.
"I love you, Laura, with all that I am," he whispered against her lips.
"I love you, Remington," she whispered against his. She felt his body tremble under her hands at her words and drew him down over her as she lay back.
Their lovemaking that evening was not hot and torrid as Laura had imagined it would be when she'd dressed for the evening. Her gift to him and his gift of giving her the words he seldom said, made that an impossibility. The words were never enough for him, and he was determined to lathe every inch of her body with a potent reminder of his love for her. Fingers whispered across skin, lips trailing reverently behind; kisses shared were slow, poignant; and when their bodies finally merged, he was determined to prolong her pleasure for as long as possible while holding off his own until she finally forced him over the edge of oblivion with her.
Afterwards, he lay, still panting, with his head on her chest as her fingers wiped the sweat from his brow, before losing themselves in his hair. His finger tip traced pretty patterns over ribs, then abdomen, before he flattened his palm against the bare skin of her stomach, imaging that their child might even now be growing within her. Ever observant, Laura shifted so she could watch the play of emotion across his face through the mirror atop her dresser. Hope, love, amazement, reverence… His eyes met hers in the mirror and he realized what she was about. Brushing his lips against her abdomen, he stretched out facing her, drawing her to him until she was snuggled up with her cheek pressed to his chest and a leg tucked between his, while one of his hands buried itself in her hair and the other languidly stroked her back.
And, as her fingers drew through the hair on his chest, she fell asleep reviewing that play of emotion across her husband's face, and found herself believing for the first time since she realized she was late that perhaps being pregnant wasn't a bad thing at all.