Chapter 21: What Can't Be

Laura woke with a groan and an unsettling feeling that something was off. She lay staring up at the still unfamiliar ceiling as she tried to put her finger on what was wrong. Several minutes passed before a sudden tightening of her abdomen told her what had awakened her. Contractions, she was having contractions. With considerable difficulty, she heaved herself to a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the too soft bed and reached for the watch she'd become in the habit of leaving on the bedside table each night for just this occasion. Slipping it on and latching it, she waited patiently for the next, spending the time refamiliarizing herself with her surroundings.

Five months after Remington's death, she'd fled. There was really no other word for it. Her mother and Frances had hovered endlessly, meaning well but not understanding what she needed most was not consolation but solace, something they could not possibly provide. There was only one person that could and she'd lost him on March nineteenth, five days before the ninth month anniversary of their marriage.

She'd shut the Agency doors the day of his funeral and hadn't opened them since, didn't know if she ever would. Long ago, her love for her work and her love for the man had become irrevocably linked, the job never quite so enjoyable as when they were working side-by-side. Stolen kisses, unconscious touches, blistering arguments, witty repartee had all taken place there. It was within those walls they'd first met and her life had changed in that instant, even though she was so foolish as to not admit it to herself, let alone him, for years. There was no peace to be found in the memories there. Instead, they served as an aching reminder of all she'd lost. So, for now, the bills were paid monthly and Bernice and Mildred both drew a salary until she determined the fate of the business she'd once loved above all else.

Two months ago, she'd sold the loft, let out Remington's apartment on a two-year lease, and left the house in Holmby Hills sitting as it was and disappeared. She'd needed away from it all: the emptiness, the memories, the cloying heartache… the suffocation by her mother and sister. She needed to be where she felt close to Remington, but where, at the same time, no memories of them lived. The idea had come to her one long, lonely, desolate night. Ireland. It was who he'd seen himself as, an Irishman and the land to which his heartstrings were tied. The country in which his own mother had been born, then died. It was where his son should be born, Irish and American from the very start. In that decision, she'd found a peace she'd thought forever lost.

At seven months pregnant there was little time to waste, as it would be difficult, if not impossible, to travel much longer. Within three days time, she'd packed up the essentials: clothing for her, the scattering of clothing she'd bought for the baby, their wedding pictures, pictures of Remington, his sketchbooks, his dress shirts she taken to sleeping in and his bottle of cologne. Her piano would remain safely ensconced inside the home they'd shared, just as his treasured Auburn would remain within the secure confines of the garage there.

She'd arrive in Ireland with no idea of where she was going to live. Ashford Castle was not even a consideration. Her guilt over her actions their first days there would be a living, breathing being and she already carried more guilt upon her slim shoulders than she could bear most days, rightly earned or not. Then, there were the memories of the last days spent there. Sweet, precious, beautiful memories with the power to shatter her.

In the end, she'd rented a small, beachfront cottage just outside of Salthill, close enough to the modern hospital in Galway, but far enough removed to provide the sanctuary she was searching for. Water, they'd always had that in common, seeking it out when they were most troubled. For two months she'd strolled the quiet, often empty sands at sunrise then again at sunset, even on the most bitterly cold of days. She'd fill the hours in between preparing for their child, decorating his nursery - yes, in the cinematic theme she knew her husband had once fancied, even though he'd never said as much. Framed posters from Casablanca and Charade hung over the wall across from their child's crib: Bogart, Grant, Hepburn and Bergman, all there to watch over their child. And on the wall above the crib? The sketch Remington had completed, depicting the day they'd found out she was pregnant. Remington's face the last thing their child saw each evening before he slept, the first thing he saw when he woke. The room itself was a palate of blacks, whites, grays and bright splashes of reds and some blues, the colors that came to mind when she thought of Remington.

She looked at her watch then crinkled her nose as the next pain arrived. Slightly uncomfortable but bearable. When her contractions were six minutes apart, she'd have to leave for the hospital.

Remington had never awakened after he'd stilled while lying on her lap in the loft. She'd hadn't seen those bright blue eyes twinkle with mischief or gaze at her with infinite tenderness again. She'd hadn't heard the rich tenor of his voice or the brogue that would course through his words when he was most content. She hadn't felt his hand on the small of her back guiding again or the caress of his hand against her cheek. She hadn't been able to apologize for her unfair, hurtful allegations about Clarissa.

She hadn't been given the chance to let him know how much she loved him, that somehow, he'd become not only her heart but all the best parts of her life.

Twenty-eight hours after he'd been shot, disseminated intravascular coagulation had set in and had taken him from her before the forty-two hour mark.

She hadn't cried. She'd raged. For two months, it was her fury with him that had sustained her. He'd given up that morning in the loft. She'd seen it in his eyes, in his attempt to say the words one… last… time. Was it because he'd believed for far too long that providence would never allow him to hold on to what he'd dreamed of, now had, but didn't deserve? That it had finally come to call in the dues for all his past misdeeds, no matter how insignificant they were? Maybe.

When her rage had finally petered out, the tears still would not come. What did arrive was a loneliness that gnawed at her very soul and a grief so staggering it rendered her nearly useless. She slept, because his child needed her to. She ate, because his child needed her to. She diligently kept every doctor's appointment, because his child needed her to. If it took every ounce of her will, she vowed, his child would be born safe and well. His child kept her going when all she wished to do was lay down and sleep, so that she might find him in her dreams.

During those months, she'd spent hours at a time in the hammock dreaming of what had been and what should have been; she drove to the beach and walked the sands for sometimes hours at a time; and she kept constant vigil at his grave trying, uselessly, to feel his presence near. She often tried to will herself to cry, to scream, to do anything that might take the place of the black, yawing abyss where her heart once was… all for naught. Her heart was always and irrevocably his and he'd taken it with him when he'd gone.

She'd never love again, and didn't care to. Remington had stolen her heart nearly five years before, and it would forever remain his. Most of all, his child would know no other father but him. She would lavish his child with everything he himself had never known as a child, but for a brief moment with the Androkus family: love, security, and the absolute knowledge he was not only enough for someone else, but he was everything that mattered most in the world.

When the next pain came, she glanced at her watch. Seven minutes. Resolutely, Laura took to her feet and after selecting what she'd wear for the day from the small closet, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Thirty minutes later she emerged fully dressed. Double checking her bags to make certain she had all that she and their son would need, she reverently tucked their wedding picture between layers of clothes to keep it safe. Remington might not physically be there for the birth of their child, but in spirit he would. Only one last thing before she departed needed to be done. Picking up the receiver to the phone, she dialed a number, and when answered, asked for whom she needed to speak with.

"It's time," she said simply, then hung up the phone.

Laura's labor was long and grueling. Nineteen hours and completely natural. She had never been one to enjoy pain, but she was determined that not a second of bringing their child into this world might be blurred by drugs. As she'd always been prone to doing, she escaped into her thoughts, trying to block out the pain.

Several times she'd thought to raise the white flag, admit she couldn't do it. In those moments, she'd draw in a staggered breath, Remington's presence so strong as it surrounded her.

"Ah, love," she heard his whisper, "You're the strongest person I've ever known. You can do anything you set your mind to."

There were times she'd moan his name, needing him there beside her at this moment more so than she had at any time since he'd gone.

"I'm here, m'fhíorghrá. As though I'd be anywhere else, hmmmm?" he'd ask.

Just as she had not a single doubt he'd have made an amazing father, she had no doubt he was there in the room with her. His presence was as real as her own, and she'd swear until her grave she could feel the soft touch of his fingers in her hair, that she could smell that rich, earthy scent that as uniquely his.

The very thought was enough to get her through, and she'd allow her mind to wander until the pain demanded her full attention.

Other than what was needed to fix up the cottage and to prepare the baby's room for his arrival, she'd made only two purchases since arriving in Ireland: a car, for practical reasons, and a top of the line camera. She discovered in the days after Remington's death that the regret which would follow her the rest of her days was a stunning lack of pictures of her husband. Yes, yes, there were the countless pictures printed in the papers after they'd solved a crime, in the society pages. But those pictures didn't speak to who Remington really was at his heart, in the depth of his soul. She had only a single day of pictures, in which the man beneath the public image could truly be seen: pictures from the day of their wedding. In those she could see the twinkle of humor in his eyes, the warmth of his love, the heat of his passion, his ever-present possessiveness as he watched her dance with another… his utter pride that she was his. In those she found the expressive hands, the long elegant fingers conveying a gentleness that logic said he shouldn't have been able to hold onto given his childhood. In those was the crooked smile when he was amused or most touched; the wide, toothy grin when he was most pleased; the quirk in the corner of his lips when he was teasing her; the purse of his lips as he sent her a kiss across the room.

One day in five years. It wasn't enough.

She'd vowed then-and-there that every moment of their child's life would be captured on film. His story in pictures would be there one day for his wife, his children, maybe even his grandchildren. Even now, the camera sat on the nightstand beside her bed, after she'd extracted a promise from the nursing staff that someone would capture on film the first moment she held their son.

Their son. The thought was almost enough to draw the soft snort of her laugh… almost. She hadn't after all, laughed since before Remington's death. She'd never found out if the child she carried as a boy or a girl, her husband's words – 'what's life without a little mystery' – whispered into her ears the day of the ultrasound which would reveal, if asked, boy or girl. Yet, in the very deepest part of her soul, she knew absolutely that it was his son she carried. God owed her that much, in her eyes. A little boy with thick hair the richest of sables, eyes so blue they rivaled the azure of the Caribbean seas… a crooked smile, gentle heart, quick wit and endless talent. His father's son.

And as she bore down, feeling the instant when their child slipped fully from her body, she held her breath and waited.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Steele, you have a son," the doctor announced.

She lay back, pressing palm to forehead, and closed her eyes. And for the first time in one-hundred-ninety-nine days, she smiled… then cried, the drops of moisture allowed to slip freely past her lashes. Thus, was first picture of their son: held in his mother's arms, as tears of joy slipped down her cheeks, a smile of infinite pride and unqualified love lifting her lips, and her amber eyes sparkling with wonder and awe as she gazed at him.

"We did it, sweetheart," she whispered, for only his ears to hear.

"Do you have a name for him?" the nurse inquired. Laura looked up from her child and nodded slowly in response.

She'd been tempted, for a time, to change his name. Had considered any number of combinations of Remington and Sean, Remington and James, but had finally admitted there could only ever be one Remington Steele, in whatever derivation. The thought to honor their son with the name he'd tried so hard to earn, had so deeply cherished, was comforting, to an extent. But, she'd soon realized, the greatest honor would be to name the child as his father had hoped, the name he'd chosen and she'd then added to.

"Holt…" she answered quietly. "Holt Fitzgerald Steele. My husband chose it."

Greedily, she took thirty minutes to keep their son as only theirs to cherish and look upon. Finally, she'd picked up the receiver on the phone next to the bed and dialed the nurses station.

"Can you please let them know we'd like them to join us?" she requested, then hung up the phone when the person on the other side assented.

Less than a minute later, the door swung open as Thomas and Catherine entered the room.

While no one had taken or could have taken the loss of Remington as hard as she, Thomas came in close to second. Losing his son mere weeks after he finally had him in his life, had broken the man. Catherine had kept her abreast from time-to-time. Thomas was wholly unable to be consoled, consumed by the regrets of thirty-five years lost. The news that she carried his son's child had provide his lone comfort.

When she'd made the decision to take up residence in Ireland, she'd let Thomas and Catherine know, in case Thomas wished to be there when his grandson was born. Within a week, the couple had taken up residence in Ashford Castle, less than an hour from where Laura's cottage was located. The first time they'd visited, she'd been stunned by Thomas's appearance, his grief having aged him a decade in less than half a year.

Now, she willingly held out her son to him.

"Thomas, meet Holt Fitzgerald Steele," she introduced. Thomas gathered the sleeping child in his arms, and sat down heavily in the chair next to the bed. He gazed upon the infant with wonder in his eyes, as unapologetic tears leaked from his eyes.

"Fitzgerald…" The name lingered in the air.

"Remington and I wanted to honor his grandfather. He is, after all, the best of all of us: You, me… Remington." Speechless, he could only nod his agreement.

The room hung in silence as all three adults stared at one, wee babe who, by only his presence, had given mother and grandfather a reason to carry on.

Laura and Holt remained in Ireland for three years, until he'd reached the age where it was time for him to start preschool and home, like the siren to a sailor, had finally begun to call her name. When she'd packed up their little cottage, shipping all the belongings they'd gathered across the years back to LA, she couldn't help but feel a little sad. It had been the idyllic early childhood for their precious, gregarious son, with the beach footsteps from their backdoor, the rolling green hills of Ireland only a short drive away, and the small village in which every person was charmed by the little Lord.

She'd come to think of Ireland as home.

Yet, now, as she stood staring at the home she and Remington had created together in Holmby Hills, she realized it had never stop being just that to her: their home. Two months prior, she'd taken the time to take detailed pictures of Holt's bedroom in the cottage and sent them to Mildred, asking that she and Frances work together to recreate it, in its entirety, in the nursery Remington and she had reserved upstairs so long ago. With so many changes about to take place, she wanted at least one place that was comforting in its familiarity for their little boy. She worried endlessly about how Holt would handle the change.

Those worries came to a stop instantaneously as their son moved energetically from room-to-room, exploring their 'new' house, and suddenly came to a halt in the living room. Curious as to what had caught his fascination, she crossed the room and stooped down next to his side then followed his finger upward, until her eyes landed on the portrait of she and Remington on their wedding day, which still hung above the fireplace.

"Look, Mommy, it's Da!"

"It sure is, my smart boy," she confirmed, smiling at him.

"Will he watch over me here, too?" he asked, cocking his head to the side in wonder. Reaching up, she fondly tousled his hair.

"Absolutely. Your Da will always watch over you and keep you safe." Since the night she'd brought him home, it had been a nightly ritual, pointing to the picture over his crib, and telling him exactly that.

"Because he loves me," Holt nodded solemnly, echoing the words he'd heard throughout his lifetime.

"To heaven and beyond." Pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek, she stood and gazed up at the portrait. Even now, she could feel the gentle caress of the back of Remington's fingers as he stroked them down the bare skin of her back.

As she turned to look around the room they'd furnished together, to his gourmet kitchen beyond, she knew the decision to return home had been the right one. Here, where Remington's belongings resided: his theater room and the movie collection stored there. The hammock that had been rehung out back, at her request, an awaited her to find sanctuary in its embrace. Their bedroom upstairs, the bed they'd shared, his clothing still hanging in closets, stored in drawers. His beloved Auburn in the garage.

"Holt? How would you like to go for a drive in your Da's car?" she asked impulsively.

A pair of bright blue eyes twinkled up at her, and a pair of lips lifted in a crooked, charming smile, that never failed to make her heart go pitty-pat.

Closing her eyes, she nodded her head, finding peace with her decision.

We're home, sweetheart, she told him silently. And when their little boy tugged at her hand, and dragged her towards the front door, she gladly followed.