A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. In this chapter, the Sandra/Wilson and House/Cuddy plots have their evening part one. Next chapter, the respective parties have their evening, part two.
(H/C)
As soon as Wilson left the hospital room, Sandra reached for her cell phone, which she had retrieved from him earlier. She spent a minute staring at the main screen, giving him time in case he came back quickly for a few more words or something before leaving, but she was also lost in thought. Finally, she shook herself into action, looked up the number on the internet, then dialed.
"Sherrie's Bar," the gruff voice answered.
"I'd like to speak to the bartender who was working last night."
"Just a sec. Hey, Kevin! Phone call!" He didn't move the phone away from his mouth before bellowing out across the room, and Sandra winced as the shout stabbed her ears.
A few minutes later, there was the shuffle of the phone exchanging hands, and then another voice. "Hello?"
"My . . . boyfriend was there last night and got drunk. I just wanted to thank you for taking his keys away and keeping him safe."
"No problem, ma'am. I remember him; he was the only one we took keys from last night. Wednesday's not one of our busiest nights."
"He's calling for a ride there to pick up his car, so he'll be there in a little while." Sandra took a deep breath and fished a little deeper. "I hope he wasn't too much of a problem for you."
"No, he didn't seem like a fighter at all," the bartender replied, and Sandra grimaced at the unintentionally apt assessment. No, Wilson definitely hadn't taken his backbone with him when he bolted last night. "The only problem he gave us," the bartender continued, "was when a woman was trying to pick him up." Sandra tensed up. "He was going in full speed reverse. Knocked into several other people trying to get away from her. The bouncer got him over away from everybody and sat him down, and we called his sponsor. So he's in AA, huh?" The man's voice was sympathetic.
"Yes, he is, but last night there were some things going on."
"Must have been. Anyway, I'm glad to know he got home safely. Wouldn't have wanted his hangover this morning, but that's the price they pay."
"Thank you for looking out for him," Sandra said, switching to winding up the conversation. "He should be there soon for his car. Goodbye." She hung up. The bartender might mention to Wilson that she had been checking up on him, but she didn't mind that. Wilson had himself invited her to check out his story from last night. Of course, he'd specifically mentioned the sponsor, but calling the bar was fair enough. The bartender was also definitely likely to mention the call if Wilson happened to order a drink instead of just asking for his keys. She couldn't keep him from drinking if he wanted to, but maybe a reminder would help him deal with temptation if there was any.
So he had met a woman last night, or rather one had met him, but he hadn't been interested, even drunk. Sandra smiled. That fact added several points in his favor. It didn't balance out his choosing to abandon her and Daniel in the first place, though. He'd been under stress, but that was usually when true colors really came out, and Wilson's flag from last night proclaimed that he still had a whole lot of work to do to be ready for fatherhood and a family. He had come back, but only after he had left, fully intending to keep going. The leaving could never happen again, not with their son in the picture. With children, you don't have the option of just deciding being a father is too tough at the moment and resigning the position. It cannot be up for a vote any given hour. Sandra called up the pictures of Daniel on the phone and looked at them for a few minutes, then called Wilson's sponsor.
With him, she was more direct than she had been with the bartender, as Bill had met her several times and wouldn't have to be carefully mined for information. "Bill, thank you for rescuing James last night."
"I was glad to. I mean, I wasn't glad of the reason, but I'm glad he had somebody to call who wasn't in the hospital. How are you and the baby doing, Sandra?"
"I'm okay. My son had surgery today - he's got some congenital problems, but they're fixable. He had a rough time last night at first; thank God we were in a major hospital already." She sighed. "James said he wanted to come back here last night."
"Yes, he did. That was the theme of the whole ride home; he had to tell you he was an idiot. He really wasn't in any condition to go to the hospital, though. I insisted he sleep it off first; he wouldn't have helped things by turning up drunk."
"No, he wouldn't have," she agreed.
"That was still what he was thinking of first and foremost this morning. I had to make him take time for a shower and breakfast, and he walked out without his cell phone or wallet. He was in that much of a hurry to talk to you." Bill hesitated, aware that he was just a bystander to a major private issue between the two of them. In her shoes, he would have been ticked off, too. "He knows he screwed up last night, Sandra."
"I know. That doesn't excuse it."
"No, it doesn't."
"You can't just decide your kids are too much for you to deal with emotionally at the moment and abandon them."
She heard the father awaken in his voice; she knew he had kids of his own. "That's true. It wasn't just the child he felt guilty about, though, Sandra. He was very concerned about talking to you last night and this morning, too."
She sighed again. "Thank you again for picking him up, Bill. I need to go now."
"Okay. I hope your boy gets better. What's his name, by the way?"
"Daniel Gregory. They think he'll be okay in the long run."
"I'm glad. Good bye, Sandra. Take care of yourself."
"Good bye." She hung up and stared at the wall in thought.
So Wilson's story checked out. It wasn't the relapse that bothered her most, though. One relapse under severe stress she could understand, although if there had been several, that would be a different story. What ate at her was the stone-cold sober decision to leave that had preceded it. She flipped back in her cell phone to a picture of the other Daniel, her father. The shot was of both of her parents with her, all smiling, the picture of a family enjoying spending time together. Her parents had come up to college one weekend to see her, and this picture had been taken right before they left. Sunday evening, driving home shortly afterward, they had been hit and killed in an accident, a driver in the other lane having a heart attack and his car veering like an off-course missile to plow through several oncoming vehicles. They had died together, both dead at the scene by the time the cars were pried apart, and one of the paramedics had told her later that their hands had been clasped together. Whatever brief moments - and the doctors assured her they had been brief moments - of pain and awareness remained, they had spent them together, automatically reaching for each other, no struggle, just crossing out of life hand in hand. She looked at the picture and felt tears welling up again. How she wished they could have seen their grandson.
Finally, after letting herself cry for a few minutes, she wiped the tears away and reached for the cup of water. It was only Monday, Memorial Day, three days ago, that she had visited their grave. Wilson had been with her, supportive. Three days ago. An eternity stretched between. When the chips were down, he had not reached for her to face the crisis together. He'd turned away.
Her father had had a brother, although Sandra had only met him a few times in early childhood. Him coming high to her sister's funeral was her outstanding memory of him, even though his appearance there had been brief. A few of the other men had quickly escorted him out. Her uncle was a drug addict, first getting into using cocaine in college, then starting dealing to support his habit. Several rehabs and a few prison sentences had marked a stormy course of continual relapse. Following the funeral, Sandra's father had put his foot down, refusing to expose his young daughter to this, and her uncle was no longer welcome at any event where they were. Still, though, she knew that Daniel wrote to his brother several times a year, and if there ever had been a proven period of reform and sobriety, her uncle would have been allowed to visit. Each letter made that clear, that they were still waiting if things would ever straighten out.
Sandra vividly remembered one conversation when she was 13. She had found her father at his desk writing a letter, and when she asked, he confirmed that he was writing his brother, who was in prison at the moment. Her father never hid from her the fact that he kept writing, even though it was one-way communication. With her own personal memory of her uncle in mind, of him crashing the funeral clearly out of control and laughing, she had asked her father, "Why do you keep writing? He never answers you. Why don't you just give up?" It was obvious to her with 13-year-old finality that her uncle just didn't want to get better. She couldn't understand why her father was wasting his time.
Daniel had straightened up from the desk and looked at her, then moved over to the couch. "Come here, Sandy," he said, her parents' private nickname for her. Only they had ever called her that; she had resented it from others even growing up, enjoying the closeness she always had with her parents, unlike some of her friends with theirs. Since the accident that had killed her parents, Sandra wouldn't take it from anybody. It was kept secure as a poignant memory to her of them. She had followed Daniel to the couch, and they sat down side by side. He turned to face her seriously. One of the things she had loved about her parents was that they never talked down to her. "I want you to remember something in life. People are worth something. Even when they seem like failures, they are always worth something. Don't ever just give up on them. I had to come to a point with Dave where I realized that I was putting up with too much from him. He has real problems, and he needs to deal with them. Only he can straighten himself out. We've tried as a family, sent him to rehabs, done everything. There is a time to put your foot down and stop enabling somebody, to say that you aren't going to put up with this and that you cannot overlook things anymore until they really deal with what they're denying. I did that after the funeral, and I wish I'd done it before. I'll always be sorry you had to see that. But I can't help letting him know that I'm still here. If he ever turns his life around, I'm still here, and the door is still open. People can change when they truly want to, and by letting him know I'm still here, I'm telling him that I know he could take that step and really get clean. It's a hard line to draw sometimes, Sandy, but don't ever give up on people. Don't keep enabling them and never accept what's unacceptable, but don't ever just give up."
Sandra leaned back in the hospital bed and closed her eyes. More than anything, she wanted a relationship with Wilson, wanted to be a family and raise their son together. But there were lines that had to be drawn, things that couldn't be overlooked. He had decided last night just to leave them, to walk out on his responsibilities. But then he had come back. She didn't want to give up on him, but he had to grow up for himself. She didn't want to enable him, either, and she had Daniel to think of and protect now. "Where is the line, Dad?" she asked the empty room. "What should I do?"
The room had no answer.
(H/C)
House was assaulted the minute he walked in the door. "Dada!" Both of his daughters rushed toward him, Rachel the faster getting there first and latching onto him with such impact that she rocked his balance, and he flinched as more weight settled onto his leg. She felt it and immediately let go, looking up at him with worried eyes. "You okay?"
"Fine. I'm fine." What a wonderful step to add into homecoming, his girls being careful not to hurt their father as they greeted him. He picked up Rachel to give her a reassuring squeeze, then set her back down to pick up Abby. He couldn't hold both at once while standing. Which they also knew already. Damn it. At least they didn't look disappointed in him tonight, just glad to see him.
Rachel had been focused purely on him, wearing blinders to the surroundings, but Abby after her hug reached out to tap the rolled-up piano mat, which House had stuffed awkwardly under his right arm on his way to the door. He'd known he'd need his left arm free to greet his daughters. "What?" she asked.
"It's a surprise for you," he said.
Rachel ran an exuberant circle on the floor. "Surprise!" she agreed enthusiastically. Cuddy and House looked at each other.
"You wanted to get into that tonight?" she asked dubiously.
"I wanted to . . . just to do something nice for the girls to make up for being gone last night." He had wanted to please somebody close to him. He'd forgotten that this present would have to be handled carefully. Should have known better. Why on earth should he have ever thought one of his plans for today would go right?
Cuddy still looked like she thought this wasn't the time for it, but she didn't protest further. House put Abby down, and Cuddy came up for a quick kiss. "Welcome home, Greg." She pulled away then, leaving him to wonder if it was a quick kiss because of their rated-G audience at the moment or because she didn't want more.
Rachel galloped back up to a halt in front of him, reaching up for the treat herself. "Good surprise."
House thought quickly. "Actually, it is. This is for Abby, Rachel, but in a way, it will be good for you, too. Remember how you got mad when Abby tried to play your piano?"
Rachel straightened up with renewed annoyance. "Mine."
"Exactly. Well, Abby's never going to bother your piano again. I brought her her own. Sort of." He put Abby down and limped over to the coffee table, spreading out the piano mat. Abby was fascinated, studying the keys. Rachel looked like she was trying to chase a distant memory. Rachel had seen the piano mat herself, but she hadn't even been a year old yet. Abby reached out to push a key, and House smiled at her.
"Not now," Cuddy insisted. "You need to eat something, Greg. We already ate; I didn't know you'd be home this soon, but I started heating up some soup after you called. We'll have music in a little while, girls." She retreated to the kitchen.
House followed her, calling back over his shoulder to the girls. "Now Rachel, remember that is Abby's. And Abby, you leave Rachel's little piano alone now." He entered the kitchen to find Cuddy getting out a bowl. A sandwich was already waiting on a plate, and the soup was steaming gently on the stove. He came up behind her. "Please," he begged softly, "can we call a truce for tonight, Lisa? I just don't feel like dealing with it, and the girls are watching."
She kept her eyes on her hands, efficiently transferring the soup into the bowl. "Of course. We can call a truce any time you like, Greg. You're the only one keeping this ridiculous discussion alive at all." She turned with the bowl in one hand and picked up the plate with the other, setting them both down on the table. "Here. Not much of a meal, but you need something. I doubt you stopped for lunch today."
No, he didn't believe he had. His stomach growled, joining the general theme of dissatisfaction with him. He sat down, and she got him a glass of water. "Take your meds, Greg."
At that moment, cacophony burst from the living room. Abby had to this point been hitting just a few keys, a soft random exploration, but now Rachel's piano suddenly joined in with all of the pounding volume and emphasis Rachel could give it. No effort at a tune there; she was simply banging the keys, pointedly drowning out her sister. "No!" Abby protested. "Bad 'sic."
House grinned at her assessment - it was bad music - and pushed back the chair. Cuddy planted her hands firmly on his shoulders on the way by. "Eat, Greg. And take your meds. I'll deal with it." House settled down into the chair but kept both ears peeled.
Cuddy's voice was sharp. "Stop that!" Dead silence immediately as both girls stopped and looked at her in surprise. "Okay, here are the rules. You will never both play at the same time. Never. If I ever hear a noise like that again, I'll take them both away for a day. You're going to be nice and take turns."
"Me first," Rachel demanded.
"And if anybody argues about the turns, that person misses a turn," Cuddy continued. "For now, neither one of you play. Your father just walked in, and he's tired and needs to eat. Let him eat in peace. After that, we'll have a few minutes of music, but Abby goes first."
"No!"
"We'll go back to the nursery and read a nice book together, Rachel. You'll get something to do, too. And then after that, he'll let you play, just for a minute. But right now, nobody plays. Get away from those; I don't want to see you anywhere near them. First one to hit a key, even if it's accidental, loses their turn tonight." She waited to be challenged. The girls both looked at her, then meekly backed away from the instruments. "All right. Thank you, girls. Now let's have some peace and quiet while your father eats his soup." She walked back over to look at House, who hadn't made any progress down his meal during that lecture. "Eat, Greg."
He picked up his spoon and took a token bite. Both of the girls were in the floor - in different parts of the floor - looking at other things now, Rachel with Belle, Abby running her hands along books in a bookcase as if wishing she could read. "I think that was a little harsh, Lisa," House said softly.
"So you think we need that noise going on while you eat? That wasn't a duet; it was a duel."
"No, I don't. Just think you could have been a little gentler with them."
"Greg, again, your experiences are skewed. You're too sensitive to some things. Parents need to set some rules and limits for their kids, can't just let them run wild. You know I'd never lay a hand on them. Did you take your meds?"
He sighed and fished out the bottles, taking a full round of painkillers, then resumed eating in silence. Belle came over, much to Rachel's disgust, as Rachel was trying just then to explain to the cat - verbally only - how to play the piano. Belle jumped up on House's good leg and looked up at him with a questioning meow. He pinched off part of the last bite of his sandwich and gave it to her. "Don't feed the cat table scraps," Cuddy said.
House fought down the urge to give her another defiance bite. He was having trouble finishing it off himself, even though he'd been hungry. He took the last bite, then pushed back from the table. "Get up, cat." She hopped down instantly, giving him freedom to rise. Even the cat in this household knew that some things were physically difficult for him. He used the edge of the table to help him stand up, then grabbed his cane and limped toward the girls. "Okay, we haven't got much time before bedtime -"
"No!" Rachel protested.
"But we can have a few minutes. I'll show Abby her piano, so she'll leave Rachel's alone. Rachel, you can have a short book. Go pick one out." Rachel looked at him as if weighing this proposition. "Then after the book, I'll help you a little bit with your piano. Sooner we start, the sooner it's your turn." She considered, then accepted this and trotted off.
Cuddy had taken time to carefully clear the dishes, rinse them, and put them in the dishwasher, but she headed back to the nursery after that, and House moved over to the couch in front of the piano mat. "Come here, Abby."
She climbed up beside him with a small boost, but her attention was on him at first, not the mat. She reached out and touched his good leg. "Dada okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he replied, then caught himself. "I . . .it's just been a long, hard day at the hospital today. I'm okay, Abby." He pulled the coffee table with the piano mat closer. "Okay, the keys are pretty much like the big piano." He reached out and played a simple three notes.
Abby perked up. "Annie!" she identified.
House was confused for a moment, then realized that he had subconsciously picked the opening three instrumental notes of the introduction to "Tomorrow." He'd been aiming for some generic song she knew from her and Rachel's collection of children's movies, but the selection hadn't been deliberate. He gave a wry grin. "You got it, kid." The sun will come out tomorrow. He hoped so, and hoped better times weren't always going to be a day away. Damn it, Cuddy needed to deal with things. He just didn't know how to help her. "Dada?" Abby tapped his arm. He jumped and zoned back in.
"Sorry, kid." That reminded him of Cuddy, too. He firmly planted himself in the present. This was supposed to be quality time with his daughter; plenty of time to stew over Cuddy in a little while. Tomorrow. "Can you play that back for me?"
She reached out and repeated the first three notes, then hesitated, attempting the fourth in the sequence and missing it because the next note in line on the keyboard wasn't the correct one. Undaunted, she progressed further up, finding the right note, then repeating the phrase of 4. He smiled, focusing truly on her now. "Good job. You're good at this." She smiled back at him, then eagerly repeated the line of four notes a few times, then stretched it out. Five. Six. House watched, fascinated, feeling pride swell up in him. His daughter. She was 19 months old. Abby stopped at six notes, considered seven, then decided not to push it. She looked back at him.
"You?"
"You want me to play it?" She nodded, her expression a bit wistful. "You'll get to play like I do, Abby. It just takes time. But you will get there."
She smiled suddenly, a look of pure confidence. "Okay," she said, accepting this as if it were written down in a contract and notarized. House caught himself. He needed to be careful promising them things, didn't want them to be disappointed in him if they didn't happen.
But he really believed this would happen. The kid was good. She was beyond good. His prediction was based on her, not him. Abby poked his arm. "You," she reminded him.
He grinned. "We'll do it together, okay? Put your hands on top of mine." She was sitting between his legs at this point, and she reached out carefully to put her small hands on top of his. Such tiny hands. She was still a little undersized. Abby would be physically unable to play chords of any size now; she wouldn't have the reach.
But that would change as she grew. House started playing, not just single note melody this time, but the full piece, all accompaniment. Of course, the piano mat never sounded like his baby grand, but the fullness of the music was still there. A whole, complete. Abby kept her hands on top of his and drank it in. He ended the piece, and after a moment's silence, she turned around and hugged him fiercely. "Tanks. Nice 'prise."
He returned the hug, feeling part of the coiled-spring tension in him relax. Home. This was home. They could work out difficulties; they had to.
Rachel and Cuddy appeared together down the hall a few minutes later. "I didn't hear any music when we opened the door. Are you done?' Cuddy asked.
House carefully set Abby down and nodded. "Your turn for a book, Abby. I'm going to roll the mat up and put it up, okay? We'll give you time with it, but it doesn't need to be out all the time and get things dropped on it and Belle running over it and all." And Rachel tempted, though he didn't say that.
Abby nodded wisely. "Okay."
"Good. Glad you understand." He stood up with a slight wince, rolled the mat up, and installed it in the top closet shelf.
"Come on, Abby. Let's read a book," Cuddy said. Abby headed back to the nursery with her, and Rachel quickly advanced into the area where her little piano was.
"Now, Dada!" She was the picture of pent-up anticipation, her tone demanding.
He made himself wait, although he wanted to give in immediately. Cuddy did have a point. He still thought she had been a little too sharp with the girls earlier, but he knew that he himself had a tendency to be too easy on them. They didn't want to turn out a couple of spoiled brats. "What's the magic word, Rachel?"
She looked at him impatiently, then gave in. "Please."
"Okay." He carefully levered himself down to the floor. Damn it, the leg was hurting tonight. By the time he got there, Rachel's attention was on him.
"Take med'cin?"
"I'm fine, Rachel. Just had a long day. I took some a while ago when I ate; it will start working soon." It should have already started working. Might add a heat patch tonight.
She was still studying him, analyzing the pain. He was the one who reminded her of the piano now. "Don't you want to play?"
"Play!" She collapsed in a happy heap beside him and eagerly banged a few clashing chords on the mini piano. House flinched.
"Not like that. The piano . . . is like Belle, Rachel. If you grab at her and jump at her, she doesn't like it. You have to pet her gently."
Rachel giggled. "What's the name?"
"Name? Oh, you mean the piano?" He thought quickly. "What do you think its name is?"
She shook her head. "You say it."
Great. He tried to think up an acceptable name for a 2 1/2-year-old's standards. "Disney."
She smiled. "Disney. Okay, Disney." She reached out with almost exaggerated care, trying to stroke it softly, and still, of course, wound up with clashing noise. She then tried the pattern she had been struggling to learn, tried it in completely the wrong place and at the wrong key, and it still sounded wrong. Frustrated, she banged on the keys again.
House gently pulled her hands off. "Take this note here. This is C." He struck it. "Remember that, Rachel. This is C. It helps you find things so you know where to start playing. That pattern always starts on C."
"C," she repeated. She played it several times, and then he pulled her back and waited a few seconds.
"Okay, Rachel, see if you can find C."
She studied the keyboard and stabbed at random, hitting a black note. House fought back a sense of impending doom here. He knew how much Rachel wanted this, and more and more, he was starting to question whether she had any musical sense at all. Yes, she was young, but still . . .
"Rachel, C is a white note. Always look for C on a white note. That way, you can rule out half of them in searching. It's in the middle. Look at the way the notes are around it. It's the only one that looks like that right in the middle." He played C again, let her play it several more times, then gave her a break. "Okay, find C." She got closer that time, but still missed it, hitting all keys around. He tried showing her the way the black and white keys were arranged there, so distinctive to him that it might have had a neon arrow pointing, but she still couldn't find it unless he had played it right before. She was getting more annoyed.
House sighed and made, for him, a severe sacrifice. "Rachel, let's try something else here." He started to push up, then gave it up. He couldn't stand prying himself off the floor right now in front of her eyes when she was already feeling let down by her piano time with him. "Rachel, go over to Mama's desk and open the top drawer, okay? There's a black marker. I know you're not supposed to bother the desk or use the marker, but this once, it's okay. Bring it here." She retrieved the marker, and House opened it and then, almost with surgical care, wrote a C on the appropriate key. He cringed as if feeling the little piano's pain. "There, Rachel. Now you can find C."
Rachel reached out eagerly and hit it with vigor several times, glad to be on the note her father wanted her on. "Gently," House reminded her. "Like petting Belle." She played it again more softly. "Good. Now, the pattern I was showing you the other day starts on C. So that's the first note." He played the brief snatch of melody, then gave her a turn. She found C immediately - at least that idea had worked - but the notes after were hesitant, and she missed the third one. Even with the pattern rooted by the marking on C, she was having trouble with it. House demonstrated again, and Rachel tried again. Finally, she had it right, but the whole impression was laborious, not melodic. She was still thinking between each note. She knew it wasn't like his playing, too. Her look of frustrated determination deepened.
House was suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted. "I think that's enough for tonight, Rachel."
She quit without much of a fight and turned to him. "I want play like you."
"I know. Rachel, playing the piano takes a very long time to learn. It's not something that easy,.and some people are still better than others. Everybody has things they do better than they do other things."
She shook her head vigorously in denial. "No! I want this." She kicked the piano for emphasis.
House straightened up, his own tone a little more emphatic. "Rachel, don't ever kick a piano. Never."
Cuddy and Abby were heard coming down the hall. "All done?" Cuddy asked. House nodded. Cuddy thought sympathetically that he looked like he'd been in a battle. The contrast between this and the end of Abby's lesson was night and day. Abruptly she noted the marker lying on the floor. "Rachel, have you been in my desk?"
"I told her to," House intervened quickly. "I told her to get me the marker, just this once. She knows that isn't allowed in general."
Rachel nodded. "No. Stay away."
Cuddy looked at him. "Why did you want the marker in a piano lesson?"
House flinched again. "I was marking middle C so she'd know where it was."
She stared at him. "You wrote on a piano?" She couldn't believe that House had managed to make himself do that; he'd rather hitchhike to Canada than desecrate a piano. He and Rachel really must have had a tough session.
"Just this once," he replied mournfully. "Rachel, you don't ever write on a piano. This was an exception."
"Okay," she agreed.
Cuddy's expression softened. House looked absolutely worn out, discouraged, and in pain. "Time for bed, girls. Past time, really."
"No!" Rachel predictably objected.
"Shut up," Abby said.
House grinned but jumped in before Cuddy could. "Abby, you don't tell your sister to shut up. That's bad manners." He looked around for something to help pry himself up off the floor with and settled for a leg of his own baby grand, reassuringly nearby. By the time he got to his feet, the whole rest of the family was watching him. "Maybe we could take a hot soak after the girls get in bed," Cuddy suggested.
House nodded wearily. He looked down at Rachel, standing near him, but he wasn't sure he could handle carrying a girl down the hall at the moment. "Come on, Rachel," he said. He started for the nursery, and Cuddy carrying Abby came with him, Rachel trotting along in the rear.
After a few minutes, Belle emerged from under the couch, where she had retreated from the noise. She walked over and sniffed at the marked key on the piano, her ears flattening as she smelled the ink. Suddenly she spotted the capped marker on the floor. Happily, she pounced on it and chased it in a happy clatter across the living room.