The first gift he sent was an orchid, on the second Monday she was there.
Her mother fawned over it, as Sara tried to read the card through her
tears. The picture of the city wasn't terribly impressive, but the simple
words made her reach for the phone and dial their home number, just to hear
his voice. Wish you were here, love Grissom.
Tuesday, a teddy bear arrived, a Get-Well-Soon card attached, and again, she couldn't help grabbing the phone and talking to him.
With Wednesday came daisies and a small box of chocolate, a note with his scrawl read, "I already ate the ones you don't like. . .call me."
By Thursday, Sara had learned that the delivery woman's name was Sally, who had three kids and wished her husband "loved me this bad." Sally brought a bouquet of flowers and an invitation: "I'll meet you at the body farm in a week. I'll bring the body, you bring yourself."
Friday's gift was a phone call. Sara laughed at the kitchen table, as Grissom suggested a glass of warm milk every night. "It has tryptophan in it, it'll make you feel better."
Saturday went ungifted.
Sunday's gift was Grissom himself, showing up dressed to the nines, asking her father's permission to take her out to dinner. "I can't believe you drove all the way out here for this," she said with a smile. "What about work tomorrow?"
He shrugged, kissed her, and said, "My policy right now is you first, work second."
Roger Sidle awoke to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, a hushed voice saying, "Got to be quiet," a soft laugh, and the dull thud of his daughter's door closing. He frowned.
"Leave them alone," Ann commanded softly. He hadn't realized she was awake. "They haven't seen each other in two weeks."
"I don't care if they're married or not. That's my baby he's got in there," Roger grumbled. As much as he was still living like it was 1968, when it came to Sara and a guy, he acted like it was 1948.
"Now you know how my father felt," she replied with a smile. "Sara's an adult, she can make her own decisions."
"I know that. It doesn't mean I like it." They lay next to each other, adding another night together to thirty five years of nights, not speaking, until Roger asked his wife, "Got any earplugs?"
"So, I heard you had a good time last night," Ann said cheerfully to her son-in-law, who began choking on his freshly squeezed orange juice. "Sara certainly seems happier."
"Mom!" Sara exclaimed with embarrassment, her face turning a particularly bright shade of red.
"What?" Ann asked innocently.
"Can we not talk about this at the table, please?"
"I'm just talking about the date, honey, not what happened after." Two mouthfuls of orange juice spewed across the table.
She looked like a goddess, kneeling by the rose bush behind the house. The sun peeked through the thick trees to land on her shoulders; her hair, falling around her face, glistened with golden highlights. He watched her in awe, struck yet again by the feelings she created in him. He couldn't think of a moment where he had loved her more.
"What're you doing out here?" Grissom asked quietly; she turned with a slow smile and rose to her feet.
"Just hoping I haven't ruined everything."
"No, you haven't." He gestured to the rose. "I didn't realize anyone had planted that."
Sara nodded. "Mom did. . .recognize the place?"
He went to her side, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed, and replied, "Vows, two and a half years ago. Weekend wedding, you, me, your parents, and your father's friend the judge officiating. The rose was his gift, he said it symbolized the need to be careful with each other, because 'A rose may be beautiful and perfect, but it still has thorns. You have to take care of it, or the beauty fades away and the thorns take over.'"
"I can't believe you remember that."
"I remember everything that strikes me as true."
"I remember Uncle Rich being confused that I wouldn't call you by your first name."
He shrugged. "It only sounds natural when Catherine or I say it. Besides, I think I'd die of shock if you ever did."
She turned away from him to ask, "Heading home?"
He nodded. "I have to get back to the case, but I'll be back next week to take you home, okay?"
"Okay," she said, subdued. "Better get going." A small, sad smile flickered across her face, and she looked like she was about to cry.
"Sweetheart. . ." He took her face in his hands and kissed her. "Don't cry, please."
Grissom's phone rang about half an hour into his drive back to Vegas. He gave the trilling instrument a withering look; he hated answering the phone while he was driving. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed it, hitting the power button, and growling, "Grissom."
"If you don't turn around right now and take me back with you, I'm moving back to San Francisco."
"Hello? Who is this?"
"Grissom, don't fuck with me right now, I want to go home."
"Sara?"
"Gris, stop it. Come get me."
"Are you sure?" he asked, maneuvering the car into a tight U-turn.
"I'm packed, ready and waiting. All I need is you. . .and your car." Silence reigned on the line as he pushed the gas pedal closer to the floor. "Gris, I know you don't want to trust my instincts right now, but I have this burning need to get back to Vegas, right now."
"I trust you," he protested. "I'm on my way, okay?"
"Great!" She hung up.
Sara bounced into the Tahoe before he had a chance to turn the engine off. Her bags were carelessly thrown in the back seat, narrowly missing Grissom's suit, which was hanging from the window. He was about to complain when she grabbed his lapels and kissed him hard.
"Hi," she said breathlessly a few moments later.
"Hi."
"Thanks for coming back." She slipped her seatbelt on enthusiastically.
"No problem," Grissom said, dazed. "Ready to go?"
"Drive," she commanded. "Onwards, Jeeves, let's go, come on," she ordered, snapping her fingers impatiently.
"What's the rush?"
"Never you mind, Mr. Grissom." So this was Sara straight from her parent's house. He wasn't sure he liked it. "Let's go!"
Grissom's phone rang as they rolled into Las Vegas. He looked at the ringing device with disdain, as it belted out the 1812 Overture. "Sara, fix it," he commanded. She'd been fiddling with the phone an hour ago, he surmised that she'd changed the ring.
"I like it," she protested as she answered it. "Grissom's phone, Grissom number two speaking."
"Grissom number two, Sara? Scary," Warrick said.
"Well, technically, I am Sara Grissom now, Warrick." Grissom would never admit it, but he loved hearing her call herself that. Very caveman, he chastised himself, but it sounded so good. "What's up?"
"You guys back in town?"
"Headed past the Rio right now," Sara answered.
"Cool," Warrick said. "Tell Gris that there was another homicide, will you?"
"Warrick, you have to give me more than that," she warned.
"Fine. . .it's a match to your case."
"The crime scene suit one?" Grissom looked to his wife, whose excitement was growing.
"Uh, yeah, sort of," Warrick avoided.
" 'Uh, yeah, sort of?' Come on."
"It's a perfect match to your case. The Georgia case. Only. . .it was a kid."
Sara blanched. "No, no, no. Warrick, don't lie to me."
"You think I would joke around about something like this? I wouldn't wish what happened to you on anyone, let alone a little kid."
"Where?"
"Are you on Las Vegas Boulevard?" At her affirmation, he continued. "Okay, we're on Howard, in the empty lot where they're putting in that new casino-hotel deal, so. . ."
"I know how to get there. We'll be there in five minutes." She hung up.
"What'd Warrick want?"
"We're going to Howard, right now. There's been another murder. . .Oh my god," she exhaled, wiping her face with both hands.
"What?"
"That bastard Barnes. . .sent someone after a kid. Warrick says. . .it's like me."
Tuesday, a teddy bear arrived, a Get-Well-Soon card attached, and again, she couldn't help grabbing the phone and talking to him.
With Wednesday came daisies and a small box of chocolate, a note with his scrawl read, "I already ate the ones you don't like. . .call me."
By Thursday, Sara had learned that the delivery woman's name was Sally, who had three kids and wished her husband "loved me this bad." Sally brought a bouquet of flowers and an invitation: "I'll meet you at the body farm in a week. I'll bring the body, you bring yourself."
Friday's gift was a phone call. Sara laughed at the kitchen table, as Grissom suggested a glass of warm milk every night. "It has tryptophan in it, it'll make you feel better."
Saturday went ungifted.
Sunday's gift was Grissom himself, showing up dressed to the nines, asking her father's permission to take her out to dinner. "I can't believe you drove all the way out here for this," she said with a smile. "What about work tomorrow?"
He shrugged, kissed her, and said, "My policy right now is you first, work second."
Roger Sidle awoke to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, a hushed voice saying, "Got to be quiet," a soft laugh, and the dull thud of his daughter's door closing. He frowned.
"Leave them alone," Ann commanded softly. He hadn't realized she was awake. "They haven't seen each other in two weeks."
"I don't care if they're married or not. That's my baby he's got in there," Roger grumbled. As much as he was still living like it was 1968, when it came to Sara and a guy, he acted like it was 1948.
"Now you know how my father felt," she replied with a smile. "Sara's an adult, she can make her own decisions."
"I know that. It doesn't mean I like it." They lay next to each other, adding another night together to thirty five years of nights, not speaking, until Roger asked his wife, "Got any earplugs?"
"So, I heard you had a good time last night," Ann said cheerfully to her son-in-law, who began choking on his freshly squeezed orange juice. "Sara certainly seems happier."
"Mom!" Sara exclaimed with embarrassment, her face turning a particularly bright shade of red.
"What?" Ann asked innocently.
"Can we not talk about this at the table, please?"
"I'm just talking about the date, honey, not what happened after." Two mouthfuls of orange juice spewed across the table.
She looked like a goddess, kneeling by the rose bush behind the house. The sun peeked through the thick trees to land on her shoulders; her hair, falling around her face, glistened with golden highlights. He watched her in awe, struck yet again by the feelings she created in him. He couldn't think of a moment where he had loved her more.
"What're you doing out here?" Grissom asked quietly; she turned with a slow smile and rose to her feet.
"Just hoping I haven't ruined everything."
"No, you haven't." He gestured to the rose. "I didn't realize anyone had planted that."
Sara nodded. "Mom did. . .recognize the place?"
He went to her side, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed, and replied, "Vows, two and a half years ago. Weekend wedding, you, me, your parents, and your father's friend the judge officiating. The rose was his gift, he said it symbolized the need to be careful with each other, because 'A rose may be beautiful and perfect, but it still has thorns. You have to take care of it, or the beauty fades away and the thorns take over.'"
"I can't believe you remember that."
"I remember everything that strikes me as true."
"I remember Uncle Rich being confused that I wouldn't call you by your first name."
He shrugged. "It only sounds natural when Catherine or I say it. Besides, I think I'd die of shock if you ever did."
She turned away from him to ask, "Heading home?"
He nodded. "I have to get back to the case, but I'll be back next week to take you home, okay?"
"Okay," she said, subdued. "Better get going." A small, sad smile flickered across her face, and she looked like she was about to cry.
"Sweetheart. . ." He took her face in his hands and kissed her. "Don't cry, please."
Grissom's phone rang about half an hour into his drive back to Vegas. He gave the trilling instrument a withering look; he hated answering the phone while he was driving. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed it, hitting the power button, and growling, "Grissom."
"If you don't turn around right now and take me back with you, I'm moving back to San Francisco."
"Hello? Who is this?"
"Grissom, don't fuck with me right now, I want to go home."
"Sara?"
"Gris, stop it. Come get me."
"Are you sure?" he asked, maneuvering the car into a tight U-turn.
"I'm packed, ready and waiting. All I need is you. . .and your car." Silence reigned on the line as he pushed the gas pedal closer to the floor. "Gris, I know you don't want to trust my instincts right now, but I have this burning need to get back to Vegas, right now."
"I trust you," he protested. "I'm on my way, okay?"
"Great!" She hung up.
Sara bounced into the Tahoe before he had a chance to turn the engine off. Her bags were carelessly thrown in the back seat, narrowly missing Grissom's suit, which was hanging from the window. He was about to complain when she grabbed his lapels and kissed him hard.
"Hi," she said breathlessly a few moments later.
"Hi."
"Thanks for coming back." She slipped her seatbelt on enthusiastically.
"No problem," Grissom said, dazed. "Ready to go?"
"Drive," she commanded. "Onwards, Jeeves, let's go, come on," she ordered, snapping her fingers impatiently.
"What's the rush?"
"Never you mind, Mr. Grissom." So this was Sara straight from her parent's house. He wasn't sure he liked it. "Let's go!"
Grissom's phone rang as they rolled into Las Vegas. He looked at the ringing device with disdain, as it belted out the 1812 Overture. "Sara, fix it," he commanded. She'd been fiddling with the phone an hour ago, he surmised that she'd changed the ring.
"I like it," she protested as she answered it. "Grissom's phone, Grissom number two speaking."
"Grissom number two, Sara? Scary," Warrick said.
"Well, technically, I am Sara Grissom now, Warrick." Grissom would never admit it, but he loved hearing her call herself that. Very caveman, he chastised himself, but it sounded so good. "What's up?"
"You guys back in town?"
"Headed past the Rio right now," Sara answered.
"Cool," Warrick said. "Tell Gris that there was another homicide, will you?"
"Warrick, you have to give me more than that," she warned.
"Fine. . .it's a match to your case."
"The crime scene suit one?" Grissom looked to his wife, whose excitement was growing.
"Uh, yeah, sort of," Warrick avoided.
" 'Uh, yeah, sort of?' Come on."
"It's a perfect match to your case. The Georgia case. Only. . .it was a kid."
Sara blanched. "No, no, no. Warrick, don't lie to me."
"You think I would joke around about something like this? I wouldn't wish what happened to you on anyone, let alone a little kid."
"Where?"
"Are you on Las Vegas Boulevard?" At her affirmation, he continued. "Okay, we're on Howard, in the empty lot where they're putting in that new casino-hotel deal, so. . ."
"I know how to get there. We'll be there in five minutes." She hung up.
"What'd Warrick want?"
"We're going to Howard, right now. There's been another murder. . .Oh my god," she exhaled, wiping her face with both hands.
"What?"
"That bastard Barnes. . .sent someone after a kid. Warrick says. . .it's like me."