The Heart of a Man: Part 3

"Thank you for your assistance, Officer Dayton," Caine said as he supported an unsteady Peter Caine into his high-rise apartment. The uniformed officer nodded and waved, pulling the door closed behind himself, leaving father and son alone.

Peter tiredly lifted his slumped head and offered his father a wry grin. "Déjà vu, huh, Pop?"

Caine sighed, remembering how weak his son had been following his release from the hospital. "You should not have returned to work so soon," he chided mildly, as he assisted the young man into his bedroom. "You have not sufficiently recovered your strength."

Peter did not reply until after he settled heavily onto the bed. "I couldn't just sit around here and do nothing. I was going crazy. Besides, I know they're shorthanded at the station. They need me to be getting back to work, not watching Martha Stewart, learning how to make doilies."

Caine went into the bathroom and retrieved a damp cloth and bandages to further clean Peter's newest wound. "You were welcome to remain with me a few days longer," he said as he carefully drew the soiled shirt over his son's head and laid it aside. "Or was I not good company?"

He watched with satisfaction as Peter allowed a smile to spread across his features before he settled back against the pillows.

"Yes, you were good, if cryptic, company, Pop. It's just that I needed to be back in the swing of things. I needed. . . ." He gestured a hand in the air as he searched for the right words.

"Excitement?"

"No. . .okay, maybe," Peter admitted. "Look, I just got a little bump on the head. I've had worse."

"Yes," Caine sobered. "You have." Then, after finishing the bandaging, he allowed his fingers to drift through the soft hairs at the young man's temples and beyond. The drill wounds were healing satisfactorily, but he noted something different. The smell of Peter's hair had changed.

"Are you no longer using the shampoo I prescribed?"

"Uh. . . Pop, I hate to tell you this, but I don't think that stuff's quite ready for prime time."

"Prime time?" Caine eyed him quizzically.

"The smell, it's a little strong."

"Ah," Caine smiled. "I will remedy the situation. But first," reaching into his satchel, he withdrew an herbal mixture, "Open."

"Pop, I'm not a - -"

Caine placed the mixture in Peter's open mouth and smiled. "Good," he settled a hand along Peter's jaw. "Now chew and swallow."

"I'm better, now," Peter spoke around the herbs. "You don't have to come around to give me medicines and stuff anymore. I'm fine."

"Peter." Caine disagreed. He knew, though his son did not want to admit it, that he was still plagued by headaches and the herbs would aid in preparing his body for the demands that he placed on it in his duties as a cop.

"Please, Dad," Peter pleaded. "I'm not a child anymore. Besides, I have an entire medicine cabinet full of stuff from the doctor that I haven't even touched."

Caine nodded reluctantly. He had grown accustomed to caring for his son's needs during his recovery. Perhaps it was time to take a step back and allow him the requested space. Peter no longer needed him as he had before, and he would not force himself upon him. "As you wish, my son," he spoke quietly. "I will leave you, now."

"No. . . Pop," Peter reached for him, struggling against the sedative properties of the herbs. "I don't want you to go. You don't have to leave. It's just that sometimes. . . I mean. . . lately. . . " His eyes drifted closed, and the last word drifted off into the even rhythm of sleeping.

"I understand, my son," Caine caressed his face. "I will endeavor to do better." Sighing heavily, he brushed at Peter's long bangs, then settled near the bedside to meditate.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter opened his eyes and blinked. A mild lethargy clung to his body, urging him to close his eyes and return to the warm comfort of sleep, but the sound of whispering accompanied by a gentle, sweet aroma sent him into immediate wakefulness. Jenine was here.

Pushing himself carefully into a sitting position, he was relieved to find that there was no dizziness, and only remnants of the headache he had been expecting. The headaches that lingered from the surgery, along with knocking his head at the jewelry store should have been a definite recipe for something that measured on the Richter scale. With a small chuckle, he reminded himself that no matter how horrible the taste or how bad the smell, one should never doubt Kwai Chang Caine's remedies.

As he moved toward the open door, he heard his father's voice more clearly. ". . resting. I will tell him that you are here."

Jenine's voice followed quickly on its heels, rushed and sounding more than a little nervous. "No! Don't disturb him. If you would just--"

Peter frowned. Nervous wasn't exactly the Jenine he remembered. "I'm up, Pop," he told the older man as his eyes briefly rested on the woman standing in the hall, and then flitted away.

"Jenine." He spoke her name softly in greeting. "I. . . " He stumbled over the word, not sure where to begin with the questions that begged to be asked. The most pressing being what was she doing at his apartment.

"I will leave now," Caine said, interrupting what was rapidly becoming a tense silence. Peter turned and distractedly met his father's searching gaze.

"Remember, you must rest, my son." Caine spoke pointedly as his eyes continued to hold his son's.

"I will, Pop," Peter said. When Caine nodded and moved out into the hallway past Jenine, Peter blew out a slow breath and swung his gaze back to her.

"Would you like to come in?" He gestured into the apartment.

"Your father isn't what I expected," Jenine said as she stepped over the threshold.

Peter made no comment. His father wasn't what most people expected.

"Would you like a drink or anything?" he asked as he followed her movements around his apartment. She wandered the livingroom and dining area, seeming to pick up every detail of the décor, or lack thereof. He noted that she lingered over a few items that he was certain she would have vehemently argued against being present in the same space that she occupied. He remembered the many occasions when she had threatened to personally incinerate his boot lamp. In fact, until she'd dashed their plans for a future together, the thing had been existing on borrowed time.

"No. Thanks." Jenine was slow in answering his question as she continued her perusal. Probably making a mental checklist of all the things that clash. He remembered that one of the many plans that they had made was that she would pursue her dream of becoming an interior decorator. He wondered if she had ever made it. She hadn't changed much outwardly in seven years. Her hair was styled differently, but it was still long and blonde. He remembered that having her on his arm had made him the envy of many in his graduating class at the academy.

"I like your apartment," Jenine said suddenly as she turned to face him, startling him out of his memories. "It's you."

Looking into her eyes, he felt the emotions of the past buffeting him, crashing against his soul as if he were a lone tower in a storm. He blinked and glanced away. "Is that why you came here? To see my apartment, find out if I ever learned how to decorate?"

The small smile Jenine was wearing changed. "No. That's not why I came." She displayed the shopping bag that she had brought into the apartment. It bore the logo of one of the city's most exclusive men's shops. "I come bearing gifts." She reached into the bag and drew out a silk shirt done in greens with tiny interlocking designs in gold and burgundy.

"I know from experience that cherry slushee will never come out of that knit shirt you were wearing. What do you think?" she asked, draping the garment over her body and stretching her arms out to model it for him.

Peter smiled his thanks. "This is great. I like it," he said, accepting the offered garment. He wasn't entirely sure it was going to like him, however. Both Kelly and Carolyn, not to mention Skalany, had warned him not to wear just such a design if he wanted to keep the fashion Gestapo off his back. He chuckled slightly; only Jenine would buy him something like this. She never had understood his taste in clothes.

"It's from Jo and me, both," she said awkwardly, setting the bag aside. "She sort of picked it out. . . a thank you for what you did."

A frown worked its way across Peter's brow as a thought occurred to him. "Uh. . . Jenine. . . ?" Then, shifting gears, he gestured a hand toward the sofa. "Would you like to sit?" What he had to say would probably best be said from a seated position.

"No." Jenine shook her head resolutely, and took a step toward the door. "I really should be going. I just wanted to bring by the shirt, and make sure you were really okay."

"I'm fine," Peter assured her quickly. "Never better. Can I assume that Jo is Johanna?"

Jenine looked uncomfortable, and took another step. "Yes."

"Your daughter?" Peter pressed.

"Yes," she replied again with the slightest lift of her chin.

"H-How old is she?"

"She's six years old, Peter."

Peter's eyes widened. "Is she. . . "

"No." Jenine told him matter-of-factly. "Her father's dead."

Peter simply stared at her. "Are you sure?" he asked a bit more forcefully than he intended.

"Of course I'm sure," Jenine snapped, crossing her arms and turning away. Then, her voice softening, "I would know that."

Peter reached out and touched her arm, drawing her back around to face himself. "Who was he? What was he like?" he asked. Anything like me?

"I told you," Jenine replied, "She's not yours. Leave it alone, Peter."

Peter stared back at her for a moment longer before swallowing and releasing her. "Is she okay? She must have been really frightened."

"She's fine." Jenine assured him. "She's tough."

Peter nodded. A child of Jenine's would be. "So what happened? I seem to remember that you didn't want children. You didn't want to subject something so young and innocent to any possible after-effects of the childhood you'd had." He paraphrased the words he had heard so often from her.

"We can't live in the past forever, Peter." Jenine responded softly, coolly. "I changed my mind. I changed my life. It's as simple as that."

"I can do the math, Jenine. We broke up almost exactly seven years ago. Your daughter is six. Anyway you slice it, you didn't wait long."

Jenine's expression hardened before she turned and headed for the door. "I didn't come back here to argue with you. I don't need this. We're not a couple anymore, and I don't owe you any explanations."

"Who's arguing?" Peter asked, following. "We haven't even raised our voices, and quite unlike old times, there are no broken dishes. I was simply making an observation. Or was it all just some feminine whim?" He watched her shoulders stiffen, and knew what was coming. Jenine had always had a temper, and nothing angered her more than having her actions relegated to the level of weak female behavior.

That was one of the things that had attracted him, her refusal to take anything lying down as well as the way that she had challenged him. Combined with her beauty, it had been an intoxicating mix. They had been like forces of nature together, and judging from the look in her eyes when she spun on him, he was in for a rough ride.

"Fine! You want to know? Well I'll tell you. You didn't have what I needed back then. Is that what you wanted to hear, Peter? You just couldn't give me what I needed, so I had to go find it with someone else."

The room seemed to still for a moment as Peter absorbed her anger and let it pass through him. "And what did you need?" he asked softly.

Jenine simply looked at him, obviously stunned that he hadn't struck back in defense at her intentionally hurtful statement.

Hell, he was surprised himself. Surprising himself further, he continued speaking. "All I'm asking you Jenine, is that you tell me what it was that you needed. Where it was that things really went wrong."

"I . . . I'm sorry, Peter, I truly am," she said, her voice softening. "But there's nothing more I can tell you." She turned back toward the door.

Peter stared after her stunned for a second. He couldn't believe that she was just going to simply walk away. "Jenine. . . . Wait." He hurried to catch her before she could slip out into the hallway. As he touched her shoulder, he thought he saw a flash of something cross her face. Regret? Remorse?

"I. . . " He struggled with the realization that she was right. She wasn't obligated to give him any answers. They had both moved on. Let go, the quietly spoken words whispered softly through his mind. "You win," he finally said. "We can't live in the past forever. I probably shouldn't have tried to dredge all of that back up. I'm sorry. I just--"

"No." Jenine shook her head, putting a hand out to silence him. "Don't be sorry. Most of what happened back then was my fault."

Peter let out a confused laugh. "What is this, reverse psychology? So if I say don't tell me, are you just going to tell me everything I want to know?"

Jenine smiled up at him. "Sorry. That shouldn't have come out that way. I'd just as soon put the past behind us." Then, tilting her head slightly to the side, "I take back what I said earlier. You have changed, Peter Caine, and I want you to know that I find the new you very appealing."

Peter felt some of his tension drain away as he responded. "Blame Pop. He's been helping me to deal with anger and a few other things."

"I can tell that he loves you a lot. I'm glad you found each other."

"You, me and the rest of Chinatown," Peter said with a chuckle. At Jenine's look of confusion, he continued. "Around here there's a saying: 'Go to Chinatown, ask for Caine. He will help you.' And he does. I've never seen him turn anyone away. Not even the riff-raff."

Jenine smiled up at him. "He sounds like quite a guy. Whatever he's done has sure had an effect on you. You've mellowed."

"Me? Mellow?" Peter feigned shock. "And you say this about the guy who was late showing up to guard your art exhibit."

Jenine smile turned wry. "Well, there is that. But you couldn't have known that anything was going to happen. I'm just glad that you were there to save Jo . I can never thank you enough for that. Are you going to be working the case?"

"Yeah." Peter nodded. "I'll do everything I can to figure out who did this. It must be nice for you to be able to take your daughter to work with you. Crawford must be a great boss."

"Yes. . . he is." Jenine smiled weakly up at him. "Peter-the-cop isn't looking for a new line of work is he?"

"No, not exactly," Peter laughed. "I was just wondering what you did for him, if you ever finished your training for interior decorator?"

Jenine made a face and looked at her watch. "Uh. . . I'd love to catch up, Peter, but I really have to go."

"I understand." Peter frowned slightly as he considered her. "You know where I live."

"I gotta go," Jenine repeated before considering him for several moments.

Peter felt the familiar undercurrent of attraction flowing to life between them as their gazes held. He met her halfway when she moved up on tiptoe and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. The sound of a loudly cleared voice caused them to jerk suddenly apart.