Disclaimer: It's been a year; hopefully by now everybody knows CSI: Miami does not belong to me.
Author's Note: Inspiration comes from odd places. The company named in this story is real as are all facts related to it save my OC's relation to it; that is fabrication. That said, I came across the name of that company in the captioning of the picture on page 585 of Modern Physics, fourth edition, used for course 750:313:01 in Spring 2004 and taught by Professor Gustafsson. Also, many thanks to Professor Figueira. As always, Mr. Hathaway; thank you for coming into my life. Sun Mee and b8kworm, you feed the obsession so nicely. Marianne and kdeb, you guys rock my world.
Summary: "Words are only metaphors for other words, Calleigh. You are a heart divided because that's the home of happiness and love."
Rating: PG-13
Archive(s): EoTU, Lonely Road, mine. Anybody else, email me.
Pairing(s): Horatio/Calleigh
Spoiler(s): Small for "Complications". There is also a reference to that article posted on the H/C list regarding the Miami/NY crossover. When you get to that part, I'm sure you'll recognize the one I'm referencing.
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Title: A House Divided
Author: Laeta
Email: ladylaetayahoo.com
"A house divided against itself cannot stand."
--- Abraham Lincoln,1858
"Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation;
and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand."
--- Matthew 12:25
Prologue
She evaded Horatio's questing look easily and rented a car from the first agency she found. Driving south and west and following the New Jersey Turnpike, she crossed the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. She found the junction for Interstate Seventy-Six easily and headed due west.
Exhausted, she found a motel and slept like the dead until morning.
All she had to do was mention the name "Duquesne" and she had detailed directions in hand. She wasted time until noon before she ventured out along the streets and found the estate. Though she knew it at first sight, she hesitated at its gates.
Her entire life, she loved old cities with their historic districts; it reminded her of home and the long history associated with every street corner and plaza. Here was no different; the tree-lined, modern cobblestone streets echoed the clip-clop of the old-fashioned horse drawn carriages. She had to fight the nostalgia brought upon by the old wrought iron fences and the green expanse of the parks named for long forgotten families from the time of America's birth.
The Duquesne Family Estate, located in the middle of the Historic District in Pittsburgh, drove home the sense of belonging. She had fled Louisiana in search of that feeling, only to realize its discovery so many miles north made her crave the hot, humid memories of her childhood.
She knew the family history of course; her grandmother had told them - her brothers and cousins and herself - the story of their distinguished ancestors every Christmas when the entire family had gathered together to celebrate. She could recite names, dates, and positions and do herself proud.
Gathering her courage and her heart, she walked up the flower perfumed walkway and joined the crowd lined before the massive doors for the paid tour. It was not a long wait but felt like forever to her, so much that the cool of the grand foyer chilled her to the bone.
She glanced about curiously, only half listening to the tour guide's practiced drone as he led them through the public rooms - that is, those rooms specifically appointed for public viewing. She knew the family's private rooms would be upstairs and reached by a concealed staircase towards the rear of the mansion. Again, nostalgia hit her as she recognized the décor; hundreds of years as well as miles may separate her home from this place, but it still had all the trappings of comfort.
Wrapped in memories, she lagged to the rear of her group and the tour guide did not notice her sudden absence. She found herself free from the scrutiny of the others and turned in a full circle, contemplating her next move. She fingered the worn book in her hands, the one she unconsciously had brought with her as she and Horatio left Miami.
She was not lost, not at all; the floor plan of the mansion was identical to the one she loved back in Louisiana. It was merely a question of readiness.
So, she stalled for time and ventured off into the gallery. Like most galleries, it faced the southern sky and was lit brightly by the early afternoon sun. She had to go halfway down the line of portraits before she found familiar names. She walked slowly after that, gazing at each likeness to imprint a face to the name. Then, before the very last image, she stopped, sank into a comfortable chair, and contemplated her past.
© RK 25.Apr.2004