3:07 am, that's exactly what my clock displayed when I finished this. I feel like I must be accountable for the crap factor in this fic. I had this enormous craving for cookies [you'll know what I mean] and a lot of things sounded funnier when it's 3:07 in the morning. Character development chapter = boring?! But since both my split personality and I thought we've devoted too much time on this and no miracle in the world would make this better, I'm posting it. The title of this fic has nothing to do with the GG character, but rather someone from my favourite play. No, you don't get a prize if you guessed correctly.
Disclaimer: In a perfect world, I would have an A+ in microbiology; David Anders would reply my 500th e-mail soon and I would own all the characters in Gilmore Girls. But none of the above is true and I'm forced to live vicariously through fan fics, both writing and reading them. So, please, don't go all gung-ho over me using your characters for my own selfish purpose.
It took Tristan longer than usual to escape the craziness of New York City traffic. He let the fresh country air whipped across his face as he approached his destination. Everything smelled nice and fresh out here. The mere sight of greenery made him stop thinking about the hectic pace of the city. He selfishly wished that he'd never have to go back. He wished he could stay here forever.
He took another turn and was finally greeted by the familiar sign on the corner of the road. Laurel Grove, the poetic name that his Grandfather had given to his home. A picturesque little spot outside Hartford complete with rolling hills and rippling streams. On the surface, his visit would look like an obligated event. Or maybe something akin to a scene from Tuesday's with Morrie. But no. This is more than that. Much more.
As he drove down the gravel path lined with majestic oak trees, he was temporarily transported back to his early childhood. He would visit his grandparents every weekend. Grandma would read the censored version of the gods on Mount Olympus and grandpa would play hide and seek with him while trying to explain natural phenomenon to the perplexed boy. He would then feast on a plate of M&M cookies and fall asleep on his way home after an exhausting day.
Tristan continued to come here when possible. As he steadily matured to a young man, he was simultaneously exposed to the dark depressed world of his parents. The Laurel Grove was a safe house for him. This was the place where he would retreat to when his parents spice up their verbal abuse by hurling Ming Dynasty vases at each other. Grandpa would dispense pearls of wisdom and optimism while his soothing words calm him down. The familiar plate of M&M cookies reminded him that despite of everything, there's something in his life that would stay constant.
He was more then a grandfather. He was the father Tristan never hand and Tristan was the son he never had. Over the years, they had understood each other better than anybody. He skilfully manoeuvred his car to the front door and turned off the ignition. The fresh air made his steps bouncier. Inside, the housekeeper was already waiting for him.
"Good Afternoon Mr. DuGrey."
"Harold, for the last time, stop calling me Mr. DuGrey. You make me sound like my grandfather." Tristan protested weakly to the aging housekeeper. Harold, along with the oak trees and the moss-covered fountain, was a part of the fixtures in his childhood. Ever since he could remember, he would protest against his title and Harold would reply him the same way with his trademark stiff upper lip.
"Sure, Mr. DuGrey."
"How's gramp doing?"
"Fine. He's having tea in the greenhouse, would you like to join him?"
"Of course. Harold would you mind bringing me a plate of cookies please."
The housekeeper smiled at him. He could never resist Tristan when he used his soft pleading voice. "Sure, Mr. DuGrey."
He chuckled at his response. The same routine was acted out between the two since he was still in diapers. To be honest, Tristan would start worrying if Harold started calling him Tristan instead of Mr. DuGrey. It might throw his universe out of alignment.
He loved this place, really. Furniture were arranged a certain way not because some interior designer thought it would look good on the cover of Architectural Digest. They were displayed according to sentimental values and fond memories. Everything from the yellowed wedding pictures of his grandparents, to the plain looking music box on the corner table, to the crystal vase on the centre of the coffee always reminded him of the old days. It was a simpler time when he would run his chubby and sticky fingers all over the place to the dismay of Harold.
He finally found his Grandfather sitting amidst an assortment of tropical plants, reading a magazine.
"Hey gramp. What's my horoscope?"
"Next week will feature family scandal, almost a dozen murders, a drowned girlfriend and lots of manic depression. Yet in no way was it based on Hamlet," Janlen DuGrey replied with a straight face obviously pulling it out of thin air.
"Good. I was still worrying over the last one where you said a sign from the heavens would guide my every waking moment for the foreseeable future. It would be a sign telling me about the WB's hot new show. " Tristan laughed as he took the seat right across his Grandfather. "Thank god we cleared that up. How are you?"
"I'm good." He said as he nibbled his cucumber sandwich.
"I brought you the books you asked for. I believe you wanted The Stone Diaries and The Blind Assassin." He handed them over to his grandfather.
"Thank you. How's your father?"
"I have no clue. I believe the editor of Fortune can provide a better answer."
"How's your brother?"
"I have no clue. I believe the New York Times gossip columnist can provide a better answer."
"How are you, and don't tell me that you have no clue."
"I'm fine gramp. More than fine, actually, I'm very good. I got out of the meeting early today." He replied while Harold came in and delivered the cookies and an extra cup and saucer.
"Harold, can I have more of these cucumber sandwiches?" Janlen asked as he handed the empty plate to Harold.
"Yes Sir."
"Enough with the small talk. What brings you here?"
"What? Do I need to have an ulterior motive to visit my dear grandfather? I'm shocked that you think of me that way."
"Tristan, I may be old, but I'm not senile. You didn't drive all the way from New York on a Tuesday afternoon to drop off some books and have afternoon tea with me. You're here for more."
"As always, I'm transparent in front of you." He grabbed a cookie from the plate and took a sizable bite as he tried to gather his thoughts. "Grandpa, do you believe in destiny or coincidence?"
The elder Dugrey let out a mild chuckle. "Why can't you ask something simpler, like quantum cryptography or the enzyme sequence in DNA replication? You sure you don't want to know about the refractive index of rose quartz instead?"
"I learned those in my university science options." He deadpanned. Then his voice lost its sardonic humour and gained a serious edge. "But seriously, which one do you believe in?"
"When I was younger I only believed in coincidence. I like the idea that nobody determined my future for me and I have full control of my destiny. The fact that something happened was solely due to some fluke occurrence. But when I grew older, I finally realized that not everything was within my realm of control. There are times when events happen, it felt like it was predetermined by some imaginary higher being. You can try, but in the end, there's little or nothing that you can do to change it. You just have to accept the fact that some things are meant to be." He took a sip out of his cup. "What's with the question?"
"Remember Rory Gilmore?" He asked solemnly. There was no secret between Tristan and his grandfather. He spent more time growing up in here than in his own home. Naturally, Janlen knew a thing or two about this grandson's private life.
"Richard's granddaughter. I believe you had a huge infatuation on her during you time at Chilton. What, did you meet up with her again?"
"Yes. In a hardware store to be exact."
"I somehow doubt that she's the kind of person that gets all excited over a rotary saw."
"Neither am I. But somehow we met … 10 years later in the most bizarre fashion and the most bizarre location possible. All of them very out of character. This just prompted me to wonder if this is destiny or coincidence."
"What do you want it to be?"
"Destiny would be a nice notion. To think that someone higher up on the food chain is giving me a chance to right the wrongs I've done 10 years ago is a nice notion."
"Well it's certainly nice of you to think that way. But remember, there are times when we're meant to never look back. A butterfly could never return to a caterpillar and similarly you could never turn back time."
"You're saying that this is a bad idea."
"No. All I'm saying is that there's a part of your past that you don't exactly want the world to see on your A&E biography segment. This could turn into a possible disaster if you can't handle it properly. Keep that in mind as you start a new relationship. Prepare to face the consequences of you past and present actions." He finished the last cucumber sandwich. "Other than that, you have my blessings. Frankly, I'm tired of all the talking ever since your sophomore year. Let's see some action."
Tristan reciprocated his reassuring smile and gave him a pat on the back. "Trust me gramp, I won't mess this one up."
"Good. Richard is one of my good friends and I don't want to be embarrassed the next time I go golfing with him. Which is a damn shame, because at my age, not only is it hard to find a friend with a decent handicap, it's harder to find one that isn't handicapped."
"Got it gramp." He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Do you mind me making a phone call?"
"Go ahead." Janlen said as he put on his reading glasses and picked up the magazine. "By the way, why don't you stay for dinner, the cook is making pan-fried sole with herbs and lemon, one of your favourites."
"Sure." Tristan was too preoccupied to barely reply his grandfather properly. Janlen laughed at his retreating figure and smiled knowingly. To be young again.
He ran as fast as anyone could for a person who's wearing a suit. As he rushed towards the house, he carefully rehearsed the lines in his head. Tristan took the short cut and climbed into the study through the window instead of going through the door. It shaved off a few precious seconds. Mere seconds that felt more like hours to him. He carefully dug out the perfectly preserved piece of cardboard from his wallet. His heart skipped a beat when the phone make a connection, but the feeling was soon replaced by disappointment as the recorded message of her voice mailbox piped up on the other end.
"This is Rory Gilmore and I'm not in at the moment. Hear the beep leave a message, this is not exactly rocket science."
"Hey, it's me, Tristan. Tristan DuGrey from …"
~*~*~*~
Rory didn't really like Tuesdays. It wasn't the beginning of the week, it wasn't the end of the week, and it certainly wasn't the middle of the week. It had a certain limbo quality that irked her till no end. Finally it's over … for the day at least. The enticing scent of pizza wafted up her nose as she opened the doors to her cosy apartment.
"Smells good."
"Alfred's pizza, the best in town. I missed that the most when I was in Stars Hollow." Jess called out from the study when he heard Rory's keys clashed against the table by the door. "How's work today?"
"Let's not talk about it." Rory produced the phrase rather with the effect of pent up frustration. She dragged her tired body towards the study careful to not step on the trail of empty cardboard boxes he left behind. "I see your books have arrived." She commented as she noticed that in front of Jess were boxes of various sizes. From each of them, various books had been extracted. The larger part of them were still filled with books.
"Someone called you while you're out." He stopped arranging the books in alphabetical order and looked up.
"Why didn't you pick up the phone?"
"Nobody but Luke knows this number. It couldn't possibly for me. Besides, don't want to give the wrong impression just in case it's a call back from that guy you picked up at the hardware store." He joked.
"For the last time, I didn't pick up Tristan. The term 'pick up' implies that I've never met him beforehand, which is not applicable to this situation. I knew Tristan. We used to go to Chilton together."
"My point exactly. High school was what …10 years ago? If you haven't seen a person for that long, he might as well be a stranger. This is clearly a pick up."
"So now there's a time limit." She keyed her pass code into the cordless.
"Of course. This is NYC, everything has a time limit and an expiry date." He looked up and saw her smiling at the sound of the message. "What did he say?" He asked with a hint of curiosity usually not reserved for a person of his nature.
"I still have to call him back, but he said 7:00 Friday night at The Ivy."
Jess let out a whistle. "Posh. Question. I thought you loathed that guy when you were in high school. What stops you from gouging his eyes out with the fine silver over the appetizer?"
"I didn't hate him. It was more out of frustration than pure hatred. It's nice to see him that night. He looked better than I remember. Besides, you're the one who told me to get out more often."
"Not by picking up a guy in the hardware store … immediately."
"Stop using that term." She rolled her eyes and pulled up the kneeling figure. "Come on, let's drop this and have dinner. Pizza awaits."