She pulled her coat check mutely from her pocket and forked it over to David for the exchange. And then bit her lip, her ribs stretching painfully, as he helped her slip it on. He put on his own, then took her arm and guided her out into the blast of cold that is Christmas eve in New York.
She tried to collect herself.
"We'll never find a cab," she looked ruefully down the street.
A group of caroling merry-makers came out of the club behind them. She turned to watch them walk up the street, their arms linked. They seemed happy.
She turned back and saw David clicking off his cell, and suddenly before her was a limo.
He opened the door for her.
"Your friends..." she suddenly remembered.
"...Are doing fine without me. I didn't want to come, anyway. And now I can give Frank here the rest of the night off, after all. Right, Frank?"
"Absolutely!" called the driver back over his shoulder.
"Address?"
She told him and they were off in silence. When they arrived at her building, David leaned forward and pressed the button to close the privacy window.
"I am so sorry, David."
"You're not the one who needs to be saying that," he observed.
She nodded, "I have no excuse for him."
"Does he treat you like that all the time?" he demanded.
She lifted her eyes to him and spoke truthfully, "No. He never has."
Drew thought about that.
"So, he's jealous."
She sighed and closed her eyes, "He can't be. It's not allowed."
David nodded, "Alex, this is sudden... But, you know I like you. Really like you and that I would like to see more of you." She nodded. "I know it's ridiculous. We've only just met. And you're probably going to tell me that it's some kind of transference, or against regulations, or something. But, there it is, anyway. I haven't felt like this since I nailed Chopin."
"Aren't you sort of young to have done that?"
He smiled.
"David, here's the thing..."
He groaned and leaned back into the seat, "I don't want to know 'the thing'."
Her turn to smile.
"David, first I want you to know that I was not 'working' you with what I said in interrogation..." she turned thoughtful a moment, "Actually, that's wrong. I was. I was absolutely working you, but that doesn't detract from the truth which was also there."
"I know that," he returned. "I do... That babbling gorilla back there casts a pretty long shadow over you, doesn't he? I read up on you two. I know all about the so-called brilliant Detective Goren."
Alex sighed. "May God protect me from men who do research, just once."
"Alex..."
She looked up at him again, willing him to understand what she no longer felt be able to.
"David, the thing is, he is brilliant. And an absolute jackass. Most of the time the former, however."
"Well, the two aren't mutually exclusive."
"I don't know what to say, I really don't..."
"Alex..."
"What?"
"You... have feelings for him..."
"Is that a question or accusation?"
"I'll let you choose."
She closed her eyes again.
"This isn't about Bobby Goren," she insisted. "And... I really like you, too, David. I do..."
She took a deep painful breath, before beginning again, "But the timing here is wrong. Very wrong. And no one knows it better than I do. David... my husband was shot and killed in the line of duty seven years ago." She watched his eyes widen at this. "I know where you are, right now. I really do. And you still have miles to go, pal, miles..."
He opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him, "Miles, David."
He closed his mouth and sighed his defeat.
"Goren and I..." she looked down at her hands, "are complicated..."
"I don't care about Goren."
He slipped his hand over to cup her cheek, and lifted her face to look at him.
"Detective Eames, could I call you in, say, a year from now?"
She smiled her gratitude, and nodded, "Why don't you do that."
He leaned in and kissed her then, and both took it a hungry step further.
And she knew it would be so easy, so easy to take comfort where it was offered. And to return it. Gently and sanely in a world that made sense. But knew too that it wasn't meant for her to play things out this way. Not with this man.
Her course had been set at some mysterious point in the past four years when, apparently, she hadn't been paying attention.
And damn if she knew where it was taking her.
They pulled away, and he slipped his fingers into her hair.
"I want you," he whispered.
"Go home," she whispered, wanting him back.
He nodded and got out as Frank came around and opened the door for her. David escorted her to the entry then, and kissed her cheek.
"I'm going, I'm going," he assured her. "Gotta get home so Frank here can sneak out to make some big cash on pick-ups."
"I heard that!" called Frank from the car.
"Goodbye, David," she tried to smile.
"Goodnight, Alex."
She made her way through her building, opting for the elevator as concession to her ribs. Once in the sanctuary that was her book-lined bedroom, she peeled off her clothes, sank to the floor and sobbed.
Long and hard, arms wrapped around her ribcage and rocking, as she had not done since Andy, and hadn't as yet for the baby, and certainly never had for herself.
So maybe it was for all at once.
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"Come on, you rat bastard," said Lewis as he grabbed Bobby by the collar.
He tossed some money on the bar, enough to keep the bartender quiet he hoped, and dragged Bobby to the front hall. He propped him against the wall while he reclaimed their coats. Then opened the door, shoved his best friend out, and threw his coat in his face.
The leather made a pleasant thwack.
But it wasn't enough to satisfy Lewis. He was itching to hit him again. But opted for snorting in disgust instead, and starting down the block in search of a cab, hoping for luck at the corner. Bobby watched him go for a moment, then slipped on his coat and followed.
It took them forty-five minutes, but they found one. When they got in, Goren gave Eames' address to the cabbie.
Lewis looked at him, "Are you fucking serious? That woman has a gun. I only wish I did to save her the bullet."
"I've got to talk to her..." mumbled Bobby.
"I think you've done enough talking for one night. Probably for a lifetime. Jesus, Bobby, I might just punch you again."
Bobby nodded as Lewis gave Goren's address and they headed off in stony, miserable silence. Goren staring unseeing out the window, Lewis clenching his fists in his lap.
Once in his apartment, Goren walked to the phone and hit speed dial. He listened as it rang and rang until the machine picked up.
'This is Alex Eames, please leave a message...'
"Eames, it's me. I, uh..." he cleared his throat, "Could you pick up? Please, Alex... Okay... Look, I've thought about it... Analyzed it. It's about fear, I think... And need... Alex? Are you there? I..."
And the machine beeped off.
He turned around to the king-sized stink-eye only Lewis could produce.
"Smooth. Real smooth, man."
"Look, I know what I've done..."
"You do, hunh?"
"Eames will understand. I'll... I'll apologize. Explain my motivation."
"Yeah, and what's that?"
Bobby looked up at him.
"What is your motivation, Einstein?"
Bobby sighed, "Lewis, you wouldn't..."
Lewis lifted his brows, "Understand? I wouldn't understand? Is that it Bobby?. That what you were going to say?"
"No..."
"Well, dumb ole' Lewis understands a lot more than you think, you prick." He stepped in and stared him down, "You think I just joke around? You think I'm joking when I say how great that woman is?"
"No..."
"You're damn right, I don't. You know what, Bobby? I don't care. I really don't. You take the best thing that ever happened to you and walk all over it? Fine. Whatever. I've been with you for a long time. I've seen you do stuff... " he shook his head, unable to finish.
"I know, Lewis, I'm sorry. I appreciate it, man, you know that."
Lewis looked up at that.
"Bobby," he sighed, "You're forty-six years old. You've got a crazy mother, a job you're good at, and a brother you don't talk to, and you're still running. Your life is your life, and you ain't living it. Let me ask you this, how old was Meg when she first started showing symptoms?"
"In her teens."
"In her teens," repeated Lewis. "Well, those odds are looking up for you then."
"That doesn't mean..."
"Screw it, and screw you! I don't care what it means. You either live the life you got, or make it better, Goren. Those are the choices. Jesus Christ, if I had a chance with Alex Eames, I'd be on my knees in front of her right now. You're a fucking prick, Bobby."
And with that he turned to leave.
"Lewis," he stopped him, his roaming eyes the only tell of his distress, "Do... do you think she's with him right now?"
Lewis took a hard stare at him, opened the door, and left.
He turned numbly back into the living room then...
Fuck, fuck, fuck...
And spotted the package she'd brought him earlier. He walked slowly over, sat on the sofa a moment, then reached for it. A plain white box, tied with a wide green ribbon.
He slid it off and lifted the lid.
Under the fold of crisp tissue paper within was a hot water bottle. His initials monogrammed on its gray flannel cover. In red.
A piece of paper still in the box drew his attention then. He lifted it up.
To keep you warm at night—Alex
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She parked the SUV behind two late model mini-vans, and a dated Ford hatchback, then reached over and pulled a small notebook out of the glove box, and duly noted her personal mileage in it.
A small chore to keep up in exchange for the constant use of a 'company car.'
She took a deep drink then from her travel mug.
The snow had stopped sometime long before dawn, but the plows had been out. It was a picture postcard Christmas day. Sunny, bright, and frosted with new snow. She got out of the SUV, the climb down not inconsequential when you're five'two, have had no sleep, and currently sport a cracked rib.
"Still too cheap to buy your own car?"
"Merry Christmas to you too."
"You're late."
She looked up as Gareth, her younger brother, came crunching snow toward her.
"Sue me," she crabbed and moved to the back of the vehicle. He joined her and took the two canvas carry bags full of gifts out for her.
"Sneaking a smoke?" she asked.
He rolled his eyes, "Popin' Fresh and crew are way too happy this morning. You look like shit, by the way."
She could only nod at that.
They walked in through the kitchen side entrance. She couldn't specifically remember using the front door since her prom date had picked her up senior year of high school.
"Nancy Drew is in the house!" called Gareth. "I'll put these under the tree," he told her.
She unbuttoned her coat and looked around at the devastation that was the kitchen.
Her father, and two older brothers were in the middle of their annual melee called 'Making Christmas Breakfast', which never got served until eleven, the family by then starved to the point of low blood sugar induced coma.
"Hey, Pop, how're the pancakes going?"
"Alexandra!" smiled her father. He walked over and kissed her cheek.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," she smiled.
"It will be as soon as we get this ready."
She nodded, "Hey, Charlie," she turned to the second oldest in her sibling line-up. He was at the table with his twin boys looking on, sticky and wet, as he squeezed orange juice.
"Hey, Al. Jesus, what happened to you? Get a new case last night? Say hi to Aunt Alex, boys."
"Hello, boys," she smiled.
"Did you bring your gun?" asked Ned, the only one who ever talked.
"Not today," she lied. Charlie nodded his thanks in her direction.
"Casey on duty this morning?" she asked.
"Yeah, pulled the Emergency Room, always fun at Christmas, but she'll be here at noon."
"Dammit!"
She turned, "Oh, my gosh! Here!" she grabbed a hand towel and tossed it at her oldest brother, Henry, who'd apparently just tried to remove blueberry muffins from the oven with his bare hands.
She hung her coat up in the mud room then and slipped into the family room.
Henry's teenage son, Noah, sat obliviously mummified by earphones and some sort of handheld game in the corner. She scrubbed her hand over his head and got a grunt for the effort.
"Hey, Ma. Merry Christmas!"
Her small mother, whom even she dwarfed, looked up at her from the romance novel, The Pirate's Captive, noted Alex, she sat reading by the fire. She peered at her youngest daughter over the glasses perched on her nose.
"Have they done the bacon yet?" she asked.
"Nope."
Her mother rolled her eyes.
"There's a pitcher of Bloody Marys on the sideboard, honey, help yourself." She then looked around before lowering her voice, "Barbara brought a box of Balance Bars this year. They're hidden in the table linen drawer. Your father will never look there."
She nodded and walked over to sneak a bar just as something made a unpleasant thud and splashing noise in the kitchen.
She looked at her mother in concern.
"We're fine!" she heard her father's jovial call.
Her mother took a deep drink of her Bloody Mary then as Alex walked back to sit next to her.
"Where is Barbara?" she asked as she tossed a bar to Noah and opened one for herself.
"Well," said her mother, putting down her book. "I imagine she and Gareth are out back, or very possibly in the garage, smoking."
She nodded.
Her mother studied her daughter a moment.
"What?" asked Alex as she munched her bar.
"What's happened?"
"Ribs are still bothering me."
"Uh huh."
"What? They are!"
Her mother leaned in, "So, I don't think that Arano guy did it."
"Ma, you know I can't talk cases with you."
"Yeah, yeah, Miss High and Mighty Major Case," her mother scoffed. "I mean, what was the guy's motive?"
"Ma..."
"All right, all right. Not talking about the case. Where's Bobby today?"
She sighed. "With his mother. I hope."
"That's nice."
"So where're Carl and Paula?"
Her mother sighed, and took a long look at her obviously exhausted daughter, "They're in the bedroom with the baby. You need to go in and see them, Alex."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
A harbinger startled him awake at dawn.
Not that he believed in such things, but he hadn't had the taunting Wallace dreams in months. In the dark hungover night, she'd come to him again though. Like Marley in chains. The threats of loss, the rubs at what he could never have...
He stretched awkwardly on his couch, the empty hot water bottle on the floor beside him, and thought about her. And then all the words, the horrible words, came back. If there'd been a drop of moisture left in his body, if the alcohol hadn't sucked him soulless and dry, he might well have cried.
He looked over at his phone and thought about calling her. A thousand times that morning as he showered, shaved, dressed, and choked down coffee and aspirin, he thought about her.
About Alex.
And then, as he paused before locking his door behind him... he knew. No fireworks, no surge of violins, just knowledge. Then and there.
But with such... longing. An actual physical ache that had been no part of any previous hangover.
He was surprised by this. Surprised to feel longing. At this point in his jaded life and for a woman he'd worked beside for years.
Like the bright sun shooting into his aching head as he pulled out of the city...
He knew he loved her.
He's not young. She, no ingenue. And it's not adolescent hormones or a fleeting thrill to light up a dark life. But the real, terrifying thing.
That he'd always wanted to sleep with her had never been a question. That was something always kept easily at bay. But, this... this could ruin things. Everything, in fact, for both of them.
But there's the longing. And the fucking cliche that he just wants her anyway and to hell with all else.
And that he's hurt her.
And that she's probably just awakened with another man...
"Hah! Another vowel, you are toast!" cried Meg in satisfaction.
He looked up, startled back into the moment.
"No one likes a bad winner, Mom," he reminded her.
"Perhaps not, but I've got thirty points on you."
"You are the Scrabble champ, Mom," he agreed without enthusiasm.
She paused in the game to consider him. "What's happened to you, son?"
"Hmm?" he feigned focus on the board.
"You've been in a fight. I can clearly see that. I'm crazy not blind. Your father used to come home with that same bruise. Must be a genetic blind spot or something."
He rubbed his jaw unconsciously.
"I think you added the points wrong, Mom. But it comes out for you, anyway."
"Fine, fine, don't tell me. Listen, I would like you to apologize to Alex."
He looked up at her, surprised, "What?" he checked.
"I was... unacceptably rude to her, Robert. As only you know I can be. I can't live with that on my conscience, but can't trust myself to see her again either. So, I must ask you to do it for me."
He stared at her, "Sure, Mom, it that's what you'd like."
She nodded her thanks.
"There's something troubling you, Robert?"
He laughed hollowly.
"A case?"
He stood up and walked over to look out the window toward the iced over lake, and then stretched his arms over his head.
What the hell, it doesn't matter now.
"Truth is, Mom. I don't know if Alex is ever going to speak to me again, so maybe you should write her a note instead."
"Why wouldn't she be speaking to you?"
"I was a jackass to her."
Meg nodded knowingly, "Well then, that makes two of us, doesn't it?"
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It had been dark when she left her mother's house.
She'd pushed past the protests to stay the night, to spend the next day with them all, watching the kids on new bicycles, helping to clean the kitchen, cuddling the baby.
She's tired. She wants her hot water bottle and bed. Maybe even cocoa before hand, or just tea.
Next year she's going to insist on drawing names for gifts. One gift for the adult you've drawn, that's it. She's not going to stop them from spoiling all the kids. Heck, she enjoys it too. There is a certain satisfaction to giving your twin nephews sets of drums, and then going home to peace and quiet yourself.
But she is tired of being the aunt who comes home alone with multiple pairs of oversized slippers, and humorous novelty 'cop' mugs, which always seem to feature doughnut jokes.
She crossed her own threshold at last, peeled off her coat, and kicked off her boots, then popped a mug of water into the microwave.
There were no messages.
She moved into the living room and then remembered the cards and packages she'd abandoned just yesterday. Though that now seems over a decade ago.
She gathered them up and plopped on the couch.
One of the packages she knows to be from a childhood friend in California. It will be fruit, or wine, as it always is. The other has been shipped from a local shop directly. She doesn't recognize the name.
She slid her thumb under the tape and ripped the paper down to reveal a silver gift box, removed the lid , pulled back tissue and... caught her breath.
Wow.
She pulled out a long full scarf, or wrap, she guessed. Of deep, deep chocolate and made of lighter-than-air raw silk and something else, even softer, that she can't identify.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd received anything so... feminine. So, perfect.
She sighed, and dug for a card.
Merry Christmas—Bobby
And then the microwave dinged.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was not an easy night.
Not for sleeping or thinking, and her water bottle felt too hot, and then it suddenly seemed to cool off. She slept in fits and starts, thinking she should talk to him, thinking she shouldn't. She wants normalcy again, not this knot in her stomach, this pain. She wants to be well and working on cases...
And then the telephone woke her.
She tried to clear her throat, and open her eyes, and look at the clock at the same time, without much success.
Squinting, it looked to be six thirty. A new case?
"Hello?" she croaked.
"Alex?"
"Yes?"
"It's Lewis."
Suddenly she's awake.
"What's happened?"
"Listen, I'm sorry I woke you."
"Lewis, please..."
She listened to him sigh, "Alex, Meg Goren died last night."