For long moments, with his face pressed to her sternum, he struggled to let go and hold on at once.
Such contradictions were the sum of him, after all. And so his sobs were silent and withheld, though the tears ran. His usual constant motion stilled to only the fight for breath control.
And so on.
There was the impetus to consider as well.
Bobby could cry this way, clinging to this small woman he loved, yet detach and watch it all mute and from far away at once. This is who he is, who he has become. He has no illusions about this duality. Whether it is actual schizophrenia, or just jazz---an improvisational riff taken from his childhood Master Teacher in order to survive, he's never known.
And it doesn't matter. It is merely who he is. Who he's been becoming since he was seven years old. These neural pathways are deep canyons now.
He knows as he cries that Eames thinks him mourning his dead mother. And, of course, he was.
But what he could not list aloud, because of the look that would surely cloud her face, were the other reasons for this letting-go and holding-on.
For these were boiled and bubbled up from the real and very selfish Bobby Goren deep within.
Like the fucking gratitude he has that she is there, and is willing to forgive him. The relief that he has not lost her. The relief that the prison which had been his mother's life entwined with his own has released him at last.
The terror that she really has gone.
And the sheer fury at finally knowing. Finally finding one of his answers in this woman who'd been quietly by his side for so long, and yet being unable to do a goddam thing about it.
Because he is afraid to jeopardize his work.
This is who he really is too.
And it is a thousand times worse than trying to run off one of her suitors with nasty drunken insinuation. This is cowardice. He cannot tell her that he loves her. He can hold her body close and take the sympathy and compassion she freely pours from her good heart, but he cannot tell her he loves her.
He'd only lose the work and she too then.
And then who would he be?
The most desperate thing about this, and he could grind his teeth at the irony, at the sheer Greek ethos of it... is that the one person to whom this would all make perfect sense has just died.
Which brings him back, with that shooting pain behind his eye, to the beginning of it all.
Does he think his mother is really, finally, and thankfully, at peace?
Does he believe in the balm of everlasting spirit?
He wants to. God, how he wants to. But all he can seem to muster any wonder for at all in life is the beating, earthy mystery that is the human heart.
He wants Meg's spirit to echo on...
Beyond illness, beyond literature even. But he knows frailty so well. Has made friends with it. Has gotten down on his knees and sniffed at its last breath on bitter mornings. And therefore has a hard time making the leap from his mother's cold, blue body, perhaps being dissected even now, to seraphim trumpeting in heaven.
And then, at last, his body, his mind, and his heart came to rest.
And he let his breath go.
He pulled away from her, keeping his hands locked on her hips, and lifted his face to hers.
She smiled a little.
He's so close to her. He can see the small lines around her eyes and lips. The crease between her brows that has deepened with her current worry.
She thumb-rubbed his tears away.
She's... beautiful.
She cocked her head slightly and looked him, "What happened to your jaw?"
"Opened a cab door into it. You may have heard that I got a little drunk the other night."
There was a knock at the door then. They broke away from one another as he called out, "Come in."
"The coast is clear. Everyone's left. How's things in here?" asked Lewis as he looked between them.
"Everything's fine," said Eames.
"Anything I can do for you, Bobby?"
"No. You head on back to the shop. Those guys'll be doing everything wrong without you."
He looked doubtful. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Go."
"What are you going to do?" asked Alex then.
"I need to sort through her things before Rick leaves. I've got a room over at the Comfort Inn. We need to see a lawyer in the area in the morning, and then take Rick and Stacy to the airport."
"I... could stay. Help you out," she offered.
"No. But, thank you. I need to do it on my own."
She nodded. "All right, I'll ride home with Lewis then."
And he nodded.
She looked at him curiously for a moment then leaned down and kissed his cheek before turning to leave.
"Get some rest, Bobby."
"I will. And... Thanks again. Both of you."
She crossed to where Lewis held the door for her and paused.
"Hey, Lewis, what the hell happened to Bobby's jaw?" she asked suddenly.
Any other day Bobby would have laughed out loud. Eames loved the surprise attack.
Lewis looked quickly at Bobby and then down, "He... tripped. On a stair. When I took him home the other night."
She glanced back at Bobby then, "You should be more careful."
He nodded. "I plan on it."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Honestly, she'd delayed arrival as long as she could.
On the top ten list of things most hated by Alex Eames, small talk with rich people while wearing heels ranked pretty damn high, as did anything lacy, the color pink, and sushi.
Oh, and listening to Phillip Glass.
Odds were high she'd have to face all of the above during the course of the evening.
She strode out along the wide central Plaza around which Lincoln Center was spread, and tugged a bit self consciously at the collar of the ivory cashmere evening coat she'd bought that morning.
Her stockinged legs were cold.
She passed the splashing fountain under a clear evening sky, and turned toward the high rounded arches that fronted the grand home of The Metropolitan Opera.
Once at the door she presented her invitation and handed her badge and purse to security for examination, then walked over to check her coat.
She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders and turned to go toward the crowd at the bar but caught sight of herself in a long mirror first.
Not bad.
The simple ankle-length champagne-colored gown shimmered slightly, though clung and dove perhaps a bit more than she would have liked. Stupid plastic Barneys salesgirls could talk you into buying The Brooklyn Bridge.
Her hair was what it always was, and her darker lipstick the only change in the usual line-up on her face. She wore no jewelry but the tiny diamond chips, three on one side, two on the other, and then the chocolatey decadent wrap around her shoulders.
She'd never been a vain woman, but this sumptuous fabric did make her deep browns pop and shine.
Well, there she is. The best she can do.
She turned from the mirror and looked about the vast hobnobbing lobby. Tuxes, diamonds, fur, botox, silicon, and eyebrows shaped into perfect Stepford arches.
She really wanted a drink.
She struck out for the bar.
"Alex!" she heard midway there.
She turned to see Deakins in a rental, and Sylvia, lovely in beaded black. Bobby in his classic custom-made, and the Carvers.
She sighed.
The Peacock Councillor, as she liked to call him on especially snarky days, was wearing one of those strange tux-like costumes that one only saw on actors at television-broadcast awards shows. In California.
And there was his wife. Cynthia Gillum-Carver. Predictably glorious columned in an emerald green one-shouldered toga-like thing. Her long throat wrapped in thousands of strands of amber beads, her hair piled elegantly high.
She looked to be nine feet tall. A goddess on a mountain.
"Evening, all," said Alex with a smile as she joined them.
"Alex, you're late," chided Sylvia with a smile.
"Did I miss anything?"
"No," said the Captain shortly, as he tugged at his collar.
She felt Bobby's eyes on her but turned to Cynthia.
"Detective Eames, you look so sweet this evening," she cooed.
"Thank you, Cynthia. And you look stunning as usual. You too, Sylvia."
Sylvia laughed, "Your Captain thinks its too sexy."
"Impossible," smiled Bobby.
"I just said it dipped a little low in the back is all," Deakins defended himself.
"Something about you though, Alex..." mused the goddess thoughtfully. "What is it?... Ah, I know. Like one of those fairy books... A sprite! You look just like a woodland sprite!"
She narrowed her eyes as she heard Bobby cough suddenly into his hand.
"Well, I..."
Cynthia turned to her elegant spouse, "Doesn't she look just like a little fairy sprite, Ron? A true woodland nymph?"
"She looks lovely," commented Carver gallantly.
"Like a sprite. How did you put it together?"
"Well, the tricky part was finding an evening bag big enough for my gun."
There was the merest breath of caught-aback pause before they all laughed.
She smiled tightly.
"You know," said Alex, "I am going to get a drink. Could I get one for anyone else?"
They all demurred.
"I'd love another glass of champagne, since you're going," said Cynthia sweetly.
And she handed Alex her empty.
Alex nodded and started off.
"I'll come with you," said Bobby through pursed lips, "I'd like a refresher myself."
She listened to him chuckle as he trailed behind her.
"Gin and tonic and a glass of champagne, please," she ordered when she got to the bar.
She felt him arc down over her from behind.
"You look amazing," he whispered into her ear.
She turned to his smile and intense eyes, and lifted a brow.
"No time for compliments, I have to go scamper under a red-dotted mushroom."
"Club soda with a twist," called Bobby then.
They gathered their glasses and returned to the group.
"Part of the proceeds from the evening will endow a scholarship at Julliard in Christine Larkin's name," she heard Carver comment.
"What's the status of the Arano case on your end, councillor?" asked Bobby.
"We're still wrangling with the feds. They don't want to give us anything."
"Ron, no talking shop this evening," chided his wife. "This is the Annual Opera Gala."
They all understood the unspoken message within this statement. The Carvers, beautiful power couple that they were, needed to move on to rub elbows with those far more important than their current circle.
"Eames," said Goren then, "There's a spectacular contemporary sculpture gallery at the end of the hall. Would you like to come look?"
Not really.
"Sounds great."
"Anyone care to join us?"
"Ron, we really should go say hello to the Levitts."
"Sylvia, let's go up and find our table."
Sylvia smiled indulgently, "Your shoes?"
He nodded.
The group broke up.
"Do I really have to look at contemporary sculpture?" she whined, as he took her arm and wound through the crowd.
"Yes."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He'd met plenty of women while stationed in Europe.
Dark arty types, free-spirited dancers, bright students. Sophisticates and working girls. The requisite trips to Amsterdam with the guys.
He'd even fallen in love. The director of a gallery in Berlin. She'd challenged him intellectually and satisfied him sexually. He'd hungered for her when they were apart. His head a thousand miles into the clouds, he planned on proposing. Like in a novel. She must have sensed it was coming and had let him down as gently as she could. She'd decided to reunite with her former girlfriend, she told him.
Worldly though he longed to be, it had taken some time to overcome that.
He pocketed his hands and stood back as she gazed at a bronze piece before her. He let his eyes play subtly over her body.
She'd be braless under that dress. The thin spaghetti straps probably crossed in the center of her back under the wrap.
His wrap.
He'd been out walking one Sunday after returning from Carmel Ridge, the weather unseasonably warm, and had seen it in a window in one of those places in Tribeca. It was just... her. He'd gone in and bought it right away. Wrote a note. Had it sent. Not certain why. They hadn't done gifts with one another before. An impulse.
He walked casually behind her. No panty lines, but the slyest hint of a garter belt.
He turned away at that, took a sip of his club soda, and walked to the next piece.
This was going to be harder than he thought. And winced. More difficult, he amended.
She squinted a little at the buffed metal before her.
"The digestive system," she proclaimed. "It looks like the digestive system."
He crossed back to her.
"Eames, you're being too literal. What does it make you feel?"
She looked up at him, "Hungry."
"Eames..." he began, but was interrupted when the gong sounded the next phase of the evening.
She grinned. "Saved by the bell. You'll have to educate me later."
"I wasn't trying to..."
He gave up and followed her toward the crush at the elevators.
The grand dinner and entertainment were to be held in the large hall upstairs, roughly above the dress circle of the great opera hall below. It was not a place known to the general public. But admission to this room for this annual charity event was a highly sought-after invite by those in the know. Goren figured a table ran anywhere from twenty to fifty grand. If you had the connections to get one.
They eased toward the bank of six elevators taking groups of their well-heeled compatriots to the lush dinner, dancing, and entertainment above.
Why does he love her? he wondered as they inched forward in the crowd.
The decision to not tell her does not preclude him from thinking about it. Ruminating on it. Like any other puzzle he's faced. There was the obvious, of course: Her incredible stability. Her absolute honor. Her patient, intelligent way. Any family therapist off the street could tell him the attraction a man of his volatility, and with his erratic childhood would have for such a woman.
She is not gorgeous. Her body not voluptuous. But he is drawn to her. More so since his heartfelt self-admission. A physical attraction that once simmered ignored on the back burner was creeping forward by the minute. The dress, the environment, all the recent emotional events in his life making him especially susceptible.
And, he smiled to himself, she makes him laugh.
Just as she'd predicted he would when they first fought four years ago.
'Your first fight is the one you'll always have,' his mother used to say.
She was absolutely unimpressed by show. By class. By wealth. He'd, in fact, taken this for his model in such things as he'd had to fight his own temptation at times to be slightly dazzled by brilliance.
With Eames, the heart was the thing. As it should be for all. And this humbled him.
So in the words of literature, as nod to his mother even, 'He loved her in spite of himself.'
The elevator opened for them at last, and they moved in with the crowd. He pressed against the back mirrored wall, and took a calming breath as she was pressed against him. He looked down just as her wrap fell off her shoulder to reveal a creamy expanse of bare back, the crossed straps of his imagination just where he thought they'd be.
He looked a little closer, then lifted his chin and grinned.
He caught her eye in the mirrored doors before them and nodded at her answering twinkle and smile of understanding.
But once out of the elevator, she pulled him aside.
"Bobby," she whispered. "Why would FBI be here?"
He glanced over his shoulder, "You spotted some?"
She nodded, "I saw the shoes in the elevator. White guy, early forties, bad tux, military haircut."
"Maybe there are dignitaries here?"
"Come on you two! We found our table!" they heard Sylvia call out to them then.
They nodded and followed her down onto the floor.
"It certainly is pink," observed Alex as they wound through the hall.
And it was. Pink flowers, pink candles, pink linen...
"Detective Goren?"
They turned as one to an elegant older woman in black beside them.
"Dr. Shendrick, hello."
"I'd heard you were to be invited this evening."
"Dr. Shendrick, this is my partner Alex Eames."
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Shendrick."
"Detective," nodded the lady graciously. "I wonder if you two have seen the special display yet this evening?"
"Display?" asked Bobby, looking toward Alex.
She shrugged her shoulders, "We've only just come up. We were looking at the sculpture downstairs."
"Oh, yes, that is a very fine collection. Allow me?"
They nodded and followed the psychiatrist to a large glassed-in table spot-lit before a wall of shelves nearby. They peered in.
"This is the planned extension for the opera hall," Shendrick explained proudly as they looked over the model and plans spread out beside it. "We break ground next week. It's very exciting. This evening is the culmination of years of fund raising."
"Very impressive," Bobby observed. "It looks like they'll have to alter and rebuild almost the entire backstage area."
"They will," nodded the doctor. "It's a huge undertaking. But we'll be able to have a whole herd of elephants for Aida in Spring two thousand seven!"
"Well, that is impressive," agreed Alex.
Bobby walked around the table toward the bookshelves to examine the other side of the model.
"It's a lovely idea that they plan a scholarship in Miss Larkins' name," said Alex then.
The doctor hesitated a moment, "Yes. Isn't it. Well, I must go join my table. I hope you have a lovely time this evening, detectives. The entire music community is grateful to you for apprehending Christine's murderer."
And she was off.
"Eames," said Bobby then. She looked up at him and saw his 'come here now' face and came right around to join him.
"What's up?"
"Look."
She followed his eyes to the shelves behind them, and up past rows of displayed opera books and autographed music scores, to see specially built slots at the top of the cases filled with rows of... red mailing tubes.
One was missing.
Her eyes widened and she turned to meet his gaze again.
"Plans," he said quietly. "For the opera house."