Title: February
Author: Katerina
Rating: PG
Pairing: J/S, of course… with mentions of M/S
Disclaimer: They're really not mine. Trust me.
Author's Notes: You've probably already noticed, but the timelines between the two locations don't really match up. They're not supposed to; it's more of a creative link than an actual one. As always, thanks to my reviewers, and especially to Mariel, for posting and previewing.
Also, any Australian readers may notice characters and locations in this chapter as being borrowed from the ABC drama, 'SeaChange'. I emphasise the borrowed; they are not mine, and I'm not making a profit. Promise.
Chapter Four
The sun is low in the sky before she comes up against an objective clause, and loses.
With a yawn, she leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, catlike. It is nearly half past six, and probably time to finish before her spine fuses into a single lump.
She stands, stretching again as she wanders out onto the porch. The light is beginning to mellow, streaking the sea with pale orange. She looks back towards the kitchen, chewing her lip as she decides what to do about dinner. She doesn't feel like cooking tonight, and anyway, she has the odd urge to do something to mark the date.
XXXXX
As usual, most of the town has gathered at the pub; of course, most of the town is defined as about fifty people, so she doesn't find it that difficult to wind her way towards the bar.
She perches on a stool between two men who she knows slightly; they nod affably, and she smiles as she settles in. It's comforting to know their interest lies in beer and the football scores, and that her presence causes only a minor ripple among them.
Meredith, her very own bread-baking neighbor, is behind the bar; she owns the pub, and runs it with the help of her partner, Harold. There is some sort of scandal there, but she's not considered enough of a local to be told. Scattered around the room are the cream of the town's social scene: the magistrate, Laura, and her partner Max, who edits the local newspaper; Angus, the court clerk, with his wife Karen, who is pregnant again; Meredith and Harold, of course; and Bob Jelly, local real estate agent and political hopeful, holding court over a rapt audience consisting of his wife, Heather.
Meredith catches sight of her sitting at the bar, and hurries over. In her hands, she clutches a menu and a glass of lemonade; she deposits both on the counter with a hurried smile, and departs again. It's obviously a busy night.
She is content to sit and sip her lemonade as she surveys the menu; deciding on the chicken salad, she wonders if she might treat herself to a glass of wine.
After all, she does have an occasion to mark.
XXXXX
In snowy New York, Jack Malone has changed from coffee to scotch. He knows he'll probably regret it tomorrow, but he needs a little anesthetic to help him through the night.
Blinking increasingly blurry eyes, he moves more quickly through the remaining dates. They have only brief notes beside them, and he knows that this is not because Sam's life had returned to normal, but because she had learned to hide better.
XXXXX
December, 2003.
Sam began to refuse to meet his eyes. He wasn't sure, but it looked to him as though Martin hovered more possessively than ever.
She looked tired, too, as if she carried every care she'd ever known on her shoulders. He wanted to ask her how she was sleeping. He never did.
January, 2004.
He noticed one morning, as Sam removed her coat in the heated office, that she favored her left arm. He couldn't see any bruises, but he knew from bitter experience that it didn't mean they weren't there.
Later that week, he was certain he saw her pale when someone mentioned Martin's caring attitude towards those involved in his cases.
He watched her as she spoke quietly on the phone, and he wondered if she was remembering one of the lessons he'd taught her: the best place to have a private conversation is somewhere crowded, where everyone is too busy to eavesdrop. He moved closer, and she briskly ended her conversation and hung up. Maybe he was going crazy.
February, 2004.
She didn't look well. Was he really the only one who noticed her pallor, her jumpiness, the way her collarbones protruded under her sweaters? Was he the only one who saw her hands shake, who caught her smoking desperately at all hours of the day, months after she'd given up? Could no one else feel the tension radiating from her body?
She didn't look as if she could go on much longer.
XXXXX
His watch beeps, once, and he comes back to himself with a jerk.
It is midnight.
Carefully, with hands slightly unsteady from the caffeine and scotch, Jack marks off the last date on his list.
February fourteenth.
She's gone.
XXXXX
She sits on her porch, listening to the gentle wash of the waves. The one glass of wine at the pub was a bad idea; she brought the bottle home with her.
Now she sits quietly, clutching a glass in both hands. The empty bottle rests by her feet. The night is warm, with a soft breeze blowing in from the ocean. If she strains her eyes, she can catch a glimpse of the lighthouse on Brabee Point, and she becomes almost mesmerized by its steady flash, fade, flash, fade rhythm.
The words whisper from her mouth almost without her knowledge, following the pattern of the light.
"My name is Jaime Saint-Claire. I am thirty-one years old. I live in Pearl Bay, Victoria, Australia." She draws a shaky breath. "My name is Jaime Saint-Claire. I am thirty-one years old…"
End Chapter Four.