A Renaissance Affair
By Chicklit
Time Frame: Mid-Season Five, after "Unbearable" and Grissom's infamous dinner invitation to Sofia.
Disclaimers: The usual. Still don't own these characters. Wish I did.
Notes: Thank you, as always, for the lovely reviews.
Chapter 6
Half asleep with a phone buzzing in my ear is a very disorienting way to start the day. I don't remember the phone ringing, and I certainly have no recollection of rolling over to answer it. "Y'ello" mumbles from my mouth as I acclimate to my newfound consciousness.
"Sara?"
It's Grissom. My name is a question that does not usually require an answer, so I survey my surroundings and wait for him to continue. I'm in bed and I seem to have face-planted on my comforter without even changing into pajamas. While this is not unusual per se, I feel as though there's some significance to it today. What was I… ?
Oh.
Oh my.
Memories of my encounter with Grissom in the parking lot start to coalesce. At first my recollection is hazy, but soon it returns in Technicolor. I'm stuck in a weird limbo between total embarrassment and unadulterated joy. I really hope he's not calling to back out of the breakfast invitation, although I wouldn't blame him if he did. It was a surreal conversation.
A quick glance at the clock tells me I've slept for almost ten hours straight. That could be a record.
"I need you."
A revealing statement on so many levels, but I'm too groggy to properly process the innuendo. Another day, perhaps. "What's up?" I reply instead.
"Warrick and Nick worked a double to cover for us last night. Do you think you can come in early to help me cover their shift this afternoon?" His voice sounds distracted, yet apologetic.
"Sure. No problem."
"Good."
He doesn't elaborate further, but he doesn't hang up either.
"Is there anything else?" I finally ask.
A pause. Then, "When would you like to have breakfast?"
Well, hot damn. "I dunno. You've provided me with a lot of material to review. It might take several days for me to absorb all that information and dazzle you with my retention skills." No point in sounding too eager.
"Next week, perhaps?" He's smiling. I can hear it in his voice.
"Perhaps."
"I've got a conference in San Diego that runs through Tuesday. How about Thursday morning after shift? Will that give you time to adequately prepare?"
"Yes, I think it will."
"I shall look forward to our discussion then." Grissom's voice is like warm whiskey in December, stirring my blood and warming my soul. "See you this afternoon."
"Okay, bye."
He hangs up and I curl into a happy puddle, still cradling the phone in my ear.
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My interaction with Grissom over the next week is purely professional. By tacit agreement we don't discuss our impending meal, yet the underlying knowledge of its existence seems to permeate every conversation that we have. There's an undercurrent of relaxed anticipation, as if the decision to issue the invitation has relieved him of an incredible burden. He's easy to be around, attentive but not suffocating. He makes horrible puns that have me grinning like an idiot. It's almost like we've regressed back to the relationship we had when I first moved to Vegas.
I suppose there is one subtle difference between now and then, though. He's the one who's doing the chasing. Or at least he thinks he is. I'm slowly learning that Grissom likes the illusion of control just as much as I do.
When I'm not at work I'm at home studying like a fiend. By the time Wednesday rolls around I've finished the books and feel confident in my ability to regurgitate them at will. Well, all of them except the one in Italian. There's not enough time for Berlitz.
Despite all my studying, however, I can't help but feel that there are still some pieces missing. In a last-ditch effort to bolster my education I shamelessly invite Mike over for dinner before shift. I offer to ply him with penne a la vodka in exchange for letting me pick his considerable brain. He doesn't get the humor behind the menu choice, but I do.
The poor guy barely has a wine glass in his hand before I start bombarding him with questions. There are a number of discrepancies between the information in Grissom's books and the topics covered in Mike's class. I want to know why.
"Revisionist history," he counters with a mild shrug.
"But why?"
"What do you mean why?"
"What's the basis? The painting hasn't changed in almost five hundred years. It's not like there's new evidence."
He exhales dramatically. "Art isn't evidence. Aside from provenance, it's completely subjective."
"But…"
"But, what?" He completely cuts me off. "Tell me again why you need an urgent art tutorial on a random Wednesday night?"
"I happened across some old texts and I had a few questions."
He looks at me suspiciously. "What texts?"
I gesture to the pile on the coffee table.
He walks over and peruses the stack. "Hmmm." He picks one up and starts leafing through it. "You've got some really interesting works here." Completely ignoring me for the moment, he sits down on my couch and starts reading. I can't help but notice it's the old Sistine Chapel book. The one in Italian.
I sit down next to him. "You read Italian?"
"And French and German."
"Impressive." I'd forgotten that most art historians have to read multiple languages. I lean forward and pick up a very old copy of Vasari's Lives of the Artists. I re-read the introduction while Mike picks up a new book and starts to examine it.
"Who's Gil Grissom?"
My head pops up. "My boss. Why?"
"His name's in the book."
Oooops.
Mike gestures to the pile on my table. "Did he give all of these to you?"
"Yes, he thought I might find them interesting since I'm auditing your class."
"That was nice of him."
Mike doesn't seem to think it's weird that my boss gives me books and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"So, does Gil have a background in art?"
"Grissom," I correct automatically. Off Mike's confused look I add, "I call him by his last name."
"Oh, okay. So, does Grissom have a background in art?"
That is the twenty thousand dollar question. "I don't know. He obviously studied it when he was younger, but I don't really know the circumstances."
"Well, he's got quite the collection. Some of these are first editions." He pats a small treatise on Da Vinci's The Last Supper. "This one would catch a pretty penny at auction."
Mike's staring at me with an appraising eye and I'm not sure how to interpret it. Defaulting to my usual pattern of avoidance, I hop up and head for the kitchen. "More wine?" I'm not drinking much because of work, but that doesn't mean Mike can't enjoy himself.
"Sure, thanks."
He's still contemplating my existence when I return with the bottle of Shiraz.
"So, what's the story with Grissom?"
"Story?" I try to look as innocent as possible. Not sure if it's working.
"A man gives you valuable art books and suddenly you just have to have me over for dinner to make sure you understand them correctly?" His eyes bulge exponentially. "Sara Sidle! Do you have a crush on your boss?"
I am so not answering this question.
"Well I'll be damned." He collapses against the back of the couch and stares at me like we've just met.
"It's not like that." I feel the need to defend myself. And Grissom. "It's not like that at all."
His voice is curious, not judgmental. "So tell me what it's like, then."
And I do. I tell him about how I met Grissom at a graduate seminar, how we stayed in touch, how I came to Vegas to help him and never quite left. The words flow out in a torrent and I find myself unable to stop. Grissom is a professor, a mentor, a friend. Maybe he's more. His breakfast invitation is unprecedented and it's got me completely confused. Hopeful, but confused.
"So you need my help with a crash course on Renaissance art so you can impress your boss?"
"Exactly. Forget about mid-terms. Help me cram for the final."
"Let me ask you something." He swirls his wine and takes a deep gulp. "Say you're having breakfast tomorrow and you start discussing Raphael's Madonna della Sedia. Do you honestly think that your boss is going to get up and leave the table if you say it was painted in 1510 instead of 1514?"
"Of course not."
"Then why are you killing yourself trying to memorize all this stuff?"
I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Why? How can I possibly make Mike understand? Because it's Grissom, that's why. Because he represents everything that I have ever wanted in my life. So what if I need his validation and approval. So what if I've got authority issues and a masochistic tendency to pursue men who are emotionally unavailable. I am what I am. And there will never be another man who will make me feel like Grissom can. I know this at a molecular level.
Even more important, there will never be another woman who can love him like I can. Who will read his entomology articles and actually understand them. Who will encourage him to ride rollercoasters and race hissing cockroaches. Who won't ever laugh at him, just with him. Who won't judge him. I know this, too.
I offer the truth. "Because it's the only way I know to show him that I care."
Mike ages a decade in a span of seconds, his eyes appearing wise beyond his years. "You think that by learning everything there is to learn about a subject he finds interesting, he'll find you interesting as well?"
I look down, unable to meet his sympathetic gaze. "Something like that, yeah."
"Sara." His hand clasps mine firmly. "The Transitive property works in geometry, not relationships."
I laugh. I simply have to. If I don't, I'll start to cry, and I've already cried too many tears over Gil Grissom.
Mike joins me, and suddenly we're completely convulsed. I don't know if it's the wine, or the situation or the fact that I'm finally talking about Grissom with another human being, but I feel completely liberated. Once I'm capable of conversation I look over at my new friend and smile. "If you ever get tired of the whole art thing, you've got a serious future in counseling."
"Didn't I tell you? Caroline's a psychiatrist."
This sends us into another fit of hysterics, and it's ten minutes before we recover enough to speak properly. I think I might have actually pulled a muscle from laughing too hard.
Mike pats my hand in an absent, paternal gesture. "You already know everything you need to know. Go have breakfast. See what happens."
See what happens? Been there, done that, still have the scars to prove it.
"Can I offer you a bit of advice?"
"Don't stop now," I smirk, "you're on a roll."
"Unless you work in restoration, art isn't science. You can't explain it rationally. You can only experience it."
"I disagree." Somewhere in the back of my mind is the vague thought that I have no business arguing with an expert, but that's never stopped me before. "Wasn't the entire point of the Renaissance that art can be rational? These are the people who merged science with art. Who developed linear perspective. They argued that natural laws and scientific order are evidence of the existence of a higher being."
"You're missing my point completely." He stands up and starts pacing. "Ignore history. Ignore what you've read. Focus on what you feel."
I'm starting to remember why I only took one art history class in college.
"Sara." He's pronouncing my name like I'm in elementary school. "Work with me. Let's talk about your favorite piece of art. Your Bernini statue."
I picture it in my mind, a contradiction of grace and violence.
"You must also be familiar with Bernini's statue of David."
"Of course." I picture it, too. The restlessness, the energy, the moment of confrontation just before David slings that fatal stone.
"Which do you like better, Bernini's or Michelangelo's?"
"Bernini's."
"Just like that? You didn't even think about it."
"I don't need to."
He's smiling at me, taunting in a friendly way. "Some historians would argue that Michelangelo's statue is a better work. It certainly is more well known."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I really don't care what the historians say." I roll my eyes. "Okay, I see your point." And I do. I can appreciate the Michelangelo David on an intellectual level. After all, it's a superior piece of work. Yet the Bernini David speaks to me on a visceral level that has nothing to do with technical execution. It's rather like comparing Greg to Grissom.
Yikes. That's a scary thought.
"Sara, this is the conversation that you should be having with your Mr. Grissom. Not dates or definitions. Tell him what you like and why."
"But he said he wanted to talk about the books."
"Please!" Mike throws up his hands in exasperation. "He's a guy. He wants to spend time with you. To get to know you. The books are merely a gateway to conversation!"
I'm not trying to be deliberately obtuse, but I can't seem to help myself. I'm beginning to think that there really is something to Greg's theory on men speaking in code. "Grissom and I have worked together for almost five years. He's had plenty of time to get to know me. Why now? What's changed?"
"That's a question for him, not me."
And I think it's time I asked it.
TBC…