Well, it's good to know that long chapters aren't a problem then, lol. I noticed that most postings on the board were generally shorter and thought that perhaps people might prefer that. Thanks for continuing to read and review. I enjoyed this latest chapter. I hope that you do too. Cathy.
At some point during dinner, talented fingers had touched the ebony and ivory keys of the piano board, and began to elicit soft, familiar strains that floated around the room, enveloping the diners in the warmth and comfort of old favourites. The tall, slender pianist, with salt and pepper hair, sat on the bench, his eyes closed in concentration, his fingers dancing lightly, a soft smile on his face as he gave voice to his gleaming black instrument. Cecilia recognized many of the easy-listening tunes from the last few decades. There was a lot of Elton John and Neil Diamond, two of her personal favourites. The music was accompanied on occasion by the musician's pleasant, slightly gravelly voice.
By the time the four at the table had finished their desserts, there were several people on the wooden dance floor. Catherine polished off yet another vodka and orange juice. She was tapping the shortened, white tips of her nails on the table's lacquered surface. From time to time she would gently lift her shoulders in synchrony with the beat and her strawberry blonde head would sway.
When another of Neil Diamond's songs began, and the musician began to sing, Catherine ceased tapping, stopped moving, and listened closely for a few seconds. "Gil, come dance with me," she said suddenly, her blue eyes bright in the pale oval of her face.
Gil shook his head. "You know I don't dance, Cath," he told her firmly.
"Yeah but it's a sign," she insisted. "Do you know what song this is?" Grissom shook his head again. "Listen," she instructed.
The deep voice sang. "Holly holy eyes. Dream of only you, where I am, what I am, what I believe in. Holly holy."
"For Holly," Catherine said softly. The young CSI had been at the fore of Catherine's mind since Brass had begun the story for Cecilia. Mellowed now by the liquor, and uninhibited, she wanted to dance through her feelings and release them. Catherine could see the unrelenting no that had settled over Gil's features. In truth she had never seen him dance before. Blue eyes turned to the detective. "Jim?" she asked hopefully.
Brass shrugged his shoulders. He could see how much it meant to Catherine. "Yeah, sure," he agreed. "I'm no Fred Astaire, but I'll shuffle a little shoe leather with you." Rising, he took her hand and lead her towards the dance floor. They moved away, Jim with his unique, ambling gait, and Catherine with her light-as-air grace.
Cecilia watched them go, with a mixture of envy and anticipation. If Jim danced with Catherine, perhaps he might also share a dance with her. And Cecilia had accepted that she would like very much to be held close in his arms. She wanted to get to know Jim Brass better. She wanted to see more of the generous and compassionate nature that she knew was just beneath an often cynical surface.
"I love Neil Diamond," Cecilia began conversationally, smiling at Gil. "I've been lucky enough to see him in concert twice. What kind of music do you enjoy?"
Gil smiled back. "Classical, mostly." He had quite a library of CDs at home, some of the most beautiful music that man had ever created, he believed. It was the one form of artistic expression that he truly appreciated. His mother had arranged for him to take piano lessons when he was a young boy. Even though she was deaf, and couldn't hear the tunes he worked at, she used to sit beside him on the bench while he practiced. She would place her hands on the side of the upright, feeling the vibrations as he picked out the notes. Smiling her encouragement and nodding her pleasure, while he would strive to perfect his skill. Though Gil had become proficient enough, he had accepted early on that he didn't have the talent to ever perform professionally. But he had always enjoyed listening to the creations of the masters as brought to life by those who were truly gifted musically.
Gil looked towards the dance floor, where he could pick out the forms of his friends. It wasn't that he didn't want to dance. There were often times when he thought how enjoyable it looked, and when he considered just getting up and giving it a try. But he knew that he lacked the co-ordination for it, and he was slightly conscious of his bow-leggedness. And there was something so intimate about dancing. A physical closeness that often seemed to encourage an emotional closeness. And something inside of him rebelled at the idea.
Gil remembered one of the first times he had been out together with whole team, at one of the clubs. Sara had been dancing with Nick and Warrick in turn, gyrating to the fast beat of the current popular favourites. She had returned to their table to sip her drink, leaving Nick with a young red-head who had been flirting with Stokes all night, and leaving Catherine and Warrick together. There had been a slight sheen on her face and neck down to the deep V of her form-fitting red shirt, evidence of her exertions. Her features had been open and unguarded for a change, her dark eyes sparkling, her lips curled at the corners.
She had looked beautiful, the red vivacious against her skin and her dark hair. Her long legs were clad in tight, black leather, and it was the first time Gil had seen her in heels. Sara had looked happy. And her smile had elicted from him a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure. "Come on, Grissom," she had encouraged, bestowing one of her trademark, gap-toothed grins. "Dance with me." She had leaned towards him expectantly.
"I don't dance, Sara," he'd answered truthfully while the air around them reverberated with the heavy bass beat.
Sara had appeared bemused. "A slow one then. Everyone can slow dance," she had said matter-of-factly. There had been a glow in the dark eyes as they had searched his face, seeming to try to get past his carefully erected fences. His sudden feeling of vulnerability had been disconcerting. When Sara had reached to lay one slender hand atop his, Gil had felt the heat in her touch, and had jerked his own away as though fearing a physical burn.
She flinched as though she'd been struck. The smile had frozen on her lips, then drooped, while Sara pressed her lips tightly together. A dark veil stole the light from her eyes. Her features pinched for a moment, then tightened. When the smile returned, it was no longer a thing of beauty and light, but crooked and sardonic. "I'm sorry," she bit out. Then she'd snatched at her drink, and turned abruptly, taking long strides towards the bar, leaving him alone at the table. Gil had wanted to say something to make amends, had considered getting up and following her, but in the end he had remained where he was. It was better that way. For both of them.
Cecilia watched Grissom, and though he was looking towards the dance floor, his eyes were unfocused, and she knew that whatever he was thinking, he was no longer next to her, but in some private musing. Finally, he gave a sigh, and shifted his blue eyes towards her. "So how are you enjoying Las Vegas?" he inquired. "And how is the research going? Is it as helpful for your new novel as you had hoped?"
Cecilia suspected that the questions were more to get her talking about something that would distract Gil from his thoughts, than out of genuine interest, although he did listen attentively and participate in the conversation. She didn't mind speaking about her experiences so far, and helping to take his mind off of whatever had brought that faraway look to his handsome features. It helped Cecilia to channel her own thoughts as well.
On the dance floor, the song had ended and another one took its place. Catherine showed no desire to go back to the table yet, so Jim continued to move slowly, one hand on her shoulder, another at her tiny waist. She hadn't spoken during the first song, content to just settle her head on his shoulder. "Do you think she'll be okay, Jim?" Catherine asked softly now. "Carly Palmateer?"
They had gone together to Lisa Palmateer's apartment early that morning to inform her of Michael Strickland's suicide. Dr. Robbins had confirmed the cause of death as blood loss following self-inflicted wounds with a sharp object. The CSIs had found the sliver of razor, cemented with super glue into the end of a comb which had only Strickland's prints. Sara and Nick had concluded that there was no foul play, and that Strickland had been alone in his cell after lights out. Other inmates confirmed that no one had entered or exited Strickland's cell. There would be no further investigation.
In the immediate hours after learning that Strickland had taken his own life, Brass had wondered how much the man's actions had had to do with the words the detective had spoken to him that night. Had the scene that Brass's words painted for the perp been so horrifically motivating that Strickland would rather die by his own hand than endure the treatment that Brass had predicted would await him in a maximum security prison, surrounded by hardened cons who had little tolerance for the sexual abusers of children? And if that incident had been the singular prompt behind Strickland's suicide, did that make the detective responsible for the other man's death?
Brass had come to realize that even if it did, he would shoulder that responsibility without any accompanying guilt. Strickland was a monster, and the kind of monster that would prey on an innocent child was beyond rehabilitation. Beyond redemption. And while a life behind bars would have meant a continuous purgatory for his crime, death was a pretty satisfying conclusion for the pain and terror he had inflicted on that little girl. And the avoidance of a trial was better for the child. If Jim Brass had had a hand in that...he could live with it, without regrets.
Lisa Palmateer had been groggy when she had opened the door, obviously roused from sleep. Brass had regretted waking the woman, but they felt it was important to inform her personally about what had occured. Before she turned on the t.v. and it jumped out at her from the morning news. She had allowed the detective and the criminalist into the apartment, which smelled heavily of stale cigarette smoke and deep-fryer oil. Carly had been curled up on a worn, chintz sofa, asleep, looking even younger in repose. Lisa Palmateer had explained that Carly hadn't been sleeping much and that any rest she got was a blessing, so she would appreciate it if the pair could keep their voices down.
After a brief investigation CPS had returned the younger child, Jenna, to the mother's care. There was nothing to suggest any kind of continuous abuse. The girls' basic needs were cared for. Neighbours and friends indicated that Lisa Palmateer was a good mother who loved her children. Her relationship with Michael Strickland had been a grievous mistake and poor character judgement, but with him out of the picture, and charges being pressed, there was nothing to indicate that the girls would be better off in foster care.
Lisa Palmateer had taken the news of Strickland's death unemotionally. She had stared at her daughter, crossing her arms over her ample chest, and whatever she had been thinking, she gave no indication to Catherine and Jim. At length she had turned to them. "I guess the bastard did us a favour by offing himself," she had commented philosophically. "Thanks for coming out here to tell me. I'll tell the kids when they wake up." Then she had seen them to the door.
"I don't know," Brass answered Catherine now. "I hope so. She'll continue to get therapy. The mom seems committed to her." He didn't know what to say. He wanted to ease Catherine's worry, but he didn't want to be falsely optimistic. The Palmateers had a long, hard road ahead of them. And a lot of it would depend on Carly's individual resiliency. Some people were real fighters who never let life get the best of them. He hoped that that would be the case here. One thing he knew was that with the mom's support, that made a huge difference in the child's recovery.
Something Brass had learned over the years was that you couldn't underestimate how much of an impact a parent had in a child's life. He felt the familiar pang as he thought about Ellie. About all of the ways that he had let her down over the years. The excuses he had made to her, and to himself. Never realizing how important his prescence would have been to a young girl's life in those formulative years. Never recognizing the raw need even when Ellie had tried to express it in the best way a child knew how. Not understanding until too late that it wasn't enough to feel love, or even express love, you had to show it consistently and undeniably. Jim swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.
"Okay," Catherine said determinedly, tilting her head back to look at him, "I'm getting way too maudlin. We're supposed to be out tonight to put all that stuff behind us." She smiled at him. "Thanks for the dance, Jim. Dances, I guess. I feel better." The second song was drawing to an end.
He smiled back at her. "My pleasure."
"You're a good guy, Captain," Catherine continued, her tongue loosened by the alcohol. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who thinks so." Catherine glanced towards their table.
Brass was grateful for the dimmed lighting so that Catherine wouldn't see the blush on his cheeks. He didn't know how to counter what the blonde was suggesting. Wanted, hopefully, to believe that she might be right. Didn't want to accept it too readily though, in case she was wrong. And realized that there was a big difference between being a 'good guy' and being the object of someone's interest.
"Tell her the New Jersey story," Catherine prompted.
"She won't want to hear that," he chuckled self-consciously.
"I think she does," Catherine insisted. "I was going to tell her. Started to tell her. But it's better coming from you."
Brass was quiet, contemplating the two women discussing him. Feeling self-conscious yet flattered at the same time. The dance had ended, and he took Catherine's elbow, escorting her back to their seats. "We'll see," was the most he would allow.
Catherine had thrown off her temporary melancholy by the time they were seated again. She brought the conversation to the topic of some of the celebrities that she had worked with. Some who were Las Vegas icons. Others who were in the city short-term, performing, involved in a sporting event, or at an official government function, or perhaps just vacationing among the droves who came to the city seeking glamour and glitz and a chance to get rich quick.
She deliberately avoided the sad stories. The famous actor who had murdered two people in his hotel bed. The pro basketball star whose young son who had been kidnapped for ransom, and accidentally killed in the process. Following her lead, Brass and Grissom added their own tales and experiences, keeping to that which was light-hearted and humourous.
Their cheque came, and Grissom took it, waving off the other three, and saying that the evening was on him, accepting their expressions of gratitude.
Eventually, Catherine glanced at her watch, and suprised to see that it was past midnight, pushed her chair back from the table. "This has been fun. But I have to get home. Lindsey has a swim meet tomorrow morning, so I have to be up early." She smiled to herself at the mention of her daughter. "You ready Gil, or shall I take a cab?"
Grissom nodded. "I'm ready."
Catherine stood, coming around the table to stand between Cecilia and Brass. "Thanks, guys, this was fun. And I needed it." Impulsively, she bent to give Cecilia a quick hug, then turned and kissed the detective on the cheek. "Remember to tell her about New Jersey," Catherine whispered into his ear.
Brass laughed lightly, and patted her back. "Good luck to Lindsey tomorrow. And thanks, Catherine, this was a good idea."
"Good night," Gil directed to both Cecilia and Brass. Then he and Catherine were gone.
Cecilia wasn't sure if she should make a move to leave now too. The fact was that she didn't want to go anywhere at all. She waited expectently for the detective to announce that he should be calling it a night. Instead, he asked Catherine if she would like another drink. She said that coffee would be wonderful, so Brass signaled their waiter and ordered coffee for her, and another whiskey for himself.
Jim had been worried that the moment Catherine and Gil got up to leave, that Cecilia would want to go too. When she remained seated, showing no signs of being about to bolt from the restaurant, he had suggested another drink and been pleased when she had seemed willing to stay. When his drink arrived, he took a deep swallow, and then turned his chair slightly so that he could face the writer better.
"So we never did ask you why you became a writer," Brass began, raising a bushy brow curiously.
"Well, I always loved to write," Cecilia told him. "I went to college to major in English. My parents are very practical and suggested that I go into teaching, so that I'd have a guaranteed income." She smiled fondly at the memory. "So I did. I really enjoyed it, too, and it's been fun over the years, working with the students, a different class each year, watching their progress, seeing the interest and talent that some display. I guess with no real incentive to pursue a writing career, I put that dream on the back burner."
She added cream to her coffee, stirring it slowly. "Eventually, it was something that became important to me again. I wrote my first novel. Submitted it to a few publishers directly, and also to a few agents. Received a lot of rejection letters, and was also just plain ignored a lot." She winced at the recollection, shrugging her shoulders. "Finally Sally contacted me. She thought my book had promise. Made some suggestions for re-writes. Agreed to represent me. We worked out terms. I listened to her ideas and rewrote the novel. She got me a publishing contract three months after I had resubmitted it."
"I bet that was exciting," Brass grinned.
"Oh yes," she laughed. "I began devoting more time to my writing. Became more self-critical of my work. I've been lucky to have Sally's years of experience and her innate talent for discerning what publishers are looking for. After my last book, Winning Ticket, I finally felt that I was financially stable enough to really go for it. To be a real novelist, and to give up my safety net of teaching. It was hard to do. But I'm glad that I did it." Cecilia smiled shyly.
"And now you're writing a book about forensics," he commented. "Has your experience with the CSIs been helpful so far?"
For a few minutes Cecilia repeated what she had shared with Grissom earlier, that it had been wonderful so far, and that she appreciated the unique opportunity that had been afforded her. "I'll have to thank all of you in the acknowledgements."
"So are we going to be able to recognize any of the characters?" Brass asked her with a grin.
Cecilia shook her head. "I had the characters all fleshed out beforehand, for the most part. It's more the feel of things that I was looking for. An understanding of what it means to be a criminalist, of how the job affects someone as a person. That sort of thing." She paused for a moment, colouring slightly. "That sounds kind of presumptuous. I don't mean to say that in the short span of several weeks I understand what any of you go through, or what it's really like," Cecilia amended.
Brass smiled his understanding. "I wonder what it seems like, from the outside looking in," he mused consideringly.
"It's fascinating," Cecilia told him, though she knew the question had been more rhetorical. "I have so much respect and admiration for the jobs that you're doing. All of you."
As Brass's dark eyes held hers, he knew that she wasn't just saying that because she thought it was expected. He had observed her interacting with the CSIs. Had listened to her questions and her comments. Had seen her appreciation. He had witnessed first hand that she was also very observant about things. He grinned.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"I'm sorry," Jim said. "I was just thinking that if you hadn't been a writer, you would have made a great detective. You're very observant."
Cecilia paused thoughtfully. "I suppose there are many ways that detectives and novelists are similar," she admitted. "We both make a business of studying people. Trying to figure out what motivates them. Attempting to understand human nature." She stared at him across the corner of the table, into the dark appraising eyes that had the power to cause her heartrate to accelerate. She was acutely aware of how close he was. Of the fact that it was just the two of them. "Of course," she continued nervously, "Writers aren't as brave as police officers. We don't face any dangers, except for a bad critique." She gave a short laugh. "And we don't save lives. We create dream worlds and fantasies, and any of the ugliness we face, we control the extent of it, and we have the supreme knowledge that we'll always come out on top. Detectives face reality, and they impact on people's lives in a real, tangible and positive way. And when their shift is finished, they can't just turn off the computer, and forget all about what happened that day. Detectives have to live with it. They're real-life heroes."
Her voice had gotten softer and huskier. Cecilia looked at Jim, feeling the blood surging through her veins. Though her choice of words had been general...cops, detectives, they...in her head she had been substituting you. They were the things she had wanted to say to Jim the night of Michael Strickland's interrogation but hadn't been able to give voice to. Even now, she had to couch her admiration in the blanket of generalities. Not wanting to embarass him, or herself, by an interest she could no longer deny.
Brass smiled at her. "Thank you," he told Cecilia. "It's too bad everyone didn't feel as generously about cops as you do. It would make my job a heck of a lot easier." Their waiter had come to the table then and the detective tapped his finger on the side of his glass and gave a brief nod. Cecilia shook her head to indicate that she was fine. As the waiter retreated Brass continued. "I think that writers do something positive for people's lives too," he returned the compliment. "They make people think. And feel. Expose them to new ideas and different attitudes. And never underestimate the power of entertainment. The power to make people feel good. Look how much we pay the people that make us smile and laugh and feel good. I'd say our society values that pretty highly."
"Thank you," Cecilia returned.
A new drink was placed at Jim's elbow. He took it between both hands, swirling the amber liquid as he stared into it's depths. "So, I guess you're a career woman," Brass commented lightly. "Quite able and happy to take care of yourself. Too busy for marriage and children?" He raised his voice in a question. Brass knew that Cecilia had never been married. He had figured that she was like so many of the women he knew these days. The ones who enjoyed and valued their independence. When he saw the sadness fill her velvet-brown eyes, he could have kicked himself for the offhand assumption.
"No, not at all," Cecilia told him quietly, looking away, her dark eyes fixing on a distant point in the room. There was a sorrow underlying her voice that tugged at him. "I was engaged once. It didn't work out. It was a mutual decision, and I'm not pining for Andy at all. We had different ideas of what we wanted from life. Different priorities. He wanted a career woman. And after we'd already made plans to marry, he decided that he didn't want children."
A shadow crossed her tanned features. "I guess I'm more old school. I always thought that being a wife and mother was the most wonderful role I could possibly play. I was realistic enough to know that in today's world it was important to have an education, and a career to fall back on should it be necessary. But ultimately, what I wanted was to be at home. To raise a family." Cecilia looked at him again. "I've always been more June Cleaver than Murphy Brown," she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh.
Brass was at a loss for words, wishing he could take back his assessment. There was a sorrow here, a raw wound that he hadn't meant to open.
"I've come to accept that that might not be my purpose in life," Cecilia said, trying to inject vitality back into her voice. Trying to bury the old pain and the regrets. "So," she said, "how about you? Do you have children?"
It was inevitable, really, that the conversation would go there, Jim knew. Even if he hadn't initiated the topic tonight. It was one of the first things people wanted to know when they were getting acquainted with one another. Are you married? Do you have children? He cleared his throat. "One daughter. Ellie." Brass half rose in his chair, reaching to extract his wallet, and moving his fingertips through a small pocket, until he had withdrawn a small photograph. He offered it to Cecilia.
Cecilia took the picture. It was a standard school photo, she recognized. The background a sponged dark blue. She looked down at the delicate featured blonde girl. Ellie appeared to be about thirteen or fourteen, Cecilia guessed. The girl had dark eyes, like Jim's. The fair hair must have come from her mother. She had a slightly petulant look on her face, one that Cecilia, having taught teenagers for years, was familiar with. Ellie Brass was a beautiful girl. "She's lovely, Jim," Cecilia told him, and her envious heart ached that she had no photo of her own to produce.
"That was taken in eighth grade," Jim was saying now, reaching to take the photo back. He looked down at it for a moment. "Ellie was thriteen then. She's nineteen now." He knew what the next question would be, whether Cecilia verbalized it or not. Did he have a more recent photo? If he didn't, why not?
Brass looked up at the writer, knowing that she was too polite to press him for details. "Ellie's mom and I divorced when Ellie was quite young. Nancy and I never should have gotten married. We weren't compatible at all. The marriage was in trouble, and had been for a long time, when Ellie was born. We tried to hold things together, for Ellie's sake." He paused, shaking his head. "Not really. That's what we told one another though. And ourselves. That we were trying. But the committment wasn't there. Nancy and I both knew it was just a matter of time. Each waiting for the other to have the guts to end it, so we wouldn't have to live with the guilt of being the one to break up the family." His thin smile was bitter at the admission.
"In the end, it was Nancy who had the courage to call it quits. I came home and found my suitcases by the front door. Ellie was at my mother-in-law's. I stayed in Jersey for a couple of years. Told myself that I could still be a good dad. Except it was nothing more than lip service."
Cecilia saw the pain that etched his craggy features. While she believed Jim Brass to be a man of honesty and integrity, she was still surprised that he made no attempt to gloss over his past, or to portray himself in a more positive light. Obviously whatever his failings had been, the detective had accepted them, and was still paying for them.
"I started spending less and less time with Ellie. Making excuses for it. Blaming the job. There was some anger at Nancy for our failed relationship, and I guess I transfered some of that pain to Ellie. I was having a hard time professionally too, and it was just an overall dark time." Brass sighed deeply, watching Cecilia. So much for the real-life hero impacting on people's lives in a positive way, he thought. "I let Ellie down. I wasn't there when she needed me. I didn't put down a good foundation for a father-daughter relationship. And then when I made the move to Vegas, we just grew further and further apart. Weeks would go by without even a phone call. Then months.
"Then one day she wasn't a little girl anymore, and I realized that we didn't know one another. Nancy had stopped sending letters and pictures. I still tossed a card in the mail on Ellie's birthday and Christmas, with a big cheque, proportionate to my feelings of guilt. When Ellie turned fifteen I got a frantic call from Nancy that our daughter was in trouble. Some stuff with the local police. I flew out there. Used some old contacts. She was a juvenile anyway, so it wasn't too hard to make it go away." He paused. "Nothing illegal. But because I was a cop, formerly Atlantic City PD, the decisions that might well have been made anyways, went a little quicker and smoother."
Brass remembered going to pick Ellie up from the police station. Nancy had waited back at the house, expecting him to handle things. His ex had been a nervous wreck, her eyes red and swollen, her streaked blonde hair in disarray. He wasn't sure what kind of a reaction he had expected from his daughter. He guessed that he had figured she would be frightened. Upset. Part of him had hoped she would be happy to see her dad.
But Ellie had simply sat there, looking bored. She'd been wearing a ton of make-up, and tight, revealing clothing that had made him blush. There had been a brief flicker in her dark eyes. Surprise. She quickly quashed it and looked away, as though she hadn't seen him. He couldn't get over how much older she looked.
"Ellie, honey, it's taken care of," Brass had told her with a sympathetic smile. "Let's go home."
She had stood up then and the chilled smile that had formed on her pouty lips had sucked all the warmth from his bones. "Gee...Dad..." she had said with saccharine sweetness. "You came all this way just to bail me out? That's just so...special." She had rolled her dark eyes, getting louder with each word. "What do you want? Tears of gratitude? Applause? A hero biscuit?" She had laughed mockingly. "I bet you were pissed when Mom called. Did I embarass you in front of your old buddies?"
Jim had let her talk. Knowing that he deserved her rancour. Her raised voice echoed in the halls, and he knew that other cops had stopped to stare at this lovely little family reunion. He had reached for Ellie's shoulder then, thinking to give it a gentle squeeze, to pull her close for a quick hug, and a few murmured words of support. Ellie's eyes had narrowed to slits, and her nostrils had flared in distaste. Quick as a cat, she had knocked the offending hand from her shoulder, one of her long nails grazing his skin. Her delicate features had blazed with unbridled fury. Then she regained control, plastering that unaffected smile on her face once more. "No worries. I've already got a ride." A short pause. "So nice to see you again though...Dad..." And then Jim's teenage daughter had spit in his face.
He had stood there, stunned, wiping his face while Ellie had waltzed past him. Realizing with gut-wrenching clarity the toll that his inattentiveness had taken. He turned slowly and watched Ellie saunter up to a young punk waiting inside the station entrance. The kid was about eighteen. Black Doc Martens. Skin-tight black jeans. Tight black t-shirt. His youthfully handsome face below a shock of wavy, black hair wore that same bored expression that Ellie had perfected. He had looked at Brass as Ellie had slipped into his arms. The kid had winked at the detective, reaching behind Ellie to squeeze her buttocks, then bending to give her a sloppy kiss.
Brass had thought that he would have a coronary, or stroke out on the spot. His hands burned to encricle the young punk's neck and throttle him, but his feet seemed encased in cement. Then the pair had laughed tauntingly, and he had watched Ellie walk out of the station, and out of his life for good. Who the hell did he think he was, to come striding in after two years without so much as a phone call, wanting to assume the mantle of fatherhood? After a long talk with Nancy the next day, and an unfilled promise to be in touch soon, Jim had boarded an American Airlines flight back to Vegas, and foolishly given Ellie up again. Not recognizing at the time that when she pushed him away the hardest, and claimed to hate him the most, was the time that his daughter really needed him. It had been one more egregious error in a shameful history of them.
"Jim?" Cecilia prompted softly.
Brass wondered how long he had been lost in his reverie. "Sorry," he sighed. "Things didn't go well. Ellie was angry with me. And I don't blame her. She made it clear that though I might call myself her father, that she didn't feel I deserved the honour. And the hell of it is, she was right." Sorrow seemed to fuel the earth's gravity and to tug at the flesh of his face. "I love Ellie," Brass told Cecilia, his ragged voice conveying so much emotion in the three words. "But I lost her."
Cecilia felt the lonely grief that emanated from the detective in cold waves. Unthinkingly, she reached to place her hand over his. "I'm sorry," she murmured.
Jim took in the open empathy on Cecilia's face, and noted the shine of unshed tears in her dark eyes. She was a warm and compassionate woman. Non-judgemental. She felt things deeply. He sensed the support that flowed at the spot where their skin touched. Jim placed his other hand over Cecilia's, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Here was a woman who had longed for a child and might never have one. And who still felt for him despite his stupidity and lack of appreciation for the supreme privilege he had been granted.
Brass didn't usually talk about Ellie. To anyone. He rarely mentioned that he had a daughter, let alone spoke about their estrangement. And the detective never shared with anyone his culpability for that unfortunate circumstance. And yet it had seemed so natural to confide in Cecilia Laval. He tried to tell himself that it was just that the whiskey had loosened his tongue. But that wasn't accurate. The truth was that he felt comfortable with her. And he wanted to be totally honest with her. To have no secrets. To let her see him as the man that he really was. Jim sensed in Cecilia a goodness that appealed to his battered soul the way a cold drink of water would appeal to man who'd been stumbling through a dry, hot desert with an empty canteen.
Jim was reluctant to let Cecilia's hand go. His thumb gently stroked her soft skin. He stared down at their conjoined hands. He didn't know how to say the thoughts that were in his mind. And he was afraid of the feelings that churned inside him. Cecilia was only in Las Vegas for a short time. A few more months at the most. And then she would be gone. Back to Pennsylvania. Back to the life she had placed on hiatus. Busy with her new book. Forgetting all about Vegas. And him.
Cecilia's throat tightened when Jim's hand covered hers. Every nerve ending seemed vibrantly alive, and to hum with an electric current that threatened to overload her senses. When his thumb began to caress the back of her hand, Cecilia felt a warmth spread outward from her core.
"Can I get you anything else, Sir?" the solicitous voice broke in.
Jim withdrew his hand, and Cecilia moved hers. She placed it in her lap, savouring the warmth that her skin retained in the outline of his hold.
"One more whiskey," Brass said huskily. "Cecilia?"
She didn't really want anything, but she needed something to do, some pretense of normality, and sipping a coffee seemed close enough. "Coffee, please."
"And then the bill," the detective said quietly. The slight alcohol-induced fog that had shrouded him not long ago seemed to have diffused all of a sudden. Burnt off in the invisible flame that Cecilia's touch had ignited. Now that that connection had been broken, Jim felt it's loss keenly. He thought of asking Cecilia to dance, eager to re-establish it, then realized that at some point during the evening the musician had finished his allotted repertoire, and the dance floor had cleared.
Frustrated, Jim felt as though the moment was slipping away from him. In a very short time, whatever tentative and nebulous thread had begun to weave around them, would be lost. He could almost imagine a bell, high in a steeple, swinging back and forth, each resounding strike signaling that time was running out. Soon it would stop chiming and the magic enchantment would be at an end. Mentally Brass cursed the waiter for picking such an inopportune moment to reappear.
In the end, the words that came tumbling out of his mouth were not the more direct ones he had hoped to express. "Thank you, Cecilia. You're a good listener." Brass snapped his jaw shut is dismay. A good listener? Christ was that the best he could do? An 80-year-old priest in a confessional was a 'good listener'. What Jim had wanted to communicate was something far more flowery and definitive. Along the lines of, 'You look beautiful sitting there. Like an angel. Calm and serene. You are soft and sweet and have a gentle compassion and kindness that cuts through life's tsunami to offer peaceful sanctuary to a drowning man.I just want to gather you in my arms, and breathe the intoxicatingly original scent of you, and feel that you're firm and real and not just a figment of my desperate imagination, created from the depths of my dreams.'
Now that would have been good, Brass knew. That was the kind of flowery language that the guys in the afternoon soaps and on the big screen used, that was guaranteed to leave women swooning. That was the kind of thing a woman wanted to hear. Feeling it was one thing though. Putting it into words was another altogether.
Cecilia smiled at the compliment anyways. "Thank you," she replied. Her dark eyes looked into his and Brass willed her to understand all that he had meant to encompass.
The waiter returned with their drinks and the bill. They finished them in comparitive silence. Neither sure how to proceed in the aftermath of Brass's emotionally heightened sharing. Both believing that the evening had come to its natural end, but neither ready to say good bye. Finally Brass took out his wallet, and glancing at the cheque for the scotch and the coffee he and the writer had shared after Catherine and Gil had left, he peeled out a couple of bills and tucked them beneath his empty glass. "I've got it," Brass said. "I'll walk you to your car," he suggested, trying to sound casual.
Cecilia knew that Jim had taken a taxi to the restaurant earlier that evening. "I'd be happy to give you a ride," she said, rising from her chair and reaching for her purse. "You mentioned before that you live not too far from my apartment?"
Brass considered the offer. His first instinct was to not want to put Cecilia to any trouble. His next thought was to remember that she had been late arriving this evening. Driving around the downtown streets lost was one thing at eight thirty. It was something totally different at this hour. It wasn't that Las Vegas was any more dangerous than any other city, or that evil lurked behind every corner. But Brass thought of the recent carjackings, and knew that a woman alone, lost after dark, would be easy prey. His gut constricted at the thought of something happening to her.
"Thanks," he agreed. Waiting for Cecilia to lead the way, Brass followed across the thickly carpeted floor of the restaurant outside into the inky night air.
After the air-conditioned coolness of the building's interior, Cecilia was surprised by the heat outdoors. Concrete, stucco and tarmac that during the day had soaked up the sun's molten energy, released it now hours later under the cover of dark. When they reached her rental car, Jim Brass gently took the keys from her hand, and unlocked the vehicle, holding the driver's side door open for her. She watched the way his dark eyes quickly scanned the area, immediately assessing their surroundings and alert to anything out of place. His training and years of experience were an inseperable part of who he was. Cecilia started the engine, then released the power locks, and Jim came around the car and slid into the seat next to hers.
Finding her way out of the city's core proved to be an easier task than navigating her way in, though Cecilia was grateful to have the company of someone that knew the streets intimately. She was aware of a tension in the car, a nervous energy as opposed to a negative strain. Her hand on the wheel seemed to bear an invisible imprint of the detective's. She could still feel where their skin had touched. Cecilia wanted to say something mildly flirtatious, something to indicate that further attention was not unwanted. But it had been too long since she'd last played this game, and her skills were rusty. She wasn't much of a femme fatale to begin with.
When they did speak it was of inconsequential and mundane things. Brass would point out the sights. Make a comment or two about the history of the city. Cecilia was happy to just listen to the deep tones of his voice. When they were nearing the area of her apartment, Jim surprised her with a request.
"Listen, I'd feel a lot better if you'd just drive to your place. My apartment isn't far from there, and I can just walk the rest of the way home. It's a nice night and a little fresh air before I turn in will do me good."
Cecilia frowned. Wondering if for some reason the detective didn't want her to know where he lived. "Why?" she asked simply.
Brass sighed deeply. "Okay, I don't mean this to sound chauvanistic, but I know it will. And I'll admit I'm an old-fashioned guy, so bear with me." He turned his head towards her, hoping to project his sincerity. "The thing of it is, I'm just not comfortable with you dropping me off, then going home alone. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of doing that and getting back in one piece." Brass gave a wry grin. "But you're new to the city. And since I'm a cop I tend to think about the bad elements a lot. Not to scare you, but there have been a few carjackings lately. And I just don't like the idea of a woman alone in an unfamiliar area after dark. I know you must come and go on your own all of the time, but that's different because one, I don't know about it, and two, it's not because of me. I just feel responsible and I'll worry. So there it is." He braced himself for any indignation that might follow.
He was worried about her. Cecilia felt far from indignant. She felt protected. She didn't believe that Jim thought she was some ninny who was incapable of doing anything without a man to watch over her. She believed that he was genuinely concerned. Because it was part of nature. And...perhaps...because her safety mattered to him as more than an abstract? "All right," she told him quietly. "Thank you."
Brass had been ready to counter any arguments. He was thrown off by Cecilia's genial acceptance of the plan. Had prepared himself for an 'I am woman, hear me roar!' speech. Instead, she had seemed to understand his rationale and to accept it graciously. He was surprised into silence.
Soon Cecilia was pulling into the parking lot of her apartment. "Are you sure you don't want to call a cab from here?" she asked, turning off the headlights and shutting down the engine.
"Naw, no need," Brass replied. "Like I said, the walk will be good for me." He got out of the car and went around to her door, but Cecilia was already getting out of the vehicle. Jim stood beside her next to the driver's side door. Knowing that this was good night. Feeling every nerve ending tingle with uncertainty.
If this had been a date, or had even remotely resembled one, Jim knew that he would have tried to kiss Cecilia good night. But it wasn't. He hadn't invited her out, Catherine had arranged for all of them to get together. Cecilia hadn't agreed to an evening in just his company, but had been part of a group. Her offer of a ride might have simply been a polite thing, in exchange for the ride he had given her one day. Their ending up here together at this point, alone, was just a matter of coincidence. He had no right to read anything more into it, or to put her on the spot or turn this into a romantic interlude.
Cecilia was intensely aware of how close the detective was standing. In the blue haze of the parking lot lights, she could see the scattered dark chest hairs at the opening of his shirt. She could smell his cologne and the slightly bitter remnants of the alcohol on his breath. She envisioned leaning in towards him, tilting her head and offering her lips. Could almost feel the return pressure of his.
For a moment Cecilia thought of asking Jim if he would like to come in for a drink or a coffee. That was such a bad cliche though. And that was the way two people might take a promising date to the next level. Only this wasn't a date.
"I hope you don't have too far to go," she said, grasping for something to focus on.
"Not really," he assured her. "And even though I'm not carrying tonight, I can handle myself." Brass smiled at her. "Even if I didn't have the added benefit of police training. When you're a boy who grows up with a last name like Brass, you take a lot of teasing, and you learn to use your fists," he commented philosophically. He could see by Cecilia's blank expression that she wasn't making the connection. "It was the same way for my brother Peter. We heard it all. Over and over again from every punk and bully who thought he was bigger and tougher and had something to prove. You know. Brass monkey. Someone always wanted a demonstration of Brass knuckles. Brass b..." He stopped himself in time. "Well, you can imagine, I'm sure." He laughed lightly. "Anyhow, the moral of the story is that I can take care of myself pretty well. Even for an old guy." He winked at her.
Cecilia nodded. Jim Brass wasn't a big man, but she had the sense that he could indeed take care of himself if the need arose. Her stomache fluttered though at the thought of that being necessary. "All right," she said softly. Then, "It was a nice evening."
It was his turn to nod. "I had a good time," Brass agreed. He leaned towards Cecilia then, and spoke softly near her ear. "Good night." His cheek brushed hers, and for a moment his right temple pressed against her left.
Disappointment flared when the contact was broken and Brass had pulled back. There was nothing more for Cecilia to do. She wished him a good night, and headed through the courtyard, then up the stairs to the second level. As she walked under the second storey veranda to her apartment door, she imagined his eyes on her back. She paused after unlocking the door, and turned around to look down at the lot. Brass was still standing there, leaning against the car, waiting for her to go inside. Cecilia wanted to call down to Jim, to ask him if wanted to come in for a minute, to offer him a drink, cheesy or not, something to prolong the evening and to confirm whether or not the longing that sang in her veins was at all requited.
But she was afraid that if he said no, if he turned down her offer, it would break her heart and turn what had been a wonderful evening into something sad and lonely. She looked at him across the dark expanse. His features were shadowed. And then Cecilia stepped inside the apartment and closed and bolted the door behind her.
Jim stood there for a few moments after she had gone inside. Imagining following Cecilia upstairs. Knocking on her door. Stepping inside without a word when it swung inward. Taking her lovely face between his hands, and claiming lips of soft claret. Her perfume still filled his nostrils, and added an element of realism to the fantasy. Eventually, he pulled his eyes away from the unit. Forced his feet to shuffle off to the avenue and to begin the journey home. Back to the dark and empty apartment where Brass knew he would toss and turn long into the night.