I do hope everyone is still with me. But even if no one else is reading, I'm still going to keep posting until the story is done. And for those few who are sticking with me, I do appreciate that you are. Please know I am trying to post more often. Some weeks it just isn't possible.

Once their appetites had been satisfied and their bodies had cooled, Christopher lay staring at the ceiling, ruminating. Sam was a constant source of surprise. He'd realized early on that she had hidden strengths, a generous heart, and even though naive at times a sense of justice. He'd also known she was passionate. He hadn't realized the depths of her passion, however. And it was resurrecting so much of what he'd felt as a younger man; passions that went far beyond the bedroom.

His career, and especially the war years, had left him jaded somewhat in his view of his fellow man. But Sam's insistence on seeing the good in people was chipping away at that. And her sense of fair play was tugging at his own sense of justice. Perhaps Elizabeth had been right that day in his sitting room; perhaps he had hardened. He certainly hadn't flinched when Sir Reginald Walker shot himself after they had uncovered his involvement with the Nazis and his son's participation in two murders. Nor had it much bothered him when Martin Keppler, if that was even his real name, shot himself after it was revealed that he was a Nazi spy. He had flinched that time upon hearing the gunshot, thinking it might have been intended for him. He'd returned to police work after that to fill in until the end of the war. But it had been time for him to retire from police work when he did. He'd witnessed far too many occasions where men, good men, stayed on too long and simply quit caring. He didn't want to be a hard, uncaring man for Sam and their child.

And now, as he contemplated his life with his young wife and the future with a child on the way, he wondered how he could support them. Hilda Pierce had offered him an opportunity with MI-5 but it hadn't appealed to him and still didn't. That was a dark, unscrupulous world and he wanted nothing more to do with it. So now what, he asked himself.

Sam shifted in her sleep, her arm reaching for him in her dreams and he couldn't help the satisfied smile that inched across his face. He wasn't certain about his prospects as an earner outside of police work, but he was certain he would find a way. He simply had to, for all their sakes. And if he needed more inspiration to persevere in finding a new job, then his wife's nighttime antics were certain to provide it.

Sam curled into him and let loose a satisfied sigh before settling once again into contented sleep. God, what had he done in his life to deserve this, he wondered. His life with Rosalind had been a blessed one, full of so many good things, and when she died he'd accepted that the enchanting happiness in his life had too. Oh, he'd found contentment, eventually. And despite the frustrations of some of Andrew's blunders and misadventures, Christopher was proud of his son and ever so grateful that the boy had survived the war in relatively good shape. So many came back wounded, either in body or soul. But Andrew, while changed, hadn't lost himself in the war and in time would put it behind him. But real happiness, the blissful sort of happiness... that came again into his life through Sam.

There would be challenges, he conceded quietly to himself. If nothing else, the difference in their ages would present problems. But Sam had matured through the war and was wise beyond her years. And he, he was made to feel young again... well, younger anyway, thanks to Sam.

"You're thinking awfully hard over there," her groggy voice intruded into his thoughts.

"Mmmm..." he muttered.

"Not dark thoughts, I hope," she said as she scooted even closer to him.

Tucking his arm around her to draw her head onto his shoulder, he grunted. "Nnnooo, not dark, just... assessing, I suppose."

"Assessing what?"

"How very fortunate I am to have you, Mrs. Foyle."

"Mmmm... I'll remind you of that often."

He let a smile creep across his face. "Already do, in many small ways."

He was rewarded with a kiss for that. And then she settled back against him, both content in their warm cocoon.

After a moment's silence, she murmured. "Not worrying, are you?"

Another smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. Her study of Christopher Foyle over the years had left her knowing far too much, he thought cheekily. And when he expressed that thought, she snickered. Then came, "What is worrying you?" Her question, while asked innocently enough, had undertones of concern.

"A job," he said softly. "Just can't see where to go with that."

"Mmmmm," she hummed. "There's your book. Could finish that."

"Not likely to bring much in, Sam. Wasn't meant to be about the earnings."

"Oh? then why...?"

"Wull, that should be clear enough. Needed something to occupy my time and... needed a reason to see you often." A slow smile grew at his lips as he watched and felt her reaction to that.

First she let go a subtle coo and then she kissed him, and then... she sat bolt upright and glared down at him. "Wait, you... you knew... I mean, you wanted to see me and..."

"Needed a reason, Sam. Couldn't simply show up on your doorstep every other day. Wouldn't have been quite proper in your landlady's eyes... or your father's. But if you were helping me with the book..." He paused to let that sink in before continuing. "Needed to see you, Sam. It was my one regret about resigning."

The rigidity went out of her and she sighed. "Right. Truth was, I wasn't a very good typist, was I. I couldn't understand then why you had me helping you but I was afraid to say anything, afraid I wouldn't see you if I did. And I needed to see you as well."

He reached for her, pulling her back to him. "Alright in the end, although I suppose if I had spoken up you'd have had an easier time of it."

""Can't do that, Christopher; can't think like that. What happened, happened. And honestly, after thinking about it for some time, I've decided neither of us would have the courage to... to be where we are now, if it hadn't happened. Brought a lot of things into focus, don't you think?"

"P'haps," he conceded as he stroked his fingers along her arm.

She settled against him snuggly and they both settled into a state of contentment. But after a few moments of silence, Sam's head popped up again. "You could write a new book, a murder mystery. You could use one of the cases from your files as a beginning. Mysteries are awfully popular and with you being able to write from the inside of an investigation, from actual knowledge, it would be very thrilling."

His lips twitched with amusement. "Long hours pouring over the files, interviewing people who may or may not have an inkling about what happened, and dealing with ridiculous demands of my superiors? That's thrilling?"

"No, not that part. But collecting all the pieces and putting them together. Like Dashiell Hammett or Ellery Queen. Or perhaps like Dorothy Sayers or Agatha Christie. Or even Conan Doyle. "

Mmmm, you do realize that those authors or either American or women... or dead," he teased.

"Not Ellery Queen?" she asked with some concern.

"Wull, no, not dead; but Americans, yes. But you do realize that it is two men writing those novels?"

"Two of them? Really? I wasn't aware..."

"Yup. " He sighed. "So I should write a detective novel? And who is to be my Watson? S'pose I could use Milner as the basis for it."

"You could," she sighed as her finger traced circles on his chest. "Or... perhaps your Watson could be a woman? "

"S'pose so. Nnot sure how to devise that, however." He was teasing her and waited with a small grin on his face for her reaction.

With a huff, Sam fired back. "Use Miss Marple. Your aging detective should get along quite well with her."

"Mmmmm, who's to say my detective would an aging one? Mmight write him as a younger man, more Milner's age. Would need a younger protégée, don't you think?"

"You can write Father Brown, for all I care," she huffed again.

"Least Chesterton was English. Bbut Father Brown would hardly have a beautiful young protégé about. P'haps need to invent a new detective for this project; one that might seem a bit more enticing for your young woman."

"That's easy then," she said softly as she kissed his cheek. "Use yourself as your model."

"Wwouldn't work, Sam. The young protégé is meant to be enchanted with the detective, nnot the other way around."

"Oh you just say the most... delicious things. " She kissed him to make her point, leaving the conversation about detective novels for another time as they settled into one another for a comfortable sleep.