A/N: A very special thanks to the three lovely ladies who beta'd this for me. The possess much patience and red ink.

Disclaimer: Not Mine.

Chapter 4

Sara had been keeping track of her mother for the past three years. Every time Laura Sidle moved, her daughter knew about it. She hadn't checked for a couple of months, so she would have to take a chance that Laura hadn't moved since late September. For those three years she had carried a piece of paper in her wallet upon which each of those new addresses was scribbled. After the first few days at the cottage, Sara took out that list and kept it with her constantly, a tangible reminder of what she had to do. If she was sitting on the couch the crinkled scrap was on the coffee table. If she left the cottage, it was in her pocket. Often she would find herself holding it in her hand, rubbing her fingers over the slick surface like some kind of disposable worry stone.

Having come this far, she suddenly found herself unsure. Should she call first? Should she show up on her doorstep? How did one meet their mother after twenty-three years? What do you say to the one person left to carry the blame for the debacle your childhood became? Surely it couldn't be as easy as, "Hi, I'm Sara. Remember me?"

It was a beautiful Tuesday afternoon when Sara climbed behind the wheel of her car and set out on the twenty mile trip to Point Reyes Station. The directions she had written down from Mapquest sent her south along CA-1. The highway followed the winding coastline and she took her time, enjoying the view. The sun reflected off the water. The gulls soared and dipped on currents of warm air. Pelicans tucked their wings back and dove into the blue-gray water in search of a snack. Waves crashed against the rocks, sending spray high into the sky. There was something so majestic about the ocean, something so awe inspiring. If she had missed nothing else while she was in Vegas, she missed untamed beauty of the Pacific.

Before long she was turning onto a narrow road that led inland. Slowly she picked her way along the blacktop, eyes searching for the correct number on the mailboxes. When she finally spied number 225 a sharp bark of laughter escaped her lips. She pulled over and stopped before digging out the slip of paper. Surely the address was wrong. There was no way her mother lived at a bed and breakfast.

Sara sat in the car for several long minutes staring at the house. It was a beautiful Victorian with copious amounts of gingerbread trim. The deep front porch would offer cool shade in the summer and protection from the elements in the winter. The structure rose to an imposing three stories. But the soft yellow paint gave it a warmly inviting appearance. There were orange mums blooming in planters on the porch and beds of bright pansies flanking either side of the sparkling oyster shell walk. This, she thought, was a place she could love.

Sara pulled forward and turned into the drive. Parking the car, she got out and closed the door. The clean smell of the ocean air filled her with a sense of peace and she moved in the direction of the house with hope winning the war over the dread she had felt for months. The crushed shells crunched under her feet as she walked to the house. Slowly she climbed the steps and crossed the porch. When her hand touched the knob, she hesitated for a moment before opening the heavy oak door.

With a gentle push, Sara closed the door behind her. The quiet of the house was broken by the jangling of the bell over the portal. She stood still, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the entry. A staircase on her right led to the second floor landing before turning and continuing overhead on the left. There was a beautiful, antique, cherry secretary just to the left of the stairs. Looking around, she caught a glimpse of the parlor with its shelves of books and board games and its floor to ceiling windows flooding the room with light. The dining room was on the other side of the entry. And Sara just knew that if she went past the staircase she would find the kitchen.

Spying a bell on the desk, she stepped forward and hit it with her hand, eliciting a quiet ding. Then, from the back of the house, she heard footsteps. She plastered a smile on her face, prepared to look foolish for being in the wrong place. But when she caught sight of the person walking toward her the breath left her lungs in a rush. She simply stared at the woman who had inhabited her dreams and her nightmares for as long as she could remember.

She was not as tall as Sara remembered, but it seemed that not much else had changed. Her hair was still long and, as always, it hung in a loose braid down the length of her back. Her eyes, the color of the whiskey she had loved, were still haunted. But it was her smile that had Sara fighting back the tears building in her eyes. It was the slight gap between her front teeth and the way her lips twisted into a smirk before turning into a full blown smile which told Sara that this was the person she was seeking.

"May I help you?" Laura Sidle asked with a pleasant smile on her face. For a second her eyes narrowed and she studied Sara a little harder. With a shake of her head she shrugged off that tingle of recognition.

Blinking the moisture from her eyes, Sara spoke. "Are you Laura Sidle?"

The smile faltered. The years of being in prison had made her wary of strangers asking questions. Laura wrapped her arms around her waist for protection in a gesture Sara found far too familiar. "Yes. And you are?"

Releasing the breath she didn't realize she was holding, Sara said, "I'm Sara."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Laura's trembling hand came up to cover her mouth. "Oh, God," she breathed.

"It was completely surreal, Gil." Sara pressed the cell phone tight against her ear, as if she could get closer to him by being closer to the device. "She didn't even know who I was."

"I would imagine you've changed quite a bit in the past twenty years." Grissom's voice held a hint of amusement. Sobering he asked, "Did it…bother you…that she didn't know?"

Sara thought for a moment, trying to sort through the feelings that had washed over her during that moment. Grissom could almost hear her shrug. "I'd be lying if I said no. She's my mother. I guess I assumed she would know me anywhere, anytime."

Grissom heard the fissure of pain that ran through her words, the one she tried to hide. He stayed silent, giving Sara time to work through her thoughts.

Sara let a soft chuff of laughter escape. "I can't believe she's running a B&B. Talk about coming full circle."

Grissom nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "It does seem to defy the odds. How did she end up there?"

"It seems that a couple owns it. They lived there and the wife ran the inn while the husband worked in San Francisco for Wells Fargo. He got transferred to Texas, Houston I think. They didn't want to sell it so they hired someone to run it. My mother got the job."

Grissom hesitated for a moment before asking the question that was heavy on his mind. "So, have you gotten any answers?"

Sara sighed and dragged a hand through her hair. She stared into the fire burning in the fireplace and pressed her lips together. She knew he wanted her to say yes and that she'd be home soon, but that would be a lie. "No, not really. She didn't seem all that eager to talk to me. I was only there an hour."

Biting back his disappointment, Grissom said, "Okay."

Hurrying to reassure him, Sara said, "She did agree to see me again on Thursday. It's slow at the inn right now and she has a lot of free time. So, I'm going back down there and we're going to have lunch."

"All right." His words were slow and measured. Sara could hear the frustration just under the surface.

"Griss, I'm so sorry."

He flinched at the casual use of the nickname. It made the separation seem even more real. "You haven't called me that outside of work in almost two years."

Sara was confused by the sudden change of topic. "Huh? Oh…Griss?" When he murmured in agreement, she said, "It just came out."

Grissom leaned back against the pillows on the couch and closed his eyes. He wanted to tell her that he missed her. He wanted to tell her that he couldn't sleep or eat or breathe without her there. Instead he said, "You haven't asked about Hank."

Knowing there was so much he wasn't saying, Sara fought back her need to tell him she missed him and that she wanted to come home. "Okay. How's Hank?"

"Hank is currently stretched out on the rug in the living room, staring at that ratty old slipper you gave him." Grissom tried to lighten his voice. "He…uh…he's okay."

Sara knew Grissom too well to believe that he was really talking about the dog. She knew that it was Grissom that was merely okay. Once again she found her throat tight with emotion. The ache in her chest had become her constant companion since she had confronted Hannah West the day she left Vegas. "You could give him a kiss for me and tell him that I love him." She paused a second before adding, "And tell him I'll be home as soon as possible."

Grissom was silent for a long moment. Sara, afraid she had lost the connection, held her phone out and looked at it. Finally he spoke. "I'll tell him."

"Gil," Sara whispered, "I love you, too."

He sighed. "I know you do, Sara."

Another silence stretched between them. Sara broke it by saying, "I guess you need to get to work. I'll call you soon."

"Yeah," Grissom's voice was rough with emotion. "I suppose that I do need to get ready."

"Gil?" Sara was tentative, fearing rejection. "You know that if you…um…need me for…for anything, you can call, right?"

"I know, sweetheart."

"Good. I guess I'll talk to you later then." Sara hesitated before adding, "Bye, Gil."

"Sara?" Grissom's tone was urgent. "I love you, too."

Quietly, she replied, "I know you do." And then she broke the connection.