A/N I am not big on posting on Thursday night's but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Yes I know this chapter is kind of eh. Consider it a necessary evil for moving the story along. Sorry for the untimiley updates. I had every intention of continuing to update while I was away but British Airways forced me to check my laptop after I'd had it with me for nine hours the bag became too big in London. Anywho they lost my laptop and I could not post. Thanks for sticking with me. Hopefully I'm back on schedule with my weekly updates.
Enjoy.
Sara
He looks tired. Like he does when he's been at work more than 14 hours.
"Hey," I say from the doorway as he pulls a clean t-shirt over his head. The smell of Zest sandalwood hits my nostrils, then recedes as he pulls back the dark blue comforter on the king sized bed. He tried to wash off the cigar smoke, but I can still smell it.
"Hey yourself," He gives me a sleepy grin.
"Too much partying with the fellas?" He didn't get all his partying in because of the gun scare. I feel guilty about that. He works so hard. He cut short his big night out because I didn't have the stupid cell phone on.
"Maybe." He shrugs suppressing yawn. "I think I need to follow my own advice and turn down some work. I have some irrational fear that if I say no one too many times, the work will dry up."
"It won't," I say moving across the room and sitting next to him on the bed. "How many other guys do what you do?"
"There are four entomologists in the country and ten the world with my my skill set." I like it when he gets all scholarly. Skill set. Heh.
I move to the bathroom, brush my teeth, do the mouthwash routine, wash my face with cleanser. When I pad back to the bedroom, Gil is on his back, bare–chested, eyes closed. I slide underneath the crisp sheets and don't even think about what I say next, it just comes out.
"Do you think Kelly is pretty?"
"I think you're pretty," he says a little too sweetly. I should say something. Like thank you or something. I just kiss his neck and rub his beard against my cheek, absorbing the man smells I've become so used to.
"She's very pretty," I repeat. "You don't have to confirm."
Lips meet the top of my head. "If you like that sort."
"Beautiful blond, rich, perky, C cup, tiny waist, size 6 shoe."
Rumbling laughter just bubbles under the sheets. "Yeah, that type. She's very….swimsuit modelish."
My hands are cold and I've got no idea why. I refrain from running them under his shirt. He's probably tired. God knows I am, but I need to feel him close-closer than he is right now.
"Her mother used to tell her that she looked like a World War 2 pin up girl."
Gil shifts and runs his fingers along my back, finally resting his hand on my lower back where I pulled a muscle during yoga class a few weeks ago. "Nice reference. Yeah, a girl like Kelly is nice to have in your locker or in books. But it's not what I like in real life."
Dumb me, somehow this conversation has turned into something about Alana. The rumble in his chest returns only this time it's not laughter. I peek at his face. His eyes are closed and his breathing is soft, moving the little hairs in his mustache.
"I like long legs, gaps, hair that won't behave, big feet and a girl that can burp with the best of them."
I push away the irrational thought that crying is for wimps. Instead I continue to rest my nose in the crook of his neck. It's warm there. He's always so warm. Quickly, without me even feeling it at first he brushes away two or three tears that have escaped from my eyes.
I hazard another look into his eyes. They are bright, the sleepiness is gone. He looks more than gentle. Men really look at women like that? Like some Lifetime movie?
Maybe...
There's been this nagging in my heart for days, okay weeks. I'm not just a piece of ass to him anymore. He wants me with him all the time. He talks to me and he really listens to what I have to say. He asks for my advice. He doesn't know where his socks are anymore. I have no idea what to do about all this information, but its clear where we are heading-no we're almost there.
Every day since we started, I asked myself what would I do if he leaves today, if he never calls again. For awhile, the answer was-nothing. Twenty three days ago the answer was cry and suck it up. Now? Now I would beg him not to to go. To let me stay. I don't want to be that woman but I am that woman. His woman.
He presses his cheek into mine and whispers into my ear.
"You don't have to tell me now, but when you're ready I want you to tell me about your family."
I can do that for him, for us.
OOOOOOOOOO
Sara,
I don't want you to go through your life afraid. Afraid of loving someone or afraid of believing in the possibilities that life offers because of my mistakes. I hear what you are saying about this man and my head says be careful. However, the more you speak of him, my heart says he sounds like he might be worth the gamble. Of course I want you to be careful, but I don't want you to be too careful.
I could have left you two legacies. One would have made you prey to the same kind of man I found myself prey too. You have taken or perhaps given the other -- fear of any significant intimacy. I guess that is the lesser of two evils.
Is is possible to be careful and to be bold?
Perhaps it's time to tell him everything. At the very least, you should tell him something. I can't imagine what he thinks about the scar. It must be an awful scar.
I suppose now would be the time to tell you. Your brother managed to track me down and has been writing me almost as frequently as you have. He wants your address. I told him I would ask you.
The rest of the letter is regular mom stuff. Don't sleep under the ceiling fan. Are you eating right? Are you regular? Why do they ask that? I mean, I'm a grown woman. If I am not regular what is she going to do about it? Why is that the mom barometer for health?
The letter is signed with a small drawing of me and my brother when we were kids.
Of course he can have the damn address. He saved my life, didn't he.
Gil
She blurts it out one Saturday morning when I'm plodding through the New York Times crossword. I will not read the questions aloud because its slightly emasculating to have your barely old enough to drink, freshmen in college lover answer the questions that you can't. She's drinking Earl Gray and nibbling on "biscuits," topping off a languid session of lovemaking and brunch in bed.
She giggles when she says biscuits and I want to kiss the trembling muscles in her neck.
As the last of the tea goes down, the words come out in what can only be described as a slow rush. Oxymoron I know, but that's the only way I can describe it.
"My mom's in jail and my dad's dead," she says evenly.
I panic not because of what she has told me, but because I'm very sure that shock registers on my face. Raised eyebrows and wide eyes never bode well for "tell me anything."
Luckily she's not looking at me. She's nibbling on another beige disc. This one has almonds and they seem to hold an unusual interest for her. After a full minute I realize that she wants me to say something.
"Are those two things related?" I don't know what else to say. Probably not the best question, but the investigator in me took over for a moment.
She nods and cuts her downcast eyes at my shoulder. "Yeah."
I can see from the veins in her neck and hands that she's holding it together by the thinnest of threads. "Do you...want to tell me more? Or is that all you are comfortable with?"
She answers the question by continuing to talk in low, halting sentences. "He was an asshole. He beat the shit out of her for years. Drank too much. I guess one night it was either her or him."
I nod. I want to touch her but now doesn't seem to be the time. "Did he ever hurt you?"
Brown hair and like colored eyes whip in my direction. I'm sure that foul language is imminent. Instead, her orbs turn kittenish and some of the tension leaves her face. "He smacked me sometimes. Couple times a year." The revelation sets my guts on fire. I want to hit someone. "He'd leave a bruise or something. But my brother protected me most of the time."
Brother? As a person with no siblings, it never occurred to me that Sara had one. "Where's your brother?" I asked reaching for the tips of her crumb covered fingers. She tenses up for several seconds and then relaxes. Our fingers touch lightly on the pine tray. My guts are on fire with revelations. How could anyone hurt this wonderful woman?
This time she finally lifts her head and I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. "Canada. I haven't talked to him since he left home."
"You talk to your mother." It's not really a question more of a rumination.
She runs a hand across her forehead as if she's broken out in a sweat. "Sometimes on the phone, but mostly we write."
I move a centimeter in her direction and my fingers cover her nails. "How often?"
"Around once a week."
"You're close." There's something reassuring in that, though I don't know what it is because her mother did kill someone.
She's watching me now to make sure this meets my approval. If it doesn't, I sense she'll bolt. NO man will ever come between her and her mother-again. There is some of kinship in this revelation. I'm very close to my mother, too, and I rarely hear her voice.
"I could teach you some sign language so you could say dirty things about the guards when you visit."
She does that snort thing and cackles for a bit. "I'll tell her you said it, but she won't let me see her "in there"."
"Makes sense."
"Does it?" she's says, the corners of her mouth turning down
"She doesn't want you to see her like that. I wouldn't want my kid to see me like that."
"Yeah, well..."
It's all she'll say for now. It's more than a start.
OOOOOOOOOO
We doze for an hour. Or maybe its two. Emotions have worn me out. I am jostled awake by the absence of Sara. I open my eyes to find Sara's thin, well muscled back pulling on a white pull over.
"Where you going?" I mumble. Startled, she turns to me and gives an odd sort of peaceful look that turns up the corners of her eyes. "I'm just going down the street."
"To?" I prompt. Lifting my upper body onto my elbows as she tucks her shirt into crisp khakis.
"Church," she breaths leaning over and touching my lips to hers.
"Which one?" I'm sitting completely up now. There are four churches in my neighborhood, one Catholic three protestant.
"St. Peter's," she slips on loafers and moves to the dresser to check her appearance. Noon sunlight dances and highlights the reddish freckles on the apples of her cheeks.
Shaking off the remnants of sleep, I stare at her back and find myself smiling. "Okay..."
Her eyes find mine and I know it has never occurred to her that this is actually MY church. She's never really talked about God. She believes I know she prays.
Something must register on my face because she stops moving for an instant. "You go to church?"
"Not as much as I should, but enough so they know me."
"Oh. I thought you were like, mad at the Church. I mean you said about the priest scandal and everything."
"Not mad. Disappointed. I was also disappointed that my Uncle Sal has a gambling problem, but it didn't stop me from calling him."
"Not the same thing," she shoots back, resting her hips on the dresser and crossing her arms.
She's right. "You're right. I guess I should say I never stopped loving him."
"So you're still Catholic?"
"Unless something happened that I don't know about," I reach for my watch and swing my legs from our bed.
"Where are you going?" she asks suspiciously turning back towards the dresser.
"To church."
Observation-Sara
An hour and half later, after Sara and Grissom had knelt and risen and crossed themselves. After they'd been reminded of forgiveness love,contrition, faith and hope, It was then, with Sara, feeling clean and free and Grissom, feeling content and accomplished, that Grissom steered Sara towards the tall, lithe, onyx man wearing vestments who was speaking with a middle aged couple.
After the couple had gone, Peter Ado took Grissom's hands and kissed both his cheeks while he held his shoulders in a gentle vice. "Gilbert. It is good to see you. And who is this?"
The priest turned black eyes towards Sara.
Gil lightly touched Sara's elbow and moved closer to her. "Sara, meet Peter Ado. Peter is my parish priest, good friend and considerable pain in my backside."
"Guilty as charged." The man thundered softly with an accent Sara could not place. She thought probably it was a mixture of British English and West African.
"It is wonderful to have you with us, Sara. How long will you be with us?"
Uncomfortable with all the attention on her, Sara blushed and shrugged. "I don't know. I usually got to Christ the King over on MLK."
Father Ado rocked back on his heels and clapped his hands. "Ah, yes. My dear friend, Sister Marion, does a great deal of work in the area. You know her?"
Sara nodded. "She's a good friend of mind, too." Gil's face registered. The other man continued to speak. "I shall tell her that I met a lovely Sara with a wonderful smile who appears to have my dear friend on the path of righteousness - or at least attending mass. With this one, I shall take what I can get and let God do the rest. Now." The hands met again. The sound thunders through the small church. "I am making a chicken stew. I have a lovely vintage, that Gil's mother sent me, breathing and I am a lonely man with no one to share my dinner with. What a joy it would be to have two interesting, gorgeous young people to share a meal with."
TBC