A/N: It's time to bring some more CSI characters into the mix and explain their roles in this fic. Don't worry, everyone will get a mention of some sort in due time. I'm pretty geeky like that.
Annie doesn't speak to me the next morning when I make good on my word. I have no idea how to use the damn thing, but the weight at my side is reassuring, if not a little awkward. I figure I'll get used to it. I'm debating whether to ask David for a refresher course while sipping a cup of seriously strong coffee, when the bell atop the clinic door rings.
I hear the plod of heavy footsteps echo in the corridor linking the clinic to our living quarters. Greg Sanders appears in the kitchen doorway, much to my surprise. Almost as an afterthought, he removes his hat, revealing some seriously wild hair. I try to hide my amusement, but it's difficult. He looks like a porcupine.
"Ready, Sara?"
"Um… ready for what?"
His expression falls and he lets out a small sigh. I feel a little guilty for not remembering why he is here, but really, it isn't my fault I have amnesia. The impatient side of Greg can be rather irritating.
"We're going to help with some of the setup for the Festival. Cat, uh… Miss Catherine needs our help at the saloon. We're on the Decorations Committee."
Oh boy. Committees. The old Sara should have known better. Still, I'm not one to shirk my responsibilities.
"Let me finish my coffee and we'll go." I pause and suddenly remember my manners. "Would you like to sit down and have a cup?"
Greg smiles wide but declines the coffee. I slurp down the remains of my cup, its bitterness flaring my taste buds. Next time I will pass on Doc's special blend and stick to Annie's tea. Well, assuming she offers it to me again.
Greg and I meet the day, and it greets us pleasantly. The breeze is cool, the sky a reflective gemstone of blue, and the streets are relatively quiet. We walk in a comfortable silence to the Silver Pole, but that silence is broken by the sound of glass shattering. It comes from the saloon.
"What the hell?"
Greg looks at me strangely, and I realize I'd better watch my tongue. It isn't proper for ladies to use foul language – Annie's told me that enough already.
When we enter the saloon through the honest-to-god shutter-style doors, a mumbled cursing is coming from behind the bar. I look avidly for the silver pole, but there is none. Well, that's disappointing. The source of the cursing pops his head up a few moments later, and if his skin were light, he'd be as red as a lobster in embarrassment. Instead, it just darkens a bit from its normal coffee color.
"Warrick, what did you do?" Greg makes his way over to the bar quickly, and I follow while studying this Warrick.
He's clean shaven and scowling slightly at Greg. His hair is trimmed short to his head and his attire places him as the saloon's bartender. He turns towards me and I'm pleasantly surprised when the cautious green eyes of a cat begin to study me. Green is not a common eye color, and I doubt I've seen it before in a black man. It suits him, as he carries himself with a dignified yet aloof manner.
I find myself smiling at him, subconsciously pleased to see him, and I wonder if he and I are on good terms.
It seems not when he addresses me in a cordial but not quite friendly tone. "Good day, Miss Sara."
"Hello," I reply cautiously.
Greg plops himself onto a stool at the bar and leans close to Warrick, whispering something to him in a voice that's too low for me to hear. But I'm guessing he's bringing Warrick up to speed on my condition.
Warrick jerks his head up and studies me again, with a somewhat disturbing intensity. I smile and wiggle my fingers at him in a little wave.
"Yeah," I say. "I have no idea who you are."
This time he smiles, the white of his teeth startling against the darkness of his skin.
"So…" he drawls, "you do not remember our last conversation."
"Nope. But I'm sorry if I said something irrational or offensive. I'm learning I used to be very opinionated."
He laughs loudly at this, while Greg just watches our interaction in befuddlement.
"Yes," Warrick says, "you are quite the opinionated lady. But that's neither here or there. I am glad to see that you are out and about after your ordeal. Miss Catherine is expecting you both and there is much work to be done."
He turns and speaks to Greg directly. "She's in the back room, sorting through the shelves and bags, looking for decorations. Good luck."
Greg replies with a look and leads me through a doorway into the back of the saloon. I hear muffled cursing again, but this time, it's a feminine voice uttering the expletives.
"Jesus H. Christ!"
Greg's expression is sheepish. I give him a satisfied smirk. I'm not the only woman in town with a colorful vocabulary. We walk into the back room, where the first thing I notice is the full ruffles and crinoline of Catherine's yellow dress. Her ass is high in the air; her head is low, buried in a large burlap sack. Decorations are strewn around her, along with pots and pans, rolls of fabric, and various other items that my mind views as 'miscellaneous stuff'. The 'stuff' is everywhere.
"God Dammit!" Catherine hoists her upper half out of the sack and turns to face us. "I can't find the damned ornamental lights anywhere. I could have sworn I packed them away, but now they've disappeared." She blinks for a second, realizing that she isn't exactly alone. "Oh, hello Greg. Hello Sara. Good to see you among the living." She barely takes a breath before saying, "Would you mind helping me find the ornamental lights? There are four of them, and I'm sure I packed them together."
Catherine is not what I expected. I study her while she directs us to search here and there. She isn't exactly friendly towards me, but I wonder if I should chalk that up to stress. I don't remember her, but I would think we would be friends. There aren't that many women like us in this town.
The three of us spend the next hour sorting through every nook and cranny of that room. It's some type of supply closet, only much bigger and with many more shelves and hidey-holes. We do find the lantern-type things she was looking for. But they need wicks, so we spent another fifteen minutes putting the various clutter back into shelves to clear away enough space to get to the wicks.
Once that is done, I am handed ribbons. Scarlet and silver ribbons; the colors of the town, it seems. I proceed to decorate every lamp, railing, and doorknob… every anything that could have a ribbon tied around it. I do the entire saloon. It really does a lot for the place. Very festive.
I am alone for most of the time it takes me to decorate. Greg had been assigned chair duty out back, and Warrick went to help him once he'd straightened out all the new glasses for the bar. He didn't feel it was prudent to mention his mishap with the one set of glasses when Catherine came to check on his progress. I found that rather amusing.
When I am finally finished, I decide to wander out back to check on Greg. Once I'm there, I am surprised by what I see. He and Warrick had finished most of the setup for the cook-out. Tables, benches and chairs from the saloon are lined up in nice, neat rows. Many, many rows. Catherine is in the process of determining where the American flag should go, and from Warrick's expression, it looks like she's been at it for a while.
"Yes! Right there…. No… wait… maybe over there. No, no. That's not right. Put it back over there."
There are more people helping besides me and Greg. Their faces are familiar, but I can't recall any names. They are setting up games, roping off various areas, and a few very burly-looking men are in the process of constructing a platform that I assume will be the dance floor.
It seems like this will be quite an event after all. I have to give Catherine some credit; she's got full control over the entire thing.
"Is there anything else you need," I ask her once she's done with the flag.
She thinks for a moment before saying, "I could use some help in the kitchen. Do you remember how to peel potatoes?"
I shrug. "How hard could it be?"
I eat those words once I actually see what Catherine wants. There are two fifty-pound sacks of potatoes, and she wants every potato peeled and quartered. I am to throw each potato into a large pot filled with salt water. Tomorrow the potatoes will be boiled, but tonight they need to soak to absorb the salt. I start peeling, while Catherine hauls out some flour and a white block I identify as lard, and starts making pie crusts.
It takes quite some time to peel a hundred pounds of potatoes, let me tell you. Catherine finishes her pies way before I'm done; they are happily baking and she's back outside, leaving me alone in the kitchen with sweat dripping down my brow. The open windows do nothing to alleviate the heat in the room. What happened to my beautiful day?
I wipe the side of my face for the umpteenth time, cursing the heat and Catherine and life in general. I smell nothing but potatoes and cinnamon and apples. My stomach growls at the thought of fresh apple pie. I sigh as I pick up another potato to peel. This sucks.
"Good day, Miss Sidle."
The voice shocks me out of the peeling trance I was in, and I jump a little in surprise. The knife slips, cutting my hand right across the pad of my thumb.
"Ow!"
Mr. Grissom hurries to my side, lifting my hand gently to examine the cut. I'm sure I look terrible, my hair must be a fright, and I'm drenched in sweat. But none of that crosses my mind as I'm again captured by his gaze. My head starts to throb and I blink the pain away.
"It's nothing," I say, once I've cleared my head. "I'll be fine."
"Honey, this doesn't look good. Let me get someone to help you."
"No," I snap, surprising myself. "I'm all right. See?"
I lift the damp cloth he placed there and the wound is barely visible. "Just a little nick. I'll be fine. You, uh… you startled me."
"Oh."
We both stand there awkwardly. The last time I saw him, I fainted. This time, I almost sliced my hand open. Being around him seems to be hazardous to my health.
"I came to drop off Catherine's order," he tells me. As if I know anything about it or what Catherine would want. I stare dumbly at him when Catherine herself walks back in to the kitchen.
"Hey Sara," she says as she's walking through the doorway, "would you check on the pies for me?" She notices Mr. Grissom and smiles broadly at him. "Gil! Good to see you. Are those my plates?"
"Yes Cath. They arrived today on the early morning train. I picked them up for you - I figured you'd want to see them right away." She raises an eyebrow at him and he says, "Greg's minding the store."
"Better say a prayer that no one visits while you are gone. He gives stuff away, particularly to the ladies, and he'll run that store right into the ground."
"He's not that bad, Cath. You're just bitter about last month." Mr. Grissom is smiling at her, and I feel like such a fifth wheel. Are these two an item? They are certainly friendly, that's for sure.
"That was my best dress he ruined! My best dress!"
He chuckles at her. "You should have known better and taken it to Jacqui. She's the seamstress."
She chuckles back. "True." Catherine then realizes that I'm still in the room. "So," she asks me, "how's it coming? Almost done yet?" She doesn't really wait for my answer before walking towards the cast iron stove at the other end of the kitchen. I am almost offended before I realize she's checking on her pies.
"I've got about fifteen left," I tell her, the white dish cloth Mr. Grissom used to stop the bleeding hanging limply from my hand.
"Doing dishes as well?" Her tone is slightly condescending, solidifying my theory that she and I are not on the best of terms. I should have known from the start. No friend would make me peel all these potatoes by myself.
"No, I … cut myself."
This causes her to snigger, and causes me to scowl. I can tell she's ready to chide me about it when Mr. Grissom cuts her off.
"I startled her. That's how she cut her hand." he says in a serious tone.
Catherine blinks at him. "You did what?"
"I'm afraid I gave her quite the scare. It was when I was bringing in your plates." He points at the crates on the floor and there are quite a few there. What kind of daze was I in that I missed that? And why didn't he say something when he first walked in?
His tone is serious. "Don't tease her for something that wasn't her fault."
"Oh," she says, mollified. He then looks at me with a cute little grin on his face, like we just shared some inside joke. Huh?
"I'd better leave you ladies to your chores. Duty calls." He turns and is gone before I can even recover from what happened.
Catherine seems rather docile after that, taking out the pies and leaving them by the window to cool.
"They smell delicious," I tell her, trying to establish some sort of peace between us.
"They're for the bake-off tomorrow. I took second last year and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose again this year."
"Who's your competition?" I ask.
She smirks at me. "Your little doting auntie. Mrs. Ann Louise Robbins."