James pulled the car into a parking spot and checked his GPS once again. He was close to the address—five Palmer Square West. Just a block or so and he'd be at the café.

He stared at his phone and debated the wisdom of this action. Gardener had called him that morning to ask they meet; she'd said little, just the simple comment that it was of vital importance. He didn't think she'd jerk his chain for the hell of it, or to get back at House for some reason; still, the mystery worried him. He didn't like to walk into situations with so little information. And yet he'd been drawn to this meeting, out of idle curiosity if nothing else.

The walk was short, for which he was thankful. While the day was sunny, it was also blustery and chill. His breath streamed behind him in the brisk wind that swept the sidewalks free of both leaves and shoppers.

At least the café was warm. The fragrance of fresh-baked bread and brewed coffee surrounded him as he entered, and made his stomach rumble. He scanned the small space for Gardener. She'd chosen a spot near the window and already had a cup at hand, her laptop open. James approached, still unsure about this entire idea. As he came closer she looked up, saw him and smiled.

"James," she said, and set the laptop aside as she got to her feet. "Good morning. You must be half-frozen. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee? I was about to get another café au lait and some croissants."

His mouth watered at the thought. "I really shouldn't . . ." A server walked by him with a tray balanced in one hand. It held two plates loaded with what appeared to be chocolate croissants and eclairs. The fragrance alone was enough to add five pounds to his weight. What the hell, why not, he thought, and threw his diet to the metaphorical winds. "Okay, sounds good."

Gardener went to the counter to place their order. James kept an eye on her as he shrugged out of his coat and claimed the seat opposite hers. She chatted and laughed with the young woman as she handed over her cup. It took him a few seconds to realize they spoke in fluent French. It appeared this was a favorite spot, another surprise. She had to know House would question him . . .

Gardener returned a few minutes later with two large cups of creamy coffee and a plate with several croissants. She handed the fresh cup to James, placed the plate between them and sat down. "I love this place," she said, which conformed his suspicion. "It's very much like the little neighborhood patisserie where I grew up." For a moment she looked pensive, almost sad. Then she offered him a warm smile. "We'll talk whenever you're ready, if you're agreeable."

Therapist at work, he thought, and sipped his coffee with the knowledge that his internal comment was unfair; she was gracious by nature, he did understand that much about her. A moment later he realized the café au lait was delicious, the perfect balance of brew and hot milk. It complemented the almond croissant he'd selected as well. He had to fight not to smack his lips after the first taste. "So . . . what would you like to talk about?"

Gardener set down her cup. "To restate what we agreed on over the phone earlier today, Greg knows we're meeting." Her quiet voice held honesty. "I won't go behind his back or lie to him. I'll also answer any questions he has about what we'll discuss. If you feel this puts you in an awkward position, say so now and we'll keep the conversation to generalities."

James took another bite of croissant to stall for time. "I'm here. That should tell you I've agreed to your conditions," he said with some caution.

"Well, they're not really conditions. They're more of a . . . a statement of purpose. I try to treat Greg the way I like to be treated, even when he's not around." She hesitated. "To come straight to the point, there's something between you and him—some event that's caused you both a great deal of pain. Greg isn't willing or able to talk about it. I was hoping you might be able to tell me what happened."

It was strange how the memories still rushed in at the slightest excuse. James looked away, uncomfortable under Gardener's bright, steady gaze. Amber would know how to handle this, he thought, and wished she sat beside him. Of course if she was here, there'd be nothing to handle. How ironic. "I don't . . . don't think I can. Or—or should."

Gardener watched him for a moment. Then she said "All right," and took another croissant. "I wanted to thank you for the recommendation you gave me."

"Recommendation?" He wiped a drop of coffee from his bottom lip.

"The store you mentioned. It will do nicely for Thanksgiving. We'll have a great dinner ready to pick up the day before the holiday."

"Oh. You're—you're welcome." He looked away from her. "So you've made a decision."

"Yes and no." She drank some coffee. "What are your plans, if I may ask?"

"I . . . I don't know if I can talk about it." James heard the words and couldn't believe they'd come from him. "Not—not my plans, I don't have any really. I mean—what's—what's between House and me—"

"All right," she said again when he fell silent. "Do you celebrate Christmas, or just Hanukkah?"

James closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe if he gave her a little information, she'd be satisfied. Even as he thought it, he knew it was a forlorn hope. "There was an accident," he said after a brief silence. "My girlfriend died."

Gardener said nothing. Instead she reached out, put her hand over his for a moment. Her touch was warm, gentle. James felt a sudden and unwelcome sting of tears. He held them back and said nothing.

"Greg told me you left for some months."

James nodded. "After she died . . . I needed a change, something new, a life that wouldn't remind me . . ." He looked down. "Cameron was right. It didn't work."

"Greg was involved in the accident."

"How-how did you . . .?"

Gardener smiled a little, but she looked sad. "You wouldn't have brought it up unless he was part of what happened in some way."

It took him a minute or two to get his thoughts in order. "He was at a bar downtown . . . unusual for him, he's not—not a public drinker, and especially not at that time of day. He—he called me because the bartender took his keys. I was at work, an emergency consult. Amber got the call and went out to bring him home. They ended up on a bus. A garbage truck hit them . . ." He stared at the tabletop. "And the irony is it wasn't the damn accident that killed her. It was amantadine poisoning, she had that bug that was going around . . . It took House a while to figure it out." He glanced up at Gardener. She didn't comment, just waited. "He nearly died himself trying to find the answer, but I didn't see that at the time." Or care, he thought, and knew that wasn't the whole truth. He'd been worried about House, but Amber meant more in that moment of time than anyone else.

"With the deep brain scan, among other things," she said. At his startled glance she went on. "I had access to medical records through Darryl Nolan, with Greg's permission. A DBS is a dangerous procedure, even without a skull fracture."

"He suggested it." James took a sip of coffee. "It was his idea."

"That sounds like something he'd do." Gardener sat back a little. "Do you blame him for what happened?"

"I should." He wanted to, even now. "But . . . I don't."

"And yet somehow you do. Maybe not for this specific event, but in general."

"I don't know," he said after a short silence. "Yes, and no. Maybe." He picked up the last bite of his croissant, set it down again. "It's complicated."

"Very few relationships are simple, though we often tell ourselves differently." Gardener got to her feet. "I'm indulging in another coffee. Would you like a fresh order as well?"

He knew she offered to give him time to recover. "Thanks, I'd like that."

When she returned, James accepted the cup and set it aside to cool a bit. "You're right about relationships, but friendship with House . . ." He sat back. "That was never simple, at least not for me. I think for House, I'm mainly a way to stave off boredom."

Gardener smiled a little. "Partly true, but not the whole story." She paused. "If I may ask, when did you and Greg last talk about what happened?"

James ate the rest of the croissant and took his time. "I'm not sure," he said after he'd washed it down with the fresh coffee. Gardener tilted her head at him. Her gaze held compassion, paired with a sharp comprehension that made him nervous.

"I think you remember exactly when you argued about this. It's been a while, because neither party wants to open up all that pain and anger again. You're afraid of what might happen if you do."

"Maybe it's better if we don't." James tried not to sound bitter. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. "Maybe it's better to let it just . . . fade into the background."

"Has it done so to this point? I think not, if your behavior and Greg's is any indication."

"He's perfectly happy to forget about it," James snapped. "It wasn't his girlfriend who got wiped out by a damn garbage truck and a couple of pills!"

"I don't think that's true, that he's deliberately forgotten," Gardener said, still in that quiet tone. "Greg refuses to tell me anything about this. He's even asked me to move back to my place for the time being, because I tried to talk with him about it. From what I can see, he's torn up with grief and anger over what happened. I believe much of his reluctance is because he can't find it in himself to look objectively at his role in the events that took your girlfriend's life. He feels what happened is completely his fault. And he couldn't save her, so he carries a double weight of guilt and helplessness. For a proud, independent man with such a powerfully rational mind, that's a terrible burden."

She was right, James knew she was, but he couldn't bring himself to agree with her. "It's all about him, as usual," he muttered.

"On the contrary, I think this is very much about you. Greg nearly lost your friendship over this. He's frightened that if he opens up the discussion—"

"Argument. It was never anything else."

Gardener gave him a shrewd look, but didn't disagree. "He feels if he brings it up, you'll leave for good."

"What difference does that make? He's got you." James stopped, appalled. "I . . . I didn't mean that."

"Finally." The word sounded almost like a sigh.

"That's not—I—"

"No, don't deny it. It's the truth."

Shit. James gave a silent groan. Now he'd have to deal with endless questions. "It's—it was a stupid thing to say."

"No, not at all." To his surprise she didn't look angry or even upset. "However, it's not accurate in the least. I am not a substitute for you. No doubt Greg has already told you that, and you chose not to believe him." She munched a bit of croissant, swallowed and picked up her cup. "I think he considers us both to be his best friends, but with different side benefits."

James nearly choked on his coffee. "Side—side benefits?"

"Yes, of course. For my part, it's sex and therapy with some housekeeping and cooking thrown in for good measure. Your list is probably different, unless you're having sex with him as well." She raised her brows and sipped her coffee. James stared at her, speechless.

"Uh—no," he said at last. Gardener nodded and lowered her gaze, but not before James saw the amusement there. "Oh, good lord," he said in exasperation. "No wonder you two get along so well."

She laughed softly. "Greg must enjoy teasing you."

"I think it's an avocation for him." James paused. "You're charming me."

"If you want to see it that way, I can't stop you."

"You mean you won't." He studied her. "You don't have to, you know. Charm me, I mean."

"I would like us to be friends." She set down her cup. "I've said it before, James. I'm glad you and Greg are, what do young people say nowadays, that you're BFFs." Her faint accent made the slang word sound almost exotic. "Your company is always welcome. If you decide to spend the holiday with us, you would not be a guest."

"I'm not family either."

"Nor am I." She looked at him straight on then. James had never seen such clear grey eyes, as discerning as House's often were, and as direct. "We don't have to be, though. We are what we are, and Greg knows us both. That's good enough, don't you think?"

Was it good enough? The question persisted as James drove to work, his belly full of illicit but excellent coffee and croissants. He had to face the fact that House was with a significant other once again, and that relegated him to second place. But was that such a bad thing?

"Guess we'll find out at Thanksgiving," he said aloud, and knew it was the outcome Gardener had hoped to achieve.