1Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1

Part Eighteen

Stewart Sullivan leaned comfortably back into the dark leather sofa, brandy snifter in hand. Jim was relatively certain at this point that where Stewart went, so went that snifter; they never seemed to be very far apart. With Christie in the kitchen, having graciously declined Jim's offer of assistance, he found himself cornered in the library.

"So, my daughter tells me you're with the NYPD, a detective? Just what is it that you detect?"

Jim cleared his throat, something he often did when he was particularly nervous. Stewart Sullivan made him nervous. "Homicides, sir."

"If we are going to carry on with this conversation, please drop the sir, son. I'm not that formal. The name is Stewart." He took a deep pull from a cigar that had been smoldering in a marble tray on the occasional table, filling the room with its pungent aroma. Exhaling a succession of perfectly round smoke rings, something that obviously came with practice, he waved the stogie toward Jim. "Sure I can't offer you one of these? Nothing better after a dinner like that then a good cigar and a good glass of brandy. And, as I have discovered through the years, nothing better before, either."

Shaking his head, Jim smiled. "No, thank you, sir…Stewart. I don't smoke."

Taking another pull before returning it to its resting place, Mr. Sullivan sighed, "Ah, but this isn't smoking, Jim. This is pleasure. There's a difference you know. You might actually like it."

"I'll stick with my beer," he said, raising the bottle in mock toast. "Thanks, though."

"Have it your way. So, homicide you say? Do you find that a satisfying job?"

"I do," he responded with measurable pride. 'I like a good chase, putting the pieces together."

"Can't begin to pretend I'd have the stomach for a job like that. Must feel good, though, when you finally get the bugger."

Jim smiled at Stewart's choice of descriptive, nodding in agreement. "No doubt."

"So, have you ever given any thought to doing something different? I would think that gets old in a hurry."

Jim shrugged and shook his head. "Not really, I've never had occasion to. Fact of the matter is I like what I do."

"Well, that's a good thing, I guess. I can't say advertising was ever really my passion, but I grew to like it over time. And, as you can see," he said, indicating the finer appointments of the library, " it was very good to me. I know for a fact, though, they don't pay you boys near enough. That's got to give you some incentive to expand your horizons, look at other options?"

"That may be true, sir. But, I learned a long time ago, money isn't everything."

Stewart let out a hearty laugh. "You're talking to the wrong guy here, Jim."

Not sure what his response should be, Jim let the silence hang between them. He did not want to get drawn into a discussion about the merits of money or lack thereof.

"Listen, Jim" Stewart offered, " if you ever tire of police work, I've got connections in just about every business known to man. I'd be happy to see if we couldn't get you into something that paid a little better."

"That's kind of you, sir," Jim answered, attempting to imply a degree of gratitude. "But I just can't see myself doing anything else with my life." He shrugged his shoulders decisively. "This is who I am; this is what I do."

"Police work is a good and honorable profession, there's no question about that. But, where I do have a question, speaking only as Christie's father, is whether my daughter is going to be happy." He paused, swilling the brandy around the bottom of the snifter before taking a drink. "I don't mean you any disrespect here, Jim, but I am quite sure you know my daughter is used to a certain lifestyle."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied stiffly, "that is very apparent to me. And I don't mean you any disrespect here either, sir, but I believe what is important is that we love each other. I don't believe the size of my bank account has anything to do with whether she'll be happy."

"Ah, that's young love talking, Jim. And, as we all know, that can be a very fleeting thing."

"As can money, Mr. Sullivan."

Stewart laughed again, a deep rich laugh. "Point well taken, young man. Point well taken." He raised his glass in toast and drained it dry. "Can I get you another beer?"

"No, thank you. I'm good."

"Well, if you don't mind, I need a refill." Empty snifter in hand, he lifted himself from the couch and strolled to the rich wood cabinets gracing the wall from floor to ceiling behind Jim's chair. "So, Jim, it does appear you and I have something in common after all."

"And what is that, Stewart?"

"We both love my daughter." Turning from the bar, he laid a hand on Jim's shoulder. "In your case, I just hope that's enough."

He found Christie, curled up in the luxury of the pillowed window seat spanning the immense bay of the casual nook. The embers of a dying fire cast a soft glow across the polished marble floor, adding an impression of homey warmth to the room. Whatever it was she was reading, she was deeply absorbed in it. Jim stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, captivated, watching the change in her expression, the furrow of her brow, the purse of her lips. Running an absent hand across her chin, she sighed, then reached up to push an errant strand of hair from her face.

"Hey..." he called softly, not wanting to disturb her but overcome by the sudden need to. "You alone?"

"Hey." She looked up and smiled, marked her page and laid the book down. "Yeah, Mom retired for the night a little while ago, but I thought I'd wait here for you." She beckoned him with her finger. "Come here. I've missed you."

He went to her and kissed her gently. "Thanks--for waiting I mean."

So," she said, hopefully, "how did it go?"

Jim shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. It was, ah…it was interesting. I think that's the best way to describe it. I'm still here, though."

"That's something, Jimmy," Christie said, teasing him. "No one has ever made it through the initial interrogation with Daddy before today. Why do you think I'm still single?"

Grinning, he said, "I'm not even going to try to touch that one." Taking her hands, he pulled her up to stand with him and wrapped her in his embrace. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"What? Now? Jimmy it's so late."

"Yeah, I know, but I need to get some air. Are you coming?" She nodded and followed him upstairs to grab a jacket.

A light breeze blew in over the ocean, playing nonchalantly with the trees and grasses lining the path from the main house to the beachfront. It was clear and cold, the air abnormally dry for a late November evening. The moon, full and bright, cast a rich glow across the dark ocean waters, blazing a silver thread to that place where sky and waters finally meet.

Jim dropped to the sand, stretched out his long legs and pulled Christie into his lap. Wrapping his jacket around her, he held her close, and breathed in the sanctity of the moment, the quiet peacefulness of his surroundings. Something about that earlier conversation with Stewart was bothering him. Any effort on his part, to pass it off and take solace in his own knowledge of the strength of their relationship, was met by the same lingering doubt. He couldn't seem to journey past the tiny seed that had been so artfully planted.

"Can I ask you something, Christie, and be honest with me, okay?"

She nodded. "Always, Jimmy. What is it?"

"I need to know something...," he hesitated. "Is this really going to work, you and me?"

She pulled away slightly, and turned to gaze at him. "Where the hell did that come from?" Something in his expression must have provided her the only clue she needed. "Oh, God, Jimmy, what did he say?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, Christie, really, we were just talking."

"Jimmy...please. I know he said something; he had to. That didn't just come up clear out of the blue."

A rueful smile crossed his face. "I think your Dad's worried that I won't be able to provide for you, at least not in a manner you're accustomed to. And, the truth is, he's right. I'm a cop, Christie; we won't ever be rich, I can guarantee you that."

The expression in her eyes was as fierce as the tone of her voice. "And you think any of this is important to me?"

"Your father seems to think it is," he said quietly.

"Oh, Jimmy. Look at me, please." She turned on his lap to face him, her hands resting possessively on his shoulders. "I'm sorry Daddy said anything that would make you doubt us. I wouldn't change anything about you. Well, okay, maybe there are a couple of things..." she grinned. "But I love you, Jimmy, just you, and there is nothing I want more than to start my life with you, from the ground floor up, not the penthouse down."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Well, since you put it that way..."

She laughed too. "I do." Taking a page from his book, she reached around and swatted him. Lifting herself from his lap, she stood and held out her hand.

"Now, Detective Dunbar, take me back to the house, please. You're going to need to rest up. Tomorrow isn't going to be easy."

He pulled himself up and stopped to brush the last traces of sand from his pants, disposing of that nagging little doubt along with it.

Taking her hand, he turned and grinned. "I think I'm finally starting to realize that nothing with you ever is."