Welcome Her Home with Red Roses (T Rated Version)

by Labyrinth01

After spending a month in Atlanta, Brenda is reunited with Fritz and prepares to start a new chapter in her life. This is the final story in the "Welcome Home" series. (There is also an M-rated version of this story.) THIS STORY IS ON HOLD. I just got so tired begging for reviews that it doesn't seem worth it anymore.

3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Sorry for the very long delay between chapters. A month ago I badly sprained two fingers on my right hand and couldn't type for about 3 weeks. I nearly went crazy (and if you were ever curious, voice recognition software works like crap). Also, this chapter is extremely long. I didn't want to break it down into two chapters, because it all takes place in about 18 hours. However, there are many flashbacks-flashbacks within flashbacks, even.

Many thanks to Kate Rosen for editing this monstrosity for me, which was no easy feat.

There is also an M-rated version of this story on . You don't need to read both. Except for the sexy time, they are identical.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER 3

"Time?"

Fritz glanced down at his watch. "If you want a drink at the hotel bar before dinner, you have twelve minutes before we need to leave." He returned to the Sports Pages.

"I'm almost done, just finishin' up my hair." Brenda's voice had an echo-like quality coming from the bathroom.

"I'm sure you look great," he said.

He heard an impatient noise from her and knew it was directed at him. "You can't even see me, Fritz! You have no idea what I look like. You lose credibility when you give the 'I'm sure you look great' speech, you know that?"

He shook his head, amused. "And do you know that we have this exchange every time you're getting ready to go out?"

The clank of what he assumed was her curling iron on the marble sink was followed by, "and do you know how turned on it makes me to bicker like an old married couple?" He could hear the smile in her voice.

Five minutes later, she yelled, "time?"

He tossed the paper on the small table next to the stuffed chair he was sitting on, giving up on reading it. "Brenda, didn't I get you a nice watch last Christmas?"

Her voice was saccharine-sweet with sarcasm. "Why, yes you did, sweetheart, and I thank you again for such a generous gift. But I'm not wearin' it right now, and besides, I always thought you liked bein' the official timekeeper of our social life."

"'Like' is too strong a word," he grumbled under his breath, not annoyed in the least. It felt wonderful to be engaging in their old banter again, playing their respective roles in their silly faux arguments. It's good to be us again, he thought, with a contented sigh.

"You have seven minutes if you want…"

"…to get a drink in the bar before dinner," she finished. "I got that part the first ten times, Fritz."

Fritz picked up the comics and flipped through them listlessly for the next couple of minutes until the sounds in the bathroom were replaced by the muted thumps of high heels on carpet. He got a whiff of Brenda's perfume just as he looked up to find her standing in front of him.

"So how do I look?" Brenda asked, twirling around.

He didn't have the words. Beautiful and stunning wouldn't do; they were too banal. Elegant and exquisite were closer, but he knew they would sound distant and pretentious coming out of his mouth. Sexy was certainly a step in the right direction, but it barely scratched the descriptive surface.

Brenda was dressed in the black dress Fritz had brought her, a simple silk sheath with spaghetti straps with a deep V neckline that was cut to hug her curves in a way reminiscent of a 1940's gown. It ended right at Brenda's knee, and Fritz saw she chose to go without hose, her fair skin a stark creamy white against the black. She had on the heels he had brought her, and he noticed her new running program made her legs even more shapely. He scanned upwards, and he appreciated the generous eyeful of bust the dress afforded him. She was wearing a simple platinum and diamond choker and matching earrings he had gotten her two Christmases and anniversary's ago, respectively. And oh, her face—I have dreamt of that face for an entire month—was done to perfection. She had her "evening" makeup on, applied with a heavier hand, with crimson lips and smoky eyes. Her long hair had been tamed a bit with a curling iron so it lay in ringlets, only a small amount on the top pulled back into a black rhinestone barrette that was clipped low on her skull. She had a sequin purse in one hand and a shawl folded over the opposite arm, and she looked at him with amusement as he slowly perused her body.

His mouth hanging open like a fish, only one syllable fell from it: "wow."

She tilted her head back and laughed. "I spend all that time fussin' and tryin' to look good for you, seein' that you arranged this nice dinner and a romantic evening in a fancy hotel and all, and what I get from you is 'wow?' Fritzy, you really have lost your credibility!"

He stood up and grabbed her quickly, palming her butt and making her gasp. He placed his lips on her supersensitive spot on her neck and kissed her, hot and slow, and her shrieks of protests quickly morphed to moans. He pulled back and noted with satisfaction that Brenda looked, with pupils dilated and breathing rapidly, for lack of a better word, gobsmacked.

"Sometimes, Brenda, you leave me speechless," he said, low and husky. "And this is one of those times. I can't tell you how incredible you look, I can only show you." He bent down to kiss her but she turned her head, and he got her cheek instead. She took a step back from him and held out an arm to keep his distance.

"Fritz, honey, any more non-verbal complements and we won't make it downstairs for dinner. I'll desperately be dialing room service at 2AM naked and starvin' when we finally come up for air."

His mouth grew dry at the thought. "I don't really see a problem with that."

She slipped out of his arms. "I do. I'm all gussied up for a fancy dinner, and that's what I want, mister. So get me out of this room before I rip your clothes off." She turned and walked toward the door. As she walked through the threshold, she looked over her shoulder. "You might not know this, but I want a drink in the bar before dinner."

---

"The usual?" Fritz said, as they sat down at the patio bar. Brenda was looking around at all the elegantly dressed men and women, heading to a late Friday night dinner like they were. The deep gold of the fading California sun cast an aura around her blonde head, and Fritz thought she looked like an angel.

"Hmmm. I'm feelin' like somethin' a little stronger tonight." She picked up the drink menu and looked at it.

"Are you sick of me already?"

She smiled. "No, no, a martini just sounds good is all. I'll have wine with dinner."

"You are going to be an expensive date."

She leaned over the table and whispered, "don't worry, I put out."

A handsome waiter, most likely an aspiring actor, approached the table. Fritz ordered a Diet Coke and Brenda ordered a Cosmo.

"How very 'Sex in the City' of you, Brenda."

Brenda was about to retort when her phone rang. She frowned and reached for her purse.

"Sorry," she mumbled, and Fritz had an unpleasant sense of déjà vu, to all the dinners ruined by phone calls that tore her away from their evening plans. It's not Major Crimes, he told himself, feeling anxious. She doesn't work there anymore.

Brenda finally freed her phone from the confines of her small clutch. "Oh crap! Sorry Fritz, it's Daddy, I forgot to—hi Daddy! Yes, I'm in LA…yea, I know I said I'd call when I landed but…" her expression darkened, and Fritz could hear Clay yelling at Brenda from all the way across the table. He listened in to snippets of the conversation, annoyed that Clay was not only interrupting their evening together, but was berating the daughter who just spent a month taking care of him.

"Daddy, you know I didn't mean to worry you…I am not inconsiderate! Of course you're important Daddy…well for heaven's sake, what do you think I was doin,' I haven't seen my husband in a month…phone calls don't count…" Brenda huffed and crossed her arms, throwing herself against the back of her chair in annoyance. Fritz caught her eye and she glowered.

After another minute, she cut him off. In a loud voice, she said, "Daddy, use your head! You were married for 50 years! I was havin' sex, that's what! I've been away from Fritz for a month and we were too busy havin' sex to think about much else. And that includes callin' you to let you know I arrived safely."

Several tables around them stopped talking and turned to stare at them. Their waiter, about ten feet away, froze in mid-route, then slowly approached them with their drinks, as if he were afraid of what Brenda might do next. Fritz felt his cheeks grow red.

"…maybe next time you will think before you start hollerin,'" she said. "I do not appreciate bein' talked to that way." Brief pause, where he assumed Clay said he was sorry. "Apology accepted. Now Fritz and I are out for a romantic dinner, and I have to go. And don't be callin' me later on, because I fully suspect we will be havin' sex then too." And without saying goodbye, she hung up and put her phone back in her purse.

When she looked at him, she seemed puzzled by the expression on his face. "What?" she said innocently.

"Brenda, did you have to announce to the entire bar that we were making love this afternoon? And what in the world possessed you to tell your father?" he whispered to her harshly. Fritz looked around and saw people were still tossing curious glances their way.

She shrugged. "He was rantin' and ravin' cuz I forgot to call him when I got into LAX like I promised," she said. "And wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. I had to say somethin' to shut him up. And tellin' him exactly what I was doin' that distracted me from givin' him a ring did the trick." She smirked and picked up her drink, taking a small sip. "Oh that's good," she said, setting it down again

She leaned close to Fritz and put her small hand on his. "And as far as the patrons of this fine establishment overhearin' me, Fritz," she said, running her thumb over his, "you know I can't help that. I have a problem with bein' loud." She pulled back and picked up her Cosmo, sitting back and looking as Hollywood as they come with her sexy black dress and long blonde hair, relaxing next to Rodeo Drive enjoying a cocktail on a summer evening.

And Fritz couldn't wait until dinner was over to get her to really make some noise.

---

Like most men, Fritz Howard appreciated a good steak. That's one reason why he chose the upscale steakhouse, Cut, for their romantic dinner out: steaks for him, desserts for Brenda. And it was located in the hotel, so they didn't have to go very far. Fritz was all about proximity to their room. He would prefer that they hole themselves up in that nice room for about a week and never put a stich of clothing on, ordering room service to fuel themselves for marathon rounds of sex. But he prided himself on being a gentlemen, and he wanted Brenda to know that he didn't just miss her body, he missed the whole package, so he wanted something nice to do with clothes on. She deserved a romantic evening out her first night back, and besides, a little anticipation always made the sex better.

It took more self-control than he thought he possessed to crawl out of bed post-nap after they had made love that afternoon. Brenda was still asleep, lying on her stomach, her hair splayed over her back and pillow in messy curls. He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck and she shifted, but didn't wake. He wanted to keep going, to wake her and make love to her again, but the time showing on the bedside clock gave him pause. He wasn't going to ruin their dinner plans because he couldn't keep his hands to off of her, and if he didn't get into the shower now, he knew he wouldn't be able to resist temptation. Somehow he forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, promising himself that the evening was just starting.

Fritz was grateful for his self-control, because the food at Cut was delicious. Brenda dug in with great enthusiasm. She admitted, after getting rather buzzed on one martini at the bar, that she had barely eaten all day, so she hardily enjoyed an appetizer, salad, filet mignon with all the trimmings, and was now practically orgasmic over a plate of profiteroles. Fritz smiled at her rapture: if he didn't make her look even happier in bed, he would be intensely jealous of her dessert.

"So what do you want to do tomorrow?" he asked, taking a bite of his coffee cheesecake. Delicious.

Brenda reluctantly dragged her attention away from her dessert to look at him. She held up a finger as she took a bite of the Italian specialty. She closed her eyes and chewed, her small tongue flicking out to catch a small bit of errant chocolate on her upper lip. Damn she is sexy, he thought, his body reacting to her erotic display. When she swallowed she opened her eyes, , and answered.

"Well, I can't help but want to look around at the shops a bit here," she said.

"No problem."

She took another bite with equal adoration. "And after that, I was hopin' we could go look at the house." She raised an eyebrow at Fritz.

He put down his fork. Oh no. The Reckoning.

"Oh. I thought we weren't going to do that until Sunday." Just give me one more day, he pleaded to no one in particular.

"I know, I know, but I'm eager to see it. I thought you could call the owner and see if we could swing by tomorrow instead."

He felt his stomach tighten. "Well, you see, Brenda, I wanted some time to go over the house with you before you saw it, so you would know what to expect, you know, because it's not perfect—"

"Oh Fritz, for heaven' sake!" Brenda said, irritated. "I appreciate that this was incredibly nerve-wrackin' for you, buyin' a house without me seein' it, and I know you had to do a ton of work to have me co-sign the Purchase and Sales long distance, what with the overnight deliveries to Atlanta and notaries for all those documents I had to put my name on and whatnot. And I totally understand you're scared I'm gonna hate it. But honey, you have told me over and over what the flaws are. Not to mention the dozen of pictures you have taken of each room, which you e-mailed to me with detailed explanations. On top of all that, you took a video of the house, goin' room by room, narratin' the whole thing, pointin' out the paint colorin' here, the outdated appliance there. It was like a National Geographic special."

Okay, it was a little overkill. But buying a house for the biggest control freak he had ever met, and hoping she would like it, was a very tall order. And he wanted, he really, really wanted, to make her happy. She deserved happy. He was terrified she wouldn't like it, that the house would be just one more disappointment wrapping up a year's worth of misery. His anxiety increased with each step closer they came to owning the house—offer, acceptance, P&S, inspection…and it crowded out what he knew in his heart: the house was perfect.

"Fritzy?" Brenda's voice pulled him out of his obsessive cycle. "You were a thousand miles away. You were worryin' about the house again, weren't you? Afraid that I won't like it?" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, the way it got when she felt bad about something but wasn't exactly sure what.

"Yea, I am, and I know I'm being a little crazy about this. I just want to do this right, Brenda. I want to give you a house you love. You deserve that, you really do. And if you don't like this place, if I've screwed up—"

She slapped her hand down on the table, making him jump. "Oh just stop, will you? I'm tired of your perseveratin'. If there is somethin' I don't like about this house, you know what? It's my own damn fault, cuz I wasn't here to pick it out. And honestly Fritz, how picky am I about where I live? I'm serious when I say as long as you and Joel are there, and a lot of horrible memories aren't, I'm good with it. I like everythin' I saw on the video and the pictures you sent me. I finally get to have my own bathroom, which I plan to paint pink, by the way. Havin' a pool is gonna be fun. It seems just what I want." She reluctantly put her fork down, gave her profiteroles a longing glance, and placed both of her hands on Fritz's. "I appreciate all your hard work with this, Fritz, I really do. I love you for it. I have no doubt that any place we buy, we, especially you, can make it into a home."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Okay, you win." He glanced down at his watch. "Let me call the owner before it gets any later and see if we can go over tomorrow afternoon." He reached into his jacket pocket and felt for his phone. Satisfied, he stood up and turned toward the restaurant door, planning on stepping out to make his call in private.

He started to walk away and then, with a sly grin on his face, turned around slowly. As he had predicted, Brenda's fork was hovering over his cheesecake, going in for an unauthorized bite. "Johnson!" he whispered harshly. She jerked her arm back to her side of the table and pretended to be innocently eating her own dessert. Fritz couldn't help but smirk.

"Keep your hands away from my dessert, Brenda," he said sternly, biting back a laugh. Brenda affected her best "who, me?" expression and resumed working on her profiteroles, but he knew she was just waiting until he was out of sight before she tried to steal some of his dessert again.

"Take one bite out of that cheesecake and I'm calling in an SID team to dust for fingerprints," he warned. "And measure for bitemarks."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "And if you want my fingerprints, and my mouth, all over you, I suggest you make your call and stop harassin' me." She tilted her chin and gave him her patent "take that!" look.

She played dirty. He was speechless. He hurried away from her, hoping her influence would be weakened by distance so he could call the owner with a steady voice.

...

Fritz stood in the hotel lobby outside the restaurant and sagged against the wall, cell phone in hand, glad to be out of Brenda's line of sight. The current owner of the house, Eric Spetman, had no problem with them coming by tomorrow afternoon. He rubbed a hand over his face, taking deep, calming breaths. I've become wired for tragedy, he thought. I'm starting to expect the worse. And I'm not going to live like this. He stood up straight, put his phone away, and walked back into the restaurant to finish up dessert with his wife, forcing the cobwebs of worry and self-doubt into a shadowy corner of his mind.

---

Brenda had begged him to look for a house when she was in Atlanta, swearing she didn't care what it looked like, as long as it wasn't the duplex. She didn't want to wait and look together when she got back, prolonging the time they had to live in a place that held so many horrible memories. Fritz, too, wanted to move; every time he walked into the kitchen, he pictured Stroh on top of Brenda, and a cold drop of ice water ran down his back. This constant reminder of how close he came to losing her, and the rage he felt, was not good for his mental health or his sobriety. Still, picking out a house for a control freak was a very scary prospect. So although he had promised Brenda before she left that he would do his best to find them a house, he intended only to get an idea what was available on the market, so as soon as she returned they could look in earnest.

That all changed the day the landlord stopped by.

It was the Saturday after Brenda had left. Mr. Boorstein, a small, greasy man in a torn, misbuttoned flannel shirt, took one look at Joel and crinkled his nose in distaste, then turned his attention to Fritz.

"I stopped by to let you know I'm not renewing your lease," he said in a low, gravelly voice.

Fritz was stunned. "What? What do you mean, you aren't going to renew…"

Mr. Boorstein cut him off. "Listen Mr. Howard, let me be clear. I want you and your wife outta here. Look at all the crap that's gone on in this apartment recently! First they're hauling out dead bodies, then some guy breaks in and your wife makes Swiss cheese outa him. And the hell that cleaning service the cops recommended got everything cleaned up like LAPD promised. I saw a spot of blood behind the fridge when I was here the other day. Blood don't ever come out!"

Fritz was deeply offended by Mr. Boorstein referring to Willie Rae's death as "hauling out dead bodies," like she was some anonymous victim of a Mob hit. "My wife almost got murdered," he said, low but deadly.

"That ain't gonna help get the blood out faster," he retorted. "I shoulda never let you two have a cat." He inserted an unlit cigarette into his mouth with nicotine-stained fingers.

Fritz wanted to shake the guy, at once confused at his illogical leap between allowing a cat in the apartment and Stroh's attack, and furious they were getting kicked out for events beyond their control.

"Wait, the lease expires in…hey, that only give us two months to find a new place to live!"

The landlord had turned back and was already opening the front door. "The lease says I gotta give you 60 days' notice, so you better get busy," he said, and left.

Fritz never told Brenda about essentially being evicted. She didn't need to learn about one more person in her life screwing her over.

When he talked to her that night, he got serious about finding out exactly what she was looking for in a house. "I keep tellin' you Fritzy, I don't really care all that much, as long as it has two bathrooms. I don't really have 'the perfect house' pictured in my head. As long as you and Joel are there, and the commute isn't too bad, I'll be happy."

She was lying through her teeth, because Fritz was sure she had an ideal house in her head: her old bungalow, with a couple extra bedrooms thrown in. And, of course, a second bathroom.

Brenda cried the day they moved out of her place on Edgemere. He found her, after the movers had left, standing in the middle of their empty bedroom, fingering the glass teardrops dripping from the chandelier, her hand over her mouth. He stood in the doorway for a minute before she noticed him. It spoke to how upset she was that she didn't bother to try and hide her wet cheeks.

"I love this house," she said softly. "It know it's tacky and too small, but I love it here."

"And you'll love our next house too. We will make it our own and you'll love it as much as this place, I know you will." He walked over and touched her arm. She flinched and moved away.

"We aren't movin' to a house, Fritz. We are goin' to an apartment. I don't even know when I'm gonna get to have a house again." She sniffed and the tears started fresh.

"Soon, I promise," he said soothingly, hating to see her upset. "Soon, honey."

Soon. That was over four years ago. They moved into the duplex, and initially Brenda refused to unpack her boxes, saying there was no point if they were just going to move again. But he couldn't drag her out to open houses because she was always too busy, so over time and out of necessity, the boxes slowly emptied. Then he couldn't get her to seriously house hunt because every time he brought it up, she rolled her eyes and said, "Fritzy, for heaven's sake, I just unpacked!" And he would hear her mumble under her breath, "it's not like we're ever gonna find a place as great as my bungalow anyway."

He never should have made them move. Brenda had suggested, more than once, that they see if her bungalow could be renovated; the attic space turned into a second floor, perhaps, and maybe another room added to the first. Fritz refused to consider the idea, citing the cost and chaos that comes with renovation. But the real reason couldn't be shared with her. If they stayed they would forever live in her house, not theirs. Brenda had a hard enough time merging with him; he already often felt like he was hanging onto the periphery of her life, he didn't want to feel like he was just living as a guest in her house, too.

Brenda's grumbles about the boring colors of the duplex, the out- of-date appliances in the kitchen…she never stopped missing her little bungalow, her crime-scene real estate bargain.

He promised her, on that moving day years ago, he would get her a house she loved as much as her bungalow. And after the visit from their idiot landlord, he redoubled his efforts, spending every extra minute with his real estate agent Margaret, looking at ads online, and going to open houses on Sundays. Although he appreciated the distraction from missing Brenda that the searching offered, he was growing increasingly frustrated at his inability to find "the one."

Two weeks after Brenda had left, Fritz was in the break room of the LAPD talking on his phone with Margaret, who told him that the owner of a house he had toured the day before and was mildly interested in had already accepted an offer. When he asked if she had anything else to show him, Margaret told him no, but that she would call him the second an appropriate listing appeared.

Fritz hung up and let loose with a string of obscenities, resisting the urge to throw his cell at the vending machines in frustration.

"Oh, excuse me," he heard a feminine voice behind him.

Sharon Raydor was standing in the corner, a crumpled bill in her hand.

"I didn't mean to bother you, Agent Howard," she said. "I just snuck in here for an afternoon sugar fix. I have to say, I miss your wife's chocolate drawer. If she was in a good mood, she'd share."

"Well, you probably were a little deprived then," he said riley.

Sharon selected a candy bar, helped herself to a cup of coffee, and gestured to the table Fritz was sitting at. She pulled out the chair and said, "I hope you don't think I'm being nosy, but I couldn't help but overhear. You and the Chief are looking for a house?"

"Well, right now, it's just me looking for a house. Brenda wants me to try and find a house before she comes back. After the year she's had, I really want to do this for her, but I'm failing miserably." He rubbed his eyes in frustration.

"Well, I may be able to help. You remember where I live, of course?"

He nodded.

"Well, I was out jogging the other morning, and I was a couple of blocks from my house, and I saw this young guy putting up a "For Sale By Owner" sign in front of his house."

"Really?" Fritz was interested. Sharon's neighborhood was a quiet, well-kept, middle class one, a little farther away from work than he would like, but at this point, that seemed like a small sacrifice.

"Yes. Judging by the size, I'd say it's your typical three-bedroom bungalow. On a corner lot, too!" She took a sip of her coffee. " And I think it has a pool."

She had him at hello. It was Fritz's deep, dark desire: he wanted a pool. He really, really wanted a pool. He downplayed it when he talked to Brenda, and getting a house that made Brenda happy was more important, but…

Damn, he really wanted a pool.

He had this vision of coming home after work, tearing off his suit, and putting on swim trunks. While heating up the grill, he would take long, slow laps in the pool, the day and all its frustrations washing away from him. Brenda would come home, at a normal hour from her normal job, and slip into a bathing suit to join him. The type of suit depended on how amorous he was feeling at the moment. If he was eager to get to the part in his fantasy where he cooked thick, juicy steaks he ate rare, Brenda wore a one piece, low-cut maillot. Most of the time though, his libido being what it was, Brenda put on a tiny black bikini. Sometimes it was red. She pulled her hair high on top of her head so it wouldn't get wet, and swam breast stroke across the pool. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to him, and she would smile adoringly at him, her body feather light in his arms from the water's buoyancy in the pool, and she would wrap her legs around his and kiss him. And the top to her suit was easy, so easy to remove and soon it lay in a soggy heap next to the grill as he palmed her floating breasts, grateful for the privacy fence in their backyard…

He put the mental breaks on before he embarrassed himself. I'll finish that fantasy later on when I'm alone, he thought. Out loud he said, "yea, a pool, a pool would be good."

…...

Fritz received a text from Captain Raydor the next morning asking him to stop by her office at his leisure. As he approached, he could hear Provenza's raised voice through the cracked door.

"I don't give a flying crap what Taylor wants, or what you want, for that matter," Provenza growled, his face red. He was leaning over Raydor, who was sitting calmly behind her desk. It was strange for Fritz to see not his wife, but her ex-nemesis, in the large Major Crimes office.

Provenza continued on his tirade. "I'm sick to death of this 'let's make a deal' bull the DA's are shoving down our throats. I'll tell you something, Captain Raydor, if Brenda Johnson was still sitting where you are sitting, none of this would be happening, and this asshole would be on his way to prison." Provenza stood up from his menacing position, as if he had just delivered a death blow and now could leave gracefully.

Fritz realized that he had stopped by at a bad time. The last thing Captain Raydor probably wanted to see right now was the husband of the impossibly high standard she was trying to live up to. He turned to go, assuming that the intensity of the argument assured he would not be spotted. He was wrong.

"Agent Howard," came a familiar voice, "please, come in."

He was amazed how calm her voice was, and her face looked as placid as her tone. She clearly was not going to let any of Provenza's cruel comments get to her.

"You're in the middle of something," Fritz answered, preferring to leave the tense environment as soon as possible.

"Oh no," Sharon answered lightly. "The Lieutenant was just leaving." Her dulcet tone was frost-covered as she glared at Provenza.

Provenza grabbed a stack of papers and snarled at Raydor, "we're not done yet".

"Oh, but we're done for now!" Raydor said in an almost light tone, which only served to irritate Provenza more. He was mumbling to himself as he angrily stormed out of the office, bumping into Fritz as he pushed through the door. Not surprisingly, Provenza didn't apologize.

Fritz turned towards Captain Raydor. "I'm really sorry if I interrupted anything, Captain."

"What, oh, that? That is pretty much a daily occurrence around here, nothing to worry about."

Fritz remembered Brenda's first year on the job, when she was abused by the squad with encouragement from Taylor and little support from Pope, and how it tore her up more than she would ever admit. He wanted to reach out and give Sharon some encouragement, but she must have sensed this, because she launched onto a completely different topic than the woes of Major Crimes.

"I wanted you to stop by, because I did some detective work on the house I was telling you about yesterday. I have what I think is good news. I was coming back from jogging this morning, and I saw the young man who owns the place, the one I saw putting up 'the for sale by owner' sign in his front yard." She paused briefly. "Well, I had to circle the block a few times, because I figured hey, he had to leave for work eventually, and after all, I needed to burn off that candy bar."

Fritz started to open up his mouth to thank her, and she waved him off.

"I introduced myself as his neighbor and told him I had a friend who was house hunting, and you would have thought I told him he had won the lottery," Sharon said. "I barely got the words out of my mouth before he started telling me his life story. And it's all good for you, Fritz, because if you like this house, I think you can get a decent price for it. This guy is really eager to sell."

"How come? That always makes me a little nervous to hear."

Sharon shook her head. "No no, it's not haunted or infested with rats or anything like that. This is the story Eric—that's the owner's name, Eric Spetman—told me. He bought the house over a year ago with his girlfriend Beth, and about six months after moving there, Beth got offered her dream job in New York City, in Publishing I think. Eric had just bought a ring and was on the verge of proposing, so he wasn't about to break up, so he told her to take the job because his financial firm had an office in New York, and he would ask for a transfer. He's originally from the east coast so he doesn't mind too much. She left for New York, and he stayed behind to sell the house and put in for a transfer, and was told, to his utter surprise, that on no uncertain terms does he have the seniority to ask for a position in the New York office." Sharon stopped and rubbed her chin. "Why he didn't check on this thoroughly before he sent his girlfriend off to New York I don't know. Anyways, for the past year he's been on one coast and she's been on the other, and he's been scrambling to get another job so he can join her. And finally, he just got offered a position on Wall Street, and needs to start the job in a month. He's beside himself that he finally gets to be with his girlfriend and get engaged, so he is dying to sell that house and move on. His drama could mean your real estate bargain."

Drama indeed. He couldn't believe no-nonsense Sharon stood and listened to this guy tell her all this personal information when all Fritz needed was an asking price and a contact number.

"Did he say anything about the house, or was he too busy telling you about his honeymoon plans?"

Sharon smirked. "He did tend to go on a bit. He offered to give me a tour, but by the time he finished with his story, we were both late for work. He said it's a three bedroom, two bathroom bungalow. Well, I worked out the bungalow part for myself. Eric wanted to let you know that his girlfriend was just getting ready to do some major interior design when she moved to New York, so he said it could probably use some TLC. When a guy says that, I imagine it's decorated with beer posters."

"Hey!" Fritz said.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. "Here is a flier with all the specs. One other thing he said was, and I quote, 'the kitchen looks like my grandparents'.' Just to warn you. But hey, at least it has a pool."

He took the paper from Sharon's outstretched hand and unfolded it. "Ahh, a pool," he said, mostly to himself, the fantasy of Brenda in her black bikini running through his head like a loop of film. The film was instantly cut short when he saw the asking price under a photo in bold letters.

It was completely reasonable. Completely, utterly, reasonable. Well within their range reasonable. So reasonable that if they needed to rip out that granny kitchen and renovate it with, say, a granite and cherry one like the one from Brenda's old house, they could do it. Or even add an additional room. Perhaps, oh, a man cave.

He squinted at the picture on the flier. It looked like a typical California bungalow, brown, with a small porch. He looked at the specs. 1800 square feet. He would like a bigger house than that, but in LA County, no one except rich folk had bigger houses than that. Three bedrooms, 1.75 bathrooms, that means…no tub for him. He shrugged. As long as Brenda had one, that's all that mattered. It all looked good, very, very good. Better than anything he had come across so far. And he knew that if he didn't act fast, it wouldn't be around for long, even in this sluggish economy.

He tuned Sharon back in. "…a sin to let a garden go to seed like that! I could tell someone, the previous owners obviously, put in a beautiful garden, and this guy Eric hasn't done anything to keep it up. All that work going to waste. Agent Howard, does Brenda like to garden? If she doesn't I can teach her, I mean, if you like the house and buy it…"

Fritz chuckled. "She's fighting with her mother's flower beds in Atlanta as we speak. She has no idea what she's doing and no patience for it, but she promised her father she would tend her mother's garden. When I get these phone calls that start out with 30 seconds of swearing in a heavy southern accent and nothing else, I know she's been out fighting with the tulips."

"That's too bad," Sharon said. "Gardening can be so relaxing."

"Not when you want to yell at the flowers 'grow, dammit' and expect them to follow your orders!"

When they stopped laughing, Fritz spoke. "Sharon, thank you for all this. Totally above and beyond the call of duty, really. You spent a good chunk of your morning doing detective work for me, and I really appreciate it."

She waived her hand dismissively. "Hey, it gave Provenza the pleasure of busting my chops for walking into work late," she said. "And besides," the usual seriousness returning to her voice, settling in like a second skin, "the Chief has had one of the worst years I have ever seen anyone experience in their life. And now that I have her job, I have a very deep appreciation for the unbelievable pressure she was under for seven years. If I can do anything to make her life, and yours, the smallest bit easier, then I want to help. This—" she gestured toward the flier—" was 15 minutes out of my morning. A small thing to do to help out a friend."

Fritz looked gratefully at her. "You have been a good friend, Sharon, to both Brenda and me. So stop calling me 'Agent Howard' and Brenda 'Chief' unless it's in front of the guys, okay? Once you've seen someone at their worse, formalities should just be tossed aside."

…...

3 weeks earlier

Washington, DC

Fritz spent most of the evening pacing his DC hotel room and obsessing. He had been at Quantico all day in the Behavioral Science division, working with a Profiler and pouring over everything Brenda had on Philip Stroh. The Profiler thought that Stroh had all the hallmark signs of a highly organized sociopath who could rape and murder women under the nose of the LAPD and use his superior intelligence to evade detection. He gave Fritz copious amounts of information about the best approach to catching Stroh before he killed again, and Fritz was somewhat comforted that he wasn't on a fool's errand. But when Brenda didn't return his phone calls he became angry, and the doubt he had over her sanity, and her ability to see any rape and not imagine Stroh the perp, came back with a vengeance. If he wasted precious Bureau resources flying to DC and consulting with experts on the word of his wife, who even Fritz had to admit was a little shaky in the mental health department lately, it would gravely hurt his career. After hours of pacing and several doses of antacid, he finally fell into a restless sleep.

His cell phone rang at 3AM, startling him so badly he almost fell out of bed. He blindly felt around the bedside table, knocking off his keys and gun in the process. Who the hell was calling in the middle of the night? He was too foggy to realize it was just midnight California time.

"What!" he barked into the phone, reaching over to pick up his gun without turning on the light. He hadn't bothered to see who the caller was when he answered.

"Agent Howard," came a woman's voice, alto-deep and deliberate.

"Captain Raydor?" He rubbed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to collapse back on the bed and into unconsciousness. "Look, if there's been an officer-involved incident, I can't help right now. I'm in DC." He knew he sounded impatient, but damn, he was tired.

"Well," she started. "There was, but that's neither here nor there. I'm calling about the Chief."

He was instantly awake, like someone had jabbed him with a pin. "Brenda? Is she okay? Did something happen?"

"First, let me just say, Agent Howard, your wife is completely fine."

The sick tendrils of panic were sprouting in his stomach clawing their way upwards. He tasted bile on the back of his throat. Something happened.

"What! What is going on? You're scaring me." His chest tightened and there seemed to be a shortage of oxygen in the room.

He heard the woman on the other end of the line inhale deeply. "Tonight, Phillip Stroh broke into your house."

He could taste the fear on the back of his tongue, metallic and cold. It almost blocked the words that pushed their way out of his mouth. "What the hell—oh my god—is Brenda—did he… But you said she's okay, you said…" He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop himself. Brenda's worst fear had just come true, her recurring nightmare, the one that she would wake up from shaking and crying, really happened. His breathing grew rapid and he gripped the phone so strongly in his sweaty hand that it began to slip. I can't believe this is happening. Did Brenda think the same thing?

"Agent Howard, Fritz, I'm going to ask that you let me talk for a couple of minutes and explain the situation. I know this is tough news to hear long distance. That's why I assured you that the Chief is fine before I said anything else. But please let me finish, alright?"

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Understandable. What happened tonight was this. Brenda—Chief Johnson—had brought the witness from Griffith Park, that street kid, Rusty Beck, to your house to spend the night. She was trying to convince him to identify Stroh as the man the kid saw burying the young woman's body."

Fritz made a mental note to tell Brenda not to bring home any more strays.

"…broke in the apartment in his signature way, by cutting through the bathroom screen. He took the boy hostage and stabbed him in the leg. Rusty was able to get Stroh off of him, and then Stroh went for Brenda."

"Oh god," Fritz breathed, "did he, did he rape her?" He could barely spit the word out.

The thought of that monster touching his wife made rage flow through every cell in his body. He was sure he was breathing fire.

"No, no! Stroh got her to the ground but somehow the Chief beat him off of her and grabbed her purse. And then she fired three rounds into him without ever taking the gun out of that bag of hers." Fritz distinctively heard a note of awe in her voice.

Fritz sagged in relief. "Oh, thank god. I'm glad that bastard is dead, or I would have to go and kill him myself."

"How very…Neanderthal of you, Agent Howard. But Stroh didn't die, and I have to ask you to refrain from murdering him. Although you are in good company in wanting to do so, believe me."

Fritz got up and began pacing again. "How is she really, Captain? And please don't just say 'fine.' She can't be fine. And why isn't she calling me?" This last point worried him the most. If everything was okay, why didn't Brenda call him right after shooting Stroh?

"It's been chaos. She called her squad right after she called 911, and Flynn called me on the way over to her apartment. So in addition to the usual three-ring circus present at a shooting, there was Major Crimes and FID. Her squad showed their concern for their Chief by ranting and raving about how much they wish she had blown Stoh's head off instead of hitting him in the chest. On top of that, Rusty took breaks from giving the EMTs a hard time and yelled over the din to Brenda, going between showing solidarity and telling others to leave her alone one minute and giving her crap about not killing Stroh the next. And in the middle of all this was the Chief, just sitting at your kitchen table, quieter than I've ever seen her. I got her to give a statement for both the LAPD and FID, but she was, and still is, in shock. I have her at the hospital right now. The EMTs were concerned she might have cracked a rib or two when Stroh threw her to the ground, so with a lot of persuasion, and threatening to tell you she wasn't cooperative with following medical orders, I finally got her to the ER. She's in Radiology as we speak. This is the first quiet minute I've had in the past three hours."

Fritz stopped his anxious walking and sat down heavily on the bed. Why did bad things always seem to happen to her lately? He wished he was there to take Brenda in his arms and just hold her. I should have been there, he told himself. This wouldn't have happened if I had been there.

Raydor cleared her throat. "I'm going to tell you something else, Agent Howard, and Chief Johnson may be angry with me, but honestly, I think she will secretly be glad she doesn't have to be the one to do it. And this will also give you an idea of her state of mind even before the shooting tonight."

Does this woman ever get to the point? "Go on."

"The Chief was put on paid administrative leave today pending an excessive force investigation."

His head suddenly felt thick, like it was stuffed with cotton. "Wait a second, did you say she was put on leave before she shot Stroh? I don't understand."

"Chief Johnson physically attacked Phillip Stroh on the elevator when he was at Parker Center for questioning."

He was floored. He knew Brenda was fragile, the stress causing small cracks in her usual iron veneer, but this… she was losing it. "You have got to be kidding me," he whispered, mostly to himself.

"Oh, I wish I were, Agent Howard," Captain Raydor replied. "She bloodied him up pretty good, too. I guess there's some question as to whether she attacked him because he provoked her by saying something about her mother's death, or if that was an excuse to get some of his DNA, I don't know. Regardless, she's in a lot of trouble. And then, he tries to kill her. Honestly, although what he did should cancel out her actions, I can't say for sure it will."

"I can't think about that now," he said, a low strumming starting behind his temple, fueled by sleep deprivation, adrenaline, and unfathomable worry for Brenda. I should have been there, the Greek chorus sung in his guilty conscious. "I just need to focus on getting home to Brenda."

"That's why I called," Raydor said. "I realize it's the middle of the night on the east coast. But you will want to start talking to the airlines about getting the earliest possible flight home tomo—oh, I mean today. Now, unfortunately, your home is going to be a crime scene for awhile. Major Crimes and FID have to share it for at least two days."

"Shit," Fritz said.

"Don't worry, I'm taking Brenda home with me. And I insist you stay there too when you come in to town." Fritz started to protest but Sharon just talked over him. "There's no need to stay in an impersonal hotel, especially when the Chief isn't going to be working during the day. And Lord knows I won't be in your hair. I doubt I'll be leaving the office for the next two weeks, so you will have my place virtually to yourselves."

Fritz made a noise, grateful for the offer, but unsure how Brenda would feel in such close proximity to the woman who used to drive her crazy. Sharon again shut him down. "Besides, Agent Howard, I dropped Joel off there already on the way to the hospital. You can't have him in a hotel room, and don't you think the Chief is going to want her cat?"

He knew when he was beat.

...

Fritz got a 6:40am flight back to LA, which landed at noon. With the layover and time change, the entire trip was eight hours long, but it felt like 800. He never went back to sleep after Sharon's call, and his eyes were thick with grit, each blink feeling like a pass of sandpaper over hyper-sensitive red tissue. He had hoped the exhaustion might lead to sleep on one or both legs of the trip, but the anxiety over what happened to Brenda kept Morpheus at bay. He was irritable, jumpy, impatient with his fellow flyers, and felt that if he had one more tidbit of bad news, even it if was that they were out of his favorite ginger ale on the plane, he would blow a gasket and end up cuffed to an air marshal. He resisted the temptation to call Brenda's cell during his layover, remembering that it was three hours earlier in California, and she would be asleep. He called Raydor instead, who's whispered "hello" and the sound of Will Pope barking out orders in the background let him know he had called at a bad time. She quickly reassured him that Brenda was safe at her home and was being watched over by Sergeant Gabriel, who would stay with Brenda until he arrived.

Captain Raydor had texted Fritz her address, and he made it there from LAX in record time, fully prepared to flash his FBI badge if pulled over for speeding. He recognized the unmarked Crown Vic parked outside the modern apartment building as LAPD standard issue, and he assumed it was Sergeant Gabriel's. An older Toyota Camry was parked right behind it, and Fritz doubted it belonged to Sharon Raydor. He grabbed his overnight bag and jogged to the front door, feeling like he had traveled from the other side of the world to get here. Had it really been early this morning that the Captain had called with the news? It felt like days ago to him. The creeping, unwanted, clinging guilt swam past him and stung, like a jellyfish in the ocean: you should have been there. He tried to shake it off, knowing this wasn't the time to focus on his feelings, but on Brenda's.

Gabriel came to the door only after Fritz had knocked twice. He had his suit jacket off and was holding a muffin in his hand. He looked way too happy and relaxed for the circumstances. Fritz glowered at him.

"Agent Howard, come in," Gabriel said, looking a little started at Fritz's open hostility. "We were just—a—" he trailed off as Fritz walked into the living room, clearly not listening.

"Where's Brenda? Where is she?" he asked brusquely. He was in no mood for politeness.

Gabriel shut the door and walked up to him. Before he could open his mouth, a young woman with long dark hair in torn jeans and a faded tee-shirt emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of muffins. She looked at Fritz and at first appeared startled at his expression, but then smiled kindly and extended her free hand.

"Mr…um, Howard, is it? I'm Megan, Sharon's daughter. I'm so sorry about everything that happened." She grabbed Fritz's hand and squeezed it, releasing it quickly. "Brenda is asleep in the guest room." She pointed her thumb toward the back of the condo. "I guess my mom gave her a couple of her sleeping pills last night, or more like early this morning, and she's really zonked out."

"Yea, she woke up around ten," Gabriel said, "right before Megan got here, and came out and told me she was going to take a shower and she'd be right back. Then Megan arrived, and we got to talking, and the Chief, well, she never did come back out from the bedroom. I sent Megan in to check on her." He look at Megan to continue the story.

"She was in what I think were a pair of my mom's sweats, and her hair was wet, so I think she made it to the shower, but she was curled up on the bed, fast asleep," Megan said. "David and I have tried to be quiet so we wouldn't disturb her. And we knew you would be here around one, and you would probably want her to wake up then."

Fritz ran a tired hand over his face, and his stomach growled. Megan giggled. "It sounds to me like you might be a little hungry, Mr. Howard. I have these muffins and I'm making lunch. Why don't you eat before you wake up your wife?"

Fritz realized he hadn't eaten anything the entire day, not counting the coffee he had at the DC airport at 6am. He looked toward the direction Megan had indicated Brenda was, and he wanted to run in there right now and take her in her arms, sleep be damned. Megan seemed to read his thoughts. "She had a rough night, my mom said," Megan said softly. "And I think you had a rough morning getting here. So why don't you let her sleep and you sit down and eat, and you will both be in better shape to see each other?" He looked at her earnest young face and saw the wisdom in what she was saying. He nodded, set his bag down, and walked to the breakfast nook, nearly collapsing in one of the chairs.

"Do you live here?" he said.

"Oh no" she answered. "I'm a junior at UCLA. Mom called me and told me what happened last night, told me that you and Chief Johnson would be staying here a few days, and David would be hanging around today, so she asked me to come over and do some cooking to make sure everyone was fed properly."

"That's nice of you."

Megan shrugged and placed the plate of muffins in front of Fritz. He hungrily grabbed at one and took a bite. "I live in an apartment with four other girls. I like cooking, and it's nice to come over to Mom's and get my domestic on. I usually spend one weekend a month here doing this same thing, cooking meals for Mom and freezing them. If I didn't, she would live on Lean Cuisines!" She disappeared into the kitchen.

Gabriel sat down next to Fritz. His hunger, and anxiety, slightly abated, he turned to the younger man, who he knew was going through his own hell. "Listen, I'm sorry I was rude. I am just so worried about Brenda, and that was the longest damn flight I've ever taken in my life."

"You weren't rude at all, Agent Howard, and believe me, we are all very worried about her, so you're in good company." David rubbed his wrinkled forehead and his eyes drifted in the direction of the back bedroom.

"Tell me what's up," Fritz said. "Raydor said she was in shock last night. How is she, really?"

Gabriel took a drink of what Fritz presumed was coffee. "I gotta say, Agent Howard, your wife is one tough woman. She beat the crap out of that bastard and then shot him three times without ever getting her gun out of her purse."

"I know all this," he said impatiently. "But afterwards, how was she?"

"Shock is probably the right word for it. I saw her after that asshole almost raped her several years ago, when the senator's daughter was murdered. This was worse, much much worse. She was like a machine. She repeated the facts of what happened in a flat voice, no emotion at all. And then she just stared straight in front of her, her eyes all glazed over. I'd go and talk to her and I'd have to shake her to get her to respond, and the second I'd touch her, she'd jump out of her skin. And she would answer me in this monotone, and then go back to staring at nothing." Gabriel shook his head slowly. "It was like the Chief had left the building."

Megan returned with plates for Fritz and Gabriel heaped with a large chicken salad sandwich on focaccia bread and a mixed green salad. "Dig in," she said. "Mr. Howard, I've put lunch on a tray for you to bring to Brenda, er, I mean Chief Johnson, after you finish, if you want to. I figure she might want to eat in the bedroom, privately with you. I still have a couple more hours' worth of cooking to do, and she is probably not in the mood to meet strangers."

"Thank you, Megan," Fritz said. "And please, call me Fritz, and call Brenda, well, Brenda. You and your mother have been very kind to both of us, and we appreciate it."

After he finished his sandwich, he felt a little more awake and alive. He took the tray Megan had prepared and walked toward the guest bedroom. Balancing it in one hand, he slowly turned the doorknob and opened the door.

Brenda was indeed asleep on top of the covers, looking young and very small in a pair of oversized sweatpants and a blue UCLA tee-shirt, and Joel was curled up next to her. Her bare feet showed off the pedicure with hot pink polish she had gotten the day before her mother died. She was lying on her back, with her right arm tossed over her head, and her left curled up with her hand balled up into a fist and tucked under her chin. Her hair was still wet, some of it clinging to her face. There were bruises on the inside of her right arm in the shape of fingers, and he noticed a swollen area on the left side of her face. Anger roiled within him.

He had been so busy studying and cataloging her injuries that he didn't notice Brenda's eyes had flown open. "Fritzy? That you?" she croaked, as if her voice was rusty from disuse.

He looked around quickly and saw a dresser where he quickly placed the tray on his way over to the bed. Brenda rose up as soon as Fritz sat down on the edge, and she grabbed him in a death grip, her small hands clawing at his suit jacket as if trying to pull him into herself.

"Fritz, Fritz, Fritz," she said over and over again, like a mantra. Her voice cracked but he didn't hear any tears. He heard pain, but no tears.

His voice, however, had frozen in his throat. He hadn't allowed himself, until this very second, to really think about what could have happened. If his mind had wandered too close to that thought, that truth, he yanked it back like a dog on a leash. She could have been murdered. She could have been killed. She could be dead now. It was there, he was upon it, the thought he had been skirting around since that 3AM phone call.

And then it was Fritz who was in tears.

That's how Sharon Raydor found them, when she popped in during the middle of her chaotic day to make sure everything was alright, that they were comfortable and well-fed and all their needs were met. She found Fritz and Brenda, holding each other, falling apart. Fritz heard the door open behind him, then close, and a few minutes later, her distinct, low, nasal tone in the living room. Neither her daughter nor Gabriel ever mentioned her dropping by, nor did Raydor herself. But he smelled her perfume when he and Brenda left the bedroom an hour later, and he knew what he had heard. She had witnessed a very private moment, and had the class to pretend she hadn't . Fritz developed an intense respect for her that day, not to mention gratitude for all she did for him and Brenda after the shooting. She would never just be "that woman" again.

…...

Fritz double-checked the address and turned off his car. He was five minutes early to meet Eric, the owner of the house, for a tour, so he decided to case the joint. From his vantage point he could get a good view of the house and the property it sat on. The house itself was a typicalCalifornia bungalow, painted in a similar brown that Brenda's old place was, and sat on a corner lot, just as Sharon had said. The street consisted of like-sized houses, most likely built in the 1920's and 1930's if Fritz had to guess, and all were well-maintained with neatly kept lawns. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the pool, Fritz walked around toward the back of the property, but he was disappointed. Privacy must have been important to the previous owners, because a ten foot stockade fence surrounded the backyard. Not very attractive, but good for removing Brenda's bikini top in private, he thought.

He noted the desiccated flower beds that had horrified Sharon on either side of the porch as he walked up the front steps and knocked. A slight young man, around 30, with messy straw-blond hair and wire rimmed glasses answered the door. He saw Fritz and grinned.

"You must be Fritz Howard, right?" he asked.. He took Fritz's hand and shook it firmly. "I'm Eric Spetman, we spoke on the phone. And this is my house. Please come in!" He opened the door.

He offered Fritz a drink but he declined, anxious to get down to business. "We can talk specifics later," Eric said, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet. "For now, I'll take you room by room, and then you can stay as long as you want to, wander around and take a closer look at things. And please, let me know if you have any questions."

As Eric started the tour, he said, "Carly—that's my girlfriend— and I bought this house from an old couple who went into a nursing home. I don't think they did anything to it since the 70's, as you can probably tell. Well, except for the pool. The realtor told me their kids paid to have the pool updated, so the grandkids could come and use it. But as for the rest of the house, well, it really needs updating. Carly and I were just about to get started with painting and all that when she got her dream job in New York and left, and I'm not good at stuff like that, so I'm selling it the way I bought it. I haven't changed a thing. I thought I'd let the new owners fix it up any way they want." He shrugged and led Fritz to the living room.

Or, Fritz thought, you were too lazy to spend a few days painting the walls to spruce the place up.

The floor plan was completely open, the living room area a large rectangle with a large stone fireplace surrounded by built-in bookshelves on one side, and a dining area at the far end. There were numerous windows, giving the house an airy feel, although with Eric's sparse furniture, it appeared almost empty. On the other side of the wall were the three bedrooms and the two bathrooms. The master bedroom was spacious and had an equally large bathroom with a sizable tub, but it was in desperate need of new tile and a vanity. Fritz was thrilled to see that the master bedroom had double doors that led to the backyard, like in Brenda's old house. The two other bedrooms were small but decent sized for a guestroom and a study, and the second bathroom was also in need of updates.

Eric led him to the kitchen, which was at the far side of the house and separated from the open living area by a wall. Doing mental renovations, Fritz knocked the wall down and made a breakfast bar. "Brace yourself," Eric said. "The kitchen leaves a little to be desired." Fritz thought the kitchen at the duplex was outdated. But this…the walls were covered in mustard and avocado-colored teapot patterned wallpaper. All the appliances were in a matching shade of green. The linoleum floors were cream colored and badly stained, curled up and yellowed in the corners. The cabinets, at least, seemed okay, sturdy even, a honey colored wood with a country-hewn appearance. Not his taste, but at least they didn't look like they belonged in the Brady Bunch's kitchen.

"Oh," was all that Fritz could think to say.

"It doesn't look so great, but all the appliances work, even the dishwasher," Eric said. "And a contractor buddy of mine took a look at it when I was thinking of getting rid of this wall—" he patted the one that blocked the kitchen from the living space—"and he said it isn't weight-bearing, so it could easily be torn down, if you wanted to renovate."

"I don't think it has to do with 'want,'" Fritz said, looking around again. "I think renovating is kind of a necessity."

"It's not pretty, but it's functional," Eric said. "Let me show you the breakfast nook." He let Fritz to a small room off the kitchen with large windows and a built in china cabinet. A small desk and a computer were set up in it, along with an office chair and two filing cabinets.

"The realtor told me this was a 'breakfast room,' Eric shrugged. "I don't know why you couldn't eat your breakfast on the dining room table, but whatever. I think it makes a nice office."

Fritz thought it would make a lovely dining room, set off from the rest of the house. He could see himself pouring Brenda a glass of wine in this room, the claret of the Merlot amplified by the candlelight, casting a red glow on her skin…

"…and the pool is outside."

He was ripped from his fantasy. "Did you say 'pool?'"

"Yea man, I was asking you if you would like to go and see the pool now."

"Oh, yes."

Eric led Fritz out the back door and onto the porch. And when Fritz took a good look around, he felt something that he only felt one other time in his life, and that was when he had first kissed Brenda.

He felt like he was going to pass out from his own overwhelming excitement.

The porch area was large, paved in flagstone, and covered with an overhang that narrowed and extended the length of the house. Eric had several pieces of comfortable -looking, stuffed deck furniture in a semi-circle, in addition to a round glass table and six chairs. There was a new-looking gas grill off to the side. And then there was the pool. It was large, not one of these perfunctory kidney shaped pools, but a square pool of considerable length. It was surrounded by wilted tropical bushes that abutted the privacy fence. The pool and porch took up the entire backyard, but what a backyard it was! It was big enough to comfortably accommodate a healthy group of people invited over for a cookout and a swimming party. Fritz's head spun at the possibilities.

"Nice, huh?" Eric said. "Best part of the house. "I might not have been so much into the painting and interior decorating thing, but I have taken very good care of this pool. I've had it professionally maintained and have a pool service clean it each week. Since Carly's been gone, I've been pretty lonely, so I have all my buddies over every weekend, and we hang out here all day. It's awesome."

It was very, very awesome.

"I'll think I'll take you up on your offer to wander around a bit, if you don't mind," Fritz said.

Eric nodded. "Oh yea, since I can't take any of this patio furniture with me to New York, and none of my buddies have pools, I will leave it here for a couple hundred bucks if you'd like." And with that, he told Fritz to come find him in his makeshift study when he was done.

Fritz sat down on one of the chaise lounges and looked at the inviting aqua -blue of the pool. I think I have finally figured it out, he thought.

I can't give Brenda back her bungalow. I won't ever find a house that's a duplicate, or with a kitchen that amazing. But I can find a house that we can make into a home that is similar to the old bungalow. And similar enough, he realized, was just fine.

This house wasn't perfect. The floors needed to be rescinded and finished. Every room had to be repainted. The fixtures in the bathroom had to be replaced. And the kitchen…oh, don't even get me started.

But the floors could be sanded before they even move in. Painting can be done on the weekends, and in a couple of months every room in the house will be a different shade. I can buy a new vanity at Home Depot and call a plumber to install it, no problem. I can put up tile. And maybe in a year, when the dust had settled, we will rip that kitchen out and put in a new one. It's all doable.

He stood up and walked into the house, pulling out his iPhone to take pictures to send to Brenda. He and Brenda would talk tonight, but he had a feeling he would be talking to his realtor tomorrow about making an offer. Something in his bones just told him this was the place for them.

---

"Ugh, I am stuffed," Brenda said, holding her stomach. "I shouldn't have eaten all my dessert. I wasn't hungry, but it was just so good!"

Fritz put his hand on her lower back and guided her out of the restaurant. "My cheesecake was good, too, wasn't it?" He poked her in the ribs playfully.

"I wouldn't know," she said, straight-faced, as they walked across the lobby.

"Uh huh," Fritz said. "My cheesecake just magically shrunk by about 20 percent when I was outside talking to Eric Spetman."

Brenda stopped walking and turned to him, looking offended. "Are you accusin' me of eatin' a whole one-fifth of your cheesecake, Fritz? On top of the profiteroles? And without askin'?"

"Yes," he answered, and took her by the hand, tugging her toward the elevator.

"One bite does not equal 20 percent," she huffed.

Fritz pushed the Up button. "It was two bites, minimum. And a minute ago, you hadn't taken any. Chose a story and stick with it." He saw her cheeks turn pink.

"Fine. I'll cop to two bites. But I didn't eat nearly as much as you claim." She crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. "Take that back."

The elevator came and he pulled her on it. An elderly couple was already on board, so his plan to kiss away her pout lip was ruined. Instead, he leaned in closely and whispered, "Honey, my dessert is your dessert. In fact, I think that was in the wedding vows."

"Well if it wasn't," she whispered back, "it should have been."

Fritz put his arm around her and pulled her toward him. He was feeling better than he had in a month. The anxiety he had felt earlier about the impending house visit had had been overtaken by immense contentment—they had napped, they were well-fed, full of expensive steak and rich sweets, and now they had the rest of the night to get reacquainted. The sex they had had that afternoon was just an appetizer, a warm-up to the main act, and it was show time. Check-out wasn't until 10AM, and their breakfast reservations weren't until 11, so he planned to keep Brenda up very, very late enacting all the fantasies they had spun for each other during late night phone sex during their separation. Well, maybe not all of them, not tonight, there was tomorrow morning, and tomorrow evening and…time. There was time. But for right now, all he wanted was to be alone with Brenda with no interruptions so he could revisit every nook and cranny of her beautiful body.

Brenda got the card key from her purse, opened the door, and grabbed Fritz's tie. Smiling, she led him into the room and pulled him into her arms as soon as the door swung shut. Neither one of them had flipped on the switch, so the only light in the room was the ambient glow that spilled in from the part of the windows not covered by curtains. She tipped back her head as she regarded him in that way of hers, and Fritz admired how the shadows turned her lovely face into a chiaroscuro of her delicate features. The effect became even more striking when she stood on her toes and slowly placed her lips against his, art in motion. He lowered his arms to their favorite position, wrapped around her lower back, as she pressed against him with more intensity, and, with the tip of her tongue, outlined his lips. His body responded with the speed and intensity of a 16-year-old. He tried to deepen the kiss, but Brenda pulled back.

He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked at her, puzzled.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what?" he asked, exasperated.

"My present is what!" she said. "You got me something at La Perla, I saw the bag earlier, remember? When are you gonna give it to me? I don't think it's a ski parka, so now would be the opportune time." She looked at him expectantly.

The lingerie. Of course. He had been wandering the streets a week ago coming back from picking up lunch when he had passed a lingerie store. Desperately lonely and sexually frustrated, he decided to stop in and pick up something for Brenda. It wasn't a good idea. Imagining Brenda in the skimpy, sexy bits of lace and silk for sale, combined with a saleswoman who was flirting up a storm with him, meant we was becoming increasingly excited the longer he was in La Perla. Finally, he pointed to the chemise that caught his attention from the sidewalk and asked for it in Brenda's size, desperate to get out of the store before he embarrassed himself.

He turned on a light, walked over to the suitcase and pulled out a white bag and handed it to Brenda, who grabbed it eagerly. She loved presents, big or small. And she liked lingerie, and for that Fritz was sure there was a god. Her perfect figure wrapped in a silky, sexy nighty or babydoll set simply drove him wild. A lacy bra or sexy panties glimpsed briefly in the morning while she dressed was fodder for a day's worth of fantasies.

"No peeking," he said, when she peered into the bag. "Go into the bathroom and try it on. And then come and model it for me. But Brenda, just to let you know, it's, uh, , more revealing than other things I've bought you. You have to consider my mood when I went shopping."

"Hard up?" She bit her lower lip.

"Pretty much," he admitted.

"Give me five minutes," she said, heading toward the bathroom. "Unless, of course, it's too skimpy and I'm embarrassed to be seen in it."

"Oh yes, you are the modest one," he said. "How many times have we had sex in a car?"

" If you ever want to do that again, you will shut up." And with that, she closed the door.

Fritz sat down in an armchair to wait. He fished some breath mints out of his pocket and popped one in, worried that he was headed into a major make-out session without brushing his teeth. He pulled out his iPhone and checked Words with Friends, and upon seeing that he had six notifications that it was his turn, focused his attention to coming up the highest scoring words he could.

I have…what? A,A, I, I, I, U. and O? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Jerry was already beating him by 30 points, and he had won the last game. Jerry was a gloater, and if he beat Fritz twice in a row, Fritz would hear about it. He frowned, deciding to tackle taking his turn with the all-you-can-eat vowel buffet later on.

He was trying to find a double or triple letter space to put his "J" in his game with Charlie when he heard the bathroom door open and close, but he was too focused on the task at hand to remember why that bathroom door opening was so important. Fritz had just scored 33 points for "Jut" when Brenda cleared her throat. Fritz looked up at an irritated Brenda, who had her arms crossed over her chest.

"I've been standin' here forever, all dolled up like a hooker, while you've been playin' Scrabble on your phone!" she huffed. "I am more than happy to go put on my cat PJ's if you wanna play computer games tonight."

"No, Brenda, I'm in this game with Charlie, and I got the letter J, and, oh my god." His iPhone fell out of his slack hands. She had uncrossed her arms and he got a good look at her.

And he thought the negligée was sexy on the hanger.

He went with black, since her sexy wardrobe was dominated by pink and red lace. The babydoll chemise had a satin bra, which was, of course, built to showcase the breasts encased in them, with two thin panels of lace falling away from it cut in a C shape, like a window curtain pulled back with a tie, so Brenda's flat stomach was visible. The lace ended right where a matching G-string began, Thigh-high silk stockings with a single black seam running up the back completed the ensemble. Fritz had purchased the outfit at an expensive lingerie shop, and what might have been a cheap, or even trashy, design at the hands of a place like Fredrick's was done with elegance and muted sensuality at La Perla.

Brenda waved a hand at herself. "You must have been in quite the mood when you went shoppin' for this," she said, and he detected a tint of anger in her voice.

He dragged his eyes from her thighs to her face. Her mouth was set in a straight line, and warning lights went off in his head.

"You look incredible, Brenda," he said, cautiously, unsure of what caused her change in mood. "Don't you like it? If you don't, honey, we can take it back and—"

She interrupted. "Oh no. I'd hate to make you take it back." She paused dramatically and placed a finger to her chin, as if deep in thought. "On second thought, you might want to go back to the store after all. Someone seems to be expectin' you."

He was confused. "I don't know—"

"There was somethin' in the bag for you," she said brusquely, and tossed a small piece of paper of his lap. At first he thought it was a tag, although he distinctly remembered asking the saleswoman to remove them so Brenda wouldn't see how much he paid for the lingerie. He picked it up and saw it was a business card. On the front it was simply a generic card for La Perla, but on the back there was a handwritten note: "Mr. Howard, call me, Katrina, 555-489-1768."

"Oh, crap."

"Yea, 'oh crap' is right," Brenda said, in her angry voice. "I take it Katrina is the woman who helped you pick this out for me?"

His mouth was dry. He had no idea who Katrina was, but it most likely was the flirty saleswoman who was helping him. He found it flattering; after all, she was about half his age and very pretty, and what man wouldn't get a charge out of that? But he said multiple times "I'm buying this for my wife" to make it clear that he wasn't in the market for anything but a bit of silk and lace. Apparently Katrina thought she could convince him otherwise.

"Brenda, I have no idea who this is. It probably was the woman from the store, but I didn't hit on her, I swear. You know I wouldn't do that to you." Her face grew redder, and he could feel the romantic evening of hot sex drifting out of his grasp and getting replaced by a stony bed seeped in Brenda's jealousy.

She just stood there, looking like Venus herself, dripping sex and fury. Fritz felt desperate to reach her before she pulled away, convicting him of a crime he didn't commit and leaving him to rot. He grabbed her hand. "Please Brenda, I have no idea who put that note in there. I didn't do anything wrong. Please don't ruin tonight, honey. We've been looking forward to this forever. Please." He wasn't above begging.

She glared at him, her eyes narrowed, and…she burst out laughing.

She put one hand on her stomach and bent over, and the other hand went over her mouth to try and subdue her giggles.

"Oh Fritz," she gasped out, "the look on your face, you looked just like a naughty little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar." And with that, she lost control again, tears leaking down her eyes.

He was completely confused. One minute, she was ready to castrate him, and the next, she was in a fit of hysteria. He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. "What are you laughing at?" he said, both relieved and irritated.

She sniffed and took a couple calming breaths. "I found that card when I was puttin' on the nightie, and I knew you had nothin' to do with it, or you would never have left it in there for me to find," Brenda said. "I see how women look at you, Fritz. You're a handsome man. I have competition out there, I know. I also know you would never cheat on me." She reached out and stroked his cheek. "But I also know that women who work in lingerie stores are usually pretty hot, and I'm sure she did some flirtin' before she dropped her card into bag, so you had a little fun when you were shoppin', didn't you?" She gave him The Look, the one that made hardened serial killers tell her their deep dark secrets.

"I didn't flirt back," he said, sounding pathetic to his own ears.

"Sure you didn't, honey. But I figured you got to have your fun, so now I would have mine." She smiled her evil smile.

He shook his head. She was a piece of work. On the one hand, that was a mean practical joke, given the circumstances. On the other hand, the fact that she could joke about something like this—another woman coming on to him—showed how secure she had become in their relationship. A few years ago, such an occurrence would have led to suspicion and a jealous meltdown that would take him days to repair.

"What am I going to do with you?" he said, releasing her hand and resting it on her hip.

"Welll," she said, guffaws replaced by a teasing tone, "I thought we could play a game." She bent over and put her hands on the chair's arm and leaned in toward Fritz. He got an excellent view of her cleavage.

"Game?" he said, distracted.

"Yes." Brenda climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "It's called 'The Naughty Salesgirl.'" Ignoring Fritz's deep chuckle, she reached down and nipped him on the ear.

"Oh, I think I like this game very much," he said. He reached out and ran a finger over the crest of her collarbone.

She smacked his hand away. "No touching, sir," she said in a high-pitched, girlish voice. "I'm just modeling the lingerie you want to buy for your wife." She widened her knees and brought herself closer to him. . "Do you like it?" she asked in her affected tone.

"Oh yes, very much," he breathed.

"I can tell," she giggled..

"I'm wondering," he said, blowing small puffs of air on her neck, "if you could possibly give me an idea of what effect this lingerie might have on my wife? I know what effect it will have on me,", "but I am hoping to buy something that will really turn my wife on too. Will this do the trick?" He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, it will definitely have a very strong impact on your wife's libido," Brenda answered, again lowering her mouth toward his ear, her breath hot and moist. He felt her small tongue flick out and lick his neck. "And I will be more than happy to demonstrate." She slowly dragged her nose over his ear and cheek and then put her lips on his, slow and hot, a kiss full of the promise all the time in the world for…everything.

Fritz was eager for her tongue when she finally relented and opened her mouth, her groan echoing is, and then he was hungry for more, need begetting need. He slid his hands up her back and entangled them in her thick hair, holding her against him to ensure the continuation of the kiss, breathing be damned. Brenda was lazily stroking his chest and began to undo his tie. He moved to the straps of the chemise, lowering one and playing with it for a minute before stroking the soft skin underneath. Brenda pulled back and gasped for air, and in her normal voice, said, "how's the sale's pitch goin' so far, Mr. Howard?"

Fritz leaned into her and placed a kiss on her shoulder. "Sold," he said, before his before slowly kissing his way across her chest.

"Oh yea," she murmured, closing her eyes and sighing. "Another satisfied customer."

---

"I swear, Fritz, if my Daddy ever knew I spent $750 on a pair of shoes, he'd have a heart attack. Another one, that is." Brenda hugged her prize close to her chest as she waited for Fritz to unlock the car door.

"Well, it's a good thing he's not the one who just bought those for you, then," Fritz answered, sliding into the driver's seat and waited for Brenda to get in the car. When she did, he added, "besides, you have a couple of other pairs of Jimmy's Shoes."

"Jimmy Choos," Brenda corrected him. "Yes, I do. But I got them on sale, cuz the real small sizes are hard to sell. I never paid full price for them. You, Fritz, are a very bad influence on me."

Fritz thought how sexy Brenda's legs looked in the black and white polka dot high heels she had fallen in love with through the shoe store window on Rodeo Drive, and thought that $750 was money well spent. They couldn't afford to spend like that all the time, but a splurge now and then was in the budget.

He put his hand on her knee. "You deserve it, Brenda. The shoes look great on you, and like you said, you can wear them to your new job. Consider it my 'welcome home' present."

Brenda laced her fingers through his. "Let' see," she pretended to count with her free hand. "I got a dozen red roses. I got a night in a swanky hotel. I got taken out to a romantic dinner. I got really sexy lingerie. I got breakfast at a fancy restaurant. And I got a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps. Well, I say that's quite a haul. I should go away more often."

Fritz squeezed her knee and slowly began to slide his hand up her thigh. "Is that all you got, Brenda?" he said in a baritone, giving her That Look.

"Let's see, um, I counted hotel, dinner, shoes…yea, I think that's about it." She gave him a wide-eyed, confused look in return.

His hand continued to travel up her thigh. "You sure you can't think of anything else, anything else at all? How about something…intangible?"

She kept her face blank. "I'm sure I don't know what you are talkin' about."

His hand snaked further up her leg and she jumped. As if they were playing chicken, she said, "I give, you win, you win!" She giggled and pulled his hand out from under her skirt. "You gave me loads of amazin' sex, okay? The absolute best welcome home present I could ask for, cuz it's what I've been dreamin' of the entire time I was in Atlanta. How's that for 'intangible,' you big stud?"

He grinned like the Cheshire cat. "That's what I wanted to hear, honey."

She rolled her eyes. "Impossible!" she huffed, pretending to be annoyed, all the while massaging Fritz's thigh.

After 20 minutes of driving, Fritz said, "we're getting close. You remember staying with Sharon?"

Brenda visibly shuttered. "It's all a big blur to me. I remember that her guest room had blue walls and her daughter looked just like her and was a good cook. I don't remember the neighborhood." She chewed her lower lip.

"Well, this is it," he said. His stomach was doing backflips and the small, nasty voice in his head kept saying over and over, "she's going to hate it." "And before we get any farther, Brenda, I just have to say…"

"No! No no." She dropped his hand and twisted in her seat to look at him. "No more disclaimers. I've had enough. Fritz, if for some reason I don't like the place, we can work on changin' it. Or I can learn to accept it. After all the crappy things that have happened over the past year, do you really think buyin' a house that doesn't match my ideals will make it to my list of traumas?"

Fritz could only nod. She had a point. Things, after all, are relative.

He pulled up in front of the house and had barely turned off the car before Brenda had hopped out and was walking toward it. "Hey Fritz, is the pool behind this tall fence?" She looked over her shoulder at him. This is great for you, honey! You have wanted a pool forever."

"How do you—"

"For heaven's sake Fritz, you aren't the only one who remembers personal conversations. Just like you know me, I know you. And I know how much you want a pool. Every time we talk about a house, you're always. 'let's make it all about Brenda.' But once you let it slip that you have some fantasies about the two of us and what we could do in a swimming pool if we had one."

He caught up to her and threw his arm over her shoulder, pulling her close and kissing her cheek. "Guilty as charged," he said, and she smiled up at him.

Eric must have heard them, because he came to the door before Fritz knocked, his cell phone glued to his right ear. He wordlessly motioned to Brenda and Fritz and they stepped inside, the central air a welcome contrast to the heat that made their clothes stick to their skin. Eric put his hand over the receiver and whispered to Brenda and Fritz, "sorry, it's my girlfriend, and we're working on some moving plans. Fritz, do you mind showing your wife around?"

Fritz walked Brenda through each room, describing what color he wanted to paint the dingy walls, and which furniture he thought would fit there. Brenda said nothing, and just followed him. When they got to the kitchen, with its ugly teapot pattern wallpaper and avocado appliances, he outlined his vision for a new kitchen, how the wall would be knocked down and a breakfast bar put in, granite countertops were a must, and on he went. He painted a verbal picture that sounded a lot like the kitchen of her old house. If she realized this, she didn't say anything.

Her silence was making him increasingly nervous. Fritz knew she got that way sometimes when she was concentrating, or when she had to take a lot of information in at one time, which was what she was doing now. Still, she knows how anxious I am about this, couldn't she offer up a word of encouragement? He was relieved that when she walked into the master bedroom, she immediately went over to the double doors and opened them onto the back porch. Just like your old bedroom, he tried to communicate telepathically to her. She looked pleased, but still didn't say anything.

After finishing touring the bedrooms and bathrooms, they wandered back out to the main area, and Brenda slipped out back. She ran her hand over the glass table, and Fritz told her Eric was leaving it for them. She nodded, and then looked at the pool, clear blue and inviting on such a hot day. She walked around it, at one point taking off her sandal and dipping her toe into the water, and then turning around to check out the back of the house, shielding her eyes from the sun, he expression still unreadable.

Fritz couldn't take it anymore. If she hated it, he needed to know, because they had to figure out what to do, if they could back out of the sale, or if she could resign herself to live there. He was sweating more than from just the sun. Did I screw up? Did I ruin this entire thing? Did I cause more stress for Brenda? By the time he reached her on the far side of the lawn, he was about ready to throw himself into the pool.

"Hey," he said. "Brenda, honey, this is torture. I've been worried sick about you not liking this house for two weeks and now you're finally here and you haven't said a word. Please don't do this. Tell me what's on your mind."

She turned away from him and squatted down to look at what used to be a lovely landscaped area of earth that ran alongside the privacy fence. "I think," she said slowly, then stopped.

"What?" he practically yelled out of frustration.

She rose slowly, her back still to Fritz. "That it reminds me," she said, and she stood up, turning toward Fritz, "of my little bungalow."

And she was smiling. Truly smiling. One of her stop-the-world-on-its-axis smiles. And Fritz felt relief flood through every cell in his being.

She threw her arms arounsd him. "I love it, Fritz, it's perfect. Thank you. Thank you for finding us a home."

END CHAPTER 3

Here's your guilt trip...I typed most of this chapter with two fingers taped together recovering from sprains... would it be so hard for you to hit the Review button with your healthy fingers? (I'm evil)

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