Shopping for Sara

Chapter 7

Butterflies, books, and biscuits

When Jim Brass had been severely wounded, Grissom realized two things: life's best and worst moments were unpredictable and he wanted to live a very long time. As Brass improved, he and Sara agreed on an unfinished corner condo unit and, as the realtor had predicted, his unit sold for a price that staggered his mind.

Now, thanks to one of the fastest growing housing markets in the country, Gil Grissom had more money in his bank account than he had ever seen. Even after making a substantial down payment on the new place, and paying a contractor for a custom-designed interior, there was money sitting in his account.

Of course, he had practically forced Sara to spend money, and while she was not cheap, she was—economical, reusing their combined furniture, bargaining with salesmen to get lower prices on everything from light fixtures to flooring. She and the contractor made plans to use recycled materials in some form—he had backed away from the details when she said she wanted to surprise him. And she worked tirelessly, especially when his condo sold and most of his belongings had to be packed and stored. They were living—if not a dream, then a life neither of them could have imagined a few years earlier.

He was surprised, and amazed, as he watched Sara develop ideas for their home—a place for both of them. She spent hours unpacking boxes he had stuck in closets and pulled out things he had forgotten he owned. They laughed when Sara found old college textbooks.

"We should put these out, Gil!" She laughed as she paged through the books. "How many students keep their original books!"

Another box contained framed leaf specimens. "My father's," Grissom explained.

"They're beautiful," Sara said as she ran her finger over the protecting glass. "Is it his handwriting?"

Grissom leaned over and took one of the frames from her. "I guess it is—I don't remember his handwriting."

She placed the framed leaves in a growing stack that included his beetles and butterflies.

She found box after box of artwork. "Why has none of this ever been displayed at your place?" She asked as she unwrapped another abstract pottery form. "And where did you get this stuff?" She held up a mask.

"You know we should wait until we move in to unpack these boxes. You're bringing more back from the storage unit every day. Pretty soon we won't be able to find the kitchen."

She laughed and rose from the floor taking one of the small objects with her. He watched her slender body flowing in long, smooth lines. She reminded him of a dancer, or a gazelle, he thought, so beautiful to watch, wary, quick to flee. He followed her, standing at the bedroom door watching while she rearranged things beside the bed.

He thought he knew more about her now than he had a month ago, or six months ago, but still far less than he had expected. Living with Sara was fascinating, frustrating, and enthralling all at once. She turned to find him leaning against the door frame.

"What are you adding to your collection?" He asked.

"One of your fossils—a tiny ring of stone," she said, the lilt of her voice carrying over the music playing in the living room.

He stepped to her side. "Crinoid—a distant cousin of the starfish." He lifted it from her palm. "It's probably three hundred million years old."

"How did you get it?" She asked as he placed it in her hand.

"My mother. She gave me a rosary that was a string of them—called St. Cuthbert's beads."

Her voice teased, "Only your mother would find a rosary made from fossils."

Grissom shook his head. "Sir Walter Scott's poem, Marmion, tells of these being made into rosaries."

She held it between her fingers. "It's incredible, isn't it? Something so small survives this long. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a collection of things like this? Then when something bad happens we could take them out and remember some things are perfect and don't disappear. You'd think, if something this small can survive this long and this perfectly, love affairs and marriages could, too." After her words, she flushed, giving him a quick smile. She seldom expressed her thoughts in such a way.

Grissom placed his hand under her chin. "The crinoid isn't perfect—it died."

She laughed. "I guess I shouldn't envy it."

He held her face between his hands. "There is nothing, no one you should envy. You outshine everyone, dear."

Her hands covered his. "You don't mind living here for a while. Or me going through your things?" She asked.

Shaking his head, laughing, he said "Look to your heart's content, dear. You've found things I've forgotten—and seeing your reaction puts it in a completely different light!"

She smiled as happiness surged through her. Her hand went to his cheek. "I think we should use your things—put them out in the new place, not stuffed into boxes."

"I've turned that over to you. I'm certain I'll be pleased with whatever you decide." He kissed her. He had placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to meet her lips, but after the kiss, he pulled her to his chest in a hug. "You are happy, Sara." A statement—he knew she slept well, she ate well, she left work after her shift; she had found a diversion from the grind of work and it was him.

Several weeks later, as they juggled work, maintaining a very professional demeanor most of the time, and overseeing the finishing details of the new condo, he arrived at the apartment, now crowded with those things Sara had taken from storage. He knew she was at the condo—and he had promised to stay away while a surprise was being finished.

He reached into his pocket and touched a small box. He smiled as he stepped around several boxes and made his way to the bedroom. The bed was made, but he folded back covers and placed the black velvet box on her pillow. After he set up music he liked—Maria Callas singing Bellini, he came back and crawled into his side—he smiled at the thought of "his side". They slept in the middle of the bed.

He dosed, his papers sliding to the floor.

Sara found him, sleeping, files scattered around him; the lamp light made his hair glow with burnished silver curls. She had heard his music playing before she opened the door; smiling as she removed the key, she realized she knew the singer. Trying not to disturb him, she gathered the papers as quietly and quickly as possible, but, as usual, he woke.

"I smell Sara," he mumbled, lifting his hand to touch her before he opened his eyes. She sat beside him.

She laughed, softly, as she stoked his hair in long, slow movements. "I think I like you best like this." Her hand moved to his bare chest. "With nothing on, and next best in your old jeans and your favorite blue shirt."

He grinned. This woman was going to be the death of him yet—no, he quickly changed his thoughts. She was going to make sure he lived for a very long time. She wasn't trying to change him, not in obvious ways, but by some magic she worked, he was coming home from work and eating better, and shaping his life around her. She had become his life, his center, and also its boundary, what he wanted.

He reached for the box on her pillow. "Your house warming gift."

Surprise played across her face. "What's this?" Her fingers lifted the top. "Oh, Gil," she whispered. "Why?" She took the necklace from the box and held the delicate gold chain with her fingertips. A dozen droplets of gold sparkled and flashed, reflecting light as she slowly turned it. She gazed at it for a long moment, then looked at him. "Why?"

"Just because—for doing what you do."

Sara put her arms around him and kissed him. "Thank you—how can I…"

"You do every day," he replied.

He helped to fasten it around her neck and then kissed her along the line the chain made along her neck and chest.

They had learned to be leisurely in their lovemaking. After their first months together, when it seemed they could never satisfy their hunger, they began to come together more slowly. They talked and laughed as they caressed and passion grew, tightly encircled in each other's arms. Often they slept, legs twined, lips touching and then came awake slowly to the small, fluttering movements of their bodies. They held each other for a long quiet time, drifting in silent closeness until desire flickered and grew, like a small ripple far out in the ocean that gathers force and becomes a thundering wave. As desire grew, they moved even slower, learning to hold back, to find new pleasure by drawing arousal out like a long ripple until passion overtook them and they rode its crest together.

When a puzzling miniature of a crime scene was found, neither one could have envisioned the long term consequences it would have. Other crimes crowded into their lives—Catherine called Sara when she thought she was raped. Lindsay was kidnapped and found but before anyone could sigh with relief, Sam Braun was shot and killed in front of Catherine. Another crime riddled week scattered the team across town, and Sara wore her new necklace for the first time to a garage spattered with the blood of two men.

Finally, their new home was ready. Elated and excited, they could barely hide their happiness at work. And when Ecklie made a comment that seemed to acknowledge their secret relationship, Sara and Grissom waited for the fallout. Nothing happened.

"He doesn't know," Sara stated later. "If he did, he would have said something—Mr. By-the-Rules Ecklie."

Grissom took the empty box in her hands. "He doesn't. He knows I have your back that's all—and you have mine." He held up long quills. "I've had these for years—are you really going to put these out?"

She smiled. "Yep. That's why we have all these shelves." His dubious look caused her to laugh. "I have a plan!"

Her instinct for decorating surprised him. He had been amazed at what she had done with simple concrete and brick walls. He was speechless when she 'unveiled' recycled shelves and work space placed along one long wall. She did not want a large table for the dining area. "Not yet anyway," she said. Her small table sat between the kitchen and the shelves; his table went into the office.

Framed butterflies and bugs and his dad's leaf collection went up on the walls. His boxes of stuff became art objects when she arranged them on shelves. The things from her apartment fit seamlessly with his—eclectic, she called it. Their own style was diverse and distinct, she explained, not some trade name tagged by a designer.

They found enjoyment in their new neighborhood—new enough to attract tourists so they could remain anonymous yet with the feel of a small town. Excellent shopping was an easy walk from their door and their garage meant they did not worry about prying eyes or being seen by someone who would recognize their vehicles. They had been together for so long, a set of rules for "outside" behavior had developed—never explain why they were together, never hold hands or show affection outside of the house. And it worked. No one seemed to notice when they arrived within minutes of each other, or when they were the first, or last, to leave the lab, or when their 'off' days coincided more often than not.

One of those normal not-quite-a-crime scene cases led to a major change in how they lived. Sara went out with Dave to collect an old lady who had been found dead in her yard. Not quite the normal way to die, the deputy said when he called it in. Not with pruning shears sticking in one's eye.

The house had not seen new paint for years but the yard was filled with flowers in dozens of containers and plants along the narrow path brushed against their legs as they followed the deputy.

"My guess is she fell—maybe had a heart attack and fell on the shears. But I called it in requesting one of you guys, just in case. And there's a dog. I guess we need to call animal control."

The dog lay next to its owner; its heartbreaking brown eyes following Sara and Dave as they worked, but never moving from its place.

"He hasn't moved since I got here," the deputy said.

Sara found dog biscuits in the house before animal control arrived but the dog refused to accept one. She placed one between his front feet. When two animal control officers lifted the dog to place him into a carrier, his whine caused everyone to turn away from the corpse.

Dave said: "Poor dog—he's going to miss his owner."

Sara reached a tentative hand toward the dog. The dog reacted by nuzzling her hand. She wrapped both hands around his face. "Poor thing—do you think he'll get adopted soon?" She asked.

Eyes downcast, neither answered until one slowly shook his head.

"He's a beautiful gentle dog! Why not?" Sara's eyes flashed at the dreadful thought.

"Ahhh—Sara" one of the men said. He had known her for years. "People don't want big dogs, not full-grown old lady dogs. They want puppies or little dogs—not some big brown sad dog who's going to mourn for months."

Hours later, Grissom could not believe he was driving south on Mojave Road with a smiling Sara sitting beside him and a big slobbering brown dog sitting in the back seat.

"Hank," he said.

Sara giggled and reached between the seats to pet the dog. "He's cute. We're just foster parents."

"Thirty dogs and you have to take the one named Hank!"

"This one lost his parent. He needs a place to mourn his loss—a quiet place." She leaned across the console and kissed his cheek. "Thanks."

"You are welcome."

She turned back to petting the dog. "Poor Mrs. Williams trained him well. Look at how he rides in the back seat!"

"Yeah, he probably listens to country music, too." Grissom mumbled. He knew this foster care story was a fabrication invented to get people to take a dog home. He glanced at Sara who was crooning over the dog; she was happy.

It would be two weeks before another elderly woman died, not by accident as Mrs. Williams had, and a second miniature crime scene would be found.

A/N: One for your weekend! Thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing. More to come! (This season is a very sad one, don't you think!)