A/N: A very long chapter! Thanks for reading! After this chapter, there is one more to finish this story!
Shopping for Sara
Chapter 14
Paris in the spring
As soon as Sara woke up, she knew the sun was shining. Without opening her eyes she could feel the brightness of the sun on the east facing windows. She rolled over to empty space in the bed, managed to open her eyes, and had to squint. The thin curtains were pulled back and her husband was standing in the doorway to the tiny balcony. She must have made a noise because he turned his head in her direction, smiled and winked.
"It's early—go back to sleep," he said softly. His voice was so erotic with early morning huskiness she was instantly aroused. She lifted the sheet, beckoning him to return to bed.
"What time is your class?" Was her question but her intent was something else.
He returned to bed. When his hands laced into her hair another flush of sensation spread through her. He kissed her below her right ear, down her jaw to her chin and worked his way to her left ear with kisses that barely brushed her skin, but the touch of his lips made her squirm. When he moved on top of her, Sara welcomed his weight. The deep arching motions of her pelvis communicated her need, yet he kept maneuvering her, repositioning, fondling, sucking, not listening to her weak protests until finally their bodies reached the equivalent of critical mass. It was impossible to make any movement without sending them both over the edge.
"Don't move," he said but by then his voice was even more erotic as his final thrusts began and she dissolved into the luxuriant rapture of one long spasm of pleasure.
When she opened her eyes again, her husband was again absent from bed. She lay in bed and nudged her nose into his pillow. The apartment was so small she could hear his movements in the minuscule bathroom even with the door closed. She stayed in bed enjoying the interlude between sleep and wakefulness; she no longer had a job or any other place to be by a certain time. She was truly a 'lady of leisure' and as she stretched in bed, she thought about what she would do with the rest of her day.
The bathroom door opened and clunked into the foot of the bed. Grissom shushed himself and then noticed she was awake.
"Sorry, honey," he gave her a sheepish grin. "I'm trying to be quiet." He dropped his shoe.
She giggled.
"Stay in bed—I'm off in minutes." He gave her a lopsided grin. "We sort of dozed off." He leaned over the bed and kissed her. "Meet me for lunch?"
Sara nodded. "I will." She turned her face upward and he kissed her again. "See you then." She watched him leave and pulled a book from the small shelf over the bed.
The weather in Paris had been perfect for weeks and everything about the place was unique and beautiful to Sara Sidle Grissom. As she walked along an unknown street, she would turn a corner and the view would literally take her breath away. The first week after they arrived, seeing the Champs-Elysees with the Arc de Triomphe ahead and the huge French flag waving in the arch had made unexpected tears come to her eyes.
When Sara thought she had seen every beautiful vista in the city, she looked around at the people and saw Arab wives, protected by bodyguards, shopping along one of its famous streets. She recognized Catherine Deneuve sitting at an outdoor table laughing and talking with her friends. And she smiled at a woman walking three small dogs, so fluffed and covered with bows, she had to stop and watch as they disappeared into one of the numerous beautiful doors along a tree-shaded street.
Between sightseeing and people watching, Sara had discovered two favorite pastimes. She read voraciously every book she could find in the book stalls and stores—books she had never heard of and books that were best sellers. She read new books, old books, books that cost her fifty cents, and then swapped stacks of books for new ones. Grissom teased her that any day he expected to find her reading romance novels. She ignored his teasing and bought one the next day.
Her second passion was eating and she ate—not alone, her husband was usually with her—foods in cafes and from food carts, from neighborhood grocers and the large department stores that had shelves filled with exotic and mundane packages of foods. Within a few weeks in Paris she had her favorite places to eat, to walk, to sit and watch. Food crossed her mind several times as she strolled from their apartment to the university campus.
She kept cooking to a minimum because the furnished kitchen came with a two burner cook top, an oven the size of a basketball, a small refrigerator, and a sink slightly larger than her crime case had been. She smiled at the thought of Las Vegas as she found her 'regular' bench for waiting for her husband. The word husband caused a wider grin.
Everyone in Vegas had acted surprised when they had announced their marriage—surprise coming because she had actually married and was wearing a wedding band to show the world. She sighed; even Conrad Ecklie had been nice to her. Earlier in the day she had received an email from Ecklie asking if she would call him. Probably some case she had worked two or three years ago was finally making it to a courtroom.
Leaning back on the bench, she looked to the sky—the same sky above Las Vegas and Costa Rica and France but it changed from place to place just as she had changed. She wanted change; so did Grissom. She was no longer the emotional wreck who had left Las Vegas, not once, but twice. Her life—their life—was so much more than she could have imagined. Gil Grissom had shown her a new life, by finding her, by marrying her, by showing no qualms about her bizarre family history. In turn, she had encouraged him to follow a dream, to teach in Paris when the position was offered, to continue with another semester. For the first time in a very long time, Sara felt sure of herself, certain of her emotions, strong in her conviction that the world was a good place.
Sudden tears gathered in her eyes; rapidly she blinked. Just one thing niggled at her mind, not enough to cause the unexpected tears, she wanted to believe. Seven months was not a long time, not in a life time, not in a marriage, but it was when broken down in cycles of days.
Grissom's words had caught her by surprise; she had never thought she would marry and the once usual progression sang in the playground rhyme had never caused her to have a second thought about what came after marriage. Until they were married. She had walked out of a market stall and found Grissom using his rudimentary Spanish language skills with three school age children who were 'interviewing' him as part of a class project. He had thrown his head back and laughed with delight as one of the boys explained he had just used the wrong word for wife.
Later that day during siesta, lying on their bed nearly naked with fingers twined, he had said: "We've never talked about having children, have we?"
"No." Sara responded, uncertain as to what his question meant.
He rolled to face her. "So, what do you think?" That afternoon they had started one of the longest, most sincere and heartfelt conversations they had ever had. One that continued for weeks until they had reached an impasse of sorts—let nature decide.
She swiped a hand across her eyes and two seconds later felt the warmth of a familiar hand touch her shoulder followed by a loving face blotting out the Paris sky. With a smile meant only for him, she touched his face.
"I don't suppose this is a coincidence," she said as he leaned closer and kissed her.
His eyes reflected the color of the sky caressing her as only he could do. "I'm glad you came," he said. "You must be starving." He grinned. "Unless you've already eaten from every crepe cart on every corner."
She laughed remembering his encouragement to stay in bed this morning as he attempted to quietly get dressed while bumping into every piece of furniture in the two-room apartment.
They left the center of the university buildings heading to a quiet street and a café frequented by locals, too far from the famous tourist sights to attract many foreigners. The place was old—Grissom said Hemmingway had eaten from the flowered china—and the once yellow-gold painted cherubs smiled from wallpaper that was probably stuck on by years of accumulated smoke and grease. Yet the food was some of the best, tastiest they had ever eaten. Sara ordered her favorite—Clafoutis aux Epinards—a spinach flan made with Gruyere cheese. Grissom ordered something different each visit and today it was a creamy mussel stew. Until coming to Paris, Sara had eaten healthy whole grain bread, but the fresh, hot French croissant had become a treat to her as much as the street-corner made crepes.
"I talked with your mother this morning—you need to send her a schedule so she'll know when you are home," Sara said after their plates were on the table. She was constantly amazed at how the French presented food as beautiful as a master's painting. "Hank is fine—misses us but his second—no, third—mother seems to love him."
"Mom is his grandmother," Grissom chuckled.
"And Ecklie emailed me."
"Ahhh—I got an email too." Grissom forked several green beans on her plate. "Haricot verts. Are you going to eat these?"
She pushed her plate toward him. She narrowed her eyes as she asked "You know something, don't you? What's the case?"
"He wants you to call him," his eyebrows lifted, "and did not tell me why." He watched her for a few minutes. "Have you looked for something to wear on Saturday?"
"Black," she said as she reached for another piece of bread.
The invitation had arrived the week before for the university president's annual social event; a stiff, creamy envelope with an expensively printed card inside.
They had repeated this conversation several times. "You are in Paris, dear. Buy a new dress." He checked his watch. "No, we'll buy a new dress!" A phone call using his budding command of French had someone agreeing to meet his students until he returned.
Sara moaned and complained. She hated to shop for clothes—she hated to shop. "I don't even know how to compare sizes, Gil."
He had her hand and led her in the direction of several of Paris' largest department stores. But before reaching the boulevard, they passed a small shop with three beautiful dresses displayed in the window. Grissom backed up and opened the door.
"That's the dress," he said, pointing to the dress in the center.
"Gil!" Sara's protest was for naught. She tapped the well-known name on the door and he shrugged his shoulders.
An immaculately dressed older woman greeted them with a slight nod of her head. Sara hid her amusement behind her hand as Grissom started speaking in French, made several mistakes, and then the woman spoke in English.
"You wish the young woman to have the blue dress?" She asked, her face barely moving as she spoke. She seemed to take Sara's measurements with her eyes, then lifted her hand in a twirl. Sara turned.
She knew they looked like a couple of typical American tourists in their jeans and casual shirts.
The woman walked to the desk, wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Grissom. She said: "This is a limited designer dress—very beautiful." She handed Grissom the paper. He glanced at it.
Smiling, he handed the paper back to the woman. "I want her to try it on." Reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his wallet, he handed her a credit card. "This should cover it."
Sara's eyes rolled. "Gil," she whispered, "Do not buy this dress! I'll shop—I'll find something other than black."
The woman stepped away from them, removed the dress from the window, and disappeared behind a curtain.
Grissom turned to Sara, placed his hands on her arms, smiled, and said, "Try this dress on. My gift, dear. You will be the most beautiful woman in Paris."
The curtain parted and the woman returned carrying the dress. "This is your size—may I ask your name?"
"Sara." Replied both of them.
"Sara, your height is an advantage when buying a dress like this. Would you step into the back. We have—what do you say? Under garments for fitting." The woman smiled and pulled the curtain back.
Killing Grissom was on her mind as Sara stripped her shirt and jeans off and pulled a thin silky tube up to her chest. She was pretty sure this "under garment" was like a disposable sock worn when trying on shoes—more expensive but served the same purpose. She tugged it below her hips and smoothed it over her breasts. Glancing in the mirror, she thought she resembled a pale sausage.
The woman had the dress ready to slide over Sara's head. She made a few adjustments while Sara held her arms out. Expert hands, Sara thought. This woman had dressed others many times. She almost giggled at her thoughts; like Doc Robbins with the dead.
"Oh, madam Sara—this is perfection!" For the first time, a genuine smile formed on the sales woman's face. "It is not often, but this dress was made for you." She circled Sara, smoothing the fabric over Sara's hips, shaping the dress to her body. "Is there an occasion?"
Sara nodded. "My husband—he's working at the Sorbonne—a seminar—he's teaching and the president is having a party we're going to."
The woman was rummaging behind Sara's back while she talked so Sara turned to find herself face-to-face with a large triple mirror the woman had uncovered.
"Oh!" The reflection was Sara's face but the rest of the image was that of a stranger wearing a cobalt blue silk dress with a deep plunging 'V' neckline, tucks that emphasized her waist, and a skirt that stopped just above her knees. "Wow!" The pale sausage had disappeared.
The woman continued smiling. "It is perfection, yes?"
Sara giggled, embarrassed by her reaction. "I've never seen me look like this."
"You need heels—taupe, very pale," the lady touched Sara's arm. "Like you."
Sara turned several times in front of the mirror. She frowned as she turned the second time. "What does this dress cost?" She asked.
The woman held a finger to her lips. "Your husband knows the price—but I will give a discount because there is no adjustment to be made." She walked to the curtain and pulled it back. "Let him see how beautiful you are!"
…The night of the president's social gathering, Sara and Grissom took a taxi to an address in one of the oldest and quietest moneyed neighborhoods in France. The street was a single row of elegant three-story houses protected by wrought-iron fences, most obscured by dense foliage.
The door was opened by a man who served that purpose and showed them up a flight of stairs to an imposing silk-walled reception area which opened to another large room where waiters were serving drinks in tall glasses and waitresses walked around with trays of bite-sized appetizers.
They were met by the president, a rather ageless man, wearing a formal dinner jacket and a bow tie that was slightly askew. "So pleased you've come," he said in a voice that articulated his English words very carefully.
Someone else appeared and the Grissoms were quickly swallowed into the second room. This soirée was for researchers in the sciences so at least one-half of the people in the room knew one another by name or by recognition and the party had already swelled to a chattering crowd. Those who had met Sara introduced her to others; the French researcher who had been at their wedding spread the story of the event to others.
The party went from petite snacks of cheese croissants, tomato toast points, melted Brie on baguettes, and a dozen other meat and fish appetizers to more food served in an even larger dining room with magnificent chandeliers and long dining tables covered with glittering crystal and china. The hors d'oeuvres were quickly forgotten when the dinner, which followed French tradition, lasted nearly three hours.
When the last of the desserts were eaten, some magical wand waved and everyone left the dining room and went downstairs where a small orchestra was playing. By the time the last person had reached the first floor, several of the couples were dancing. Others divided into small groups and talked about research topics.
The music was a waltz, sweet and slow, and the one dance Grissom did with surprising grace. His face lit up, "A waltz," he said and pulled Sara onto the dance floor.
Sara knew they were well matched and tonight some kind of enchantment wrapped them as they waltzed, every movement perfectly matched. If anyone had watched closely, and a number of people did, they would have seen two dancers who appeared to be directed by a single mind. When the dance ended, Sara leaned to Grissom's ear and caused a smile. It was not long before they left the party after first making the rounds to thank their host and say goodbye to others.
It was early summer and the Parisian night flared with life—bistros stayed open late, café terraces were filled with people laughing, so they chose to walk, at least part of the way since Sara was wearing heels.
"You're beautiful, you know."
She squeezed his hand and leaned her head against him. His arm came around her shoulders.
"I'm going back, Gil." She felt his lips touch her hair.
"You don't have to do this."
She sighed. "No, I don't. I know that. You are doing what you love and I sort of want to finish up a few things." She laughed, softly. "We might need to settle down and six months from now there might not be an opening."
"I don't have to stay." He stopped walking. "Do you think you're pregnant?"
"No, no—you would be the second one to know. I'm not, but if we should have a baby, we'll need insurance, a hospital—a doctor!" She tugged him along. "And I'll get myself checked out. See if all the pipes are open."
"Sara, I'm not sure I want to be away from you."
"You won't be—not for long," she laughed. "And you'll always know where I am—always." She tucked her arm into his as they walked. "Ecklie agreed I could work ten days on and have a week off. I'll fly back here."
"Only if you really want to do this."
She hugged him. "You will be home in two months—I'll be back here in less than two weeks."
He chuckled. "Are you really that tired of Paris? Or homesick?"
"Not homesick," she said as she pointed to a taxi. "Let's get home quickly." She emphasized the word "home".
In the backseat of the taxi, Grissom leaned over and kissed her, one so passionate that their mouths did not separate until the cab driver's grumpy voice interrupted them. As soon as they were inside the building, they were together again. Grissom pressed the elevator button with his thumb while keeping a hand on her right thigh. He kept kissing her until they were at the door of their apartment and every breath Sara took caused a plume of sensation straight down between her legs.
Finally, the lock turned and they were inside; she was pushing his jacket from his shoulders as his lips stayed in contact with her skin.
"The dress, Gil," she whispered. "Help me out of the dress!"
The luxurious garment landed in a pool of blue around her high-priced taupe heels. Her delicate necklace of gold glittered around her neck.
Softly, Grissom whistled. "And I thought the dress was sexy—turn around." He held her hand high while she turned. "And what is this called?"
"It's a demi bra—no lines—keeps things in place. Now help me get out of it." She started peeling the thin strap from her shoulder.
Grissom reached to touch the gold amber which rested between her breasts. The grin had not left his face. "Leave this on." She shot him a quizzical look. "And the shoes. Just for a minute—I'll take them off."
With fine delicate movements, his fingers seemed to barely touch her as he worked the clasp of the bra and then his palms slipped under her breasts as he pushed it off. His thumb lighted stroked one nipple while his lips took the other. Sara shivered, her breath caught for a few seconds as he placed a circle of kisses on her flesh.
His hand left her breast and moved downward, around to her backside finding the lace band of her panties. With several swift motions, he pushed and her panties joined the dress. Sara remained still, naked except for shoes and necklace, as his hands and lips drifted over her, tasting, stroking, exploring.
Grissom bent to his knee, lifted her foot and balanced it on his thigh. She reached a hand to his shoulder and at her touch, he looked up. "My God, you are beautiful." His hand traced the shoe to her heel before he removed it. Shifting slightly, he did the same with her foot. His hands closed around her calf and moved up the length of her leg to her thigh. One hand cradled her butt as his fingers reached the apex of her legs; his thumb sought out her moist intimate folds.
"Gil," Sara whispered, her body trembling.
He withdrew his hand from between her legs, moved her foot to the floor, and leaned his head against her thighs, hugging her lower body tightly to his. Something in the tender, yet intense way his arms felt around her body caused Sara to slip to her knees. She took his face in her hands.
His mouth was like a warm drug on her skin—soothing, teasing, provoking her to respond—and she did. His clothing served as an impediment to her searching hands so she pushed him away.
"Bed—now—I can't wait any longer." Her voice was thick with passion as she stumbled to her feet bringing Grissom with her.
He gave a soft, hoarse laugh that dissolved into a husky groan. He reached out and cupped her butt as they ran toward the bed.
Sara giggled and scrambled into bed.
Grissom stopped, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, toed the shoes from his feet, and removed his pants. Sara watched with half-closed eyes at the display of unadulterated masculine arousal; she groaned when he wiggled his hips.
"That boy isn't doing me any good waving in the wind."
She looked at him, eyes suddenly moistened with the love she felt for this man; she grew serious. "Me faire l'amour…" (Make love to me)
Hours later, Sara was awake, wrapped in Grissom's white dress shirt. She sat in a chair near the windows and gazed out into the darkness. The window was opened to let in the cooler night air. She had slept for several hours before quietly and carefully crawling over her husband. For the past hour she had been thinking.
She had agreed to return to Vegas and work with her old team—minus a very important supervisor. They—she and Grissom—would be fine, she knew; she would return to Paris or meet him at some half-way point for two months and then he would be home. At least for a while, she thought. He desperately wanted his own grant but most researchers said that might take several years.
She had agreed to return for her own very private reasons, too. She was so deep in thought she did not realize Grissom had gotten out of bed.
He asked. "What are you doing, dear?"
"Thinking."
"Anything interesting." His hand massaged her neck.
She caught his hand between hers. "I love you very much, Gil Grissom."
In a method he had developed over the years they had been together, he managed to nudge her from her seat, sit down, and bring her into his lap. "What else," he asked. His hands laced with hers.
"Going back—you don't think I'm crazy to do it?"
"Ahhh…" he sighed. "No, you are not crazy. We've talked about this. You can see your lady doctor. You'll tell everyone about our adventures. Hank will be thrilled to be in his house. You'll be fine; everyone will be ecstatic to have you back." He kissed her. "And I think I'll go back with you."
"No, Gil, we've talked about this!"
He chuckled. "I'm going back with you and then I'll return here. My mother wants to see me. I want to see Hank."
Sara laughed. "You would do that?"
He pressed his lips to hers and after a moment Sara made a soft sound and wrapped her arms around his neck. They made it to the bed and tumbled into rumpled sheets.
"I love you."
"More every day."
A/N: Thank you so much for getting to this point with us! The last chapter soon! Reviews appreciated.