Recap of Previous Chapter: While Sookie recovers in the hospital, she reads through old letters from Gran to Fintan and learns of their long-standing affair, which calls into question her lineage. She stumbles over coping with memories of Uncle Bartlett's abuse.

Disclaimer: All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris.

Chapter 17: Newbie

I stayed in the hospital with E.J. for nearly a week, resting and recovering like I was on a bona fide spa vacation. When I wasn't dozing or feeding E.J., I spent a lot of time shuffling through Gran's letters, ordering, making sense of her story, and fitting it all together—the good, the bad, and the ugly—like a puzzle. I loved all of her, from sky to sea—the picturesque scenery as well as the blunders and disasters. She gave me courage and hope that I'd be able to snap in the raw edges and dark corners that were part of my own puzzle. I felt them starting to shift into place.

I didn't always like having them there.

Of course, my feet hit the ground running the minute I was discharged.

For starters, there was my home. Amelia had wrangled a good deal out of the plumber, through her father's connections, and Jason had pitched in too, doing some of the retiling and dry-walling himself to save even more money. It didn't look too pretty, which fit right in with that quirky quality I'd always loved about my home. And every time I looked at the patched walls and tile running amok, I was reminded of the people who had pitched in to help when I'd needed it. On the other hand, this pipe-bursting fiasco had opened my eyes to a deeper set of structural problems in my home that I couldn't ignore anymore. For instance, I'd have to start looking into that dry rot problem Eric had mentioned. Ignoring that sort of thing doesn't just make it go away.

All in all, the general theme seemed to be that my home wasn't as sturdy and secure as I'd once thought it to be. In addition to figuring out how to manage necessary repairs, I needed to start thinking about what kinds of plans Lorena Ball might be making to develop the property around me. With a bit of online research into local zoning ordinances and key board players, I realized I was looking at a big, nasty, tangled political web that could very well trap me, if it would have me at all. I'd need an inside person to help me figure it out…someone such as L.L.. He likely had more information that would be helpful.

There was also a slew of other money worries. Hospital bills, I was sure, would be rolling in soon. I tried not to think about that too hard, knowing how little my crappy health insurance would probably cover. And, of course, E.J. was an expensive little guy. I did what I could to help, like applying for WIC and using the cheap diapers from Smaht Maht (which unfortunately caused a whole other set of laundry issues). But the real killer was having to hire a nanny, Octavia, so that I would be able to go back to work. Somehow it didn't feel right calling her a nanny. Nannies were people who worked for rich folk, with lots of discretionary income, which clearly I didn't have. I barely scraped it together through the help of Amelia's rental income and "paying" Octavia for some of her services in room and board.

But having Amelia and Octavia around reminded me of all of the ways that my home brought security too, and not just in financial ways. With them there, it felt as though my home had given birth to an entire family, nontraditional, but loving in its own way. Amelia came and went frequently, between her classes and working at the diner, but she joined us for meals whenever she could. Octavia fussed over E.J. and me in a grandmotherly way, plucking him out of my arms when it looked like I needed a break, and pacing the floor with him endlessly when the only thing that would soothe him was motion.

Without a doubt, E.J. was the star of the show. The little guy had me hooked, though I felt more tired than I ever knew possible. The sheer constancy was brutal. At times I felt like nothing more than a glorified vending machine. But then he'd snag me with another one of his little treats—a crooked smile, a flap of the arms, a sweet cuddle—and I'd be had all over again. For all of the relentless ways he demanded my attention, his little rewards would power me through the next sleepless night.

Before I knew it, May 1 was upon us. Leaf buds pushed themselves out on their limbs after a teasing, warm prelude, and then clung there waiting, for what I didn't know. The anticipation was killing me. I felt a little spring-like, myself, a little concerned that summer would barrel right over me. Last year, I'd been so sure I could stand up to its heat, even welcomed and reveled in it. But I'd been burned.

I hadn't forgotten about Eric. I still believed he needed to know about E.J., but where things would go between us seemed a lot less certain than they did a month ago. Great Love? I rolled my eyes and scoffed at myself—sank my head into my hands—for how naïve I'd been, at how I'd underestimated our difficulties. Since learning about Leclerq, I realized, I needed to go back to my initial instincts with him: I'd need to protect myself and proceed with caution. What would develop, if anything, was yet to be seen. Oh, the physical draw, no doubt, would be there. Deep feelings of caring and affection and commitment—alongside the dark stuff—would be new territory for us.

That "train wreck" kind of feeling started to leave me at about the time Octavia drove me in for my six-week follow-up with Dr. Ludwig. I convinced her to take the car and run some errands for herself. In turn, she convinced me to leave E.J. with her so I could stop by the diner and say hello.

The smells and sounds of the diner blasted me as soon as I opened the door.

"Go tell it on the Mountain," Sam sang, rubbing my belly. I'd managed to squeeze into last year's holiday tee only because I'd covered the exposed parts of The Mountain with a fur-trimmed Santa coat, and then held the whole shebang together with a black leather belt.

Sam was in his usual giddy spirit at Christmas time, darting about the kitchen in his own ridiculous Santa jester hat. Arlene, still pissed from having gotten up at the crack of dawn to stand in line for three hours, only to miss out on today's "hot toy deal" at the Smaht Maht, slammed through the kitchen doors griping about the table decorations, "If I have to wipe ketchup off those plastic poinsettias one more time, Sam…" Her threat hovered, ignored.

Per usual, Sam had decked the halls the day after Thanksgiving, gearing up for his favorite time of the year, the business season, when North Dormer's still vibrant downtown shopping district brought in a new wave of customers. But if anyone questioned Sam's true Christmas spirit, he'd point to the hat-and-mitten tree by the front door, or the stacks of toys headed to a local charity, or to the canned food drive bin by the register. I guessed I'd call him an altruistic businessman.

Out in the diner, people were still talking about the parachuting Santa, a long-standing annual tradition that I had never understood. (Why would Santa need a parachute?) In any case, the tradition had probably finally run its course, after this year's parachuting Santa missed his mark—the football field—and crashed into a glass storefront about a half mile away. Luckily enough, he only broke a leg and only a few people witnessed it.

I pulled up a stool and took a load off, relieved that the annual Christmas Eve Eve party was winding down.

Holly breezed into the kitchen, holding a tray of half-full salt-and-pepper shakers. The sounds of karaoke music breached the kitchen, the volume alternating with the swing of the kitchen doors.

"Whose awful singing is that?" Arlene looked up from counting her tip money.

"That would be William." Holly looked directly at me.

If I had been drinking anything at the time, I would have spewed it across the room. L.L. wasn't one to put on a performance, at least not intentionally. Sure, he'd shocked us all with his moonwalk at Arlene's third wedding, dancing surprisingly well for someone who was normally so stiff. But after the initial round of laughter and applause, everyone quieted uncomfortably as they realized the only way he pulled it off so well was that he had actually practiced it.

The singing he had not practiced. L.L. had taken up the microphone and was crooning "Blue Christmas" in his hangdog, just-broke-up-with Selah voice. Clearly he'd been to Murphy's, the bar down the street before he'd come here.

Then everyone was looking at me.

"All right, all right. I'll go get him," I sighed, knowing I'd be stuck with an inebriated L.L.. "Anything else you need me to do, Sam, before I save this party from a moonwalking Elvis?"

"We're all set." Sam took another lap around the kitchen to say goodbye, singing Go Tell It on the Mountain one more time and taking liberties with my belly.

"That ain't no immaculate conception, Sam," Arlene snickered.

"It's not a joke!"

The kitchen fell silent. Dead silent. Lafayette, who had been cleaning the grill turned toward us, pointing at The Mountain. "I don't know what you think is so funny. It's not a joke."

Though Lafayette was speaking, everyone was looking at me, waiting for my response. Standing there in my Santa coat, I'd never felt so singled out.

Or furious.

The problem was I didn't know who to be mad at most—Lafayette or everyone else. A lightning speed, snarky comeback was what I was grasping for, but—cripes—in my anger, the tears were coming, and all I could manage was a lame, "I don't know what the big deal is here."

That was the truth, actually.

So I followed it up with a stammering, "I…I guess I'll go get Elvis Jackson, then."

Hmph, I thought. I should send L.L. back to the kitchen for an encore. Let them deal with him. But instead, I pushed through the kitchen doors as the words "facing the music" popped into my head.

The smell hit me the hardest, socked me in the gut with the mingled aroma of coffee, grease, and baked beans that only comes from Sam's diner. I'd worn that smell home, deep in my pores. With one whiff of that smell, I felt transported back in time. Overall, things hadn't changed here.

But I had.

Immediately, I felt discombobulated.

There were the usual suspects. Codfish and Jason were just on their way out. "I'll bring back that coffee thermos I borrowed last week," Jay called over his shoulder. Andy Bellefleur was having lunch with Halleigh, their bodies leaned toward each other in an intimate way. Interesting. Arlene was prowling the back counter with a coffee pot. Holly and Dawn appeared to be the only two other servers on duty at the time. Holly waved, a big smile on her face, as she stopped by a table to take an order. Among the diners, the big buzz of the day seemed to be about the slutwalk that had just been staged in Boston.

Sure, I could plunk myself back down in this scene, notepad in hand—I didn't have a choice, really—but there was no doubt that how I fit in here would never be the same again.

I scanned the diner again, looking to see if I had any meal guests.

Denise Rattray.

Denise and I had had an uncomfortable relationship in the past. She'd come in periodically for a meal, always mum about her problems, though I'd suspected that Mack was beating up on her. On a good day, I'd call her demeanor prickly at best.

Today, Denise looked like she always did, dressed in flashy clothes—tight leather pants, scuffed, ultra high-heeled pumps, a tight-fitting long-sleeve patterned tee, and lots of jewelry that clattered when she moved. Her nails, once manicured with fancy designs and rhinestones, were now chipped and missing half their tips. It was the kind of dress that distinguished her from everyone else, saying "I want your attention" and "Don't bother me" all at once.

I was very surprised when she caught my eye and waved me over. She motioned for me to sit, which made me wonder if she was going to complain about something again.

"You had the baby."

"Yep. He's six weeks old now."

Denise was crumbling a whole pack of oyster crackers into her clam chowder, stirring it into a mortar-like mixture. I wondered whether to say anything else about E.J.. Some people didn't really care to hear about him; they were only being polite asking. Though I doubted Denise cared enough to be polite, I didn't think she wanted to hear about E.J. either.

I wished I had my Big Book of Everything in my hands. Oh, I knew there was no magic solution tucked into those well-worn pages, but old habits die hard, and I sure did wish I could pull a fix or two out of there, like a card from the local battered women's shelter or a survivor's support group. Yes, deep down, I wished I could fix something.

She looked up from her clam chowder. "You're awfully quiet, for once."

I laughed and then scrambled for a response. "I was just thinking about how some things never change. You know?"

Denise turned to look behind herself, toward the direction that I was looking. What she noticed, I'd never know, but turning back, she laughed genuinely, startling me with the way it changed her face. For the briefest of moments she seemed to be enjoying herself until a wince of pain crossed her face, followed by a mean sneer.

People reveal things about themselves—they leak—in ways most don't even realize. What's more, most of us don't even notice those leaks. But I suspected that having to be on guard so much around Mack, Denise wasn't like most people. She knew what she'd conveyed to me in that blink of a moment.

"And some people are just as nosey as they always were."

We probably had more in common than we'd ever know for sure, but we were done with each other right then and maybe forever too. I figured even a "See you 'round," or a "Take care" would have been too much, so instead I stood up, making an excuse about needing to see Sam. Walking away from her, I scanned the diner, wondering how many of us in here were bearing similar scars and wounds we'd never bare to each other for all kinds of reasons. Silence is self-protective; it's also hard and lonely sometimes.

The cold December air sobered up my moonwalking Elvis by a notch or two.

"Lemme know if I need to pull over, okay?" Vomit was not another problem I wanted to deal with in my car. I tucked the seatbelt under The Mountain and headed for home.

We made it all the way there, to the front walk, before he threw up…all over the front of his clothes.

I sighed, tugging him inside and leading him to the bathroom. "Throw your clothes in this bag and I'll wash them for you." Then I got out a new toothbrush and a set of towels and offered him a shower.

While L.L. cleaned himself up, I sat down, looking for an elusive comfortable position that would relieve my sore back and feet. Waitressing wasn't exactly the best profession for a pregnant woman. Before I could stop myself, my mind immediately wandered back to Lafayette's outburst. I rubbed my forehead, still confused and uncertain about what it had all meant, but feeling like my brain was on the cusp of something. Had he been trying to protect me from their jokes? Was he mad at me? Did he think I wasn't taking my pregnancy seriously enough? It was a very unsettling feeling not being sure whether he'd meant to help me or cut me down. In any case, I didn't appreciate being put on display, especially by someone I'd considered my friend. Plus it wasn't anybody's effing business what I did in my personal life. I thought I'd done a damn good job of keeping it separate from work. If anyone else had a problem with my pregnancy, well...that was his or her problem. Not mine.

I decided I'd settled the matter for myself.

L.L. emerged, holding a bag of clothes, looking steadier on his feet, but visibly shivering in his towel. I realized I should have been rounding up some clothes for him. Maybe Jason had left some behind in one of the spare rooms, but I wasn't sure I had any more energy to try to look.

"There's a robe hanging on the back of the door you can use." It was pink, but anything was better than his current state of undress. I started to get up, rethought it, and then called out, "Could you handle starting up the washer?" I soon heard the clank of metal and running water.

He joined me on the couch then, dressed in that ridiculous fluffy pink robe and smelling like my favorite lavender-mint body wash. The two of us made quite a pair.

"Bad night, huh?" He turned toward me.

"I'm sorry to hear about Selah."

He looked startled. "Oh, right. Yeah, thanks. Sorry about this."

I realized he'd been talking about me, not him.

He pressed on. "You seemed upset when we left the diner."

"It was nothing." Suddenly I was feeling really uncomfortably hot sitting here in red and white fake fur. I pulled off the Santa coat and made a vain attempt at tugging down my Ho, Ho, Ho! t-shirt. Giving up, my hands busied themselves with coiling my ponytail into a neat bun at the nape of my neck.

"Can you feel the baby moving yet?"

"Sure."

"You can?" His eyes lit up.

"Mm-hmm. He usually starts up as soon as I sit down. I think when I walk, the motion lulls him to sleep. And when I stop, he wakes up and moves."

"Can I feel him? Her?"

"I don't know what it is. I just call it 'he.' And sure."

No one else, not even Dr. Ludwig, had felt the baby move. Sure, strangers had reached out to pat The Mountain, but no one had been there with me marveling over the movement.

Inside me. Another person. Alive. Growing to be born.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to share it with someone who cared. I reached for his hand, placing it on the side where some limb or hand or foot or head or rump was swiping at that moment. I could never tell what was what. It always just felt like my insides were reorganizing.

L.L. quieted and stilled, as though he could sense the baby moving with every part of his body. He smiled, warm and wistful, and then catching my eye with a tentative look, he placed his other hand on me too.

I sank back all the way, resting my head against the back of the sofa, and scooted down a bit to get comfortable, spreading my knees open. Emboldened, L.L. shifted too, kneeling in front of me between my thighs. Looking at my belly, he gasped when the baby moved again. "I can see it too!"

I laughed. It had surprised me too, the first time I had seen it; it had never occurred to me that I'd be able to watch the same ripple of movement I felt from the inside. "My belly is like one giant amoeba."

L.L.'s hands started stroking across my shifting belly, following the movement. The look on his face changed—tensed—as the moment between us prickled. And then I was leaning forward toward him, and when I got close, I hoped he knew that if he looked up, my lips would be ready for his. I closed my eyes, as though making a wish and shutting out the rest of the world all at once, and drew in a long, hard breath, but before my lungs filled, his mouth was on mine, and then I was drawing him in too, and I was sliding forward, toward the edge of the sofa, and arching my body against his—arms around shoulders, swollen breasts against chest, taut womb against bands of muscle. I was different, but I could still fit myself against another person.

L.L.'s movements changed, his mouth traveling down my neck and his hands leaving my belly for my breasts, and then back to my belly for me, the broad expanse of me. All of me. I felt brand new all over again in this dinged body, good in my own skin with the reassurance of his hands and mouth covering over me, fixing newness in place once more. I still worked. I still desired. I was still desirable. I could have cried out for that comfort I'd been missing for so many long, lonely months.

A sudden jolt from my belly stopped both of us. I gasped.

"What was that? Are you all right?" Alarm sounded in L.L.'s voice. His hands had stilled and planted themselves firmly on The Mountain.

It happened again.

I was worried. "It sounds crazy, but it feels like he has the hiccups. Do you think that's possible? Or do you think something's wrong?"

L.L.'s mouth had hardened into a thin line. The robe had been shed from his shoulders, but was still tied around his waist. When he stood, I barely registered the tent that had obviously formed.

"Should I look in the baby book?" I didn't know whether to spend the time looking or to just call the doctor.

"Where is it?" He was heading for the bookshelf.

"No, it's in the magazine rack, right there under the end table."

L.L. bent down to pick it up and then handed it to me. The jolt happened again. I rifled through it in panic mode, ready to just throw it across the room in my state.

He took it back from me, flipping to the end, then paging forward. "It says here that fetal hiccups are common, especially in the last half of pregnancy."

"Does it say what it would feel like?"

"Like a little spasm, probably just like that. Do you want to call the doctor to check?"

I settled back and waited. "Would you put your hands back?"

He slid a foot stool over to the sofa, sat down with his feet propped up, and then pulled my head down to his lap. His arm stretched down to my belly as I curled to my side. After another minute of anticipated waiting, another jolt happened.

"That has to be hiccups, right?" I looked up at L.L., who was smiling.

"Sookie, if that isn't the hiccups, then I'll eat a plate of macaroni salad. Want me to scare him?"

"I think that robe's doing the trick."

He jostled me. "That reminds me." He got up to put his clothes in the dryer, and came back to his position on the sofa, pulling an afghan down over me. I reached for his hand and held it atop The Mountain. We slept there like that for the rest of the night.

Sam was sitting at his desk, raking his hands through his hair, going over his taxes, which once again had been extended. I sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk as he leaned away from his computer.

"Why don't I just hire a tax person to do this?"

"I don't know, because you say that every quarter."

"Well then tell me something new, Sookie." He walked around his desk, taking the seat next to mine and scooting it around to face me. "How are things?" His hand reached out to tap the corner of my chair.

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, surprising me with their immediacy. He looked startled too. "I'm not sure where I fit anymore," I blurted out. The more I thought about it, I realized I wasn't sad or happy or angry or any one thing. I was…all of it. Emotional.

"I'd tell you there's always a place for you here if I thought it would help." He was leaning closer now, so close I could smell him. Amazingly, after half a day in the diner, behind the grill, here at his computer, probably even out at the dumpsters and God knows where else, he still smelled like Sam—a combination of bar soap, toothpaste, and fabric softener layered over the warm, musky scent of his skin.

He leaned even closer, or maybe I leaned toward him, or at least it seemed we were closer to each other. I could smell him even more strongly. I took all of him in with a deep breath that filled my lungs and my belly. Maybe if I leaned forward just a little more, I thought, he'd wrap his arms around me, draw me into him, and then I would know again. It had been too long since I'd felt a welcome touch, and I could only imagine just how my cheek would feel pressed against his worn t-shirt against his solid chest.

There was a whole lot of imagining going on in my head, but one thing's for sure: I didn't imagine the heat from his lips once they touched mine. Holy smokes. And I didn't imagine the surprising softness of his rumpled, wiry-looking golden red hair. That's where my fingers had found themselves, first smoothing, but then twining in the rakish mess. And I didn't imagine the way his arms finally did wrap around me, or the way his fingers gripped the back of my bare neck, beneath my ponytail, or the way his other hand splayed across my side, at my ribs, or even the way his thumb wandered a little, grazing my breast. And I certainly didn't imagine the way both of his hands slipped and skimmed and slid down. I could barely stop myself from twisting and turning beneath his hands, coaxing and stretching his touch as far as it would reach, over every rough patch in need of smoothing, over every deadened, numb spot in need of awakening. Down, down, down his hands traveled, stopping finally at the flare of my hips, right where Eric used to like.

And that's where things came to a sudden halt.

Oh, it had felt good, for all of the reasons a lover's touch should feel good and then some. I won't deny it or say in any way that I thought I was wrong to crave or even to have it.

But there were some things I wanted that no one could give me, and other things I wanted that I knew I couldn't get in this way. How to pull it all together was beyond me at that moment. All I knew was that for as good as his touch had felt, it wasn't everything. It took damn near all of my strength and courage to pull back.

"Shit, Sookie. I'm sorry."

"My fault too." I didn't think I could form a complete sentence at that moment, but still, I managed to add, "I'm sorry." I looked away from him, blinking back more tears and wishing his smell weren't so overpowering. I couldn't help but think that I'd be feeling a hell of a lot better right then if his hands were back on my body—mending, renewing, exhilarating, freeing…

And then cold, hard reality sobered me up. Whatever strangeness had just happened between us didn't matter. It didn't matter what I wanted. What I really needed, if nothing else, was a job. And Sam was my boss, not to mention a good friend too.

I pulled up straight in my chair. "I really need to come back to work. I got the okay."

"Whenever you're ready." Sam seemed uncomfortable enough with what had passed between us to go along with my game of moving on and pretending it had never happened.

I nodded.

"I'll put you in next week's schedule. How many hours?"

"As many as you've got."

"Sookie…"

"Money's tight, Sam."

So it was settled. I was all set to go back to work.

And what's more, I realized, I was ready to start looking for Eric.

A/N: Hi, folks! *waves* I'm back from the wilds, and happy to be among Internet-connected people once again. ;)

Getting down to business, here...about those two "non-Eric" kisses...Generally I don't like to say anything to sway opinion down here, but in this case, I think I'll mention a few points:

(1) Eric and Sookie are not together as a couple when those kisses happen.
(2) I think Sookie says pretty clearly what those kisses mean to her.
(3) While the first kiss, with L.L., is interrupted by a little hiccup in the action, she stops the one with Sam herself.
(4) In the end, she says that she's ready to start looking for Eric, and that means more to her than just finding where he's been "hiding out" all these months.

I'll also say this: Eric has not been getting tips from Boston mob boss Whitey Bulger, who managed to stay on the lam for over a decade. I have a feeling things are going to start to move pretty quickly-in the story's timeline, that is-though my summertime updates will still be slower to come. Thanks to everyone who's stuck out this story with me from the beginning, as well as to everyone who's picked it up recently. ;)

~And thanks, makesmyheadspin & peppermintyrose!~