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Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2

CHAPTER 5

Gil Grissom settled into his window seat, clipped the seat belt ends together without looking, and closed his eyes. His third flight in as many weeks. Support—support and commitment, keep promises, make future plans. Be patient—this takes time. Do normal things. His fingers rubbed his eyes; he could handle this—they could handle it.

His thoughts drifted back to the previous trip. Sara had not been herself; her therapist, the woman named Peg, had agreed it had been a difficult week. After doing a search on the therapist, Grissom had learned much about the woman entrusted with Sara's well-being. Professionally, Peg was Dr. Margaret Newman who had, fifteen years ago, graduated at the top of her class from the University of Pennsylvania. For ten years, she had worked with victims of the most horrific events in the country. Five years ago, she had joined Dr. Peters in private practice.

Dr. Peters, the psychiatrist, was also well qualified; recommended because her practice was with law enforcement employees who had experienced trauma—often personal events that led to people to her office. She had no qualms about saying she believed in resolutions, in healing, in getting on with living. He and the psychiatrist had a long discussion about Sara's long-term avoidance—the key to Sara's recovery lay in her past. Last week, her emotional state seemed to be stuck in a state of despair and hopelessness.

Peg had been the one to pull Sara through the dark hole; he felt helpless as he sat in Vegas while Sara was despondent but Peg insisted that he was not needed—to wait a few days. And Sara had seemed to respond; Peg had been the one to explain Sara's situation to Laura Sidle. And had gotten Laura to agree to sessions with Sara. Not traditional therapy, from what he understood—truth be told, he didn't know what Sara had meant by that, but she sounded better. And he was grateful for the guarded optimism that he had heard in her voice in the past few days.

For this trip, he was renting a car at the airport, picking Sara up at her mother's home, and the three of them were driving north. Sara wanted it to be a surprise, but he suspected they were going to the small town where Sara had lived with her parents as a young child. She had told him the trip had been suggested by Dr. Peters as a way to have a positive experience with her mother, where they could both remember a time and place before their lives were torn apart.

Breathing deeply, his attempt at sleep seemed to be chased away by worry. He had read every research paper written about post traumatic stress—and while women were the most likely to have the condition, there was a paucity of studies published. So he had read individual case studies and textbook descriptions. He'd even read several articles in women's magazines where wives described living with spouses diagnosed with PTSD.

He had come to realize that by the time Sara, an emotional wreck, had walked out of the lab, she had been on the precept of a long, dark fall. She was using all her strength to pretend—days she had walked in a fog, nights she could not sleep, reliving images he had no knowledge of—and she had not trusted him, unable, unwilling to tell him the truth. He had not been able to see her frail and fraught condition until she was on the verge of implosion. His fault, he had whispered to Dr. Peters.

Rubbing his eyes again, he pushed those thoughts away. He had not asked, but Dr. Peters had spelled it out in details—commitment, support, patience, encouragement. He could do that; his desire for life with Sara went far beyond a few months of therapy.

Finally, he slept, his head resting against the airplane's window. Less than an hour later, as the plane descended for landing, he woke. He had to rub the kink out of his neck but his thoughts were positive as the mosaic of colors surrounded by water came into view. The gleaming towers of the financial district stood in contrast to the lush green neighborhoods, the wide highways spread for miles inland, to the south and north of the city.

He had to wait at baggage claim; Sara had requested some things from home and, while it brought tears to his eyes, he had carefully packed her precious possessions, carrying them on board with him, and checking his luggage as baggage.

In less than an hour, he was parking a bright blue Ford Edge in front of Laura Sidle's home. And he immediately knew what Sara had been doing as "therapy"—she was on her knees in a flowerbed, weeds piled high beside her. The plants and flowers had taken on a new look—well tended, gracefully trimmed—not an obvious change, but noticeable.

Sara turned as she heard the car door close and rose in one fluid movement.

Dear God, he thought, she was beautiful—more so than he remembered—as her smile spread across her face, her arm lifted and wiped across her forehead. Her white shirt was smeared with streaks of dirt. Her long legs stuck out of ragged blue shorts at least two sizes too large. Her knees were brown with soil. And her hair had been trimmed.

"You are here!"

With her greeting, her smile, his world fell into place.

But she would not hug him; holding her arms back like wings of a duck, she leaned forward and kissed him.

"I'm dirty—you are clean!" She cried, delight obvious in her voice. "I'll be ready in five minutes—Mom isn't due home for another thirty—come in! I'm excited—Mom is excited!" She brushed dirt from her knees and then brushed her hair away from her face and left a smear of brown from her chin to her ear. Quickly, she cleaned up her tools and tossed the weeds in a paper bag.

Following her into the house, he noticed another difference. Again, not obvious, but where there had been a jumble of objects on shelves, there was order. A display of pottery interspersed with vases of flowers, a few paperback books and two photographs sat on the shelves. Instead of the two sofas he remembered, there was one sofa and three chairs.

Someone—he knew who—had made delicate changes to the living area. Looking at the back yard, he could see the same subtle changes on the patio. Not as much clutter, a very restrained redecoration had—was taking place.

He sat down in one of the chairs to wait after Sara insisted he could not go further than the living room.

"Trust me on this, Gil. Just wait—do you need anything? Water? The bathroom? There's a bathroom off the kitchen."

He said he'd wait, needing nothing. And in less than ten minutes, Sara returned, smelling of soap, wearing a blue pullover and jeans. He met her halfway across the room.

"You look great," he whispered, giving her a hug before kissing her. And she returned his kiss with surprising passion. His Sara, he thought, she was better.

And to prove how much he'd missed her—and she felt the same—they remained in the middle of the living room hugging each other, warming to the other's touch, and intermingling kisses with lover's words until the sound of an old car caused them to pull apart.

With a sheepish grin, Grissom said, "Has it been thirty minutes?"

"No—she's home early, I think." Sara laughed, straightened her shirt and looked down. She wiped her hand across the front of his pants. "Sorry about this." A giggle.

The sound—a giggle, Sara's quiet, sexy laugh—caught his breath. His world settled into its normal orbit.

Just then the front door, a squeaky, aluminum screen one, banged and clattered as it opened and clanged shut as Laura Sidle limped in.

"Are we ready to go?" She laughed as she headed toward Grissom. "Are you happy to see me!" She touched his outstretched hand in an awkward handshake. "I packed this morning and left work at the first whistle." She patted Sara's shoulder. "I told Sara I have not been back since—since we moved—and that's been thirty years!"

As her mother hurried along the hallway, Sara looked at Grissom and laughed. "She's ready—so am I." She pointed to a small bag by the front door before giving him a quizzical glance, saying, "Might take a while to get there," she pointed. "Bathroom's there."

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