A/N: Another chapter-long one. Thanks for reading, for staying with us, and thanks to C & N for advice and encouragement!
Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2
CHAPTER 6
They decided to take the scenic drive which meant slow driving and an excited Laura Sidle as she remembered visiting beaches, parks, and shops from decades earlier. It seemed there were a thousand beautiful views and several times, Grissom had to push ahead when the women wanted to linger. His case for reaching their destination was a promise to Laura.
"We'll eat oysters when we get there," he promised as an enticement to pass several points of interest.
The last stretch of the trip passed farmlands and bald-domed hills, with several miles through dense forests that were part of a state park. Grissom was surprised at the isolation of the area, only a short drive from the suburban sprawl around the city. Livestock grazed along the road and hawks flew overhead; a few abandoned buildings marked long-ago houses.
It took a few minutes to find the right restaurant, hard to miss with neon signs of oysters hanging in front windows, and busy with customers. Once food arrived, Grissom and Laura tucked in to a platter of oysters, grilled, smoked, and raw. Sara ate a salad and a large baked potato and made faces as she watched her two companions slurp down "the taste of the ocean" as Grissom described the oysters.
A few miles away, they found a place that time seemed to have forgotten. A community with no supermarkets, no fast-food joints, no stoplights, and two churches. The Victorian styled hotel Sara had booked online sat on the corner in the middle of the small village; at one time an anchor of what had been a busy farm town. Now, it was one of a dozen businesses left in operation—a small bakery and café, a general store, a realtor, a hair salon, a post office and the hotel appeared to anchor the village intersection of directional points.
Definitely off the beaten path, and as the only guests in the hotel, they were shown to their rooms by a young man who helped Laura with her bag, showed her how to work the television, and gave them a breakfast menu. He gave them a pass code for the front door, adding everything closed up before the sun disappeared.
Grissom and Sara helped Laura settle in; the woman found everything in the room, from the fragrant soaps to the plush pillows on the bed, a treasure, saying she felt like a princess in the beautiful room. Soon, they headed across the hall, bidding the older woman a good night.
Grissom opened the door to their room and realized how exhausted he was when he saw the brass bed piled high with white pillows. The room was simply furnished, soothing and inviting; he turned to Sara.
She leaned against the door, eyes closed. As silence filled the room, Grissom stepped closer, hesitant, waiting for her to move.
"She hasn't spent a night away from her house in—in at least ten years." Sara's eyes opened to meet Grissom's.
"Do you think she'll be okay?"
Her arms lifted and she placed them around his neck; her hands threaded through his hair.
"I love you, Gilbert Grissom."
His arms went around her, hugging her tightly. "I know you do, honey." He said before kissing her. "I love you." Gently, he led her to the bed. "Get in. I know you are exhausted."
Resisting, she laughed. "Brush my teeth first—and you brush the taste of oysters out of your mouth!"
A few minutes later, they were both on the bed, shoes off but fully dressed; the bed was soft, the white duvet fluffed around them. Sara rolled to face him; her fingers gently touched his face.
She said, "I don't remember any of this—hearing all the stories from my mom today—you'd think I'd remember some of them."
Grissom rearranged so he was hugging her before saying, "You were a little girl—five or six when you moved away. And you've never had anyone help you remember—telling stories about what you did or your birthday when you were three. Do you remember your grandparents at all?"
Sara took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I don't—I don't think I do—I remember an old man in a white shirt giving me a stick of peppermint. But have no idea if that was my grandfather or just—just an old man."
Grissom kissed the top of her head. "Tomorrow, we'll enjoy the day, look around, go to the beach. Memories have a funny way of popping up in unexpected places." He did not say it, but he was worried that returning memories might be distressing.
"You would think I'd remember living here, but nothing—it's like a void."
"What is your first memory?" He asked.
"Going to school," she said with a smile. "I could read and the classroom had this set of books—the teacher let me stay in during recess so I could read." She hesitated and continued. "Actually, I remember my dad reading to me." Her hand went above her head. "There was a lamp here—like a spotlight—on us."
"Your mother said you did not go to school here."
Sara made a soft laugh. She said, "Sometimes my mother doesn't remember fact from fiction, I've learned, but—but we are moving on."
Grissom lifted her hand and kissed it. "Stay right here—quick shower and we'll continue this. Tomorrow, we're going to have a great day."
He did not take a long shower; he thought it had taken five minutes, yet when he returned to the bedroom, Sara was asleep, still in her jeans, on top of the covers, in the middle of the bed. Chuckling softly, he walked around the bed, got his boxers and a white tee-shirt out of his bag, and put them on.
Knowing he would probably wake Sara, he thought about sleeping on the sofa instead of the bed, but then decided he wanted to sleep in a bed meant for soft and soothing comfort, next to Sara. Carefully, he touched her hair; instantly, her eyes opened.
"I didn't want to startle you," he whispered.
"Did I go to sleep?" She looked around, puzzled for a few seconds. "Do you think I should check on my mother?"
Grissom shook his head, "No. If she needs something, she knows where we are." Leaving the bed, he got her bag and brought it to her. With a smile, he said, "I didn't want to sleep next to jeans." He pulled out a pale pink nightshirt. "I like this one—soft, cute."
With eyes half closed, Sara laughed. She wiggled out of her jeans and he pulled her shirt over her head. In a second her bra was off and tossed toward a chair; the nightshirt was over her head and smoothed over her body.
Grissom pulled covers back and tucked her in. Crawling in beside her, he wrapped arms around her and kissed her gently.
"Sleep, sweet Sara."
"I can wake up," she mumbled; her head rested against the curve of his shoulder and neck. "You smell good."
He laughed. "Did I smell bad?" Rubbing her back, he said, "We'll sleep first, dear."
And they did—until early morning.
Sara called it a "pearly dawn"—a thin misty fog turned the hills into soft shadows and everything—and everyone—seemed to sleep. Unlike Las Vegas, this part of the world had a slow dawn, the light arriving before the sun hit the horizon. She had opened the double doors to a small Juliet balcony and was silhouetted by the light when Grissom woke.
"You are up," he said as he crawled out of bed and joined her at the window. He let his finger tip graze her thigh just below the hem of her nightshirt. "It really is beautiful here—so quiet, so isolated." His chin rested on her shoulder as he put his arms around her.
"I looked it up. Between state and national parks and privately held farm lands, the village was cut off from—from traffic. First—no railroad; then no main highway, and later, no interstate." Softly, she chuckled, "No beach, and lots of cows and goats meant few visitors." She rested her head against his. "I've missed you," she whispered.
Grissom gently drew her against him, nuzzling her neck, brushing her cheek with his lips as she turned her head away.
"I'm so scared, Gil."
He eased back. "You don't need to be. You are strong, Sara."
Her mouth formed a word, but before she could say anything, his lips came to hers. Gentle, kind, and she softened against him. There was no doubt of the love between the two. He was generous; she was sweet. They watched as the sun brightened the horizon, turning from hazy purple to washed blue and soft pink in a matter of minutes. As the pale palette of sunrise disappeared, Grissom and Sara walked back to bed, sinking into the cool bed as if it were a pool of water.
Palms slid over bodies; persuasive mouths roamed. She reached, rose to him and in the quiet beauty of the morning, she knew he would be there, that he would hold on to her. No one else, he thought, had ever unlocked him this way.
When his lips pressed against her heart, he heard a quick intake of air and then a quiet sob. He felt her rise under him, an arch of welcome. When he looked down at her, he knew she was fully aware of what they gave each other. Holding her tight as his body shook, holding ruthless control, he slipped inside her.
"Take me—I love you."
Her breath caught on his words as her eyes shimmered with tears. "Gil," her fingers curled within his hand. "Gil, I love you."
At that moment, the sun crested, flooding the room with the first sunlight of the day. Their lips met in a gentle kiss that deepened as their movements became rhythmic, flowed, and built around passion until floodgates opened, wakening everything at once. Their need had been overwhelming; afterward they stared at each other in surprise. The tranquility was a comfort, as luxurious as the bed they were in.
Grissom noticed the tense, worried expression had gone from Sara's face. She was relaxed, free of concern, beautiful, and glowing. He knew their compatibility gave them a closeness that few people shared. They would conquer her fear, her ghosts.
"You stay here and I'll bring breakfast up to you," he said.
When she began to protest, he added, "I'll check on Laura—we'll eat together and I'll bring breakfast to you." Gently, he patted her bare butt, saying, "Take your time. I can handle your mother until you—you get that 'just been loved' look under control."
Sara threw back the covers, saying, "I'll only take a minute—we can go together. I know she's been up." Swinging her legs to the floor, she stretched.
Watching her, Grissom could not help but feel lusty warmth in his groin. "You better get in the shower unless you want me to attack you again," he murmured.
"Get in the shower—I'll follow you," Sara said.
In a few minutes, they both showered and dressed; Sara tapped on the door across the hall before saying "I'm sure I heard her leave earlier."
As they headed downstairs, Grissom heard low voices, one of them Laura's, and smelled the aroma of coffee.
In a whisper, he said, "Your mother has found someone to talk to."
Sara shook her head, rolling her eyes skyward. "She also talks to herself, Gil. Maybe we'll be lucky."
They found Laura talking with an older woman, wearing an apron, who jumped up when the two approached the table.
"Good morning! I hope you slept well" A nod toward Laura, "we've been having a wonderful conversation this morning." She stuck out a hand, saying, "You must be Sara and Gil. I'm Gabby Dennis—your host, chief cook and housekeeper."
After a few minutes of greetings, settling on breakfast orders, Gabby said, "Your mother said you lived in the area years ago. I've only been here seven years—my husband and I bought the building and turned it into an inn. But I've told your mother recent history—not much to that—and old Mr. Thompson in the general story has been here for years so he can catch you up on old times."
The woman disappeared behind the staircase and Grissom and Sara sat down with her mother. A large empty plate was in front of Laura with a side dish of fresh fruit and containers of syrup, milk, orange juice and a tub of butter filling the space around her.
"I've had a delicious breakfast," Laura announced. "French toast, fruit—berries—it really is good. I hope you ordered it."
Sara nodded yes. Grissom had ordered a plate of eggs and bacon which would get him a frown from Sara, but he'd kiss her and she'd forgive him.
Laura Sidle was talkative. "I told Gabby we tried to run a small bed and breakfast here decades ago! From what she says, they don't have a lot of customers—more than we did, I'm sure!"
"Where was the bed and breakfast?" Sara asked.
Her mother waved her hand in the direction of the street, saying, "Near the church—torn down years ago, according to Gabby. Not much here to remember from the looks of the place." She placed a piece of fruit in her mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed. "I think Mr. Thompson ran the store when we lived here."
New plates arrived filled with French toast sprinkled with sugar and fresh fruit, an omelet that filled half the plate and several pieces of thick-cut bacon, another bowl of berries, a pitcher of syrup, and a basket of croissants so freshly baked that the smell enveloped everything else.
A jar of strawberry preserves was added to the table as Gabby said, "I made these from local berries. Delicious if I do say so!"
Laura reached for a croissant. She asked, "Do you know if Mr. Thompson has been here for a while?"
"Oh, yes—forever, I'd say. His family has one of the farms—if anyone remembers your folks, he will."
The general store surprised Sara and Grissom. The ancient building was a real general store—not a beach towel or tourist post card in the place—with stacks of livestock feed in the back, shovels, rakes, towels, cookware, work clothes and boots took up the middle space, and the walls were lined with food—boxes, cans, bottles, and bags.
There was no one else in the store when they entered, but Mr. Thompson, slightly stooped by age, greeted them as if they were important customers. Quickly, he was carrying on a one-sided conversation with Sara and her mother.
Miles Thompson had lived in the area for eighty years, minus the two years he'd left for the Army. He had been married twice, both wives were buried in the Presbyterian cemetery, he said, and three children, four grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Only one of the group was interested in the store—a grandson who showed up on weekends.
Finally, Sara was able to break in, asking, "Do you remember a Sidle family who lived here? They ran a bed and breakfast—thirty years ago?"
The old man rubbed a scratchy chin; his eyes went up to a line of hats and caps on a high shelf. "John Sidle ran the barbershop for years around here—it was that hair place over there now." His eyes returned to Sara's face. "He had two boys—one died in Vietnam. You have the look of a Sidle—tall, leggy—one of those boys climbed on top of my porch out there—when I had one and stacked fifty sacks of feed on it—using nothing but his hands. Wild boys—both of them. Mother died when they were young." He glanced at Laura and then back to Sara. "Which one was your daddy?"
"Thomas."
Nodding his head, the old man continued, "Yeah, Tommy Sidle—all the girls thought he was cute. Don't know if he ever worked an hour in his life!" He turned to Sara's mother. "So you would have been Tommy's wife? You weren't from around here."
"No—no, I grew up around Modesto."
Miles Thompson turned to find Grissom who was looking at hats. "Tommy was—wasn't he killed? Probably deserved it—never was a fight Tommy Sidle was going to lose."
Suddenly, Laura Sidle spoke, "I killed him—one night he tried to kill me."
Sighing, the old man leaned against a counter. "Now that's coming back to me—over in Modesto, wasn't it?" He looked at Sara, saying, "And you're his daughter—turned into a pretty woman, if you don't mind a compliment from an old man. I don't mean to speak ill of the dead—forgive me for that. He's buried up at the Catholic cemetery—your dad, your grandparents, your uncle. Probably more than that up there."
Sara was speechless; she'd never heard anything about her father or her grandparents from anyone. Grissom moved near her and placed his hand on her shoulder.
Extending his hand to Laura, Mr. Thompson shook her hand. "Living with Tommy Sidle must have been difficult—you never came back here, did you?"
"No, no. This is the first time since we moved. Sara was only five or six when we left."
He nodded as he moved behind the counter. "I'm sure you folks have a lot planned, re-living old memories and such. Not many families have stayed in the area—suppose you will be driving down to Marshall to see old Mr. Davis—I think he's still in the same office."
Sara glanced at her mother who looked at her and shrugged. The older woman said, "Who's Mr. Davis?"
Miles Thompson, an old man in a small community, managed to surprise the three people standing in his store, when he said, "Mr. Davis was the Sidle lawyer back when the old man died." He pointed out of the front window in the direction of the hair salon before saying, "I'm sure he's got that property tied up in a trust—and the first nickel he ever made. Davis will be able to tell you—he's old but he's sharp as ever."
The three stood in stunned silence for a full minute. Mr. Thompson said, "I'll write down directions. Not hard to find." He hunted for a pad and took several minutes to write directions. He seemed to realize he had provided information that had been unknown a few minutes earlier.
"If you folks come back here, I'll call a friend of mine—Ruth Stevens—she keeps up with the history around here, who's buried in the two cemeteries, who owns what buildings—calls herself the local historian. She'd love to talk with you."
Sara took the paper he handed her but the surprise she'd heard—not one but three people knew her father's family-kept words from forming.
Grissom, watching as a bystander, realized Laura and Sara were surprised at this turn. He had also noticed the old man had almost said something twice, stopping himself before elaborating—or was it gossip he did not want to tell? But Grissom was certain the man knew more about the Sidle family. Something that had caused his hesitation.
A/N: What does this old guy know? Read, review, encourage us-more coming!