A/N: Okay, take a deep breath and dive in! Thanks for reading!
Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2
Chapter 24
The sleek ship cut through the waves, sending a fine spray of salty water into Gil Grissom's face. He could have stepped away, near the chairs on deck, or even to the stern, but he liked looking forward. He smiled as he thought of his appearance, looking like a wet, excited dog on a hunt. He didn't care. This was exhilarating.
And to his right and left, there were others just like him. Explorers, he thought. On a modern ship with complex platforms and instruments, acoustic quieting of engines, working decks and laboratories designed as ultraclean, clean, and temperature controlled. He had spent a week learning the layout of the ship as well as the basic requirements for living and working on a ship.
He was one of three new faculty members of a group of twelve on an oceanography research vessel along with thirty-three students and a crew of twelve. As a faculty member, he had a small private room along a corridor of other rooms—a narrow bed, a desk, a closet, and a bathroom provided privacy and a place for everything he had brought.
The students were young, energetic, and passionate about studying specific areas in maritime research. And the faculty was older versions of their students.
A dozen research topics were on-going—marine biology, ecology, toxicology, biofuels, marine bacteria, wave action, and an assortment of sea life from whales, dolphins, and sharks to microscopic crab and fish he'd never heard—the topics were as broad as they were specific.
Within days, Grissom was happy. The faculty, students, and crew were good, likable people, friendly as well as intelligent. As with any group, he found people who were quiet, studious, boisterous; all hard-working.
The labs on the ship were as high-tech as any place Grissom had ever worked; funding was not an impediment. Most of the physical work required multiple hands—divers in and out of the ocean, sounding devices dropped overboard when marine life was spotted, sampling pods lowered into deep water.
For the first week, before he slept, he sat down and wrote long emails to Sara about his day. Occasionally, he'd send text messages and, as they had decided before he left, they talked at least twice a week. Tried to talk—at times he was standing in knee-deep muck helping students retrieve deep-ocean nudibranches, anemones, hagfish, or other marine life—and he missed her call. Or she missed his for similar reasons—elbow deep in human muck.
His days were so different from anything he'd done previously. So different from the solid house, the fenced garden in Vegas. He thought about Sara; there were women on the ship but none like Sara. He smiled remembering their last conversation when he'd shown her a video he had taken of a humpback whale and a small dolphin playing near the ship.
There were times when everyone on the ship was awe-struck, gathering on deck to watch the world's largest mammals, the blue whale, breach and swim near the ship. Or seeing manta rays launch into the air in an amazing display of aerial acrobatics. White-sided dolphins and Dall's porpoises were commonplace but work slowed when a playful pod followed the ship, surfing in its wake.
Days seem to fly by with each new experience; as a new professor, helping with several on-going projects, he was consumed with work. One night, seeing his laptop closed, he realized he had not checked or sent email in two days—maybe three. After he showered, he fell onto the bed and closed his eyes for a few minutes, only to wake when the ship's bell rang to announce the dining room was open for breakfast. The small window in his room was filled with bright sunlight.
By early afternoon, a storm was developing to the south causing the bow of the ship to rise and fall more than they had experienced since leaving San Diego. A fine mist sprayed over decks and most everyone found a lab, a table, a chair in a corner and, if desired, someone to talk with.
Grissom opened his laptop and found several emails from Sara describing her shift, familiar stories of murder by a family member. She had finished with a light-hearted description of breakfast with Nick and Greg adding "Miss you—hurry home" at the end.
He thought about the times they had eaten together, often with these good friends. He wondered what she had said about him—anything at all? He knew they had laughed and the two men had been the ones to see Sara's shining eyes. He could see her eyes, her smile, her face.
"I wish you were here," he tapped. So much happening, so much to talk about, but he made it short. "I'm staying busy. Glad to hear you had fun with Nick and Greg. Talk to you soon." He hit the send button and closed the laptop.
In Vegas
Sara Sidle lived in a narrow world of crime lab, investigations, courtrooms, and her home. She worked long hours, often off the clock, so when she got home, she could fall into bed with exhaustion and sleep.
She rarely spoke of it; of missing her husband so acutely that her chest ached. Occasionally, she made a joke—or was fondly teased by her co-workers—about her long distance marriage. But they—she and Grissom—were determined. They loved each other; a few months of separation did not diminish that. She waited.
One morning when Grissom had been gone for six weeks, Sara's tea had grown cold and she left the cup on the table. A string of ants had found half of her toast and were busy moving pieces into the gravel. But she did not notice them. She had moved to the back yard, sitting in an old sling chair that had seen better days; her attention was on the rear wall of the house.
Paint was peeling from the flat surface near the roof. She knew it was a recent condition; on second thought, it might have been peeling for quite awhile. And thinking about paint caused her to remember how she and Grissom had talked for days about painting their bedroom in the condo before coming to a decision.
For the house, he had given her complete freedom to select colors and furniture. The thought made her eyes tear-up; had he known how much time he would spend away from the house, she wondered.
A noise chased her thoughts away and wiping her eyes, she looked at the sky. An airplane droned high in the sky. She watched it disappear and heard another noise, nearer to her, footsteps.
It took a minute for her to get out of the chair and by then, the person was standing by her chair.
"I rang the doorbell—knew you were home."
Sara laughed and gave Jim Brass a hug, saying, "What are you doing here?"
"I figured you were lonesome—and we can talk about our problems." His eyebrows rose several times as he smiled and he brought a paper bag into her view. "And I brought food. Muffins from Pastry Palace."
She and Jim could talk—for hours—about his daughter, her mother, her husband. About work and the people at work.
"I'm going to move my mother here," Sara said. "I've almost got it worked out."
They had moved inside, seated at opposite ends of the sofa. Brass appeared to be sleeping; his eyes were closed. His legs stretched in front of him. Sara knew he was resting his eyes as he listened to her talk.
"Not here?" He asked.
With a frown, Sara glanced at him, saying, "Yes, here!" Then, softly, with a shrug, she laughed. "It looks like I'm going to be here and moving her will at least put us in the same place."
Slowly, Brass pulled himself out of his recline. "Sara, you don't mean to move your mother here?" His finger pointed to the floor. "Not into your house?"
Laughing, her head tilting back, she answered, "No! Into a care facility." She named the place. "She's drinking too much—has been an alcoholic for some time according to her social worker who has been trying to get her into a long-term care home for a year." Sara leaned back into the sofa, sighing. "So now, I'll bring her here and hopefully, things will work out."
Jim reached across the sofa and took her hand. "We are quite the pair—you—you know I've always thought..."
Sara squeezed his hand. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Months later, in the Pacific Ocean…
Gil Grissom looked across the deep blue of the ocean that seemed to roll into eternity. His eyes dropped to the deck below him where several groups had gathered. On this morning, he had walked around the ship and found a chair in an isolated spot, claiming it as his for a while.
This was an "off day"—the term they used when the ship was moving from one area to another and work came to a halt—or nearly so. Most of the students and faculty would enjoy a few hours of camaraderie, away from research projects and catching up on whatever came up, but he chose to be alone. To think.
No longer the newest faculty member on the ship, Grissom had more responsibilities but he also had more time to study, to explore, to discover. But today, he was thinking about his past.
It had been six months and four days since he'd last seen Sara—his soon-to-be ex-wife. All he had to do was transmit the electronic paperwork. An automated signature. He sighed as he closed the laptop. He'd never thought it would happen—not to them, not after all they had been through.
All his professional life, he had asked questions and hunted answers; not just answers, but facts that often landed people in prison. In his own life—in his married life—he had not always found the answers for questions that had led to this—this—formalized separation from a woman he still loved.
The divorce had not been his plan; he didn't think it had been Sara's plan. He leaned back and looked at the vast ocean. His mistress Sara had called it.
She had wanted to try surrogacy for a baby; he had hesitated. Been indecisive. And then he had mentioned buying a small boat. The silence nearly deafened him. He had not bought a boat but he was thinking about it. And thought out loud. Over the phone.
She had said they seemed to be on different paths—he cringed as he thought of his response. After all they had done together; after all they had experienced.
After all the years of loving her—he had said, "Maybe it's in your best interest if we—if we separated—so you can find someone who is on the same path."
He had not meant it; not meant to add that he would file papers so she could move on. Even after all of those words, he'd thought about flying to Vegas for her birthday, but he had not gone. He had reasons he had not made the trip. When he had called her, she'd sounded fine—a little tipsy, perhaps—but it was her birthday. And she'd gone to a spa for a massage and a facial.
A few days later, he had gotten an email. Brief. Saying it was time for each to move forward with their lives and she would not ask anything from him if she could have the house. The condo, empty for months, would be his.
After he had gotten over the shock of his marriage ending—and by phone and email—he had put the condo on the market and sold it for an ungodly amount of money.
When this trip ended, he would buy a boat. He already knew a small group of environmentalists he could join.
Opening his laptop, he clicked several times opening up the document that he'd looked at for days. He really did not know how this had happened; he loved Sara.
He missed her. Had thought about going to Vegas to talk with her, seeing her once more, but he was pretty sure he knew how she felt. Her silence said it all. Had she stopped loving him? Had she moved on—followed his words?
Someone had once said most relationships were over before they end. The decision was his.
His hand drifted over the keyboard. Scrolling down to the end of the document, his finger lingered for a long moment before he tapped the key.
It was done.
A/N: Moving on-more coming soon! We appreciate your comments and reviews!