See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 3, Destiny by Vplasgirl.

Chapter 3 - Destiny

Gil stood behind Sara as she unlocked the door to the Eagle's Nest suite. They stepped onto the landing at the bottom of a long flight of stairs.

"This stairwell looked like a tunnel, it was so dark," Sara said. She drew his attention to a skylight carved into the roof, a small, glass dome a good twenty feet above the landing. "The architect suggested the skylight and it solved the problem."

Now, the stairwell was artificially lit by a series of electric candles mounted on each side of the stairs. Gil followed her up, his gaze helplessly drawn to her long, shapely legs and the gentle sway of her hips. He wondered what she would say if he told her he still wanted her. That he had never stopped wanting her. Would she invite him to her bed, without question, as she had done on her last day in Vegas? Or would she give him the brush-off, telling him that she was involved with someone else?

With Dan.

Dan had adamantly denied a romantic relationship with her, which had been reassuring until Gil witnessed their openly affectionate behavior toward each other. Even if they weren't involved in the true sense of the word, it wasn't unheard of for close friends to become lovers, especially when they were attractive and unattached. He wondered if Dan and Sara had crossed that line between friendship and sexual intimacy.

The thought sat heavily on Gil's chest. It wasn't as if he had lived a monk-like existence these past six years—although by current standards, most men would say he had. A couple of opportunities had presented themselves; women attractive enough to bed, but with whom he had nothing in common. They were brief affairs that had left him unsatisfied and yearning for something more.

Someone else.

Sara.

She was already at the top of the stairs. Undisguised pride lighted her face as she waited for him to climb the last two steps into the room.

Gil stood beside her and focused, then quickly smiled his approval. The entire floor had been converted into a private retreat with an area for sleeping, one for lounging, and one for working. A contrasting palette of dark wooden furniture and floorboards and pale walls and linens, created a soothing and elegant ambience. Between two of the three dormer windows, there was a tall plant that reached almost to the ceiling and an antique settee that looked comfortable enough to sleep on. Built-in bookshelves flanking a large wooden desk made the room look like a cozy den.

Gil stepped over to the desk, drawn to a large black and white photograph mounted on the wall above it. It was of a young boy holding a butterfly. "One of yours?"

"Yes."

"It's very good."

"Thanks." Sara came to stand beside him. "I was walking through this small village on the Pacific Coast of Nicaragua when I saw him. He was playing with a stick, in the dirt, in front of his house—" She glanced at Gil, a pained twist to her lips. "If you can call it that. It was no more than a hut with a tin roof. By that time I was used to the poverty, but there was something about him, something in his eyes…grief or loneliness, something that just tugged at my heart. I focused my camera and just as I was about to take his picture, this butterfly came and landed in his hand. All of a sudden, it was as if he'd been transformed."

"You captured the transformation very well," Gil said softly. Sara smiled but didn't say anything. She probably thought he was giving her lip service, but he wasn't. Something had drawn him to the boy in the photograph as well, and now he knew what it was. What she had captured in the boy's features, in his eyes, was that precise moment between despair and complete happiness. Whether it had been a fluke, or she was really this good, he couldn't tell.

"I didn't see any of your other works around the house," he continued as he moved away from the desk to one of the windows. Looking down, he saw Dan and Billy in the light of the terrace. Billy was sitting in a slouch on the patio ledge; Dan was scrubbing the grill.

"Most of them are packed up. I'm having my first exhibit in Truro next weekend."

Surprised and proud for her, Gil turned and leaned back against the wall. "An exhibit. You're doing well."

"I guess." Sara shrugged in a familiar show of humility. "It's not a big deal, just a small town showing." She glanced at the photograph of the boy again. "I'm keeping this one."

Since she was so obviously attached to the photograph of the boy, Gil wondered why she'd hung it in a guest room rather than her own room, or somewhere she could see it all the time.

"The bathroom's through here," she gestured as she started across the room. Gil pushed himself away from the wall and followed her to a door on the left side of the bed. "Excuse the mess," she said as she opened the door. "I had a leak and a bad plumber. It'll be fixed by Tuesday."

The bathroom was also large and airy, done in natural tones. The fixtures were white, the cabinets finished in a high polish, dark wood. A glass-enclosed shower stall contributed to the feeling of open, wide space. As in the rest of the house, Sara obviously hadn't spared any expense in this room, and he wondered again at the cost of a two-month stay at Summerhouse. Not that he needed to worry about money. By most standards he was well off, never having had much time or opportunity to spend what he'd earned most of his life. The sale of his Vegas townhouse alone had earned him enough to outright buy the Boston condominium without making much of a dent in his savings. So, while extravagant, two months at Summerhouse wasn't something he couldn't afford—financially speaking. The emotional cost of being this close to her for an extended period of time—as alluring as that sounded at the moment—was an entirely different matter.

Gil pretended interest in the room as he pondered what could be motivating her to offer him a place under her roof. He was intimately acquainted with the many facets of Sara's personality, as contradictory as they might be, so barring her quitting her job and completely disappearing from his life without so much as a goodbye, she had stopped surprising him a very long time ago.

Until tonight.

She was leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed, silently watching him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Her eyes gave little away other than kindness and warmth, both of which had been present all evening. After the initial shock of their encounter, she even seemed genuinely pleased to see him again, and that more than anything confused him.

For years, he had attributed her silence to anger. But nothing in her behavior tonight even hinted at it. Not that Sara had ever held a grudge longer than a day, let alone six years, and he really shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth. Still, her kindness was putting him on edge.

Fighting against an inexplicable rush of anger, Gil abruptly pointed to the bathtub with a jerky motion of his hand. "Nice piece."

She pursed her lips—in amusement, he thought—and he suddenly felt completely exposed. Had she always seen through him, past the veneer to the feelings he had gone to great lengths to hide from her?

He had to force himself to hold her gaze.

"It's an Asian soaking tub. Very elegant, I thought, but I'm told it's also very comfortable." She pushed herself off the doorjamb and went back into the suite. Gil followed, turning off the light and closing the door behind him. Standing in the middle of the room, she spread her arms in an all-encompassing motion. "So?"

"So?"

"Do you want it?"

"Sara…do you really want me to live here?"

The question seemed to surprise her. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

And suddenly he understood that her motives weren't personal. Sara was a businesswoman who had obviously invested a lot of money in this suite, so of course she would want it to start paying off as soon as possible. Whether she let it to him or someone else didn't matter to her. She didn't care.

It was a sobering thought.

Grimly he said, "I thought you might find it awkward."

"You mean because of our past?"

He nodded.

"Grissom—" She let out a breath and shook her head, smiling. "Look, it's been six years. We were friends once; I'd like to think we could be again." And then, as if coming to some realization of her own, her eyes widened and her smile slowly faded. "Oh. You would be uncomfortable. Listen, I'm not still pining away for you, if that's what's you're worried about—"

"Trust me, it's not."

Sara visibly flinched at the harshness in his tone, but her voice betrayed nothing when she pressed on. "If you'd rather keep your distance, I understand." Tongue-in-cheek, she added, "I'm rather used to it."

Gil bit off a scathing retort and counted to ten. He knew she only wanted to lighten the mood, but under the circumstances it was absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He had searched for her for six months after she left; called every lab in the country; sent emails—to which she had never bothered replying. So she was traipsing through a third world country; she still had access to email. She had confirmed it at dinner. That was how she learned of her mother's death—an email from her brother. Gil would concede to keeping his distance from her for a long time, and with good reason, but in the end, she was the one who cut all ties. "We'd better get back before Billy sends a search party," he said abruptly.

Sara chuckled. "You're right." She switched off the lights and he followed her down the stairs. "About the room, Gris, seriously, I'll understand if you'd rather not take it. But I can hold it for a few more days if you'd like to think about it. At this time of year the most I could hope for is the odd overnight traveller anyway. People usually reserve months in advance for vacations."

She held the door for him at the bottom of the stairs, and then turned to lock it. As they made their way down the corridor, she gave him a light, playful shove with her shoulder. "If you do decide to take it, you can rest assured that I won't be sneaking into your room in the middle of the night."

"Funny girl," he said, shooting her a wry glance he hoped hid his distress.

"That's me."

Sara took the last flight of stairs down to the main floor with an extra zip in her step, and for a moment she reminded Gil of the girl he had first met at Berkeley. The girl she was before she came to Las Vegas—at his insistence. The beautiful, confident, and joyful girl she had been before he selfishly crushed her spirit, gradually destroying the very things that had most attracted him to her.

Sara was happy again; she even seemed to like him, the way she had in the beginning, and he should be grateful for that. Yet as he followed her out to the terrace, back to Dan and Billy, he found himself wishing she were a little less happy. And he hated himself for it.

XXXXX

"BILLY'S SLEEPING ALREADY," Dan said as Gil joined him on the porch; he handed Gil a snifter of Cognac.

It was still early, barely ten o'clock, but Dan hadn't wanted to keep Sara up too late since she had to be up at five-thirty in the morning to prepare breakfast for her guests. Except for the pastries, which she purchased at the local bakery, she prepared the rest of the meal herself. According to Dan, it was an elaborate affair worthy of Summerhouse's five-star rating. Stephanie would come in at eight to help with the service, and then return at one to make up the rooms. But Sara handled everything else, including some of the lighter garden chores.

An early evening had suited Gil just fine. He had a lot to process and would have preferred retiring to his room immediately, but Dan had insisted on a nightcap and it would have been impolite to refuse. It also would have served little purpose other than to postpone the inevitable discussion about Sara.

Dan lit a cigar and took a couple of healthy drags before lowering himself into one of the Adirondack chairs on the wide porch. The rich aroma of the cigar teased Gil's nostrils; it was not unpleasant. Sitting back, he inhaled deeply, and for a while they were both silent as they sipped their liqueur with only the sounds of crickets and Provincetown Harbor filling the night.

"So she attended one of your seminars." As if reluctant to mar the peacefulness of the night, Dan spoke quietly. Still, Gil tensed.

"Yes."

"Since I doubt you were teaching techniques on getting beetles to sit still for pictures, I'd say Sara's been keeping secrets."

"Evidently."

"That's all you're going to say?"

"They're not my secrets to tell. You should talk to Sara."

Dan considered him for a moment. "Yeah, you're right." He shifted in his chair and stretched his legs. "So, care to share your secrets?"

"What makes you think I have any?"

Dan chuckled. "Doctors have to be as observant as CSIs, Gil. There's very little I miss. For example, you were up in that room a long time tonight."

Gil grimaced. He wished he knew whether he was speaking to an interested friend, or a jealous lover. Part of him craved an objective perspective regarding his relationship with Sara, the same way he'd often welcomed Catherine's, even if he had pretended otherwise. But if he was dealing with the jealous lover, he had to be careful about how much he revealed. He doubted Dan would react well to the truth.

Gil didn't respond. It wasn't as if Dan had asked a direct question. He had simply made an observation. Giving the amber liquid in his snifter a good swirl, Gil tipped the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the Cognac. A long sigh cooled the fire in his throat. "Do you have more of this?" he asked as he rose.

"On the kitchen counter. Bring the bottle."

When Gil returned half a minute later, he refilled both glasses and recorked the bottle. "You have good taste in Cognac and in women," he remarked as he set the tear-shaped bottle on the floor between them. It wasn't an idle comment, and it wasn't precipitated by Dan's extra old Courvoisier. He had until Thursday to decide whether he was moving to Summerhouse for the remainder of the summer and he needed more information to make that decision. There was no way in hell he would stick around if Dan and Sara were romantically involved. The mere thought of them sleeping together was sitting in his stomach like a ball of lead.

Dan's head jerked up. "By 'women' I'll assume you're referring to Carol."

"Who else?"

Dan shook his head. "Well, I agree on all counts." He lifted his glass, admiring the amber liquid in the dim light coming from the kitchen. "Cognac, Carol…" After another draw, he blew on the glowing tip of his cigar. "And let's not forget a good cigar."

"It's the cigar that'll kill you," Gil joked, aware that they were moving away from the subject.

"We all have our weaknesses." Glancing at Gil, Dan flicked the ashes in the pedestal ashtray by his chair. "What's yours, or need I ask?"

Taking his time, Gil sipped at his drink, and then carefully said, "Rollercoasters and…Sara." He met Dan's gaze. "Not necessarily in that order."

"Ah…finally, we're getting somewhere. Nothing like a good Courvoisier to loosen the tongue."

"And a good friend." Gil rose and went to the screened door. As he looked out at the flickering harbor lights, he steeled himself for the question he needed to ask. "What is your relationship with her?"

"I told you last night."

Gil turned to face his friend. "I know what you told me, but I still have questions."

Dan drew on his cigar lazily, exhaled the smoke. "You're wondering if I slept with her."

"Yes."

"I won't lie to you and say it never came up, but no, I never slept with her."

Gil let out a long, silent breath. Weak with relief, he went back to his chair and sat forward, raking his fingers through his hair. "Okay."

Dan stared at him for a moment, and then stubbed his cigar in the ashtray. "There's a whole lot of history between the two of you. That's no mystery. I figured that one out the minute you laid eyes on her. But—and I'll use language that as a writer you can appreciate—it's like I've reached the big cliffhanger at the end of a chapter and I want to turn the page to find out what happens next, but the page is missing."

"It's a long story."

Dan reached for the bottle and poured. "We've got all night."

Having already consumed well beyond his usual quota of alcohol for one day, Gil stared into his glass and frowned. He remembered his last over-indulgence in the bottle quite well. It was on December 31st, 2005. He celebrated New Year's Eve at home with a bottle of Bourbon and old movies on television. At five minutes to midnight, he switched the channel to a network broadcast of the New Year's count down from New York's Times Square, refilled his glass with what was left of the Bourbon, checked his email one last time, and then as Auld Lang Sine swelled into his living room, toasted his New Year resolution and deleted Sara's email address from his computer. It was a symbolic gesture—her address was already committed to memory—but he never broke that resolution.

As tempting as alcohol-induced oblivion was tonight, the memory of his last hangover made Gil put his glass down on the side table, untouched. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "She used to work for me."

"As a CSI?"

"Yes."

"So…what happened?"

"She quit."

"Why?"

Gil turned his head languidly to glance at Dan. "I'm not entirely sure. I had to let one person go because of a budget cut. Sara was safe; she had seniority. My rookie, Greg, was the one on the chopping block and everybody knew it. This kid was our DNA specialist, and he was so enthusiastic about becoming a CSI that he took a pay cut to do it. He was good, a quick learner. I hated to have to lay him off, but as it turned out, I didn't have to. Sara volunteered to go in his place."

"She sacrificed her career for this kid?"

"She liked Greg, so I don't doubt it was one of the perks of resigning, but I don't think she did it for him. She said she'd been questioning her career choice for a while and she viewed the budget cut as an opportunity to leave without disrupting the team."

"Didn't you try to talk her out of it?"

Gil sighed. "I tried. She gave me compelling reasons for quitting." Shooting Dan a wry grin, he added, "And I can't tell you what they are without divulging her secrets."

"Fair game. But you said you're not entirely sure why she left. Do you think there was more to it than what she told you?"

"About a week before she resigned, a member of our team was abducted and buried alive. We found him just in time. A few minutes later—" Gil scrubbed his hand down his face. "Anyway, it was rough on all of us and it affected each of us in different ways. It was a well-orchestrated act of retribution against CSI. This madman staged a crime and waited for one of us to show up. Nick drew the short straw." Gil lapsed into silence as he remembered the fear, the anger, the helplessness, but mostly, he remembered the guilt. "He put a camera in the coffin so we could watch Nick suffocate to death. And as worried and angry and powerless as I felt, I couldn't help thanking God that it wasn't Sara in there."

"So you did have more than a professional relationship with her."

Gil let out a long breath. "Not until that night." Suddenly the porch was too small; too confining. "I need some air," Gil said as he stood and restlessly paced to the screened door. The beach, bathed in the quiet moonlight, beckoned him. "I'm going for a walk."

Dan rose and stretched. "Okay. I'll leave the porch light on for you. I'm turning in. We can finish this conversation when you feel up to it."

"Yeah. Goodnight Dan."

XXXXX

THE BEACH WAS deserted at the western end of Provincetown, quiet except for the gentle waves lapping the shore. A mile-long breakwater at the tip of which was Long Point Beach protected the shoreline. Gil had frequently walked the sandy Breakwater Trail to Long Point Lighthouse the summer he visited Melanie's family. Once or twice, Melanie had joined him, but most of the time he went alone or with Dan. Even as a young college student, he had preferred the seclusion of Long Point to the summer rowdiness of Provincetown. Melanie hadn't shared his love of solitude. He wanted stargazing, quiet strolls, and holding hands while watching the tide roll in. She wanted the spotlight, the lively, drunken beach parties, public necking, and quasi-public quickies in some rich kid's aft-cabin boat.

She had called it living. He had called it a waste of time. She told him he wasn't normal. He simply shrugged. At the end of that crazy summer they parted on good terms stating irreconcilable differences.

From across the harbor, the flickering light of the Long Point lighthouse reminded Gil that he had walked far enough. Turning back, he thought of old Mrs. Crawford, Sara's grandmother. He didn't have a clear image of her, more of an impression of her; lips set in permanent disapproval, eyes, dark and suspicious, a smoker's voice. Melanie had called her Mrs. Crabapple.

He had spoken to her only once. She was out in her front garden tending to a rose bush, the only shrub she hadn't let grow wild. The soil around it was clear of weeds, dark, and rich, while everywhere else the weeds had invaded, zapping the strength and beauty out of the garden. Gil had wondered about the significance of the rose bush. Inquisitive, even then, but especially studious of human behavior, he stopped by to compliment her on them. She had looked up at him, given him a once over, and pointed her sheers at him, punching the air in front of him as she spoke.

"I know who you are. You're the young man who's sniffing around the Colton girl. I know your type."

"What type is that ma'am?"

Turning back to her roses, she said, "Dogs, the lot of you. Predators."

Gil had quietly retreated and stayed away from her after that.

He wondered now if Sara had ever visited her grandmother as a child. She would have been seven or eight years old that summer. He searched his memory for images of a young, curly brown-haired girl hanging around the old house, but came up empty. Gil had never believed in destiny, in some grand plan beyond human power or control that determined a person's lot in life. But what were the odds that twenty years later he would meet Mrs. Crawford's granddaughter three thousand miles across the country? That she would fascinate him? That he would fall in love with her, lose her, and then find her again living next door to his best friend? Was it mere coincidence or…divine intervention?

Scoffing at himself—his faith had always been in science—Gil picked up his pace and, without conscious thought, found himself at Summerhouse's back gate. There was a light in the yard that hadn't been there earlier. It came from an area to the right of the terrace, almost hidden by the shrubs behind the fishpond. He shifted to get a better view and through the foliage, suddenly, he saw her—glimpses of her lying supine in a lounge chair. She was wearing a short white robe; the long, pale column of her throat and her exquisite legs gleamed in the soft light of the patio.

With one hand on the gate, Gil longingly gazed at Sara—fighting the urge to go to her. Nothing had changed, he mused. He was still torn between his desire for her and a compulsive need to protect himself. He swore softly under his breath. What cruel hand had fate dealt him that he would be put through that agony again?

Teeth clenched, he abruptly let go of the gate.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

Gil flinched, and then remained very still, hovering between regret and relief that a decision had been taken out of his hands, but also embarrassment at having been caught in an act of voyeurism. Sucking in a breath, he pushed the gate open and strode up the stone path to the house, veering right across a patch of lush lawn, then skirting the fishpond to the small patio beyond.

"It's late. I thought you were asleep." It was only a little white lie.

"I should be," Sara said softly. "What brings you out at this time of night?"

"I went for a long walk."

"Mmm…this stretch of beach is peaceful at night. Did you go up to Fisherman's Wharf?"

He shook his head. "Only as far as Long Point lighthouse."

"Right. You would know it having been here before." She shifted her legs to one side of the chaise, making room for him. "Would you like to sit down?"

Gil nervously glanced at his watch. "Don't you have to be up in five hours?"

"I don't need much sleep."

"Some things don't change."

Sara responded with an eyebrow shrug and a cursory smile. Then, "You can drag a chair over from the terrace if you prefer."

"This is fine." He slowly lowered himself to the edge of the chaise, facing her, then leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. "Dan had questions about you."

Sara sighed. "I figured."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Would you believe it never came up?" He shot her a doubtful look. "I didn't lie to him. He assumed I was a photographer and I didn't correct that assumption."

"Why?"

Her mouth curved charmingly. "Fewer questions."

"Hmm." Gil pursed his lips, amused by her not so subtle message. He had a long list of questions to which he wanted—needed—answers, but they could wait. At the moment, he was much more intrigued by what she was wearing to ruin it with difficult questions. This close, he now saw that her short robe was semi-sheer and embroidered with shimmering white roses. It was loosely tied at her waist; the softly parted lapels revealed the white satin gown underneath, its neckline falling in a vee to the top of her breasts. The fabric would be soft to the touch, he knew, as smooth and soft as her skin…

When she crossed her arms over her chest, Gil realized he had been staring. His gaze shifted up and locked with hers. Her eyes were warm—gentle even as she looked at him, and he wondered if she had any regrets.

Another question he couldn't bring himself to ask.

He breathed deeply, evenly, willing his heartbeat to settle. It required a great deal of effort since she was close enough that he could feel her heat—smell her, her unique scent mingling with that of the blooming rose bushes hedging the patio.

Clearing his throat, he focused on the roses. "I met your grandmother once."

"I know. She wasn't very nice to you."

Startled, his eyes darted back to her. "How do you know?"

"I was watching." His mouth gaped in stunned silence. "You met me too—sort of. I didn't know your name, and until tonight, I didn't even know it was you."

He shook his head. "Are you sure? I'm almost positive there was no one else there."

"I was in the house watching from the dining room window. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I knew it wasn't nice. I remember she kept pointing her garden sheers at you. I thought for sure she was going to hurt you. I was so mad at her. I told her you were nice to me, and that's when she lost it. I wasn't allowed to leave the yard again until my parents came to pick me up a couple of days later."

Gil felt a prickling sensation up his spine. Shaking it, he said, "She did call me a few choice names."

Sara's face twisted in embarrassment. "My grandmother was a little nutso. I didn't even know her until that summer. I'd never met her. And then my parents left me here while they attended a B&B Association conference in Boston. Not the best time in my life." She shot him an insipid look. "In retrospect, not the worst either."

"God, Sara. I'm sorry, I don't— How did we meet?"

She smiled as she remembered. "You were playing Frisbee on the beach—probably with Dan," she mused, and then shrugged. "I was hiding behind a sand dune, crying because some neighborhood kids said I was ugly. Anyway, the Frisbee landed at my feet and when you came to get it you asked me what was wrong. You wouldn't leave until I told you. I never forgot what you said."

"What did I say?" he asked softly.

Her eyes darted away for a moment as a dark, embarrassed flush colored her cheeks. "You said that I shouldn't pay attention to those boys because they wouldn't know beauty if they tripped over it. And then you said that I was the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen. I never forgot that 'cause, it was the first time someone told me I was beautiful."

Sara looked away as Gil's heart did a slow tumble to his gut. His throat tightened. There had been several moments in their past when he had wanted to hold her so desperately his body shook from it. This was such a moment, and he fought it—as hard as he always had.

Her mood suddenly lifted and she smiled dreamily as she continued. "I'd sit for hours by that back gate waiting for you to walk by just so I could look at you. And I did see you once; you were with a girl. Melanie, I guess. You were holding her hand and she was so beautiful that I knew you'd lied to me. But I pretended that you hadn't and I held on to the fantasy for a very long time."

"I didn't lie."

With an amused grin, she said, "You don't even remember."

"No, and I wish I did, but I'm sure I was telling the truth because you're still the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Something flickered in Sara's eyes. She let out a throaty laugh. "Well, you can still bring on the charm, Dr. Grissom," she said as she glanced at her watch. "Look at the time; I really should try to get some sleep. Five-thirty will come fast."

Gil felt a rush of disappointment. He would gladly have spent the rest of the night talking to her. "I shouldn't have kept you up this late. I'm sorry."

"You didn't keep me up," she said as she rose. "It's been really wonderful seeing you again, Grissom, and in light of everything…a little spooky, don't you think?"

"Hmm." More than a little spooky, he thought. He was still overwhelmed by everything that had happened since that afternoon, but he was especially so by what she had just told him. He wanted to quiet that little voice in his head that whispered 'destiny', but he couldn't shake it. "I decided to take the Attic Room," he blurted out, "if you still want me here."

"Of course," she said looking mildly surprised. "The room will be ready on Wednesday."

"I'll be staying with Dan for a few more days, and then I have to go back to Boston for the rest of my things, so I probably won't be back until next weekend."

"That's great."

"Goodnight, Sara. Sleep well."

"Thank you. You too."

Well, that's that, Gil thought as he headed for his own bed. Who am I to fly in the face of destiny?