Chapter Seven

"Mr. Grissom! Welcome back," Stephanie exclaimed as she opened the front door to Summerhouse to him the following morning.

"Thank you, and it's Gil," he reminded her with a smile.

"Gil. Sorry."

She held the door as he stepped inside weighed down by a garment bag, a suitcase, and his laptop. Casting a practiced eye around the room, he noted how deserted it was. "Is it always this quiet around here?"

"At this time of day it is, unless the weather's bad," Stephanie replied, closing the door. "Your room's ready. Do you need help with your luggage?"

"I'm fine." Stephanie retrieved a key from the desk and he followed her to the main staircase. "Sara's not here?"

"She's already left for Truro. She was meeting the director of the Art Council for lunch."

Masking his disappointed, Gil followed Stephanie up the stairs.

Stephanie unlocked 'The Eagle's Nest'—the room's name now etched on a shiny, new brass plaque on the door—and led him up the narrow staircase. "Sara told me you already got the tour, so I'll leave you to unpack."

"Thank you." Gil laid his computer on the desk next to a colorful and welcoming arrangement of fresh flowers, some varieties he remembered from the Summerhouse garden. The sun poured in through the windows, reflecting in three pools of golden light on the polished hardwood floors. The windows were open to let in a gentle breeze that smelled of summer and sea.

"Well, enjoy your stay," Stephanie said, handing him the room key. "If you need anything, just come looking for me." Gil nodded his thanks, and she made to leave but stopped at the last minute. "Oh… I almost forgot," she said, "Dan called about an hour ago. He asked me to tell you that he's ready when you are. He said something about grabbing lunch in Truro before the exhibit."

"Okay; if he calls again, tell him I'll be there in an hour."

"Will do."

When, a moment later, he heard the soft click of the door at the bottom of the stairs, Gil plugged in his computer and left it to boot up while he showered and changed into dressed slacks and shirt. He removed a stylish but casual blazer from his garment bag and tossed it to the bed, then put the rest of his clothes away. After stowing his empty bags on the closet's upper shelf, he glanced at his watch and went to the desk. He had time to fire off an email to his agent to inform her of his progress on the book, but an email from Catherine seemed a much more pleasant way to spend the next few minutes. Deciding his agent could wait, he opened Catherine's mail, then sat back and read.

Gil,

I'll admit that I was surprised to receive your email last week. You're right. It was unexpected. Warrick, (who says 'hi', by the way,) explained the cake thing. He'd forgotten about that. Trust you to leave such an obscure clue into your psyche.

Everyone's doing well; Greg is adjusting. I swear, Gil, that kid hates change more than you do, but the new girl I hired has put a smile on his face the likes of which I haven't seen since the Sara era. She's young and pretty, I'll give her that, and enthusiastic! Damn, she's enthusiastic. I keep reminding myself that we all started out with that kind of optimism; if I didn't, I'd be the one making headlines: 'CSI boss assaults young protégé.' I wish I had your patience, my friend.

Brass came by earlier today. He asked if I'd heard from you. You know, for someone who kept to himself so much, you managed to warm your way into the hearts of many people. You really should keep in touch with them.

And please stop being so mysterious! What's this project you're working on? Warrick and I spent our anniversary dinner speculating about it, and as much as I care about you, speculating about your life wasn't on my agenda that night.

But now I have to go. Faith is paging me. 'Faith." That's my young protégé's name. How appropriate. I assume you found new accommodations for the summer. I called the hotel earlier and they told me you'd checked out, so you get this email instead of my sexy voice.

Catherine

Smiling, Gil hit the 'reply' key, and began,

Dear Catherine,

I did find new accommodations for the summer. In fact, I just moved in a little over an hour ago. Contact information is at the bottom of this email.

Gil paused, frowning as he debated how much to tell her. Sara had gone to such lengths to cut all ties from them, would she object to him divulging her whereabouts? Then, he remembered the excitement in her voice when she asked about them that day on the boat, and her admission that she missed the people she used to work with. She wasn't hiding anymore, and if she ever had, it hadn't been from them. That truth still hurt, but at least he could think it without being consumed with bitterness. He wouldn't blame Sara anymore for his past hurts. He never should have blamed her.

Turning his mind to more pleasant thoughts, he continued…

But before I get to the particulars of this move, let me convey to you and Warrick my belated anniversary wishes.

As for your new employee, you're handling her the right way. No one who comes into this job can ever predict how much it will take out of her. Faith will learn that eventually, and when she does, she will need your support. You'll be ready.

And now back to the particulars of my summer accommodations. You and I haven't talked about Sara in years. I'm surprised you mentioned her in this last email when you've so carefully avoided her name in the past. I guessed it was out of concern for me, and I appreciated it. I never told you how I felt about her, but I believe you knew. What you might not know is that I never stopped looking for her. My mistake was in narrowing my search to the obvious places. Well, I found her where I least expected. She's Dan's neighbor in Provincetown. She inherited her grandmother's house and turned it into a very successful B&B. There's much more to this story than I have time to tell you, probably much more than you wish to know, so all I'll say is that I'll be spending the rest of the summer as her guest.

She's happy, Catherine, but she seems to have missed us all. She spent the first six months away from us in Central America and became a very accomplished photographer. I'm on my way to an exhibit of her works in Truro this afternoon, so I must sign off. Dan is waiting for me.

Sara, I continue to hope, is also waiting for me.

Gil

He reread the last line, surprised that he'd written it. It revealed far more than he intended, and his finger hovered over the delete key at the familiar twinge of discomfort. But then, he dislodged the sensation with a deep breath, moved his hand over the keyboard, and pressed 'send' instead. He chalked it up to another step in turning a new leaf, and even managed a smile as he imagined Catherine's shock.

The restaurant Dan had chosen for lunch was a large roadside seafood chain just outside of Truro. For the sake of comfort, they had driven in Gil's Lexus, which he was now maneuvering into a tight spot in the crowded parking lot.

"Looks busy," Gil remarked, turning off the engine.

Dan stepped out of the car. "We'll probably have to wait for a table, but we're in no hurry; the exhibit doesn't open 'til three."

The restaurant was huge, noisy, and chaotic. Rough wood paneling covered the bottom half of walls, the upper half alternating between dark green and brick red paint, giving the place a dock-front atmosphere. The nets that hung from ceiling beams, and the game fish and lobster cages mounted on the walls, contributed to the image, though the lethargic state of the lobsters piled one on top of the other in an aquarium by the door rather ruined it.

"Best lobster in all of Cape Cod," Dan remarked as they slowly pushed their way through a throng of customers waiting for a table. Gil was about to suggest they go elsewhere when the attractive young woman behind a lectern greeted them warmly, despite looking tired and harassed.

Dan gave her his customary charming smile. "Colton," he said. "Party of two."

She noted the information on a seating chart and informed them of a twenty-minute wait. "You can have a drink in the bar until your table's ready," she suggested, motioning to her left to the area in question, which was as crowded as the restaurant and offered standing-room only.

Gil threw Dan a 'you've-got-to-be-kidding' look, but Dan only winked, said, "Let's go see what's on tap," leaving Gil to follow, shaking his head. He wondered at his friend's perpetual good mood as Dan cozied up to the bar having parted the crowd with a friendly smile or a gallant apology. Gil almost envied him.

Almost.

He let Dan buy him a beer, despite thinking that it was too early in the day for a drink. Too early for Gil, anyway, but never, it seemed, for Dan. As they made their way back to the edge of the crowd, near the archway separating the bar from the restaurant's reception area, Gil observed his friend as his gaze swept the dining room with more interest than seemed warranted.

"Looking for someone?"

Dan gave him a startled look, then, shaking his head, tipped the beer mug to his lips and looked back into the restaurant, his gaze trained to the rear this time where several patio doors led to an outdoor terrace. The place was buzzing with activity as young men and women navigated tight spaces between heavy wooden tables with trays of food balanced over their head. Others bussed tables as people left, and as soon as a table vacated, the hostess would call in the next party. The last announcement opened two seats at the bar. Gil alerted Dan to the empty seats with a back-handed tap on his arm, but Dan seemed reluctant to take one. "You go ahead," he said, motioning towards the dining room with his beer mug. "I'll be right back."

In some matters, Gil could be a very patient man, but as he sat at the bar, not even the bartender's entertaining antics as he prepared half a dozen different cocktails all at once—he was obviously playing to his audience--could take away a prick of irritation. But it had nothing to do with a strangely distracted Dan, or that he insisted on having lunch at a restaurant that couldn't accommodate them immediately. Gil had woken that morning with a knot of anticipation in his stomach at the thought of seeing Sara today. If he'd known she wouldn't be home when he arrived, he wouldn't have bothered going as far as Provincetown. He would have stopped in Truro on the way and asked Dan to join him there. But the unnecessary excess mileage wasn't responsible for his irritation either. Excitement had churned inside him as he approached Provincetown, but even more exhilarating had been the thought that for the next few weeks, at least, he'd be sharing her home. After six years without her, and another week missing her like hell, he was impatient to see her. He took a sip of beer, and glanced at his watch. Even if her showing didn't open 'till three, he could have gone early, perhaps helped her set up, stolen a few moments alone with her to--

"Look who I found," said Dan behind him, and Gil turned in his chair then froze as he came face-to-face with Sara.

"Hi," she said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

Despite having looked forward to the very moment he would set eyes on her again, Gil would have preferred a little warning. As it was, he had no doubt he was doing a fairly accurate imitation of that other species of warm-blooded vertebrae gracing the walls of the restaurant.

Gil clamped his jaw shut and shot Dan a glare as he rose from the bar stool, his breath painfully lodged in his throat. But even if he'd been prepared to see her, Gil doubted his reaction would have been less brutal. She looked gorgeous; in a way that made all those other times he'd thought so seem insignificant. Except perhaps for that one time when she wore nothing at all.

His eyes burned as of their own volition, they caressed every curve of her body right down to her open-toe, high-heeled sandal. There was no way a man could look at her in that dress and not want to drag her off to his cave. The urges it ignited in him were that primitive. Perhaps it was the way the softly flowing, pale lilac fabric hugged her body like a comfortable second skin, tricking the eye into believing it was transparent, when it wasn't. Or perhaps it was the hem cut, jagged like a gypsy's dress, at once demure and sexy, teasing the long legs it hid and revealed all at once. Or was it the darker lilac flowers sprinkled sparingly down to the very tip of the hems, like shadows in a cloud that made his fingers itch to touch and discover their mystery?

Gil swallowed and lifted his gaze to her face. "Hi," he managed on a breath. Her skin looked warm, and she was smiling, though a corner of her mouth twitched nervously. It gave him confidence. "You look—" he began, but finding the right word was an exercise in futility, so he abandoned the effort, letting his voice trail to nothingness instead.

Her smile widened into a grin. "Thanks."

"Patrick Armstrong," came a deep baritone that, along with an outstretched arm, would not be ignored. Gil hadn't noticed the man with Sara—how could he have?—but despite an irrational bout of irritation, he did the polite thing and grasped his hand.

"Gil Grissom," he returned pleasantly enough while sparing him a glance. He was a big man, taller than Gil by about three inches, and much younger. Early to mid-forties, Gil assessed, perhaps even younger given the receding hairline that would automatically add a few years to his face.

"It is always a pleasure to meet Sara's friends," Armstrong said with a tone of formality that seemed out of place in the loud and crowded restaurant.

"Patrick is the President of the art council," Dan explained as he turned his attention to Sara's companion. "We haven't seen you in a while."

"Ahh…through no choice of mine," Armstrong replied easily, but the look he gave Sara was filled with intimate details and familiarity that further irritated Gil.

"So," Dan started, addressing Sara on a long exhalation after a beat of silence, "are you all set for your big opening?"

"It's just a small showing at the local library," she chided, an adorable flush coloring her cheeks.

It seemed to charm Armstrong. "She's as modest as she is beautiful. Wouldn't you gentlemen agree?"

Gil deliberately set his gaze on Sara. Her cheeks were still glowing. "I've only seen one of her photographs, but if the others are as good, then I would have to agree with your assessment." He could sound pompous too with the right motivation.

Armstrong frowned. "Which one?"

Gil opened his mouth to answer, but Sara interrupted. "It's not one you've seen. It's not part of the collection."

"Sara Sidle. You've been holding out on me?"

"Not really. I just don't want to sell it."

"You still could have included it in your collection."

Sara's gaze shifted. "It's… uh, no big deal. Listen, guys, we have to get back to the library."

Taking his cue from her, Armstrong glanced at his watch. "Sara's absolutely correct. We left a very lovely but very flustered librarian in charge of putting the final touches to the refreshments table." He held out his hand to Gil. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grissom."

"Uh…likewise," Gil lied as he grasped Armstrong's hand again. "And it's Gil," he added with his first outward, he thought, show of irritation at the man.

"We're treating Sara to dinner at Alfonso's later," Dan butted in jovially. "You're welcome to join us, Patrick."

Gil inwardly groaned and had to stop himself from shooting his friend a glare.

Armstrong smiled regretfully. "Sara has already conveyed the invitation, and as pleasurable as it would have been to celebrate with her friends, unfortunately I must decline due to a prior engagement." He gave Sara a warm, intimate look. "Again, not my choice."

Gil didn't realize he was staring until Dan caught his gaze and said, "What?"

"Nothing."

"Aw, come on, you're looking at me like you just discovered a new species of insect."

Gil shrugged. "Perhaps I have. A very sly one." Dan cocked a brow, inviting an explanation. "You knew she'd be here."

Dan smiled. "Surprise!"

On the heels of Sara's and Armstrong's departure, Gil and Dan had been escorted to their table. Dan ordered another beer while Gil settled for a virgin Caesar.

"So what's their story?" Gil asked.

Dan shrugged. "What makes you think there is one?"

Gil considered his friend for a moment. "Because you wanted me to see it."

Dan looked…surprised. "Why would I want that?"

"You tell me."

Sheepishly, Dan settled back in his chair and sipped at his beer, then laid his beer mug down on the table. "Okay, maybe I wanted to wake you up to the fact that she wouldn't be available forever. Other men are interested in her, you know."

"I'm aware of that." Gil thought back to David, Greg, and that Peddigrew guy, the one that still stung. "Why didn't you tell me she'd be here?"

"It was more fun this way."

"Some friend you are."

Dan raised his beer mug and smiled. "The entertainment value made it worth it."

"Right," Gil answered without blatant rancor, but not feeling all that generous toward his friend just then, he surprised himself by asking, "So what's with you and Stephanie?"

Much to his delight, Dan choked on his beer.

"Stephanie?"

"Are you going to tell me that you're indifferent to her?"

Dan settled back, regained his composure, and shrugged. "She's a kid. Come on, Gil, it would feel like…robbing the cradle."

Gil chuckled. "That's how I felt about Sara."

"Well Sara's much closer to you in age than Stephanie is to me."

"Perhaps, but she was my student once." Gil lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "We can't help who we fall for."

"I suppose." Dan looked contemplative for a moment. "So…are you going to tell her how you feel?"

"What makes you think she doesn't already know?"

"If she did, she wouldn't be giving that imbecile, Patrick, the time of day."

Gil gave Dan a sharp look. "Is she?"

"Who knows?" Dan chuckled and took another sip of beer. "Wanna sit back and do nothing while you find out?"

That one was a no-brainer. Gil sighed meaningfully. "No."

TBC