The Final Mrs. Rossi

"What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined—to strengthen each other—to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories." ~George Eliot

June 2013. Washington, D.C.

On the drive to the restaurant, Erin kept looking at the little token in her hand, like a child with a new toy. David smiled softly as he glanced over at her (yep, still inspecting the coin as if it were the Rosetta Stone itself), his own chest filling with happiness at her beaming face, because he knew how hard-won this prize had been.

It was the first time that he'd ever heard Erin speak so continuously about her personal life (she kept some details vague, didn't mention names, but he knew, and it filled him with a sense of belonging, knowing that he was invested in her story in a way that no one else in the room was), and it was the first time that he'd ever heard her speak about her alcoholism with such honesty and candor. He was proud of her, of how unflinchingly she admitted her past mistakes and how vulnerable she allowed herself to be by opening those old wounds for others to see. He met her sponsor, a quiet, serene woman who obviously had a calming effect on Erin, who'd been nervous about sharing the events of the day with David (this was the part of her that Paul never got to see, the part that she kept from her siblings, from her children, from everyone else).

To add to the celebratory mood of the day, it was also Christopher's birthday, and they were on their way to his favorite restaurant for what promised to be a lively dinner in honor of the birthday boy. It was a day of sharing their deepest parts with each other, a day that was filled to the brim with all the things they knew about one another (all the things no one else could ever know, all the things no one else could understand, all the things that united them against the world), and David's heart thought it might burst from happiness.

He glanced over at the source of his joy again, and this time, she noticed, looking up at him with her own amused smile, "Care to share your thoughts, Mr. Rossi?"

He simply held open his right hand, in which she gently placed her left, and drew her hand to his lips, kissing it with the soft reverence of a knight paying homage to his lady-love. He turned his attention back to the snarled traffic, but he continued to hold her hand, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing her now-bare ring finger (an action that did not go unnoticed by Erin).

"It's been a good day, bella," he finally answered her question. "It reminds me that we have outlasted so many other things in both of our lives, and that we've shared things that I've never been able to share with anyone else."

"We've outlasted because we're both too stubborn to quit," she agreed with another amused smile.

"You're always one to add to the romanticism of the moment," he quipped dryly, and this earned him a short laugh that devolved into a warm hum.

"One of my finer qualities, so I'm told."

"I would have to respectfully disagree, madame."

"Respectfully? My, my, how the mighty have fallen." He glanced over again and she was grinning at him with that self-satisfied pussy cat smugness that she wore so well, her eyes dancing as she taunted him. Jesus, she was the kind of woman whom Shakespeare wrote about, his own Beatrice, his Katherina, his woman of wit and fire and sharp-tongued retorts.

He opened his mouth to reply, but his phone rang, reverberating through the car's speakers as the bluetooth function went into action. Erin jumped, startled by the sudden noise, and David glanced at the media screen in the dashboard, where the name Vanessa glowed across the screen.

He let out a heavy sigh, picking up his phone and hitting the Ignore button. Erin was still watching him with quiet eyes, taking in the changes that appeared in his movements.

"Of all my ex-wives, she's the only one that I really, truly regret," he announced with another sigh, and he heard the blonde give a small hum of amusement.

"She was the very young one, wasn't she?" Erin frowned slightly as she tried to remember the details (though, truly, she knew, she could never forget, but she didn't want David to know just how much it had affected her).

"Well, chronologically she wasn't that much younger than me," he corrected, and his blonde companion raised a dubious eyebrow. However, he stood his ground, "She was only seven years younger than you, kitten."

"And I'm over a decade younger than you," she reminded him, furthering her argument. He shot her a dark look and she simply shrugged (them's the breaks, buster).

"Either way, emotionally and psychologically, she was very much younger," he conceded, and she gave a slight nod of agreement, silently allowing him to gracefully defer from the debate.

"Now was she number three or four?"

"Three. The last one."

Erin gave another small hum. She looked down at her hand again, to the bare finger that had worn a wedding band for almost three decades. It still looked odd without a ring on it.

David noticed her glance, and he wondered whether she was considering the same question that he'd been contemplating all day.

They arrived at the restaurant, quietly waiting in line for the valet.

"Care to share your thoughts, Ms. Strauss?" He asked gently.

"Vanessa. You said she was the last."

"Yes."

Erin turned to him suddenly, her eyes latching onto his with a deep seriousness. "Let's make her the last and final Mrs. Rossi."

That was not the request he was expecting at all. Leave it to Erin Strauss to forever surprise and confound him.

"What are you saying, Erin?"

"We're not domestic, David. We never have been," she said those words as if they were a point of pride. "I know you're a romantic, and I love that, I do—but I've had the white wedding and the flashy ring and the house in suburbia with the dog and the picket fence, and I don't need that anymore, and you don't need it either."

He didn't respond right away, and suddenly she feared that she'd upset him. She leaned closer, her tone dipping lower as she continued, "I'm not saying that I don't want you, because I do. Te voglio bene, per sempre. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I want to go for long walks and go spend a weekend out of every year in Seattle and go on book tours with you and always wake up next to you in the middle of the night and do all the wonderfully domestic things that people in love do—every day, for as long as you'll let me. I want that, David. I want you; I want us. I just don't want to be married again."

She held her breath as she asked, "That's alright, isn't it? Is it…is that something you would want?"

He took a moment to think about her words. She'd said all the things that he'd wanted to hear for so long (though not perhaps exactly the way he'd expected her to say them, but when he really thought about it, that actually didn't surprise him because Erin Strauss never did anything according to his expectations), and now she was quietly asking if that was what he wanted, too.

"Of course it is, bella," he whispered softly, swallowing the lump in his throat as he reached over to caress the side of her face. "It's more than alright. It's perfect. It's…it's us. Of course it's alright."

For once, he was the one fumbling for words, taken aback by Erin's once-in-a-blue-moon verbal eloquence.

She grinned in relief, and he couldn't help but tease her, "But with my proven track record of wedded bliss, are you sure that you don't want to marry me?"

Her smile turned sultry as she gently took the hand that was still cupped around her face, her eyes staying on his as she left a single, deep kiss on the inside of his wrist (the way she'd kissed him on his birthday, the way that never failed to turn his skin into a livewire grid of electricity).

"I've had too much pleasure being your lover to ever want to be your housewife."

Oh, she was laying it on thick—she pushed her voice to an even lower timbre, mimicking the breathy notes of a daytime soap opera actress as she arched her brow provocatively—and David burst into laughter at her over-the-top antics. God, she was horribly wicked and witty, and he couldn't wait to fill every spare second of the rest of his life with more goofball quips just like that one.

She was laughing with him, the deep cackle that could never belong to the shining socialite whom she'd been bred and raised to become, the one that had actually made him realize that she was a good solid dame, all those years ago. The valet parking line moved forward, and David put the car in park.

As usual, Erin was out of the car before he could come around to get the door (she never waited for him, she'd once informed him that waiting for someone to open a door was something that lapdogs and housecats did, and she was nobody's pet—a fact that he could never refute). She slipped her sobriety chip into the pocket of her dress—the same navy tailored number that she'd worn the night of his birthday surprise—before reaching for his hand.

She was feeling festive and frisky, and he liked it, although it only made him want to tease her more.

"So," he let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he gave her hip a squeeze. "Since you won't marry me, does this mean I can take another wife?"

She turned to him with an arched look, the same cool amusement that held just the slightest hint of I-fucking-dare-you as she sweetly purred in response, "You can try."

February 2013. Washington, D.C.

Peter wrapped his coat tighter against the cold, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he trudged down the sidewalk. He glanced over at his elder sister, who seemed unaffected by the weather, except for the tip of her nose, which was becoming red.

"You're getting old," he informed her.

"Fuck you," she returned easily, though there wasn't any venom behind the words. She'd spent the past fifty years being teased by her brother; it didn't bother her as much as it used to.

"Seriously. Fifty-four—"

"Not for...three more hours," she glanced down at her watch.

He laughed at the technicality. "So, RT, what do you want for your birthday?"

The use of her old nickname reminded her of their baby brother, and tears stung her eyes. Andrew had been gone for six months now, and sometimes she still found herself thinking of him in the present tense—as if he were still here, still with them, still healthy and happy and all the things that he was always meant to be.

"World peace," she answered dryly, blinking quickly so that Peter wouldn't notice the unshed tears building at the corner of her eyes.

He laughed again, bumping her shoulder with his own, "C'mon. I never know what to get you."

"Then don't get me anything."

"Then I'll feel like an ass."

"You are an ass."

"Be that as it may, I am an ass who prides himself on always giving the perfect gift. All my friends say so—they always say, 'Oh, Peter, you always get the perfect gift'. Just like that. High-pitched adoration and all."

"What friends are these?"

"I have friends, Erin."

"The fact that you feel the need to defend yourself implies the opposite."

"Jesus H., you should've been a lawyer. You'd tear 'em up in cross."

She gave an amused hum at what she assumed was a compliment, "Daddy would have disagreed. Always said I was never concise enough."

"Well, Daddy wouldn't be happy until you were President of the United States." Peter gave a slight shrug, "Luckily, he never expected as much from me."

"Don't say that. He thought you hung the moon and you know it."

"He did," Peter agreed quietly, and Erin heard the question that he didn't voice (he did, but would he have loved me quite so much if he'd known what I truly am?).

They stopped at the street corner, waiting on the crosswalk light to signal that it was safe to walk, and Erin took a moment to study her brother's profile. There was more grey at his temples, he had a five o'clock shadow and his hair (as usual) was sticking out at odd angles (because something at work had aggravated him—he always ran his fingers through his hair whenever he was frustrated and he never worried about combing it back into place). They were both getting older, and it seemed that they were only getting sadder, too.

"You need someone to take care of you, Peter," she announced quietly, and he understood all that came with that simple statement.

"You know that'll never happen, RT," he kept his gaze fixed on the traffic, squinting slightly.

"Whatever happened to the guy in your office—the younger one, the whole sideways-glances-and-Jane-Austen-restraint thing?"

He couldn't help but laugh at her description. The crosswalk light signaled that they could cross, so they did, and he simply shook his head as they walked, "It didn't pan out."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it didn't pan out," he shrugged. He could feel his sister's gaze still locked onto his face, waiting for more (Erin always was a patient little spider when she knew that he was holding back). With a sigh, he added, "I'm too used to being a lone wolf, RT. Can't change my ways."

"Bullshit."

He stopped, and Erin turned back to face him, once she realized that he was no longer walking beside her.

"You don't know, Erin," he said quietly.

For a moment he looked so forlorn that Erin regretted being so harsh. But he never let her get away with dodging the truth, and neither would she. She stepped back towards him, shuffling around the people who were walking in the opposite direction.

"I know you, Peter," she returned, her voice just a soft and low. "And I know when you're lying."

There was a beat as he simply looked away. She continued, "You don't have to tell me; that's fine. Just don't lie to me."

She turned back and began walking again. She heard his footsteps bounding to catch up, and he easily fell back into step with her.

"He wanted to take it to the next level," Peter announced.

Erin took a moment to look up at her brother, trying to read the conflicting emotions scrolling across his face, "And...and you didn't?"

"I did...I just...I didn't want everything that came with it."

"I don't understand."

"He wanted us to be a real couple, Erin," he spoke quietly, tucking his hands in his pockets. "And real couples...don't hide the fact that they're a couple."

"Peter—"

"I can't, Erin. I've been in the closet for so long—"

"But, I thought...I thought after...now that Mom and Dad are gone," she hated how that sounded, but it was the simple truth—Paul's main reason for never coming out had been the fact that he feared (and perhaps knew) that it would devastate their parents. Jameson might have been a liberal judge, but it's very easy to say you're OK with being gay, so long as your own children are straight, and Elaine—well, gods, Elaine didn't need any more ammunition to use against her child's already-damaged psyche. Erin cleared her throat, "I thought maybe, after Dad passed away, that...that you'd finally be free. I mean, not free—that sounds horrible, but—"

"I know what you mean," he assured her. With a light sigh, he admitted, "And I thought the same thing, too. I thought finally I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore...and then..."

He fell silent as they walked along, and Erin quietly prompted, "And then?"

"And then I came to the horrifying realization that I've stayed in the closet for too long," he couldn't keep the tears from his voice at his confession. "I-I don't know how, Erin. I can't. I want to, and gods, I've spent years dreaming of the chance to finally be able to be honest about myself, but now...now that it's here, I can't. I'm...frozen."

They reached another street corner, and they dutifully stopped for traffic. She looked up at her brother, who kept his eyes focused on his shoes. At times like this, Erin was reminded of the wide-eyed three-year-old boy who used to be so afraid of the dark that he'd cry out at night, and she, a mere wisp of a five-year-old, would bravely trek down the long, scary hallway of their creaky old house in Somerset to slip into bed with him and quietly whisper in his ear until they both went back to sleep (because Mother never came, never at times like that, because they'd always had just each other, Rin-Tin and Pete against the world).

Of course, that three-year-old had forty-nine extra years of life and experience behind him now, and his fears could never be so easily soothed away again. With a wry, painful smile, he admitted, "I've spent so long living a lie that it became the truth."

She made a small noise in the back of her throat at this pronouncement (because she understood, she understood far better than Peter could ever know). She opened her mouth to speak, but the crosswalk light changed and Peter charged forward. Erin had to double her pace to catch up, and by then, she'd realized that this wasn't something she could fix with words (it was something she couldn't fix at all, and that hurt the most, because she always wanted to fix things, always wanted to feel like she could help). So she simply linked her arm through his as they continued onward.

He smiled slightly at the action, but didn't comment. A particularly sharp gust of wind blew through the street, and Erin huddled closer to him for warmth.

"Who the hell had the brilliant idea to walk six blocks, in the dead of winter?" She lamented.

"It's good for the environment," her brother replied.

"Oh, screw the environment. I'm old, remember? I don't care if the ozone layer won't be here in thirty years. Gods, I'll be dead by then."

He laughed at her feigned grumpiness, knowing that she was trying to make him smile.

"Thank goodness you're not as bitchy as you pretend to be," he informed her.

"Maybe I am. Maybe you've just been so accustomed to it that you overlook the bitch within," she replied.

"I'm your Patty Hearst?"

"Basically."

"I'll take it," he gave a decisive nod, and Erin snorted at the acceptance.

"I think part of the whole hostage thing is that you don't really have a choice at this point."

"Yeah, but aren't you supposed to let me feel as if I'm choosing?"

"I'm a bad hostage taker."

"You are a bad hostage taker," he agreed somberly, and they both laughed at the pronouncement. Then he returned to the original subject, "Seriously, what do you want for your birthday?"

"I've already told you, I don't want anything. Besides, this is more than enough—you came into town, just to take me to dinner and a movie. It's lovely, thoughtful—"

"It's gay as hell," he informed her. "We're like a politically-correct version of the Golden Girls, Erin."

Now she was truly laughing, her sharp pitch actually startling the people walking in front of them.

"Regardless of this evening's sexual orientation, it's very nice," she assured him, still grinning at her brother's humor.

"I should get you a stripper—"

"What?!"

"Yep. A nice, young strapping thing. Would you prefer European or South American?"

"Is there…do you get to choose those things?"

"For the right amount of money, you do."

"You're horrible."

"You haven't said no to the idea—"

"No. Not in a million years."

"Well, since you're almost that old—"

"Hey—"

"Ya gotta live it up, RT. I could get you a lovely young boy—or if you just wanna go the cheap route, we could call up one of your colleagues from the Bureau, get 'im drunk, and—"

"Peter!" Although she was still laughing with him, he was suddenly treading on dangerous ground.

"What about that adorable young genius on your profiling team? I saw him on television just the other day. He's absolutely—"

"Young enough to be my child, Peter—"

"But not your child, Erin—"

"Suddenly, the stripper seems like a better idea—"

"Wait, so that's a yes on the stripper?"

By now, she was laughing too hard to respond, merely shaking her head at her brother's playful insistence. He kept going, "C'mon, I told you, I always find the perfect gift, and I know this is it for you—a stripper's the gift that keeps on giving—"

"Oh my gods, Jameson Peter Breyer—"

"Aw, c'mon, Rin-Tin!" He gave an exasperated huff as he gently nudged her, "How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if you won't live vicariously?"

She merely rolled her eyes, "I think you spent enough time doing that when we were teens—how many water towers did you have to climb to rescue my drunken ass? I'm way past those days."

"There are three types of women who don't want to see a hot young man: lesbians, nuns, and women who already have a hot young man." He took a beat to size her up before asking, "So which one are you?"

She gave a contemptuous snort as she smacked her brother across the chest. "I'm a respectable woman with three children and a career that I'd like to keep, despite my previous efforts to tank it."

At the mention of Erin's alcoholic past, Peter suddenly sobered.

"How are you…how are you doing, by the way?"

"I'm good. Eight whole months without a single drop."

"I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "It…it means a lot to me, to know that."

"I've always been proud of you, Erin."

"There's the Stockholm Syndrome talking again."

He laughed at the quip, simply changing the subject, because he knew that his older sister had never been good at taking compliments, though she'd spent her entire life seeking praise (it was a strange thing, she worked so hard for it, and then when she received it, she felt like she didn't deserve the approval). He took her hand, pretending to inspect her palm, "Let's see what the future holds for you, Erin Elaine."

"Oh, good heavens," she tried to pull away, but he held her firmly by the wrist.

"I see…a tall, dark, handsome stranger—"

She burst into laughter at the familiar refrain, but he continued, furrowing his brow in mock-seriousness, "Yes, a young, burly pool boy who enjoys giving massages and—"

"I know what I want for my birthday."

"Do you?"

"I want you to shut up about young men, and strippers, and dark strangers, and—"

"Geez, Erin, take all the fun out of life, why dontcha?"

She was still grinning as they approached the ticket line at the movie theatre, though she was grateful for the fact that Peter had abandoned this line of conversation.

She hadn't lied when she told her brother that she was (or at least was trying to be) a respectable mother of three with a career worth keeping. But truth be told, she wasn't past the point of wanting a tall, dark, handsome stranger in her life and in her bed.

Except her imagination conjured up a tall, dark, handsome not-so-stranger. And he wasn't a strapping young thing, either. He was older. Over a decade older. And he was sort of European…and smooth and suave in a way that actually irritated the hell out of her most of the time.

Not that she had any particular person in mind, really. It was just…if she were to be specific about what she found attractive, well, that would be it. After all, those were very general things—there had to be hundreds of men in this city alone who fit that description.

But it wasn't a random face that popped in her mind when Peter mentioned tall, dark, and handsome…and it wasn't a stranger's hands that she wished for at night, or the memory of a stranger's touch that invaded her dreams and left her waking frazzled and heavy with unfulfillment. It wasn't a mere stranger's voice that had the power to set her skin on fire.

She pushed the thought away—she wasn't ready to deal with that elephant in the room, not yet. Soon. But just not yet. David had agreed to give her a year, which meant she had a few more months to sort out all the thoughts and emotions tumbling through her heart and mind. However, each day brought her closer to the moment of truth, the moment she had come to dread with every fiber of her being, because she knew that when it finally did arrive, it would kill every hope she ever had of seeing those sultry wishes come true.

June 2013. Washington, D.C.

In a moment of stunning clarity, Peter realized that Erin had still kept a few secrets from him over the years. He'd come up to the District to celebrate his nephew's birthday and his sister's first full year of sobriety, and as he sat across the table from Erin and David, he couldn't help but notice the similarities between Christopher and the man whom Erin had supposedly been dating for only a few months.

Surely he was wrong. Surely it was just a coincidence.

After decades as an attorney, Peter Breyer had learned that there rarely are coincidences. He started studying Christopher in earnest, seeing how many points of physical connection there were between him and David Rossi (hair, eyes, general height and build, but the nose was Erin's, so was the chin).

Yes, they did look very much alike. However, the real clincher was the way David looked at the younger man—the kind of barely-concealed beaming pride that only fathers could wear. And the way David looked at Erin (and the way Erin looked at him)—that was not the look of new lovers. No, there was depth and knowing and years of history in those glances and nuances, in the easy way her shoulders shifted closer to his, in the way they moved around each other, so comfortable and at-home in each other's space.

Oh, Rin-Tin. Could it be true?

Erin looked up, and when she noticed her brother's expression, her face drained of all color. Peter had his answer, loud and clear.

Suddenly, he felt like laughing. So he did.

After dinner, Christopher decreed that the group would walk down the next block to the ice cream parlor, and since he was the birthday boy, everyone agreed. As they were leaving the restaurant, Peter slipped up behind his sister, his hand resting on her shoulder as he quietly whispered, "You don't have to say anything, Erin. I know."

She whirled around, the fear practically screeching from every pore of her body, and he quickly allayed her qualms, "Jesus, I won't say anything, either. I just...I just wish that you would have trusted me enough to tell me."

A wave of sorrow passed through the eyes that were so much like his own, and he knew how she must have struggled with the decision for so many years. They had shared (almost) everything, had survived so much, simply through the strength of each other, and he knew how hard it must have been for her to keep this from him, how guilty it must have made her feel, knowing that there was an imbalance between them.

The rest of the group were walking ahead of them, completely oblivious, happy and laughing and cracking jokes, looking like a perfect little family unit. It was a lovely moment and Erin hated how fragile it all was, how everything still hinged on one wrong word, one broken promise. Erin sighed, tears brimming in her eyes, "I didn't want—you liked Paul, and I was afraid that you would be angry with me, and I never wanted...I didn't want to burden you with knowing something like that."

"Have you...have you loved David Rossi, this whole time?" Peter asked quietly.

His older sister looked down at the sidewalk, "I don't know. I didn't think that I did, back then...but now I think maybe I did. But there were so many years in-between, and we fought, and...and now we're finally able to be something more, and now I do know that I love him."

Peter took a beat to absorb all this new information. "Did he always know about Chris?"

"No. I just...I told him a few weeks ago."

"So...you lived with this, alone, for all these years?" Peter's heart was breaking for his sister, for his beautiful strong sister who had kept this secret for so long. He understood the loneliness of secrets, perhaps better than most.

She nodded quickly, blinking back tears. Then she shifted closer to him, "We decided...Christopher can't know. It...it would kill him. And Paul—oh, Paul would be devastated. And the girls—"

"I understand, Erin," her brother quietly interrupted.

"Are you—are you mad?" There was a quiver in her voice that tore at her brother's heart.

"I could never be mad at you," he answered simply. "Never about this. Not when you're so happy. I just wish you would have trusted me enough to tell me, after all the things I've shared with you."

"I know," she returned quietly. "I wanted to, and there were a few times that I almost did, but...I never thought that I'd tell David, and I knew that you and Paul were such good friends, and I never wanted you to feel like you had to choose—"

"Rin-Tin, you're my sister, my blood. I would always choose you, no questions asked, no ifs, ands, or buts."

"But I never wanted you to choose. I'd already taken so much from Paul, I couldn't take your trust, too—"

"And you gave so much for him, Erin," Peter's voice was low but firm. "Yes, I considered Paul a good friend while you two were married, but I was trying to make the best of the situation—I knew from day one that you only said yes to the man because you were too afraid to say no, because Mother wanted it so badly, because Paul wanted it, because you always were a yes-girl and you hated the thought of disappointing everyone. I can understand why you did what you did with David, and why you hid it. I'm not mad, I'm not judging you or disapproving of your life choices. In fact, I'm damn proud of you for finally saying yes to something that actually makes you happy, and for finding real love, perhaps for the first time in your life. End of story."

Erin looked up at her brother, slightly shocked and deeply touched by his words.

"Erin," he gave a sadly amused smile. "You've always been there for me—why in hell wouldn't you think that I'd do the same for you?"

"Everything OK?" David had slowed down, looking back over his shoulder at the two Breyer siblings.

Erin gave a small nod, quickening her pace to catch up to him, "We're fine. Just catching up."

With one last grateful smile at her brother, Erin turned her attention back to David, whose arm was easily slipping around her waist, his thumb lightly rubbing the fabric of her dress (his hand just high enough that the motion was almost brushing the curve of her breast, sweet and soft and almost-improper, so very David in every way). Her own arm instinctively wrapped around his back as well, their steps falling into comforting sync, her chest filling with airy happiness at the simple moment.

Peter took a moment to observe the scene playing before him—Chris, Anna, and Jordan at the front, laughing and occasionally bumping each other around on the wide sidewalk, looking over their shoulders to throw teasing retorts to Erin and David, who were walking together with the calm assurance of two people deeply connected through time and love.

There had been pictures like this, whenever Erin and Paul were together, when the children were much younger. However, those pictures had been tinged with sadness, because Peter had always known that in order to create the image, his sister was pushing back her true self on some level. But this time, in this moment, there was no sense of such a thing. For the first time in a very long time, Erin was vibrant and present and truly overjoyed.

Good for you, Rin-Tin. Good for you.

They walked along in silence for a few beats before David quietly asked, "What's on your mind, kitten?"

"You." She answered simply, tightening her hold around his waist.

She didn't look up into his handsome face, but she knew that he was smiling, "Care to share some of those thoughts?"

"Perhaps later." Her voice dipper even lower, careful not to be overheard by the children in front of them, "And if you're really good, I might even show you what I'm thinking about."

He gave a warm chuckle, leaning over to whisper in her ear, "Bella, you know I can't be good—not around you."

She giggled in response, and though her head pulled away from his lips, her lower body shifted closer, her hip bumping his as they walked along. David cast a furtive glance ahead, making sure the kids weren't watching, and he pulled her closer again, his mouth landing on the curve where her neck met her shoulders, the prickle of his goatee making her giggle again and the wet warmth of his mouth making her gasp at the same time.

"Watch the public displays of affection, you two," Peter warned playfully as he bounded to catch up to them, and Erin blushed.

Anna turned around, horrified, "Really, Mom, in public?"

"Absolutely," David retorted with another grin. "Your mother's too beautiful not to be adored every second of every day."

This earned him a few light protests from the three Strauss children, who all shook their heads and pretended to be dismayed by the lack of decorum (though they were all smiling). Erin was blushing an even deeper shade of red, from the valley of her breasts to those dancing eyes as she gave him a light spat across the chest (behave yourself, David Rossi).

"Well played, Agent Rossi," Peter nodded in approval. In a low aside, he added, "Someone's definitely getting laid tonight, with all those brownie points."

"Peter!" Now Erin turned to give her brother a cuff on the shoulder, and David burst into laughter.

"What?" Jordan turned back around, her face scrunched in confusion.

"You don't wanna know, Dannie," Peter informed her somberly, and she made a face in response. They arrived at the ice cream shop, and David held the door open as everyone else slipped in. Peter sidled up to his sister again, smiling as he whispered, "See? How could I not be happy for you, when it's all so adorably wonderful?"

She looked up at her brother, expecting him to mock her, but he was being serious. Her own expression softened as well as she quietly agreed, "Yes, it is wonderful."

David was behind her again, the weight of his arm slipping around her shoulders and pulling her body back to his, and she felt a warm tremor zipping down her spine at the possessiveness of the gesture (she remembered how desperately she'd wanted that same kind of touch last year, at the Big Smoke event, and how she still loved it now, how she loved being able to silently declare to the world, yes this man is mine, and I am his, and there's nothing you can do to change that).

Oh, wonderful was too ordinary a word to describe this. And yet it was the only word coursing through her brain.

Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Simply wonderful.

"He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." ~Emily Brontë

*Author's Note: I would bet good money that, due to the title, this chapter didn't end the way you expected. And because by now, you know me, you actually weren't surprised. As always, thank you so very very much for all of the reviews, alerts, adds, etc. Stay the course a little longer, chickadees. We're almost there!*