[ Part Two ]
"Rule one: Always use olive oil. Extra virgin. No butter. Get it?" Andy looked from the pan to Sharon who nodded obediently.
"No butter. Noted."
"Is butter bad?" Tommy asked, swinging his legs back and forth where he was sitting on top of the kitchen counter, watching as dinner was being prepared.
"No. It's just out of place when it comes to my grandmother's famous tomato sauce," Flynn explained to him while adding a healthy amount of olive oil to the pan that sat next to the pot of sauce already blubbering on the stove. He actually hadn't believed his ears when Sharon had called him four days after he'd spent the whole afternoon and some of the early evening helping her around the house. She'd suggested having him over for dinner that night as a thank you for his help and he had told her which groceries to buy in order to be fully stocked on everything he needed to make the aforementioned tomato sauce. It was past eight o'clock already since he had dutifully attended his AA-meeting - as he did almost every night - and so Tommy had already had dinner and was wearing his pajamas, almost ready for bed. Andy took a look at Sharon from the corner of his eye, taking in her casual black sweater and the white top she was wearing along with a low-slung ivy green silk skirt that barely reached her knees. She looked comfortable and pretty and he found his gaze lingering on her legs a little longer than was commonly considered decent. Fortunately she was too busy enforcing her son's bedtime to notice.
"Say goodnight to Andy," she said, stepping back slightly from the counter to allow her guest to stand in front of Tommy who cocked his head pensively.
"But I want to try the food."
"There will be leftovers that your mom can heat up for you tomorrow," Andy offered the child. "Sleep is important."
"But you weren't sleeping when we met you," Tommy sulked.
"But he's a grown-up and you're a child and now it's time for bed. Come on, we'll go and brush your teeth now." Sharon rolled her eyes towards the ceiling over her child's shoulder as she lifted him off the counter and then took his hand to lead him upstairs. Andy remained in the kitchen, frying bacon bits that he then added to the mixture of fresh tomatoes, basil and onions. The sauce had to simmer for a while, anyway, so he turned down the heat and casually wandered into the adjoining living-room. Sharon had done a remarkable job at getting the place set up, he had to admit. All boxes had vanished and she had even found the time to hang some pictures on the wall, most of them art prints. Modern art, he noticed, while trying to make sense of what looked like random splashes of color to him. Mostly blue, rather beautiful splashes of color, but mere splashes nonetheless.
"Jackson Pollock." He winced in surprise at the sound of Sharon's voice right behind him and turned around apologetically.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to nose around. I was just curious as to how far you'd come with the place."
"That's okay," she assured him. "I did the finishing touches last night."
"So you just invited me over to have someone to admire your work," he teased and she gave an amused hum in response. Andy wondered once again what made her so cautious about each and every one of the gestures and sounds she made. It seemed that she often resorted to barely audible hums that still conveyed the whole range of her emotions if one listened closely enough. "Now who is this Pollock guy again?" he asked, turning back to face the picture to mask the fact that he had actually tried to flirt with her and failed. Maybe. It was hard to tell what was going on inside her head.
"He was an abstract expressionist. His trademark was drip painting." She indicated the picture on the wall. "Do you like art?"
"Depends on the art," Andy murmured, unwilling to admit that he knew very little about the topic. His answer made her chuckle and he felt a sudden sense of accomplishment at the sound of it.
"Yeah, I guess. My husband never liked Pollock although they share the same first name."
Andy listened up when she finally mentioned her husband and found her hand resting on her stomach that was half-disguised by the loose-fitting t-shirt. For the first time it occurred to him that they didn't necessarily have to be separated. Maybe he had died and she was a grieving widow which would certainly account for the sad look in her eyes whenever she felt unobserved.
"He died in a car crash because he was drunk," she said in a strangely detached voice that didn't make her sound emotionally involved at all.
"I'm so sorry," he told her, still wondering whether he should touch her shoulder in a sympathetic gesture when she frowned at him, apparently a bit confused. Then she gave a small jolt of laughter without actually making a sound. The motion of her shoulders was there, if somewhat apologetic, but the sound that should have accompanied it was completely muffled by her closed, yet smiling lips.
"Oh no, Andy. Not my husband. Jackson Pollock!"
"Oh." Andy was at a loss for a moment but then he grinned, both relieved and oddly disappointed. Slightly ashamed when he realized that he would have preferred a widowed Sharon Raydor to a separated one, he decided to examine his own motives later. Her smile broadened and the fact that her mouth was still closed gave the expression something shy and secretive. Andy liked the very faint, not yet permanent web of wrinkles that appeared around her eyes when she smiled – or laughed, if that counted as such. How old was she, he wondered. Thirty?
"The sauce," he said, feigning a rather urgent tone although he knew that the mixture of ingredients was still contently simmering and would have to do so for at least another fifteen minutes. Stirring optional.
"Of course," she said, the smile wiped off her face as she stepped aside to let him go into the kitchen first where he tried to look important and busy for a moment.
"I should fix us some drinks," he heard her say and turned around in surprise as his biased mind inevitably associated the term "drinks" with alcohol. Surely she wouldn't dream of-? But Sharon hadn't noticed his appalled expression and had opened the fridge, now busy shoveling ice-cubes into two large cocktail glasses.
"Um- Sharon, really, I shouldn't drink and, honestly, you shouldn't either."
He felt mortified yet again at her now definitely amused expression when she closed the refrigerator door to look at him again, holding a bottle of soda and a container of cranberry juice which she lifted up for his inspection. Once again, Andy was grateful for the naturally dark Italian complexion that ran in his family because he was sure that, if not for that, he would have blushed at his accidental indiscretion.
"Uh, sorry," he muttered self-consciously. "I didn't mean to accuse you of-" He trailed off, busying himself with stirring the sauce instead for a moment until she lightly touched his arm to indicate that his drink was ready. He had never been a big fan of fruit juice and, to be honest, both his parents' and his own stock had never outgrown the range of apple or orange juice, so he took a tentative sip.
"I hope you like it. I needed to find a replacement for my white wine when I got pregnant with Tommy and I found that this works for me," Sharon told him, sipping her own drink. A bit of it stuck to her upper lip and he was unduly fascinated by the tip of her tongue that slipped out and licked it away without actually trying to be seductive.
"I really like it," he told her truthfully. "I don't think I've ever had cranberry juice before."
She smiled again and nodded; her smile was as fleeting and short-lived as the ones before but this time it left a soft, glowing expression on her usually guarded face.
"If you like it a bit stronger, you can also use sirup, but that's a little too sweet for my tastes. Now, how's the sauce coming along?" She took a step towards him, holding her drink as confidently as if it was a glass of wine and he imagined her, her slender fingers wrapped around he handle of a wine glass, wearing something more revealing and stepping closer not to examine the contents of the pan, but to intentionally brush against him. He mentally upbraided himself for those thoughts. He was lucky enough to be invited back with her and maybe she was just feeling indebted to him for helping her set up the house. The worst thing he could do now was to ruin everything by hitting on her. Instead of commenting on her close proximity or worse, touching her small waist, he stepped aside and ripped open the packet of pasta a little more forcefully than intended.
"We can eat as soon as these are finished."
She nodded. "Great. I'll set the table."
From the corner of his eye, he watched her put a new tablecloth on the small table by the window, take plates and cutlery out and arrange it all neatly around to long white candles in candle holders that looked positively antique; actually they looked as if they belonged in a huge, expensively furnished residence, not this small but homey house. Andy found himself liking them as they reminded him of long-forgotten vacations at his great-grandparent's house in Italy. She carried two large plates over to the stove and watched as he dropped the pasta into the boiling water. There was a short, but heavy silence.
"So your meetings are going well?" she asked him, looking up at him with an honest, somewhat concerned look. She was rapidly going through her drink and he couldn't help but wonder whether she applied such determination to alcoholic beverages as well.
"Yeah," he said simply, not sure what to tell her. "My sponsor is great. Name's Joel. The guy's hard to describe but we get along well."
She nodded, employing that weird little smile again that made her seem as mysterious as a sphinx. It seemed not deliberate but just an outward sign of her caution around him or – perhaps – anyone.
"That's really good," she said.
He prepared two plates of the simple but tasty meal and set them onto the table, gingerly sitting down opposite her. Sharon was waiting, her fork poised, for him to make himself comfortable. He almost smiled at the napkin in her lap and the way she was sitting perfectly upright. Only when he ate the first bite, he noticed how hungry he was. So much determination was going into trying to deal with his daily woes without the numbing comfort of alcohol that he often forgot to eat or drink enough which provided him with dizziness and headaches. Andy watched Sharon take a bite and was glad when her face lit up as she chewed.
"Andy, that's amazing food!" she complimented him and he could tell from the look on her face that she was her enthusiasm was genuine. "Do you have any more secret recipes that you can share with me?"
"Plenty," he said. "but I'm not so sure whether you're talented enough to follow the instructions."
She snickered at his teasing. "I have a reputation of always following the rules," she said, a little proudly.
They spent their dinner lightly chatting about people at work that were mutually disliked by everyone throughout the LAPD and avoided any touchy subjects. Andy would have liked to ask her about her husband, but didn't think that they knew each other well enough. She sure knew how to dodge questions she didn't like to answer which made for awkward silences that he didn't care for tonight. Sans his equally loyal and destructive friend alcohol, he felt fragile and jittery, suddenly sober in a world that seemed much easier to live in while intoxicated. But something drove him, a little voice inside him that told him that enough was enough and that his downward spiral would continue if he didn't put a stop to all of it. And some part in it, he was sure, was also owed to Sharon Raydor who sipped Cranberry and Soda as if it was the local winery's finest and who could laugh without making a sound.
By the time he helped her wash the dishes, they had become almost perfectly at ease in each other's presence without actually having shared anything more intimate than their mutual hatred of the negligent prick that had been made Chief of Police a few months previously. They shared a joke or two about the night they'd first met when she saw him to the door and this time she let him squeeze her arm goodbye and when he turned around at the end of her short driveway she still stood, illuminated by the lights from the hall, raising a hand in a silent farewell.
That night, Andy slept better than he had in weeks.
The cafeteria was always stuffy and reeked of stale food and rancid grease. As usual, Andy found it overcrowded and therefore noisy as too many voices tried to make themselves heard over the chatter that filled the room. He didn't even really know why he was here. Maybe, he reckoned, to be able to keep the company of his fellow squad members at Robbery/Homicide. They came here every day and so he had to tag along if he wanted to avoid dropping by his favorite deli across the street that, inconveniently, was located right next to a liquor store. He felt weary and beaten after having had to take witness statements in a case that involved a twelve year old girl that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was now in the local hospital ICU, fighting for her life. He didn't want to be alone, mostly so he wouldn't be able to convince himself that just one drink on his lunch break wouldn't hurt. He had done it so many times before, had slugged down two or three tumblers of hard liquor to then stagger back into the office and receive pitying or disgusted looks. He couldn't be that man anymore and he would put up a fight against the sly, needy Andy Flynn that was somewhere inside his skull, demanding a drink to drown out the image of the little girl, lying in a pool of her own blood, faintly whimpering for her mother.
He followed the others towards the counter with a moody expression. Except for a poorly stocked salad bar with dry vegetables and yellowing lettuce, there were only two meals to choose from and neither appealed to him very much. Andy didn't only like to cook, he liked to eat well, too, and there was nothing desirable about today's choice. While he was pondering which would be worse – soft greasy fries and a suspicious-looking piece of meat or a vegetarian lasagna that looked as if someone had stepped on it – he saw someone from the corner of his eye. Turning slightly, he looked into the bloodshot eyes of his former mid-daily drinking companion Danny Samson. He knew all about his unfaithful wife and truanting teenager, but they were still not on a first name basis, so he nodded politely.
"Hello, Lieutenant Samson, how's it?" The man was bulky, broad-shouldered and had once been handsome, but the alcohol had left its marks by giving him blotchy skin and a bloated belly. For a fleeting second, Andy felt disgust for whom he would have called a friend, or at least acquaintance, not too long ago. Samson was letting himself go and what he was faced with here, was his future if he didn't stick to his resolutions and AA-meetings.
"It's actually Detective now," Samson snapped, clearly in one of his bad moods and even more clearly intoxicated. Having been drinking – an alcoholic, Andy had to remind himself – for a long time, the other man famously kept several flasks of scotch inside his desk drawers and jackets and thus had no need to pop out to the liquor store in order to be drunk before lunch.
"Detective-?" Andy asked and found his two squad mates, Jim Basil and Steven Hanks turn to him with mild interest.
"Yeah. Screwed up a few months back, you know. Had a little run in with a witness - real son of a bitch - and FID made sure I got punished."
Andy was pretty sure that the other man wouldn't be telling him the story of his embarrassing misfortune if he wasn't drunk and he found himself wondering how much long he'd be kept on the force if he continued like this. Samson could hold his liquor well so he could only guess as to what huge amounts he must have downed before he came here.
"Oh, sorry to hear that," he said, although he really wasn't. While Samson was friendly enough when they were drinking together, Andy knew in his heart of hearts that he was a spectacular failure when it came to being a cop. His lapses endangered others and that made him a liability; just like him, Andy realized, who had gotten his gun taken off him in a bar. He was just lucky that nothing worse had happened.
"That little bitch," Samson growled, slurring his words now. His breath was heavy with alcohol and Andy curled his lip, unnoticed by his red-faced companion who seemed to be working himself into a rage. Judging from his trembling hands, his state of intoxication and the fact that Andy had not yet heard about his being reduced in rank through the grapevine, it must have happened recently. "All those women swarming the force," Samson ranted on. "but FID's the worst. Pretty ass she had, but that's about it."
He looked at something behind Flynn and his eyes narrowed. "Little know-it-all thinks she can do whatever she likes! She's got it coming!" And with that he marched past Andy who turned wearily but then stopped in his tracks. Behind him stood Sharon, eying the contents of her tray with some disdain while she was proceeding towards the check-out. Her full work attire consisted of blouse, skirt and matching blazer that would have made her look prim and strict if not for her wavy long hair that fell over her shoulders. She was with a tall, lanky redhead named Stewart Dawson who was unfortunate to be – in a regrettable lack of originality - nicknamed "Ginger" among the force. He, too, was working for Internal Affairs which explained his unpopularity despite his good spirits and friendly nature. He was saying something to her about her unappetizing salad when Samson approached, too fast and staggering and regarded with disgust or alarm by the other cops.
"I wonder how you got into the force in the first place, you little hussy! Slept with the chief, I'm sure!" he spat into her startled face. Andy drew a blank when he tried to assess whether Samson would hurt a woman, but maybe it didn't matter, anyway, as he was drunk and the booze had a way of messing with your morals. Andy sat down his yet empty tray and tried to make his way towards Samson and Sharon through the gathering crowd. It was sad to see, he thought, that cops were just as voyeuristic and unhelpful when interested and on their lunch break. I didn't help that Sharon was FID, either. Her only allies in this unequal battle seemed to be Ginger and him, Andy.
"You should watch what you're saying," she said coldly but at the same time took an instinctive step backwards. Her face was a completely expressionless mask but he could see that her knuckles were white from holding on to her try like a shield.
"I've been an officer since before you even graduated high school, you little shit, and then you come along and try to take my life's achievement from me!"
It was almost painful to see that no one tried to stop Samson from insulting Sharon. Despite his raging alcoholism, he was popular as he had been a good cop before his addiction had flared up and made him like this. Andy now saw him for what he was, a bumbling, staggering idiot who was making a fool of himself by insulting someone who had, presumably, only done her job. He wondered whether he was the only one who noticed because he was technically still in danger of becoming like him but maybe their mutual dislike for FID officers in general overrode anything else; either way, nobody cared to intervene before things got out of hand.
"Knock it off, okay?" Ginger said in his high voice, his thin arms in the as always baggy-looking suit barely a threat compared to Samson's meaty limbs.
"I suggest we end this here," Sharon agreed and made to leave but Samson blocked her way. For the first time Andy saw fear flicker in her eyes and decided that this was enough. He didn't care much whether Samson would hate him from now on or whether he would be subject to vicious gossip as to why he felt the need to protect a woman from FID, but he didn't want Sharon hurt and it was where this was going rapidly. To get his body between Sharon's and Samson's, however, he needed to get through the crowd of people who had gathered and it was difficult to get to the front when everyone wanted to see what was going on.
Samson grabbed Sharon's tray and hurled it against her upper body, leaving her gasping as the dressing seeped into her white blouse. Scattered laughs were heard at her predicament before they were drowned out by the sound of the tray slipping from her grasp and crashing on to the linoleum floor at her feet. Samson gave a hollow laugh that made Andy dare to hope that he would leave her be now after humiliating her in front of half of the LAPD, but he was wrong. Samson approached Sharon and grabbed her upper arm, making her wince. Still trying to save face, she hissed at him to consider the consequences of his actions, but he was drunk and, apparently, beyond caring. His second paw-like hand landed on Sharon's other shoulder and she staggered backwards when he gave her a hard shove.
"I'll make you pay, I swear, I'll make you pay!" His voice was quivering now with what sounded like unshed tears and Andy was becoming seriously worried. He finally managed to squeeze his body through those of the other onlookers and rushed towards Sharon the same moment that Ginger tried to physically brave Samson's attack. Sharon stepped back and pressed both hands on to her belly to protect her baby, sending a shocked gasp through the crowd when they noticed her condition for the first time. Seeing an FID officer's cage getting rattled was one thing, but now that they saw that she was pregnant they knew that they should have stepped in a lot earlier. Andy gently pushed her aside before he joined the unequal fight. The crowd half-groaned, half-cheered, believing that he was in it to help his buddy Samson and a sudden silence fell over the room when he manhandled him to the side and planted his fist squarely onto his nose.
"Get a grip, man!" Andy yelled. "Go to the bathroom and sober up, will you?"
"Says you!" Someone from the crowd snickered but Andy didn't bother turning around to see who it was. Samson was crying now, an unfamiliar, dreadful wailing that made Andy's skin crawl. The man was a wreck, a shadow of himself and he had probably just ended his own career once and for all. He felt pity as well as fury at the shell of the man who'd once been respected and liked. People were staring at him now, wondering what had gotten into him and maybe whether he was drunk as well, but he just turned around to find Sharon Raydor standing rigidly with her head held high, her arms by her sides. She bared the crowd and walked directly towards the exit, not caring whether anyone was in her way. People stepped aside, avoiding her gaze as she marched out, her body trembling visibly. Andy stood and stared at her for a moment while she walked, unable to discern whether she was shaking with fear or fury.
"What are you looking at?" he scowled at noone in particular and followed through the gap she'd caused in the crowd of people. He hurried to catch up with her but found her vanishing into the ladies room at the end of the corridor. Being spotted in there and reported was not a big deal normally, but with his track record of blunt flirting (while drunk) and his wide range of misdemeanors, he shouldn't have risked it. Andy opened the door anyway and froze at the sound of violent retching coming from one of the cubicles. He wanted to call out to her, but then decided to grant her some privacy and locked the door after making sure that they were alone. Minutes later the toilet was flushed and Sharon came out, still holding her hair back. She was pale and her clothes were stained with oil and vinegar, pieces of lettuce still clinging to the fabric of her blouse. She immediately averted her eyes when she spotted Andy and walked towards the sink to wash up. He let her rinse her mouth and run water over her wrists before he addressed her.
"Are you okay?"
She whirled around, apparently still furious. "Do I look okay to you?" But it seemed to dawn on her who she was talking to and her expression softened. "Sorry," she added. "Yes, I am okay."
Always in possession of mints to hide the telltale smell on his breath, Andy dug around his pocket and handed the small box to her. She nodded gratefully and popped a few into her mouth then tried to give it back but he declined.
"It's okay. I don't really need them at the moment." He gave her a lopsided grin and she seemed to understand because she wrestled them into her jacket pocket with some difficulty before she washed her hands again and looked at her stained shirt in dismay.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Andy inquired and she just shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair to make herself look presentable again. He was astonished, to say the least. Any other woman he knew would have at least allowed herself some tears or would have sought comfort from her savior, but Sharon just soldiered on. He wondered whether that was healthy at all because she was still shaking like a leaf although she was trying to hide it.
He shoved his hands into his pockets to look nonchalant.
"You know, I guess you owe me another dinner now." She looked up at him, at the brink of snapping again. He took one hand out of his pocket and made a leisurely circle in the air, shrugging. "I saved your ass and I sort-of revealed to everyone in the LAPD that we're friends."
"Friends?" she asked, much like she had the last time. "You helped me around the house and we had dinner once. Little to go on when it comes to a friendship."
"You forgot that you made me go to AA and that I gave you mints for your spectacularly bad breath, Sharon Raydor."
He wasn't sure whether he'd gone too far until she looked up and laughed. It was a low, barking sound that seemed to be caused by her considerable tautness of nerves but it was enough for him. He could tell that she didn't want to be coddled by him, so humor seemed to be in order. She almost shrunk back when he reached out to pick an overlooked lettuce leaf off her jacket.
"From the looks of that shit, you don't have to miss that salad, really."
She rolled her eyes. "I hated the cafeteria even before this happened. Tomorrow it will be back to packed lunches."
He shrugged again. "I know a nice deli just across the street. They make great salads. None of the guys go there. They think it's too girly." She raised both of her eyebrows at him, waiting until he added: "Much like Cranberry and Soda."
He was rewarded with a completely unexpected giggle that turned into a long overdue sob. Her hand covering her mouth and nose, she stepped towards the door. She seemed ashamed of the tears that she was successfully fighting down and Andy decided to ignore them just like he would have to ignore the others' banter. Something in Sharon Raydor struck him and made him want him to be close to her. Maybe it was the prospect of being able to have lunch at the deli again as that nasty voice inside him urging him to go to the liquor store right beside it and get a drink wouldn't have a say when Sharon was with him.
He just knew.
Edit: I just fixed a little irregularity that was pointed out to me in a review. In my first version of this chapter, I didn't get across that the other cops didn't actually know that Sharon was pregant when the whole thing with Samson happened. Thank you, Murphycat! :)