Note: I'm so scared I'm going to fudge all the legal stuff ahead, but hopefully you're all going to forgive me for relying on novels and television and the internet for my research. Ack, I'm awful at being all technical, so we'll see how this goes. And is it safe to say writing this story has made me fall head-over-heels for Gustafa? No? Okay, I'll keep my bizarre epiphanies to myself from now on. xD
And special thanks to HmGirly, my 200th reviewer, as well as my 199th and 201st reviewer! Haha, thanks a bunch, you crazy Australian chica. You know I love ya.
Chapter Twenty: Cherished
The train refused to move fast enough. Claire's fingers dug into Trent's hands with each stifled scream of frustration; her heart beat fasted than this ridiculous contraption could move down the tracks. "My baby's waiting for me," she wanted to cry. "You don't understand. I have to see her." Her husband would squeeze back, and the look in his eyes would reassure her that someone in this world did, actually, understand.
Across from them, another unlikely passenger had stolen along; Gustafa sat comfortably beside a troupe of actors, whipping out his guitar to accompany them. "Alright, Desdemona, let 'er rip!" he laughed, and one of the girls—some twiggy young thing—began to sing a song, one that Claire recalled, from the recesses in her mind, as Shakespeare.
"The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree.
Sing all a green willow.
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow."
"Othello," Trent whispered in her ear. "That's the play they're reciting."
"The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones
Sing willow, willow, willow—
Lay by these—
Willow, willow—"
Claire cleared her throat. "I don't recall a Willow in that play."
"There isn't one."
"Prithee, hie thee, he'll come anon—
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve—"
"Desdemona sings that song. It's her second-to-last scene in the play," Trent continued. "She's trying to understand why her husband is so upset at her, and it's because he believes she's—" He averted his eyes and said, delicately, "He thinks she's being unfaithful."
"O-oh." The blonde watched on as the actress dabbed at wet eyes, and the others applauded her fine recitation. "That play…is a tragedy, isn't it?"
"Othello kills his wife, yes. Even though she is innocent." Gustafa strummed up another song, and suddenly they switched from Othello to Rent, belting out "525,600 Minutes" and letting the fake tears dry away. Trent and Claire watched for a minute, and then the doctor kissed her softly on the cheek, adding, "That's the difference between real life and plays. We aren't doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again each curtain call, are we?"
His little words of comfort brought a smile to Claire's lips, and she nuzzled her head into his shoulder. "Thank God."
"He was such a jerk."
"Complete creeper."
"I knew I hated him."
"You're better off without him, Gwen."
The words piled higher than the baskets of goodies could, and Gwen nodded, each passionate statement from her friends feeding a dull and dead fire. Katie had stuffed her baskets with pastries and cakes, Eve had smuggled some of Dan's best wine over to drown out her sadness ("never mind drinking ages, Gwen, no one here really gives a crap"), and they had slammed "Steiner" for thirty minutes straight. Yet Gwen hadn't said a word, just kept nodding.
Lies. You two are lying to me, too.
She'd become sensitive to that as of late: lying. Even her uncle did it; he told her he'd taken a bet with Duke over being able to handle the Inn for a week without her help. Instead, he could've just said, "I want you to take time off. I'm sorry he hurt you." But lying was supposed to spare her feelings. Lying, apparently, was supposed to stop her from feeling like crap.
"Didn't I say there was something odd about him, Eve?"
"Oh, definitely. Definitely odd."
Then why were you raving about him before? Telling me how happy you were for us? I'm not a child. I can handle the truth.
Leaving the station had been harder than she'd anticipated. Part of her had hoped, deep down, she'd be some sort of Florence Nightingale who could swoop into the jail cell and cure whatever ailed this man. But she needed curing, too. She was in no condition to willingly hurt herself again with a look from those eyes.
"Hey, Gwen? I was talking with Joe, and he said Kurt might be interested in a double date if you're—"
"No, I'm not open." The reply came out colder than Gwen had intended, but she didn't apologize at the pained look in Katie's eyes. Of course her friend had only been helping; she knew that. But she also knew what a joke it would be for her to date now. Love wasn't a band-aid for pain; it was the reward for overcoming it. And, other times, it was the poison itself.
"W-well, if you ever change your mind, y'know, I'll tell him." Katie straightened herself up and, at a loss, began to leave the Inn. "I've, uh, got something to do. Eve?"
"Oh, yes, I think I've got something going on as well," the barmaid agreed. "Good luck, Gwen—really."
"Have fun," she drawled. Liars.
Gwen scrubbed at the counter until her hands rubbed red; she stared at her reflection until she forgot she was the red-eyed doppelganger looking up at her. Never before had she felt so…bitter, so full of disgusting anger. So sick inside.
"Excuse me?"
Her eyes shot up to meet a young man, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and his mouth twisted into a concerned smile. "What do you want?" she forced out.
"A room for one. That okay?" He paused. "Actually, are you okay?"
What the hell does it look like to you? "I'm Gwen," she said instead. "How—how long will you be staying, sir?"
"Oh, good question. Don't know. Can I just pay you day-by-day?" He messed with his big green hat, then added, "The name's Gustafa. G-u-s-t-a-f-a."
"Gu…staf…a. Got it." Gwen blew a strand of hair from her face and grimaced. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be—what's the word—short-fused. It's a bad day, y'know?"
The man in green nodded. "We all get them. Totally understand where you're coming from."
A startled laugh burst out at that. "Do you?" Gwen inquired, the snarky undertones something she wasn't proud of at all, but unwilling to suppress as well. "Really, now?"
"Oh, you never know. Maybe." Gustafa shrugged, her biting comments water rolling off his back. "I don't think it's fair to judge people you've never met. All the same, I hope things look up for ya, Gwen." He took the key from her hands, tugged his hat, and walked upstairs carrying—she noticed belatedly—a guitar as well as a tiny bag on his shoulders.
"Hey, do you need any help?"
"I'm good!" he shouted down to her. "Don't worry about me."
The blonde couldn't help it; the guilt panged her with each cheerful word the guitarist spoke. Any other day, I'd have loved to talk to a customer like that. Real nice guy. Tomorrow, she'd give him breakfast on the house. Definitely.
"Are you the manager here?"
"Yeah, what do you need?" Gwen swerved about then covered her mouth, the strangest sound sneaking out. "Holy…!"
"What is it?" the woman demanded. "Is there something on my face?"
Yes, she wanted to say. Baby Claire's eyes.
It made Claire absolutely furious to be wasting time getting a place at the Inn. Yet Detective Nami Stone had called, and she'd warned Trent about the limited space (apparently, Willow's appearance had called quite a few people here), telling him to grab a room as soon as they arrived.
"Absolutely not," Claire had decided.
An hour later, here they were.
The girl at the reception counter had the most obnoxious habit of staring at her and Trent with these wide goldfish eyes. She was a very young woman, hair still in a ponytail like a high school girl, and Claire would've been forsaken by her parents if she'd ever worn one of those shirts at her age.
"My wife and I need a room," Trent interceded; Claire knew she loved this man for a reason. "Is that possible right now?"
"Uh, yeah, sure." The manager-girl shook her head, pale as a sheet, and pulled out a room key with unsteady hands. "Wh-what names should I put it under?"
"Doctor Trent and Claire."
"Claire." Was this kid laughing? "Of course. Should've known."
Claire itched to wipe that smile off this ponytailed teenybopper's face; why, she couldn't have been older than eighteen, and if she had heard about the kidnapping and the woman who'd been stupid enough to lose her child, well, then this farmer would have no qualms with beating her face in for finding the shittiest part of her life hysterical.
"How long will you be staying?" the manager inquired.
"Can we pay by day? We're unsure at the moment," Trent, ever the calm and steady doctor, answered. "Right, Claire?" Or, in marriage-speak, "Stop glaring and nod. She's just a kid."
"One room for you, then." Claire swiped the key from her fingers, and was it her imagination, or did this girl shudder at her touch? "Um, the name's Gwen, if you need anything," she added.
"We'll be just fine, I imagine," Claire snapped, her attempt at copying her husband's nonchalance failing miserably. "Trent, can we leave now?"
"Certainly."
Maybe Claire was just being paranoid, but she could swear Gwen had watched them walking out the door, onto the street, until they'd gone completely out of sight.
Gina hadn't expected, of all things, to wind up Skye's analyst. Part of her couldn't seem to separate the man before her from the monster that sometimes leaked into Claire's confessions, and yet, the broken criminal waiting in his cell certainly didn't match with that description at all. "Thank you for your time, Mister Skye," she said with a smile as she stood up. "It's been a pleasure speaking with you."
"So what do you think then, doc?" His lips curved into a wry grin. "Am I crazy?"
It surprised Gina how often she received that question. 'Crazy' didn't really describe what people assumed: screaming lunatics with wild hair and eyes endangering everyone around them. She fiddled with her glasses then looked down at her notes. "I wouldn't worry about that."
"So that's a yes."
"It's nothing of the sort," she clarified. "I will be honest at your trial, should you have one, because you, Claire, and the law expect nothing less of me. And I will be honest with you now: don't worry about this at the moment." Her brown eyes softened, and she added, "I must go, but I'll see you again. I promise."
She opened the door, and a buff man—Bob, he'd introduced himself—admitted her out before locking the door firmly behind her. "Isn't it horrible?" she found herself saying to him and no one in particular. "That people can make mistakes that reach this far. Such a shame." Shaking her blue braids, she stepped out to the next room, and her eyes locked on another pair: blue and bright.
"Gina!" Claire ran to her with a dumbfounded grin, embracing her in a shocked hug. "I didn't know you would be here!"
"I expected you sooner or later," the nurse laughed, enjoying this look of delight on her past client's face. Never before had she seemed so radiant, so in love with life. It made Gina feel proud, almost. "I'm here to judge the mental state of your kidnapper."
"Oh." Claire's euphoria was tempered a bit by this, but she still smiled. "I'm here to find my daughter. I just arrived, and could you tell me—?"
"Willow is next door," Gina instructed her. "So stop talking to me and run right in there, Claire."
Gina leaned in the doorway, and she watched as Trent and Claire dashed inside the little room, as they began crying out with joy as a little child turned a curious head their way, as a long-awaited prayer, finally, was answered.
If Willow could speak, Claire would have told her daughter a thousand things: I've missed you more than you can imagine. I've cried so much, I could barely speak. My life lost meaning. My heart gave out. But I never stopped hoping, Willow, never.
I'll never lose you again.
Selfishly, she had curled her arms about this baby girl like a fortress—not again, never again, would her baby be stolen from her. Trent completed their circle, and Willow looked up with the biggest blue eyes, somehow recognizing the two without knowing who they were.
"You're alright. Oh my God, oh my God, you're alright." They kissed her little blonde head over and over again; they laughed; they cried; they tried to remember the last moment they'd held their baby daughter so close.
Nami found the whole event fascinating.
Maybe it sounded heartless; maybe most honest thoughts were. She cocked her head at them, studied Claire's and Trent's desperate devotion, and couldn't help but wonder how being the child showered with such praise felt. It wasn't that she missed having it growing up; it was that she'd never known what she was missing, period.
The detective wasn't naïve enough to think her parents weren't doing the best thing for her: an alcoholic father and a flighty mother were no role models, she knew that. In fact, she applauded them for putting her up for adoption; foster care raised her far better than they could have. Nami had met many fellow adopted and foster children who had expressed interest in meeting their parents, but to be honest, she'd never been one of them.
Still. Moments like this, watching a family so adoring and in love, made her wonder if she'd missed something, after all. If she, in Claire's place, could ever love someone that strongly.
"Skye's in a cell here," the redhead felt compelled to announce. "Nothing fancy, just a DUI place…used for pretty much everything but DUIs." Claire's head snapped towards her with interest, and Nami added, "If you're looking to talk to him, visitation isn't approved yet. He's under arrest, and he's not going anywhere until his arraignment this week. Got a lawyer?"
Trent shook his head. "No, I'm afraid we—"
"I think we do," Claire interrupted, taking his arm. "He can be here as soon as he needs to be."
"Excellent. I'll catch you up-to-speed on the case's developments momentarily; I have a feeling you don't wish to be disturbed now." Nami took her leave, and Trent turned to his wife, eyebrows shot up with surprise.
"Who is this lawyer, and why do I not know him?" he demanded. "Some ex-boyfriend of yours in college, I presume?"
Claire laughed and shook her head. "Jack O'Neil. Or, as you might better recall, my cousin who spilled potato salad on you last spring."
Skye had never seen her before, but that didn't matter much anymore; seeing anyone was better than staring at the wall. He'd counted all the blocks on each side of his prison; he'd imagined different patterns for the cracks in the ceiling, like constellations in the sky. Now, he instead honed in on this newcomer's thin-lipped smile, her no-nonsense eyes, and her silky straight indigo tresses.
"Skye, I gather?" she spoke—the thief was no judge, but God, her diction was flawless. "My name is Maria Monett. You may or may not know me as the librarian here; actually, I graduated from law school some time ago, and am licensed as a defense attorney in this region. I have not had cause to use my license here as of yet, but I certainly am qualified."
"So you're on my side," he commented with a lazy smile.
"My job is to get you out of this mess, whether or not it's of your own making," she continued, unabashed. "Unless you'd rather plead guilty. I will do whichever you prefer, as my client."
Skye liked Maria, he did. To be honest, Skye liked all women, but his lawyer had this resolve buried under her drab gray garb and meek appearance—he could just tell. Discovering the person underneath their persona had become sort of a passion of his, and Maria, he knew, would be a strength to be reckoned with in a courtroom.
"Have you read my interview with Detective Stone?" he asked first. Maria shrugged.
"As far as I could see, your damage wasn't undoable."
"Then you must know, Ms. Monett," Skye replied, "that I'm pleading Not Guilty."
Nami dragged her feet up the stairs with almost as much relish as she'd drive a screw through her skull. It'd been awkward enough stumbling past that Gwen girl again without tossing a pity glance, and as much as she wanted to sleep, the case wasn't over; yes, Skye had been caught, but that was only act one, wasn't it? Until he was behind bars, she'd never sleep.
Or maybe, Nami admitted to herself, her insomnia was due more to dread than to resolve.
The Inn had started filling up fast; already, the rooms across and beside her own had DO NOT DISTURB signs flagging their doors. One she just knew to be Claire and Trent's, mostly by the perfectly folded towels outside their door and their perfectly forgotten state. If she were a mother (which she wasn't, and at this rate, might never be), and she were reunited with her child, Nami could imagine not caring about moist towelettes, either.
The redhead sluggishly pulled herself into her room and fished through the paper littering her desk after just a handful of days. She'd already Xeroxed a couple of the sheets at the precinct; these she stuffed into a manila folder, sealed shut and labeled with the strictest of warnings.
She hated to rain on Claire and Trent's parade, but that had always been Nami's job, hadn't it? From the beginning, she'd brought them grief…until she'd found Willow. Now, she'd be back at square one. Again.
With a quick knock, and a taping of the folder to the door, she turned back to her room…and screamed.
"Fancy seeing you here!" the mirage exclaimed, his guitar hanging loosely in his arms. "I don't suppose my music's disturbing you, is it?"
"Who the hell," Nami sputtered out, "do you think you are?" Then, as Gustafa's grin broadened at her clichéd greeting, she stormed towards him and, shaking her head as she buried it into his shoulder, choked out, "What took you so long?"
Say what you like about me; I don't care. Since when has my opinion mattered; since when should yours?
His eyelids shut closed, his mind echoing with the tick of an imaginary clock. Tick, tick, tick. He had no idea what time it was; did that matter? It could be day, or it could be night. Skye really didn't know. He didn't really know if he cared, either.
Maria had left long ago; the door had been locked, oh, years in Skye's mind. By now, baby Willow would be in Claire's care. By now, Gwen will have cried and screamed until all the breath had been knocked from her. By now, Nami Stone will be drinking champagne with her paycheck, and by now, a lawyer somewhere will be plotting some plan to rip apart Maria's.
By now, Claire might remember. By now, she might be forced to.
The image danced in his mind: her beautiful curved form appearing from nowhere, radiant with delight and triumph. Then, the paper of the interview finds its way into her hands, and she reads until the fine print blurs and the truths break free.
STONE: Why did you kidnap her?
SKYE: If someone had kept your daughter from you, Detective Stone, would you have sat there, watching her live a lie? This was more than a jealous boyfriend stealing a baby girl. This was a father, fighting to get the daughter he deserved all along.
STONE: So Willow is…your daughter? Not Trent's?
And then, the single syllables that would shudder through Claire long after they'd been read:
SKYE: Yes. Mine.