Reminiscent - Chapter 2

A/N: Sam finds herself with lots of questions and few answers. Can she find a solution?

A sudden noise startled a sea gull on a beach near Hastings, and it flew into the air, cawing in annoyance. The exclamation came from a young man sitting with a woman. He was brandishing a piece of paper and thrusting a slice of cake in its general direction. "He doesn't say a word about what he has been up to!" Andrew Foyle exclaimed, "Not a word!" He took a bite of the cake and mumbled, "Typical." The woman with him laughed softly. The gull, tempted by the crumbs resettled on the ground, eyeing the couple with suspicion.

"Did you really expect him to say much about it? You know he likes to keep things to himself," said the woman.

"I know, Sam," Andrew said to his companion, sounding put out, "But one hopes these things will change."

Sam Stewart laughed again, as if the idea of Mr. Foyle changing was quite absurd – which perhaps it was.

Andrew folded the letter and stuffed it grumpily into his coat pocket, "I don't suppose he's written to you and revealed more has he?"

Sam blushed slightly and smiled to herself, but didn't reply. Rather, she rose and brushed the crumbs off her blouse. "Come on, Andrew, let's walk a bit further."

The gull swooped in gleefully as soon as they walked away.

It had happened, as these things do, by chance. A month ago, Sam had been outside Foyle's house and encountered Andrew who had just returned from London. After an… interesting… afternoon, she had invited him to dine with her and Adam. A week after this invitation Sam sent a formal invite but had no reply. She telephone Foyle's house, but no one picked up. Finally, Sam went to the house and knocked on the door for what seemed like ages, and no one answered. Somewhat at a loss, Sam decided Andrew must have gone away for a bit, and left it at that – she would try again in a few days. The unpleasant thought of if what had happened between them had sent him away crossed her mind.

After the weekend had come and gone, Sam tried again by telephoning. When no one answered, she gave it a day and a half and then went determinedly to Foyle's house. "I will knock and if I have no luck, I will ask the neighbours if they have seen him." She was inclined to feel a bit worried about him now, wondering if he had gotten himself into some sort of trouble.

She knocked fiercely on the door and was relieved when she heard it being unfastened on the other side. She was horrified, however, when she saw Andrew's face when he opened the door. He looked as if he hadn't eaten in a week; he hadn't shaved, and had dark circles under his eyes. "Andrew!" Sam cried in distress, "What on earth has happened?" She suddenly felt her stomach drop, and thought, "What if it is to do with his father?"

Andrew stepped back, beckoning her in. "It's alright, Sam," he said as she came up the steps. And as if reading her mind, he added grimly, "It isn't Dad if that's what you're thinking."

Sam went into the lounge, surprised to see books and papers strewn everywhere, along with crusted plates and tea mugs. She turned to Andrew, searching his face. He stood with his hands in his pockets, bleary eyed and looking lost. "I know, Sam, I know. Oh don't think badly of me."

He sounded so desperate that all Sam felt she could do was take him in her arms. She guided him to a chair and knelt beside him, making soothing noises and rubbing his back. It felt all too reminiscent of the day Andrew had come to find her during the war, afraid and flight weary. She pulled him closer, wondering if the poor man would ever find peace.

"I can't sleep properly, Sam, I can't write… everything feels wrong inside, " said Andrew once he had found his voice again. "I keep having these horrible dreams of flying never-ending sorties and being the only pilot left alive… and I feel so useless at the moment… and so guilty."

Sam had read about this happening. Her father had even mentioned a boy from his congregation who had killed himself because he felt so lost at home. The vicar had a few choice things to say about that of course, most of which Sam ignored. Nonetheless, she was unsure of what to say to Andrew, and therefore let him speak and get it all off his chest. She realised it was more of a case of feeling a bit lost than anything. Going from knowing what was required of oneself to little or no support system was not ideal for anyone.

When he was done speaking, Sam hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear, "Andrew Foyle, don't you ever feel guilty for being here – because of you and the others, we are still standing. No good will come of you asking what it was all for. There are people who love you and care about you, and this is no way to repay them for countless worrying during the war." Sam knew she had to be firm as well as kind.

She pulled Andrew up from his chair, propelling him up the stairs to the bathroom. Handing him a towel she said, "Get washed and I'll make some tea." He nodded, taking a deep breath, smiling shyly at her. She nodded back, giving him what she hoped was a very "Foyle" look – at once knowing and understanding.

They talked the rest of the afternoon, and Sam could see Andrew visibly relax. She helped him tidy up the house, commenting, "This place looks like a bombsite!"

Andrew gave her a funny look, and she realised the perhaps less than sensitive wording. They broke into laughter, but not before Sam was reminded, once again of his father in that fleeting glance.

Sam was grateful that nothing about their previous meeting had been brought up. She also didn't want Andrew believing she only wanted to be around him because he was Foyle's son. Therefore when the house was restored to its usual look, she convinced Andrew to come to dinner that night. "I've been trying to invite you for over a week now, and you look like you could use a decent meal," Sam said, stopping herself from asking what he had been doing or where he had been.

Sam walked quickly home, lost in thought. She and Adam rented rooms in a small house owned by a young war widow. Luckily for them, the widow was nearly always in London, dealing with her affairs there, and no doubt starting a few of her own. As Sam washed and peeled potatoes she spoke to Adam drinking his tea at the table, "I am really worried about Andrew. I think I'll look in on him and make sure he gets out more often. Perhaps if he has someone to talk to he won't get in such a state again."

Adam hesitated before he replied, "Yes. Good idea." He understood that she and Andrew had a history that he was not a part of and that it was special. He could not help but feel slightly jealous, however. Sam didn't notice his hesitation, and went on speaking with her usual top speed.

When Andrew arrived he look much better. He had unexpectedly kept his beard, though now trimmed and tidy. He still had a gaunt look about him, which only further fueled Sam's wish to look after him. He and Adam got along well, but both were careful to not go into much detail of their wartime experiences. It was a pleasant evening, and Sam felt grateful to Adam for his understanding.

After Andrew had left and the washing up was done, Sam and Adam talked for a while, sitting outside and enjoying the warm evening. "You don't mind me looking after Andrew for a bit, do you?" Sam asked conversationally.

"No…" Adam again hesitated, "I understand he is a good friend of yours, and if anyone can help at this stage, it is you, Sam." He stood suddenly and looked away. "But your life isn't always going to be wrapped up in the Foyles." He sniffed and walked back indoors, leaving a bewildered Sam staring out into the garden.

A feeling of dread filled Sam as she gazed uncertainly at next-door's hedge. Did Adam also believe or suspect, like Andrew, that she had a more than usual interest in her former boss? Or his son? What had Adam meant? Sam contemplated the feelings towards her boss that had been pushed aside with the entrance of Adam into her life. She loved Adam, she knew that; but she also…could she have such strong feelings for more than one man? When Sam realised she was arriving at more questions than answers in her pondering, and that her hands were quite cold, she went back indoors.

In the lounge, Sam perched on the edge of armchair, thinking hard. She tried to ask herself exactly what she felt, but always arrived at, "Ah, yes, but what about…" Abandoning the questions left unanswered, Sam instead tried to picture what she saw in her future. The image was very clear and she suddenly knew what she should do. "If anything, it will help me decide," she thought. She needed to be practical and responsible, as much as she dreaded the weight of these qualities sometimes.

She found Adam reading on his bed, propped up on one elbow. He looked up in surprise as she came in without knocking. Although engaged to be married, appearances were everything, and Adam was a gentleman. Together they had come up with the clever compromise of the rented rooms under one roof so as to see a lot of each other while still being chaperoned by the landlady. The fact that she was absent nearly half the time was a bit of luck.

"Sam," Adam said, sitting up. He looked at her apologetically.

"Whatever my past, Adam, you are my future," she said firmly. She sat next to him on the bed and wrapped her arms around his neck. "You never talk about your war days, so I don't know how you feel about it or what you experienced, but for a lot of us, it was dreary and hard. The waiting and the worrying…I was quite lucky in many ways. But I can't suddenly step away from all of that – it will take time. Helping Andrew will in some way help me too. He was a part of my war years, so maybe if we can help each other, we can both close the door on it."

Sam paused. Taking a deep breath, she went on, "And Mr. Foyle was my boss. He really looked after me during the war when I was all on my own, and we've been through a lot – we are friends and I plan on continuing that relationship."

Adam nodded, pulling her closer. "I'm sorry, Sam. I do understand, really. And know that I'm here to talk to as well." He kissed her softly. Sam smiled and nodded, glad they were on the same page. He kissed her again, this time more deeply, his hands getting lost in her curls.

"Adam."

He broke away, unsure.

"I love you," Sam said, pulling him determinedly down into a world of their own.

The letter arrived two days later. Initially, Sam worried that it would cause Adam to react like he had done previously. In the end, she decided it didn't matter as the letter, though short, filled her with so much joy. It was like having a piece of Foyle back in England.

Dear Miss Stewart, it read,

I hope this finds you well, Sam. It is strange to be in a country where the overt aftermath of war isn't a daily presence. I was tempted to send a box of food, as it seems to be more readily available than ever here, even though rationing is still in effect. I hope you are surviving well enough.

Though we had a varied view of the Americans in England, it is even more so here. There are people from all over the world, and I must say one quality does seem to prevail with each encounter: their hospitality. The men I had been put in touch with in Washington, "contacts" as they call them, were very helpful with my unfinished business. I will tell you more when I return to England, as less said here is better.

You might be pleased to know that I was able to visit Cpt. Kieffer. He agreed to see me after receiving my letter, and was kind enough to let me stay with his family for two nights. The past few years have been tough on him, but we were able to find some sort of middle ground after a long chat. Being back home seems to agree with him. He mentioned that he and Pvt. Farnetti keep in contact – Farnetti is married now, to a young French lady and they live in California.

It is beautiful here, Sam. The autumn colours are beginning to show and I've lost myself in the joy of fishing a few times now. I think in many ways you would like this country, and more than once I wished I had taken you up on your offer to help me drive over here. They are quite mad, especially in New York.

I hope to return to England soon, as my business here is finished. I could quite easily stay longer, however. The American spirit is one to be admired. Best wishes to you and Adam.

Sincerely,

Christopher Foyle

Not only was it nice to hear from Foyle, but Sam also felt the letter told her a few things more than he had intended. For instance, the opening, "Dear Miss Stewart" told her that Foyle still hoped she wasn't yet married. The comment about the box of food told her that he was thinking of her. And the last paragraph showed her that Foyle wished, in some capacity, that she were there. Sam smiled broadly, shaking her head in amusement. It was exactly the sort of letter she would have wished for from Foyle. He didn't say too much on the surface, yet the letter said plenty in its own way. She placed it underneath the postcard on the shelf, wondering if she was reading too much into it. She decided that even if she was, it had made her day anyway. It filled her with a sort of bubbly hope.

She thought about the letter as she walked to collect Andrew from Steep Lane, going over each sentence. Smiling to herself she didn't notice the man crossing the road. It wasn't until she was nearly facing Foyle's house that she saw the familiar green hat and fishing tackle.

Her heart leapt joyfully and she ran towards the man, calling out, "Mr. Foyle! Sir!" at the top of her lungs. She stopped short when the man turned and Andrew's face peered out from under the familiar brim. The emotions that crossed Sam's face were easy enough to read, and the disappointment Andrew saw filled him with remorse. "I say, I am sorry, Sam, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Andrew," Sam paused, trying to regain her breath and composure, "what on earth are you doing?" She tried not to sound annoyed – it wasn't his fault. She was more furious with herself for once again losing her self-control, and felt slightly upset that Andrew, unknowingly of course, would again make such emotions resurface.

Andrew took off the hat hurriedly, realising his mistake at wearing something Sam so obviously cherished. "I thought that I should try fishing as it always seemed to help Dad…" he faltered under her gaze. Sam turned away, suddenly feeling very foolish.

Quietly she said, "That's a good idea, Andrew, really it is. Did it help?" Sam didn't meet his eyes.

"Not really – never could quite understand the attraction. The water is bloody cold and the fish are too smart for me." He grinned suddenly, remembering his father's words from many years ago: "Never underestimate the intelligence of a trout."

Sam cast a quick glance over Andrew – he did look a sight, but found that the new beard suited him. She said as much to ease the tension. They laughed and went into the house.

"Get changed and we'll go out on the beach – it's a nice day," said Sam.

"I should think I've had enough of the outdoors today, wouldn't you?" Andrew retorted playfully, pulling off his soggy socks. "Alright, put the kettle on and I'll be down in a moment."

Sam went through to the kitchen and began making the tea. She heard the post falling through the letterbox. It was peaceful standing in Foyle's kitchen. The autumn sun streamed through the windows and the rejuvenating smell of tea filled the air. Sam sighed, feeling suddenly quite at home. She wondered at the strong response she seemed to have towards all things Foyle. Beginning to doubt herself, she sighed again.

Foyle would be home soon from America! Andrew was getting sorted, and she and Adam were muddling along well enough. She almost added, "for now," but pushed that thought away, slightly annoyed at herself. She wanted to be positive: "Life is as it should be," she thought, "so why do I long for other things then?"

She stared into space, listening to Andrew singing to himself upstairs. "He's got a beautiful voice," she thought, "I wonder if he inherited that from Mr. Foyle…I've never heard Mr. Foyle sing before…" She let her thoughts wander pleasantly, jumping slightly when Andrew came in, sorting through the post in his hand.

"Here's a letter from Dad!" Andrew cried happily, tearing open the envelope. Sam looked at the letter curiously, wondering what Foyle had said about his trip to his son. It was considerably shorter than she would have imagined, and Andrew read through it quickly. He pulled a face and bit his lower lip, once again reminding Sam of Foyle. "He hasn't said a thing!" Andrew said in dismay. "Typical!"

Sam smiled to herself. She had a feeling today would be spent on the topic of Foyle and the lack of information he was wont to give. Grinning in happiness and feeling suddenly quite hungry, Sam asked, "Shall we bring a bit of this cake with us then, Andrew?"