A new month brings with it a new chapter – after much ado, the last chapter! My fingers are crossed and I hope you think the long slog has been worth it. For the final time, on with the show.
Chapter 21: The Rarest Vintage
"Here's the thing, Gerry. I'm going to say three little words to you, and you may never hear them pass these lips again, so listen up: I was wrong."
They are, quite likely, not the three words he hoped to hear. As for Sandra, she barely can hear them over the rushing of blood in her ears. Her adrenaline is flowing, her body automatically in fight-or-flight mode, and she forces herself to stay and fight – without yelling.
Come on, Sandra. You do like a challenge.
"Can I come in?" she asks Gerry, who's busy looking gobsmacked.
"Yeah, all right." He steps aside to allow her to precede him, but doesn't offer to take her brown leather jacket, so she keeps it on. She goes straight into the lounge and sits down on the sofa, placing her oversized handbag at her feet and hoping she's projecting an air of unruffled confidence.
Fat sodding chance.
"What were you wrong about, then? Not that I can't think of a coupla things." He stands before her with his hands on his hips, a few inches away from overt hostility.
God, she absolutely loathes humble pie. It sticks in her throat and makes it difficult to speak. Fortunately she's brought along something to help wash it down.
"Us. You and me," she elaborates unhelpfully.
"Oh, there's an us now, is there?"
"Don't be daft, of course there is," she says more edgily than she'd intended, and then sighs. "Look, I'm really, really crap at all of this. I don't suppose you'd help me out just a bit by switching off the telly and sitting down?"
He glances at the football match being broadcast. "Arsenal are winning anyway," he reasons, pointing the remote at the screen. She follows his gaze over to one of the armchairs, but after hesitating Gerry places himself at the other end of the sofa and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee. "If you were wrong, it must follow that I was right."
Her brilliant blue eyes narrow instinctively. Don't push it, Standing, she thinks. Aloud she says, "Not necessarily. But, ah… you were right that I was –" She has to pause to swallow before being able to complete the sentence. "Scared. I'm actually fairly terrified, and I've never done anything like this before, so if you're just listening out of politeness or some sick sense of curiosity, tell me now, or I will kill you."
Gerry almost chuckles. "This is terrifying? Sandra, a few months ago you showed up half naked at me front door."
She shakes her head and glares at him. "That was a piece of piss. I knew how you'd react."
"Drink might help," he offers, standing and already heading for his nearby liquor supply.
"No, I've brought something." Sandra reaches quickly for her bag, her fingers shaking only a little as she draws back the zipper tab and extracts a bottle of red wine.
"Chateau La Reine, 1975," he reads automatically, and purses his lips in a low whistle.
"'75 was a very good year – for wine growers in France, not for the Pullman family. This is the bulk of my inheritance from my mum." She hands him the bottle to examine, but he's more interested in looking at her. "Go on and open it; it needs to breathe."
"You sure?" he questions, looking from the blonde to the bottle and back.
Her shoulder-length hair bounces as she nods firmly. "I was saving it for a special occasion. No matter how this goes, I'd say it's a special occasion, so what the hell?"
"I'll be right back, then."
He returns a moment later with two wide-mouthed glasses – trust Gerry to have the appropriate barware – and, of course, a cork screw. "You do the honours. It only seems fair."
"You're just afraid of making a hash of it and catching hell," she retorts, and for a moment, at least, she's able to pretend things between them are normal.
"I propose a toast," Sandra announces once she's filled the glasses, "to my mother, who bought this bottle with the lump pay-out she received from the Police Widows and Orphans Fund. Wherever she is, may there be free-flowing wine." She's surprised when she hears the catch in her voice.
Gerry's eyes are gentle as he softly echoes, "To your mum."
They lean forward to clink their glasses and then both take cautious sips, knowing the wine needs to be exposed to the air for a while before it will reveal its true flavours.
There doesn't seem to be any way to lead up to what she's come here to say, and Gerry is eyeing her with a combination of expectancy and apprehension, so Sandra takes a deep breath and blurts, "Look, I think there's a very high probability this will all crash and burn horribly, and I won't pretend I don't, but – I need to give us a chance."
Admittedly it isn't the most sanguine proposal Gerry has ever heard, but, coming from Sandra, that makes it more meaningful. Sandra thinks their relationship is doomed to failure, and she still wants to be with him – with him, Gerry Standing. It's an odd sort of back-handed, Pullman-esque compliment.
"You mean, chuck the rule book an' all?" he asks cautiously.
"Obviously there would have to be certain boundaries, or you'd drive – we'd drive each other mad," she cautions in an uncharacteristically thready voice. "But – but yes, chuck the rule book an' all."
Gerry regards her with an unreadable expression, his forehead slightly puckered in a frown, for what feels like an age but in reality is about twenty seconds. Sandra's heart throbs frantically with an uncomfortable mixture of impatience, resentment, and panic.
"Then you'd better at least take off your coat."
Her response is a single harsh, surprised, relieved chuckle. She shrugs out of the jacket and tosses it over the arm of the sofa.
"What are these boundaries?" he asks, watching her wriggle. "I walk twenty feet behind in public, sneak into your flat under the cover of darkness, and the like?"
Sandra's answering smile is tight. "I was thinking more along the lines of not interfering with work and respecting each other's space and privacy. But I wasn't planning to advertise – this, no."
He smirks.
Suddenly her eyes widen with intensity. "And I know you fancy yourself in a league with Don Juan, Gerald, but if you even think about –"
His smirk transforms into a self-deprecating grin and he interrupts. "You'll just have to give me a really extended period of time to prove my sincerity and devotion, won't you?"
She doesn't look entirely convinced, and he doesn't expect her to be, but she does smile very slightly as she uncurls the fingers of her left hand from the two-fisted death grip she has on her wine glass.
"You're going to shatter that," Gerry admonishes, linking her fingers with his and applying the slightest pressure.
"This – this whatever that I feel," she says abruptly, almost angrily. "I didn't ask for it." Her fingers squeeze his painfully hard. "I didn't want it. But –" Her eyes fasten on his, intense, apprehensive, and communicate some of what she can't say.
"You're a bit of a handful yourself, you know."
There's such affection in his expression and his voice that those pesky not-tears fill her eyes again. "Gerry," she says simply, pulling her hand away to press it against his cheek. She leans in then and kisses him like she means it; and after just a few seconds he tugs her glass from her unresisting hand, carefully sets it down, urges her closer, and kisses her like he means it, too.
As Sandra's weight settles against him and her hands on his shoulders press him back against the sofa's arm, Gerry turns to whisper, "Naughty girl – been nickin' Brian's sweets again."
"Focus, Gerry," she mutters. "The wine needs to breathe – for quite a while. How can we pass the time?"
The answer she receives is definitely not the one she expects. "You can help me make dinner."
She leans back enough to get a good look at his face, her eyes narrowing. "Questionable time to make a joke, Gerald."
"That's fine." He eases her back until he has room to stand; once on his feet, he holds out his hand. "I'm not joking. Come on."
Sandra takes the proffered hand, but only because her brain hasn't yet had time to process what has just happened. "Bring the wine," he adds, snagging both glasses in his free hand.
She trails him numbly, instructing her nerveless fingers not to spill her inheritance on Gerry's floor. "Excuse me," she says when they reach the kitchen, and slaps the bottle down on the counter. "Exactly what just happened?"
"We decided to let the wine breathe."
She sounds equal parts annoyed and amazed when she speaks again. "You rejected a sexual advance," she marvels.
He chuckles, but before she has time to contemplate his demise, he murmurs, "I deferred it. Because what I have in mind is going to take quite a while, and I know how you get when you're not fed regularly." Her long fingers are still wrapped around the wine bottle as Gerry wraps himself around her, hugging her from behind and leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Like your mum's wine, all the best things take time to be fully enjoyed – and we have plenty of time, right?"
She twists around to look at him and sees the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes against the background of – she'll call it affection; that other word is still a little too scary. She's apprehensive, but she isn't going to change her mind on him. "We've got time," she reassures, reaching up to squeeze the hand that cups her upper arm. "So what's for tea, chef?"
"That's up to you, sous chef. Chicken or salmon?"
She scrunches her nose as he browses through the contents of the refrigerator. "That depends. Which is easier? What do I have to do?"
"How are you at deboning fish?"
"Please, Gerry. I already came over here and vomited in your lap, emotionally speaking. Haven't I been punished enough?"
Her turn of phrase makes him grin. "Don't worry, the salmon's filleted. As for what you have to do, you're doin' it. Think you can handle sitting there, keepin' me and the wine company and lookin' gorgeous?"
She flashes that amazingly radiant smile, the one that has been doing him in since he first saw it nearly a decade ago, and this time Gerry knows she's smiling like that because of him. "I'm reasonably confident. – I can help with the meal, you know."
"Nope," he decrees firmly as he removes spices from a cupboard. The glimmer in his eye is almost enough to make Sandra forget her natural pessimism, at least momentarily. "Just let me look at you here in me kitchen. It does wonders for an old copper's morale."
"You know, being here does wonders for mine, old copper."
It's not exactly a declaration of undying love, but he'll take it. "If you keep looking at me like that, the dinner's not going to get cooked." As she obligingly averts her gaze, Gerry grins and continues, "You didn't ask if I'm coming back to work."
"I didn't figure I had to. You love your job."
"I love you."
Gerry could smack himself as soon as the words tumble off his tongue and Sandra's posture stiffens. Shit. He's so tired of this dance of two steps forward, one step back, that he feels like tearing his hair out. He actually hesitates, gripping the vegetable peeler he has just removed from a drawer, waiting for her to bolt.
When she turns to face him, though, her eyes are soft. "I'm… not used to hearing that."
He slowly breathes out in relief. "Well, we'll just have to get you used to it."
Sandra slides from the stool and wraps both her arms around Gerry from behind, just as he'd done a few minutes earlier, and drops her head to rest her temple against his shoulder. "I've missed you."
"You mean you've missed my cooking."
"Yeah, I do, but I suppose it's a package deal."
He spins suddenly, throwing Sandra off balance, and kisses her hard. "Well, I missed you, and definitely not your cooking. See, Sandra, there's no reason why this can't work: I cook, you eat."
"And when you're tired of cooking?"
"We'll go out." He tosses the peeler onto the counter and brushes her hair back so his lips can explore the line of her jaw. "It's worked out just fine so far."
"What about Jack and Brian?"
"They can come too. Once in a while."
She laughs richly, content to stand here in Gerry's kitchen and hug him. Life can be so strange, but strange isn't necessarily bad. Her heart throbs, painfully full. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to say it."
He is quiet for a few seconds, considering. "'s all right. You can show me." They sway slightly, almost as if they're dancing. "Think you can handle that?"
"Yes," she says, her jaw jutting with more determination than the situation seems to warrant, and her tone is suddenly filled with both trepidation and resolve. It's as if she's a first-time hurdler contemplating the thousand-metre. "I think I can."
Gerry looks askance as he gently releases her and begins to chop a handful of walnuts. He's half amused, half perplexed. "Don't over-exert yourself. You've been doing fine so far," he jokes, but there is a serious undercurrent to his teasing tone.
She looks over to meet his gaze directly as she resumes her position on the stool. "I have, haven't I?" She sounds surprised. "Of course, that was before I realised what I was doing."
He chuckles, still eyeing her. "And here I got the impression that you definitely knew what you were doing." Before she can respond he continues, "Sandra, I know you're a perfectionist, but there won't be an exam at the end. You're already head girl."
At last she cracks a smile and rolls her eyes at both of them. "Obviously. It's just –" She breaks off, sighing heavily, and lets her eyes roam around Gerry's cozy, well-used, neat-as-a-pin kitchen.
"Just what?" he asks a couple of minutes later as he hands her a slice of French bread slathered with brie and topped with honey and walnuts. "Here."
Sandra looks not at him but at the treat, studying it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. He feels the tension rolling off her and wonders if he'll ever be able to keep pace with her abrupt mood shifts. Probably not, he reflects.
Her eyes find his again. "The last time I saw my mother, she told me I –" She breaks off again, this time scrutinizing his bright eyes and patient expression with an intensity she usually reserves for particularly problematic evidence. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because he can actually see her relax, her neck arching as her muscles loosen.
Sandra shakes her head, another smile breaking over her face, this one both happy and relieved. "Nothing," she decides, taking another small sip of the wine. "It doesn't matter. She didn't understand." She leans back, watching him work. "You know, I do dishes, too."
"I think that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I knew you were madly in love with me."
She chuckles and doesn't contradict him. After a moment she murmurs, "Hey, Gerry?"
He turns, raising an inquisitive brow.
"I think the wine has breathed enough."
Gerry snorts in mock disgust as Sandra picks up both glasses. "Women."
"Men," she retorts, and then offers him another of those heart-stopping, jaw-dropping smiles. "Have dinner with me."
He frowns. "I was under the impression that was what we're doin' here."
"Not tonight," she returns impatiently.
"Name the date, gov."
Sandra's expression has gone very serious. "Thursday," she says solemnly. She takes in the stricken gaze Gerry can't disguise, enjoying the moment before she spoils it by bursting into laughter. "Or Friday or Saturday or –"
"Sandra Pullman, you vicious bitch," he says admiringly, pulling both her and the wine into his arms because he feels much more secure when she's there, and takes his glass from her in the second before she kisses him breathless.
"A toast," she says when she pulls away slightly. Her face is flushed, her perfectly smooth hair ruffled, and Gerry Standing is happier than he remembers ever having been. She looks pretty damned happy too – and she hasn't even had dinner yet.
"What are we drinking to?"
Her light eyes hold a world of promise as they meet his darker ones. "To Thursdays."
"To Thursdays," he echoes heartily, and they drink. The wine is superb, but it's hard for Gerry to give it the attention it deserves when he has the stubborn, impossible woman he loves in his arms and years filled with Thursdays to look forward to.
The End
A/N: Well, kids, that's all she wrote – finally. I've been thrilled and blown away by your response to Same Time, Next Week and Recipe for Disaster. To everyone who has read part or all of the stories, thank you so much; to my loyal, fantastic readers and reviewers, you know who you are, and so do I, and I am so tremendously grateful for all your kind words. Reading your reviews and messages has been a joy, and I'm afraid I'm addicted. I hope you're pleased with how things turned out. What can I say? At the risk of ruining any street cred I might still have and veering into the realm of wildly-out-of-character, I'm a sucker for a happy ending. I do think it's remotely possible that Sandra and Gerry might not kill one another.
And finally, a special thank-you to my first, most loyal, and most enthusiastic reader, forever. I will always be the Miss Valdosta Feed and Grain to your Miss Georgia World.