AN: I decided to post chapter 1 along with the epilogue, as the epilogue is so short. The first couple of chapters of this story are particularly long, as they set the stage for the rest of the tale. If you can survive the beginning, I promise a faster paced storyline in the remaining chapters!
'**********'
Part 1
I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate – it's apathy. It's not giving a damn. If somebody hates me, they "feel" something…or they couldn't possibly hate. Therefore, there's some way in which I can get to them. – Leo Buscaglia
I would rather a romantic relationship turn into contempt than into apathy. The passion in the extremities makes it appear as though it once meant something. We grow from hot or cold, but lukewarm is the biggest insult. – Criss Jami
'***'
… "How dare you pick the flowers and stroll about the forest without my consent for passage!"
The lass stumbled backward, nearly trampling the white rose, which had fallen from her hair. Retreating a few steps more, she peered into the darkness of the forest, before catching the sparkle of light reflected off a pair of bottomless blue eyes. The stranger before her was a man only slightly older than herself. He hovered over her by well more than a foot in stature and had a long mane of raven dark hair. He was clothed in a linen tunic the color of flax. A cloak of dark green, wrapped with a jewel-encrusted broach, nearly strangled his massive broad shoulders. A wide leather belt encircled his waist, securing a polished sword at his side. But his most impressive quality, the one that stole her breath way, was his cerulean blue eyes. Those eyes, which one-minute looked like the vibrant blue of the deep sea at rest, flashed to icy-gray when his anger grew and flashed and exploded all around her like fire on brittle-dry timber.
"I am he who guards this forest and sees the peace is not disturbed!"
The young woman backed up further, "I'm sorry, your lordship. I meant no harm."
He reached down to retrieve the discarded rose and held it out with timid hand, "What is your name fair lass?"
The beautiful maiden moved with exquisite grace, as she stood to her full height. Brushing the stray pieces of leaves and petals, which had collected on her hem, she smiled cordially at the handsome stranger and extended her hand to accept the flower. "My name is Sarnait, I am the daughter of one of the chieftains from Ua Conchobhair in Connacht Kingdom; the loyal subject of my exalted king, Sir Rory O'Connor."
He noticed her fair features and her extraordinary eyes. They were the color of rich honey, rimmed in a green the shade of emeralds and speckled with pure gold. The stranger dropped to a knee and bowed his head in reverence, "I would gladly give all the roses of Ua Cellaig for the mere chance to spend another day in the presence of your beauty."
Sarnait was taken off guard by the gracious words of the stranger now bowed at her feet. Finally regaining her composure, she asked, "Kind sir, might I ask your name and station?"
The man, still kneeling in respect, replied, "I am Padraig O'Kelly."
Sarnait froze in place, her hands trembling, for she had heard of the ferocious exploits of one Padraig O'Kelly, the Elfin Knight, who was the champion and warrior of Ua Cellaig, the land of the fairies. Releasing a gasp barely louder than a whisper, she turned to flee…
'***'
Thursday Evening
October 19, 2017
The Glenanne-Westen Home
Miami, Florida
Fiona dumped her armload of mail and packages on the main credenza just inside the door then returned to shake out the soggy umbrella on the front landing. She set it against the outside stucco wall of the porch, well clear of the battering rain, and slammed the front door. It was the third day in a row of torrential downpours bred of the current weather system, which had decided to set-up camp over the Miami metro area and refused to budge from its stationary course. It might not have been so bad, except the darned garage door opener was on the fritz again. Michael had promised to repair it, before he left for London, but true to form, the chores related to home never seemed to quite get done.
Kicking her heels off on the Persian rug of the front entry, she tiptoed across the marble floor, hoping not to leave streaks of water and mud on the pristine surface of the cream colored tiles. She was just too damn tired to clean up one more mess on this god forsaken horrible day. Reaching the kitchen, she slid the jacket from her arms & hung it up on the cubbies in the back hall by the garage service door. She had a repairman scheduled to come by the house in the morning to check on the garage door opener. Hopefully, by tomorrow night, she would be able to park in the shelter of the garage again. No more racing through raindrops with packages, groceries and such.
She flipped the overhead lights on in the kitchen, when she felt, more than noticed, the overwhelming dreariness of the room. Once daylight savings time ended, it always seemed as if the days grew dark earlier and earlier on each successive night of the autumn season. Throwing in the current bleak weather conditions, she swore she hadn't felt the warmth of sunshine on her fading skin for most of the nascent season.
Opening the freezer door, she scanned the shelves hoping to find some long lost gastronomical treasure. Early in their marriage, Michael had been the one to do most of the cooking. They had once signed up for a couple's gourmet cooking class, but as per their horrid routine, Michael was immediately called away on an urgent mission to regions unknown, and she was left to scratch the much anticipated culinary experience. She wound up registering for a single's version of the same course and actually enjoyed the lessons. It didn't hurt that her cooking partner ended up being a tall, dark and handsome gentlemen similar in appearance to her absentee husband. Nothing had happened, of course, but that didn't stop her from razing Michael during one of his rare, descriptionless phone calls. She'd even surprised him with a fancy meal, complete with candles and an ornate dessert upon his arrival home. It wasn't so much having to cancel the original class that had dismayed her; it was the chance to do something together. They found so little time to do things with each other these days. Sometimes she wondered why they'd even bothered to get married; their current life wasn't much different than their single days spent at the loft. In fact, currently it wasn't much different from when she'd first arrived in Miami some 10 years before.
She slammed the freezer shut and instead opened the refrigerator door of the Sub Zero. Reaching in, she retrieved a cup of yogurt and the bowl of fruit salad she had prepared the night before. Her appetite had long since gone south after the late meeting with her attorney. She was really only going through the motions of consuming the sustenance her body so intensely craved. It would be so much easier to slink back to the bedroom, slough her clothes off one-by-one, and slither into the shower. She debated putting the yogurt back and doing the aforementioned, when she thought better of it. She had paperwork to complete that evening, so the file could go out tomorrow by overnight express for delivery to London early on Monday. Sighing heavily, she dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and pulled the lid off the yogurt container. She really wasn't looking forward to the fireworks and discussion, which were likely to ensue sometime during the day on Monday, that was if he even cared to bother with such mundane aspects of normal civilian life. Those things, which seemed…hmmm, she paused for a moment, searching the recesses of her mind for just the right description. Ordinary! So merely ordinary, compared to the exciting day-to-day perils of being a spy. Lucky for her, she had the whole weekend to herself to anticipate and foster her eloquent rejoinders to his ire.
She shoveled a spoonful of the creamy blueberry substance into her mouth and stared out the back windows of the French doors. The sky had been gray all day, but now was almost frighteningly murky, as if something sinister was about to occur. "Perfect," she grumbled to herself, "…it matches my mood to a 't'."
Her eye caught sight of the pool, extending just beyond the French doors. It was within an inch of overflowing its borders due to the steady accumulation of rain. The flowers, on the other handy, were actually quite perky. It had been a long, hot, miserable summer. The rain gods had been stingy with precipitation throughout the previous 4 months. Even with the in-ground sprinkling system, the landscape had taken a beating. Of course, just when they didn't need it anymore, those self same gods had decided to open up the heavens in deliverance of the second great deluge.
Finishing the yogurt, she gave a sideways glance to the fruit salad, but thought better of it. Returning it to the fridge, she rinsed the yogurt cup in the sink and was just about to toss it into the recycling, when she paused to stare more closely at the container. Some advertising exec, in his infinite wisdom, had apparently thought it wise to use yogurt as a solicitation for couple's therapy or a date night out. She shook her head and muttered the line emblazed across the container, "Satisfying for one, sexy for two."
"Yogurt, sexy," she laughed, "…who would've thought."
It was at that exact moment a picture flickered through her mind of intense blue eyes expressing wordlessly a whole different kind of hunger and intensity, all the while serving her up a large dollop of delicious blueberry cream. He might have been offering her a snack, but his eyes were imploring it to be so much more. She had to admit that yogurt, in the right circumstance and with the right guy, could be hot damn sexy! Of course, that had been a different time, a different place and at least an eternity ago. That simple realization set her stomach to lurching and sent her mood plummeting from maudlin to down right despair.
With that, she crushed the yogurt cup into submission and tossed it into the trash. "Nothing so altruistic as recycling," she declared with little bravado, "…it's straight to garbage hellhole of life for you!"
She really did need to find a more suitable nutritional indulgence for her eating pleasure. One unladen with emotional baggage and stodgy memories. Such a shame too! Yogurt really was her perfect form of nourishment, and in an easy to carry package, to boot!
She tidied the counters and sink of her beautiful, high-end kitchen. She had such high hopes for the space, when they had bought the house. Now it was just another perfectly spotless and neglected room, in a way too big house for its usual solitary occupant.
"What a waste," she muttered as she turned out the light.
Wandering down a back hallway toward the master bedroom, she stopped to stare into the space. It was everything she had always wanted from the mahogany poster bed and furnishings to the silken bedding and drapes. One of her favorite possessions in the whole house was the upholstered chaise lounge sitting beside the expanse of back windows. She loved being able to kick back and relax with a good book and an iced tea on a lazy summer morn. And if truth be told, she had to own up to them utilizing that particular piece of furniture on more than one occasion, for "mapping out strategic battle plans and wagging explosive wars," to use one of her husband's favorite bedroom euphemisms.
"And he thought she was the one who used violence as foreplay," she scoffed into the empty room.
She was pulled as if on instinct toward the beloved chair, running her fingers over the soft surface, as she remembered happier times. Despite all their bravado and bluster, the only tactical warfare, which had transpired in this bedroom sanctuary, was of the passionate and tender kind. While the whispered word love rarely escaped his lips, even back than, she had no doubt of his heart's true emotion. In quiet moments together, he'd whisper her name, "Fiiiiii," with such tenderness and reverence that's she'd always imagined it was his substitute for "love." Pity he never called her by that name anymore. He usually summoned her with a simple "Fiona," when he said her name at all. "Fiona," it sounded just like Sam, Jessie, Barry or any other of his hundred assets. A tear escaped from her glistening eyes, as she tried to hold on to the cherished memories. It had been so long since they'd shared this private retreat.
She drifted toward the windows to close the plantation shutters and was stopped by the view of the ocean, barely visible in the ebbing light. The gray waves were churning high with crested peaks sending white foam smashing onto the small expanse of beach. It was already high tide, and the stormy waters had stirred up mounds of driftwood and seaweed, which now littered the sand all the way to the grassy dunes. The stormy gray of the sea reminded her of his eyes when he was in the throws of emotion, whether anger or love. She used to see herself in his eyes. Thinking back, she couldn't remember the last time she had noticed him looking at her in that way. These days his eyes looked…she searched for a descriptor, but came up with only one. Absent. They looked devoid of all emotion…ABSENT.
That thought scared her to her core. Shivering and racked with an icy sense of cold, she quickly secured the shutters and headed for the bathroom. If ever a hot shower was in order, the time had come.
'*'
Emerging an hour later, scrubbed, shampooed and finally warm, she had to admit she felt almost human again. She fingered the soft cotton of her pajamas, as she tried to imagine their origin. The pants were long with loose elastic at the waist, the top, long sleeved with pearl button fasteners. The attire was certainly nothing she would have purchased for herself, hence the puzzle. She decided it was neither here nor there. They were warm and comfortable, just what was needed on such a stormy night.
She ambled back toward the kitchen to steep a hot mug of peppermint tea, an indulgence she especially loved on cold and dreary nights. While waiting for the teakettle to boil, she headed to the front hall to retrieve the mail and package she'd dumped earlier on the table. Passing through the great room, she paused to study the interior. When Michael and she had gone looking for their first house, they couldn't agree on architecture, size or location. He'd wanted small, secure and modest, figuring the less ostentatious their abode, the less likely they were to be noticed. "Always the spy," she quipped into his ear at the time. She, on the other hand, wanted something roomy with style and access to water. It was less about the house and more about what it represented…family. Her mind wandered back to that time some 4 years before…
She wanted a place where her loved ones, both distant and near, would want to come for visits and always feel at home. "You never know when Sam might show-up needing a place to hide out after an unpleasant split with a girlfriend," she'd thrown out to Michael. And then there were children. She couldn't say that she had consciously considered them when they were house shopping, but somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind that seed had definitely been planted. Maybe it was Nate's son Charlie or one of their numerous clients along the way, perhaps a distant memory, but in retrospect, she knew the idea had firmly taken hold and germinated.
They'd toured 40 or 50 places, when on a hunch, their realtor had suggested viewing a new listing. It had only been on the market a day and was sure to sell quickly, the realtor implored. The house had only ever belonged to one family. The married couple was now older, the children already grown. The entire interior had been refurbished from top to bottom and updated with every modern convenience. Michael had immediately scoffed when they pulled into the private driveway. It was far too big and ornate, although he had to admit it had the desired benefit of privacy. They walked through the front door and she knew in an instant they were finally home.
The two-story living room had a grand fireplace and a balcony railing suspended on the second floor. Fiona could only imagine the Christmases their family was sure to enjoy, as she envisioned the tree, decorations and garlands. The kitchen had been a quick winner with Michael. There were four bedrooms, which he baulked at as a complete waste of space, especially considering the first floor study. She batted her lashes and charmed him with her wiles, suggesting the benefits of an extra study for her, guest rooms for visitors, and perhaps a room for his mom. The thought of living with his mother sent Michael running for the hills, nearly upended her plans. She'd had to work quickly, pulling out her most alluring charms, in order to finally sell the deal. In the end, the house was theirs, and she worked endlessly to make it their home.
Shaking away the memories, she looked around the great room and mourned the fact that Michael had only been around for a rare holiday, and not one of them included Christmas. After all, a spy's life is never his own. Celebrating most holidays alone, she hadn't made any of those family memories. No decorations, no dinners, no photos, not a single reminiscence, nary a one.
She trudged toward the stack of correspondence picking up the large manila envelope balanced on top. The document was to be her work for the evening. Tucking it under an arm, she peered into Michael's dark study. It was as quiet and empty as the rest of the house. She flipped the wall switch, bathing the room in soft light. Every surface, from the desk to bookcase to table and chairs, was spotless. Not a paper, pencil or speck of dust out of place. It was as squared away, unadorned and orderly as him. No fuss, no decorations, memorabilia or other extraneous clutter. She'd once tried to introduce some framed artwork and photos, but he'd rapidly scuttled her plans with the claim of distractions and unwanted interference keeping him from his work.
Well, she shrugged sadly; they'd most likely be putting the house on the market in the very near future. It was much too big for her to putter around in by herself, and she doubted Michael would want the responsibility considering he was rarely home.
"Another dream bites the dust," she muttered under her breath.
When the teakettle whistled, she returned the study to darkness and headed for the kitchen. Once the tea had steeped, she tossed the used leaves aside and carried both the mug and file to the bedroom. She folded back the silk duvet on the king-sized bed, fluffed the pillows and climbed in on her side, before reaching for the file and a pen. It was time to get started on her heartbreaking chore.
She was halfway through the document, when her mind began to wander. She couldn't understand how they'd gotten to this place. She sat in her lawyer's office for over an hour sifting through causes and circumstances, but she still couldn't assign blame. It wasn't as if they disliked or hated each other. She loved him more now than the day they had met. They rarely fought or had words. If an argument did ensue, she had to admit she was the usual instigator, and for the most part, the sole participant. He usually just stood there staring at her with those vacant, emotionless eyes, words tuned out, rarely engaged. It was as if they were two individuals sharing a space, but operating in two entirely separate universes, paths never to cross. He was present, but somehow didn't care. She was sure there was a word that best described his demeanor, but she couldn't readily bring it to mind.
She'd been volunteering at a battered women's shelter, and had often heard the counselors state that the difference between love and hate was a fine line; they both required emotion. That made sense she mused, you certainly had to feel something toward someone for either of those emotions to exist. So what do you call someone who feels…nothing? Shrugging her shoulders, she began to doodle on the back of the manila envelope, trying to pin down the right word. Emotionless…yes. Indifferent…yes. Trivial…no, that wasn't quite right. Apathy…yes, that was the word. She traced the letters one-by-one in large cursive script onto the back of the envelope…A-P-A-T-H-Y. The words described Michael's recent actions to perfection.
"Apathy," she whispered into the empty room, laying her head back against the pillows, as despair began to engulf her. She knew better than to place blame solely on his shoulders, after all, it took two to make a marriage and two to break one. And she certainly had her share of faults and baggage. Nonetheless, she could honestly say, she still loved him. She was frustrated, angry, sad, desperate, and every sentiment in between, but the love never ceased. She didn't know what else to do. Their current arrangement was untenable for the both of them, so she'd finally made a decision. Someone had to be the adult in this relationship, and apparently that responsibility had fallen to her.
She'd heard a quote once long ago: 'if you love something, set it free; if it comes back to you it's yours, if it doesn't, it never was.' She guessed it was time to find out, even if she wasn't going to like the answer. She glanced down at her chicken scrawl on the envelope again, before tossing it aside. Her mind filtered back some 5 years prior, trying to find a moment, a time when things began to fall apart.
Michael had proposed to her shortly after the debacle with Anson Fullerton. They had both been so distracted over the events and circumstances necessary to bring him down. She'd ended up in jail, refusing to allow Michael to compromise his principles. He'd been willing to do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if it meant breaking the law or sacrificing others. She knew she couldn't allow him to violate his core convictions without destroying the very honorable and noble spirit that made him the man she loved. They'd been able to secure a deal with both the CIA and FBI for her eventual release. They both confessed to their actions and dealings with Anson. Michael worked selflessly with both agencies to bring the bastard down. She'd been forced to endure weeks in prison, but was eventually released once the CIA verified all their facts and evidence, and Anson had been apprehended and was safely behind bars.
Upon securing her release, the CIA had negotiated and forced her to sign a contract limiting her activities within the United States. She was no longer permitted to handle guns, ammunition or explosives. If found to be in possession of any of the contraband material, or if suspected of further criminal deeds, she was to be immediately arrested and extradited to Great Britain for trial on all previous charges. In the end, the good news was she was free and living with Michael; the bad news, she could no longer participate in any of their prior adventures and schemes. She remembered telling him once, 'who I am now has so much to do with what I've done here, what I've done with you.' The statement was the truth at the time and remained true even to this day. In losing her purpose, she'd lost a part of herself.
Michael was dispatched on a mission within a day of her release, and remained absent for months. They'd shared the occasional phone call, mostly filled with pleasantries, but devoid of information and details. When he returned home, he invited her for dinner at the Forge and proposed marriage. As one might expect knowing her detail-oriented boyfriend, it sounded much more like a merger between interested parties, than an invitation of marriage for two people in love. But to give him credit, he had remembered her choice in engagement rings, a two-carat diamond, Asscher cut in a platinum setting. She readily accepted his proposal, as the promise of all she dreamed, a chance at a forever life with him. In retrospect, she wondered whether the impetus for the proposal was his guilt over all she'd given up for him. The ceremony was just the two of them at city hall a few days later. Looking back, she had to admit to a time, early in their Miami relationship, when she had trouble envisioning him as the marrying type. Now she was left to wonder whether her original assessment had been right all along. Trouble was, when someone offered you your heart's deepest desire tied up in a beautiful satin bow complete with a trip to the moon, you didn't stop to ask questions!
Marriage to Michael had been pretty much what she expected. He was attentive, supportive and "quiet," when he was home. And while those whispered words of love were rarely uttered, his actions left no room for doubt. They'd settled into making a life for themselves. The CIA reinstated him within months of Anson's capture. He travelled frequently and was gone for months at a time. In those quiet reflective moments of aloneness, she could admit to herself just how much she missed working along side him, but of necessity she found other avenues to express her more noble goals. She volunteered at a battered women's shelter and enjoyed helping all women, both young and old. The opportunity even offered her an outlet to use her "kick-ass" battle skills toward the education of self-defense. Nary a violent husband, father or boyfriend dared cross the line. All things considered, she found her life for the most part fulfilling, except for those occasions when memories of days spent with Michael, Sam and Jessie reared their ugly head.
The milestone of the first year of marriage was the purchase of their house. Upon his reinstatement, Michael garnered access to all of his accounts. During the five years of burned adventure, he'd accumulated a tidy sum. She busied herself with decorating and shopping, as she toiled to create a true sanctuary for the short time periods he was home.
Three years into the marriage came the pregnancy scare. More than a scare, actually, she reminisced with a wistful sigh. She'd been feeling out of sorts for weeks, but had chalked it up to Michael's absence while waging battle in a dangerous locale. When the malaise and emotional outbursts persisted, despite his safe arrival home, he was the one to make the connection. Well, maybe he needed a little push from his mother. Once they received confirmation, neither knew quite how to feel. She was outwardly reserved, but excited, since this was not a path they had consciously discussed. He tried to be quietly supportive, but didn't offer any opinions or feelings. Planned or not, there was no going back. She threw herself into the pregnancy, planning out the nursery, frequenting baby boutiques and debating names. A short eight weeks later, her dreams were crushed when she awoke with bleeding all alone in their big king-sized bed. The fantasy burst, after a short 4-1/2 months lifespan, she had just leaned it was to be a girl. She became morose and withdrawn. Michael came home to offer support and care. He was sweet and gentle and quiet, helping her to grieve and accept the loss. However in moments of silent meditation, she noticed he himself expressed little emotion or sorrow over the loss of their child. And as time ticked on, he failed to mention the baby at all.
He seemed amenable to trying again, if amenable meant no verbal opposition. Month after month their attempts turned up futile. While she became increasingly depressed and despondent, he was on detail to D.C. It was during his absence, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She scheduled a consultation with a fertility specialist, mentioning nothing to Michael at the time. The work-up served up more disappointment, placing her odds of conceiving and successfully carrying a child somewhere between remote and none. She realized she would never nurse a child with his father's blue eyes or corral a free-spirited daughter with her panache for adventure. Maddie had been her rock of support, as she cried rivers of tears on her shoulder. When Michael finally returned she shared her news. He was supportive and unquestionably accepting, finding no fault with her. He threw himself even deeper into work, and she grieved some more. The dream died once and for all. They moved on, but were never quite the same.
Six months later, she decided a change was in order to cast a spark back into their relationship. She'd been stuck stateside for the last four years thanks to her CIA restrictions and continued jeopardy with Interpol. Throughout all Michael's journeys to Europe, the Middle East and Africa, she'd been forced to remain home. Then one day she ran into his handler while out running errands. They had a friendly conversation over lunch, when he accidently let slip that Michael was finishing up a mission in Venezuela and was due home soon. Turned out he was staying at the Copa de Oro in Porto La Cruz, the same resort they'd visited under the cover of "Mr. and Mrs. Jensen."
She got the wild idea to fly to Porto La Cruz to surprise him, hoping they could spend a few days together at the resort, once his mission was complete. A kind of honeymoon they'd never been able to enjoy. She quickly made arrangements for a flight and a hotel near the airport, before flying out the following day. She had just collected her luggage, caught a taxi to the hotel and checked-in, when she decided to grab a bite to eat. She headed out of the hotel lobby and was enjoying a little window-shopping, when she bumped into Michael. Literally, or rather into his "girlfriend." They were strolling arm-in-arm down the boulevard, exchanging intimate small talk and random kisses. She remained paralyzed, rooted in place. A poor imitation of a porcelain statue, eyes wide, mouth gaping, too flabbergasted to utter a word. Michael shot her a warning glare of silence and continued on his way, with the beautiful, young blonde still attached to his arm. She ran back to the hotel, checked out and caught the first flight home.
Michael traveled home four days later with nary a call of inquiry or advanced notice. He had flown through D.C., spent 8 hours in debriefings and arrived Miami after midnight. He'd been so quiet on his entry that she'd never heard a sound, so she was shocked to be awakened by thumping and clatter the next morning. She grabbed a spare golf club from the master bedroom closet and headed down the back hall. Once she reached the great room, she could hear the noise coming from the second floor. She tiptoed up the stairs and had just turned the corner, when he walked out of the guest bathroom causing a major collision. They both pulled back intent on slugging the other, before they finally realized what was going on. Mouth gapping open and closed like a fish, Fiona finally found her voice.
"Michael, what are you doing here," she hissed out on a gust of pent up fear and anxiety.
"I live here," he responded neutrally, cinching the tie closed on his silk robe.
"But…but, when did you get home?" She questioned, taking in his attire.
"Last night, around o'dark thirty," he threw her a disarming smile. She backed up, mouth aghast again. She tossed a sidelong glance into one of the guest rooms and took note of the rumpled bed.
"Last night? Well, what are you doing up on the second floor? Why didn't you come to bed…our bed?" She questioned, anger flaring in her voice.
He reached out a hand to touch her arm, but she pulled back, wanting some answers. Momentarily dissuaded, he dropped his hand to his side, before diverting it to rub circles over his temple.
"Fiona," he began with a sigh, "…I thought it best we have a discussion about what really happened in Porto La Cruz, before I…"
"Before you what," she grunted, eyes fuming.
He dropped his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Look, why don't we both get dressed and talk over breakfast. We can go out if you'd like," he glanced her way and threw in a tight smile for good measure.
"There's plenty to eat downstairs," she looked down at her silk negligee and suddenly felt very overexposed. She wrapped her arms around her torso and turned to give flight.
He called after her, "I'll cook! Meet you in 30!"
She nodded back without so much as a word, rapidly retreating to the safety of the master bedroom. She wasn't sure what was going on, but she was about to get to the bottom of it. She had been crushed when she'd found Michael with that woman in Venezuela and had fled out of hurt, but once home, saner heads prevailed, and she'd surmised that the blonde bimbo was most likely an asset associated with his cover. She'd been ready to beg his forgiveness for showing up unannounced and possibly blowing the mission, but he'd never even bothered to call. Not once in the four days that followed their encounter. Now here he was sleeping in the spare bedroom, no hellos, no long anticipated welcomes, not even a kiss or a hug.
She headed into the master bathroom to shower and change. Those 30 minutes felt like a lifetime, and her anger had rapidly fizzled, giving way to anxiety and fear. She arrived in the kitchen a short time later, 30 minutes on the dot. Michael had already set the table, poured the juice and started the coffee. He was whisking eggs for omelets. She was about to ask if she could help, when she noticed the vegetables, meat and cheese already chopped and waiting on the counter.
He took note of her arrival from of the corner of his eye and motioned toward the table. "Why don't you go ahead and sit down. These will be done in a few minutes," he added while pouring the eggs into two side-by-side pans.
She wandered over to the table, dropping into her usual chair. She drummed her fingernails on the tabletop in time to the nervous thumping of her heart to stop from acting on impulse, when all she really wanted to do was to wrap herself around him and never let go.
He looked back and frowned, before offering, "Help yourself to the fruit salad, the coffee's almost done."
She opted instead for a small swallow of the juice, but instantly regretted it, when the liquid burned all the way down her esophagus. "Hooooww," she paused to clear her throat, "…was your trip?" She tried creating small talk.
"Same old, same old," he cracked black pepper onto the eggs, before adding all the fillings. "I flew into D.C yesterday for a long debriefing. Didn't catch a flight out of Washington until 10 p.m., got into Miami-Dade around one, took 20 minutes to find a cab, got home around…." He stopped mid sentence when he realized he was rambling.
"Sorry," he turned around in time to catch her staring at him with huge petrified eyes. He ducked away from her gaze and reached for the plates resting on the counter. Scooping each omelet onto a separate plate, he carried them both over to the table. He flashed her a smile as he set the plate in front of her.
"Soooo," he pulled out his chair across the table, "…how were things here?"
Her shoulders dropped in defeat and her whole demeanor deflated. She cut off a piece of the omelet and dropped it into her mouth. The eggs, though perfectly cooked, felt rubbery and leaden on her tongue. It took all her concentration to swallow the bite and fight off the dry heaves, which threatened to follow. She jumped up from the table in search of a mug and her peppermint tea. She needed something to settle her nerves, as well as her stomach.
Michael followed behind her, "I'm sorry, I forgot the coffee."
They nearly collided again. Both reached out on instinct and grabbed the other's arm. They stood there as the clocked ticked by just staring into the other's eyes. Finally, he pulled her into his chest, and she sunk willingly, holding on with all her might.
"I'm sorry I almost blew your mission…."
I'm sorry, I didn't call…"
They spoke simultaneously then chuckled with nervous laughter. He leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on her lips. She responded in kind. He disengaged the hug to offer her coffee; she declined in favor of tea. They finally settled back at the table, both picking at their breakfast, but neither consuming more than a few bites.
"About my visit," she offered tentatively, "…I ran into Jonathon Simpson last week and we decided to have lunch. He let it slip that you were about to head home from Porto La Cruz. I thought maybe I could surprise you," she shrugged helplessly. "Guess the surprise was on me. Hope I didn't ruin anything for you."
He shook his head, "No, luckily Dar…" he stumbled over the name, remembering not to offer further details. He watched her face falter and quickly hurried on, "Uh, no everything was fine. I wish you could've found a way to reach me. I would've loved to have you join me, once things were wrapped up, but I don't think the Copa de Oro was our best option. Cover and all," he shrugged.
"Michael!" her voice instantly raised an octave, "…how am I supposed to call you, when I'm not allowed to have your…."
"I know," he quickly lifted his hand in surrender, trying to defuse her ire.
She pushed her plate back from the table, "Well, at least I didn't blow the mission or place you in danger." Her eyes remained glued to the tabletop, her countenance one of pure defeat.
"Fiiii," she looked up at the beloved utterance of her name. "Fi, I…I…I don't want you to get the wrong idea," he stuttered over the words.
"And what idea is that?" She fought the emotion in her voice.
"That she means anything to me," he offered back. She turned her head away to hide the tears. "She's just an asset," he reached for her hand in comfort.
"Well, so was I…once."
"No Fi, you were always more than an asset, even in the beginning." He ran his fingertips over the top of her hand.
She looked back at him, almost afraid to ask, "You were kissing her, have you ever…well, you know…for a mission?"
"No!"
"But with me…."
"Never Fi! Never since you…back in Ireland." He tugged on her arm, pulling her toward him.
Breakfast was quickly forgotten, as they celebrated his home coming in a more intimate way. She was happy to have him home, but couldn't quite help noticing how much more tentative they were in their handling and touches of one another.
"Michael?" She looked up from her perch on his chest.
"Yeah Fi?" He stroked a finger through her hair, pushing it behind her ear.
Folding her hands on his chest, she rested her chin atop and looked him in the eye. "Why did you sleep in the guest room last night, instead of in our bed here with me?"
He gazed at her uncomfortably, "I wasn't sure how you'd react after our incident the other day. I thought I needed to explain first." He lifted a brow in question.
"Okay," she whispered back softly dropping her head back onto his chest. She was lulled to sleep by his steady stroking of her hair. It had been a rough few days, and sleep had been scare in coming.
He was able to remain in Miami for 3 weeks, before being called back to Washington on a new assignment. During that time they'd been cautious and uncomfortable in each other's presence. She noticed he'd taken to staying up late working in his study and often retired to the guest room under the guise of not wanting to bother her once she was asleep. Her unease about their relationship firmly took hold and steadily grew by the day.
The mission took him away for eight months this time. Their only communication was cryptic phone calls placed by him about once a month. She found her thoughts drifting to places, which she preferred not to visit, so she threw herself into her work at the shelter, along with helping family and friends. Sam's lady friend, Elsa had developed breast cancer about a year after her and Michael's marriage. The staging had been low, the nodule well circumscribed, and she'd only required surgery, but that was enough to scare Sam about the potential of losing his favorite lady. He had proposed marriage to Elsa, while they were away on a private vacation. When they returned man-and-wife, everyone was shocked, not the least of which was Michael. Elsa had to slow down and take a break in her business dealings; without a second thought Sam had picked up the slack. Everything was going well until about a year prior, when the cancer had come back. Elsa was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer early last December, and despite enduring surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, the cancer had been particularly aggressive, progressing undeterred. It eventually became obvious to everyone that this was not a fight Elsa could win. Sam had thrown himself into her care, overlapping duties between home and work, taking over where hospice left off. He wanted Elsa to remain in the comfort of their home. There was no way he would allow her to die in a sterile hospital environment. Fiona for her part, tried to come by and offer assistance several times a week as a small reprieve for Sam.
It was in August she received a panicked call from Jonathon Simpson, Michael's handler. There had been a problem with the mission. Michael's cover had almost been blown. As it was, words had flown, bullets followed, Michael was in surgery and headed for intensive care. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Bile erupted from her stomach and burned the back of her throat. She stood transfixed, tears blinding her view of the phone.
"Where is he?" She managed to croak out through the tears.
"I can't tell you," the handler threw out the usual party line.
"He's my husband!" She steeled herself and felt her anger soar, "Tell me where he is, or so help me…I will blow you up into so many pieces they won't have enough remains to identify the body!"
"Now Fiona…" the handler tried to intercede.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out through her nose. "Jonathon, I have done everything the CIA requested, but if I lose Michael…I swear…"
"Okay, okay," he conceded, "…he's in New York…New York Presbyterian-Cornell Hospital."
"New York!" She screeched. "What the hell is he doing in New York?"
"Part of his cover…."
"For how long?" She was stunned, "How long has he been in the U.S.?"
"I can't…."
"Jonathon," she groused, anger on edge, "…I want to know what's going on!"
The handler sighed in sympathy, "Mrs. Westen, you know I can't go into details."
She knew she was being put off, as soon as her formal name came out, and she'd had enough of the Agency, the red tape and the interference in their lives. "You know what, Jonathon…I don't care anymore about your rules and regulations. All I know is my husband has been seriously injured; he's in a damned operating room and in critical condition. I don't know whether he's going to live or die, but either way, I intend to be by his side!"
"Fiona, wait…."
She hung up the phone, immediately called the airlines and began packing. She was at the airport within the hour and caught the first standby flight available to LaGuardia. Luggage in tow, she rushed through the doors of Presbyterian and fervently looked for an information desk. On her way toward information, she was intercepted by Jonathon Simpson.
"Fiona, you can't be here!" He dragged her by an arm back toward the front lobby.
"The hell I can't," she pulled her arm away, shooting him a ferocious glare.
"Look, you'll blow everything," the handler raked agitated fingers through his hair.
"What?" Her bag fell from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a loud thud. "Are you telling me that my husband is in critical condition in the ICU and the mission is still on?"
Jonathon nervously paced away a few feet, before returning to her side. "We're so close," he exclaimed with pleading eyes, "…we can't lose this asset, or all Michael's work will be in vain…"
She cut him off, "All his work? All his work?" Her voice continued to rise in intensity. "My husband is in an ICU and could die, and all you're worried about is a mission?"
"Look," he grabbed her arm again, dragging her out the front door of the hospital. "Michael brought this on himself," he hurriedly continued on when her eyes flared. "His head hasn't been in the game these last few months."
"He's practically given you his life. What more do you want?" She threw up her arms in exasperation.
"This mission can't be compromised. It's too important to national security," he bellowed out the words to be heard over the din of nearby traffic. "At this point, Michael is secondary…the country comes first."
If she'd had a gun, she would've killed him on sight, CIA be damned! As it was, she shot daggers from her eyes. Shaking a finger in his face, "You see here…."
"No!" The handler caught view of an agent out of the corner of his eye and waved him forward. "Agent Jones, would you please see Mrs. Westen back to the airport. I believe she has a flight to catch."
Fiona wilted in upon herself, realizing this line of discussion was gaining her nothing. "Never mind," she acquiesced, "…I can catch a cab myself, thank you very much."
She turned and walked toward the curb of the circular drive and hailed a taxi. Better they thought her defeated she reasoned, telling the taxi driver to take her to the closest hotel.
Later that night, she slipped through a back door of the Milstein Building and made her way toward the elevator. Pushing the button for the fourth floor, she adjusted the phlebotomy ID tag on her white lab coat. Glancing around the corner of the elevator, she peered into the ICU waiting room and advanced when she saw the coast was clear. At 1 a.m., there were only a few visitors remaining and she easily blended in, following one of the housekeeping staff through the ICU doors. When he looked back at her puzzled, she flashed her ID and walked quickly down the hall toward a patient room. She had advanced approximately halfway, when she noticed a nurse exiting a room. As the door started to close, she saw the dark hair, bruised face and breathing tube, but still recognized him all the same. Her heart skipped a beat, as she proceeded down the hall and ducked into a visitor's restroom a short distance away. She knew she had to get a grip, before she blew her chance. Tossing cold water over her face, she felt her heart rate begin to slow. It had been eight months since she'd looked on his face. She felt the tears welling in her eyes, but blinked them back. There was no time for emotion and tears; this might well be her only chance to talk to him…to let him know she was here. Raking the stray pieces of hair away from her face, she smoothed them back toward her pinned up bun, then took a deep cleansing breath and prepared to exit the washroom. Finding the hallway clear, she quickly made her way to Michael's room, pushed the door open and stepped inside.
She looked around the room, assuring no visitors or keepers. Walking to the head of the bed, she studied her husband. His face was swollen and bruised, but that still couldn't hide his handsome rugged features from her. He was lying still, apparently asleep, although she had no idea his level of consciousness. She decided not to wake him, for fear of a nurse coming to check. His breathing was steady, in tune with the ventilator swishing at his side. Glancing at the cardiac monitor, his heart rate and blood pressure appeared to be fine. Her eyes continued on a downward path, his right forearm was casted and a large bandage encircled the right shoulder. She wanted to lift the sheet away to assess for further damage, but thought better of it, not wanting to cause an alarm.
She removed the white lab coat, and stashed it and the phlebotomy supplies under the bed for easy access. Dropping into a chair near his head, she withdrew two pictures from a pocket and reached for his left hand. She carefully tunneled her fingers below his palm then began stroking the dorsum of his hand with her thumb. Immediately she began to relax upon feeling his touch. She instinctively knew he was going to survive. She glanced back to the cardiac monitor and noted his heart rate had likewise dropped. Smiling to herself, she thought he sensed her closeness, even if he wasn't consciously aware.
Ten minutes later a sound in the hall placed her on high alert. She sat up straight and studied his hospital band. Victor Portnov was typed on the patient ID. She momentarily panicked realizing she didn't know anything about his cover. The name sounded vaguely Russian, but the spelling of Victor was definitely Western European or American. The scene in Porto La Cruz flashed though her mind and she remembered him speaking with his native accent. The blonde bimbo, on the other hand, had the distinctive thick intonation of a Russian dialect. She looked down at the two photos in her hand. One was a full facial shot of Michael, the other a snapshot of the two of them holding a 2-y.o Charlie. It had been taken a few years ago, but it was still one of her favorite photos. She had figured the pictures might serve as an ID of sorts, should she be questioned about their relationship.
At that moment, the door opened and a nurse stepped in with a bag of I.V. fluids and tubing. The nurse was startled to find Fiona at the bedside and immediately inquired as to her identity.
Fiona smiled disarmingly, before glancing back to Michael. "I'm his wife. I was only just contacted this afternoon about the accident. I caught the first available plane to New York."
The nurse regarded her with sympathy, "I'm sorry to hear you weren't contacted sooner, but I'm a little confused. What did you say your name was?"
"Oh I'm so sorry," Fi started to stand, but the nurse waved her back to the chair. "I'm Rachel Portnov, and of course, this is my husband, Victor. I'd be more than happy to show you some ID, but I was in such a hurry that I left my purse in the taxi from the airport. I've already called and they're holding it for me, but in the meantime…."
The nurse frowned with embarrassment, "I'm sorry, but without proper identification, I'm afraid I can't let you stay here. The patient demographic sheet doesn't list you as a next of kin."
Fi quickly handed the nurse the photographs, "Perhaps this might help. I know I don't have my license with me at the moment, but here is a recent picture of my husband, and another of the two of us with our son."
The nurse studied the photos and smiled at the one of the attractive family. "What a cute little boy," she beamed.
"Yes, he is a handsome little fellow, but I'm a bit biased," Fiona preened. "He rather looks like his father; I'm afraid he got very little of his beautiful looks from me."
The nurse handed back the pictures and studied Fiona for a moment, "Those are lovely, but I'm afraid…."
Fiona stood up quickly, as tears welled in her eyes. "Oh please don't make me leave. I've been so worried. Victor's been up here in New York on business for the last 6 weeks. He was supposed to be coming home this weekend, but with the accident and all, that won't be possible. It's just that Charlie and I have missed him so."
Reaching for a tissue from the box on the bedside stand, the nurse passed the Kleenex to the distraught woman before her. "Well, it's out of the ordinary, but I guess I can let it pass just this once."
"Thank you," Fiona gushed, and stepped back so the nurse had access to Michael. "Would you like me to step out, while you attend to my husband?"
"Oh no," the nurse smiled, while reaching for the nearly empty I.V. bag, "…I'll just be a few minutes. I need to hang these new fluids, check on his dressings and draw some blood. Unless," the nurse looked up at Fiona, "…does blood make you squeamish?"
"Oh no, not at all," Fi quickly answered back. She watched the nurse carry out her duties, but found herself gasping at the sight of the large bandage across his abdomen.
"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't warn you, I just assumed…."
Fiona felt the color drain from her face, as she tried desperately to assure the nurse she was fine. "No…I just didn't realize…I mean."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to step out to the waiting room while I…."
"No!" Fiona shouted, before lowering her voice. "No, I just didn't realize the extent of his injuries. I mean when they called about the accident, they never told me…they didn't mention…." Fiona took note of the nurse's inquisitive stare and quickly amended, "I was in such a hurry to be by his side, that I hadn't thought to ask the extent of his injury. I heard surgery and ICU, and well…I just headed for the airport.
The nurse smiled disarmingly, "I understand…I'm sure all of this is quite a shock."
"Can you tell me?" Fiona pointed toward Michael's injured body.
"I'm not sure it's my place," the nurse hedged, "…perhaps you could wait until morning then speak with his physician."
"Pleeeease," Fiona begged.
The nurse nodded and began describing the injuries, including the broken right forearm and the blown out shoulder, which had actually been the result of a bullet. Fiona's mind started to wander off, when the nurse's voice brought her back to the present. "He's really lucky to be alive, the man who mugged them, came way too close with this shot." The nurse pointed to the abdominal dressing. "An inch or two higher, and he might have gotten the heart."
Fiona winced, "But he didn't?"
"No," the nurse shook her head, "…the bullet entered the stomach and exited his flank. Lucky again, it didn't hit his spine or kidney."
"So, he should recover fully," Fiona asked, as her hand stroked Michael's abdomen with the softest of touch. "Why is the dressing so big?"
The nurse finished removing the dressing to reveal a long angry incision with a drain off to the side. "The surgeon needed to do an exploratory laparotomy in order to evaluate all the abdominal contents. The incision may look scary, but remember the injury to the abdomen was restricted to the stomach. A few days, maybe a week to heal and we should be able to remove the tube sucking fluid from his stomach, then hopefully he'll start a liquid diet."
Fiona nodded her understanding, thrilled to hear the abdominal injuries hadn't been worse. "What about his shoulder," she asked, unable to divert her attention from the bruised and swollen abdomen.
Now that's probably going to take some rehab," the nurse replied, as she began redressing the wound on Michael's stomach. "Hopefully, once he's able to eat again, you'll be able to take him home for that phase of his care."
"Oh, I hope so," Fiona stepped closer to the bed and stroked Michael's cheek. "He's so quiet, is he just sleeping or…."
"Anesthesia is still wearing off, plus he's receiving pain meds." The nurse reached across to pat Fiona's arm, "Now don't you worry, your husband here is going to be fine. In fact," the nurse attached a syringe to one of the I.V. lines and began to draw back blood, "…if these lab values are improved, we might be pulling his breathing tube by the morning." The nurse capped the syringe and pulled on the pigtail to flush the blood from the arterial line. As she walked toward the door, the woman turned back to Fiona, "Is there anything I can get for you?"
"No," Fiona shook her head, "…but thank you for your kindness."
"Your welcome, Mrs. Portnov."
Fi leaned forward to kiss Michael's warm forehead, while stroking her fingers through his hair. She wanted to climb up in bed with him and snuggle into his warmth. But alas, the bed was too small and the ICU wasn't quite the place for snuggling. She settled instead for the nearby chair pulled as close as possible, and their hands interlinked.
She was subsequently pulled from sleep a few hours later, by the sound of a mosquito buzzing, or was it an alarm? Something tugged on her right arm, heightening her senses. Opening an eye, she glanced around the hospital room, recognizing instantly her location. Images of the previous night flitted through her memory, the kind nurse, his injuries, the bandage, and there was a vague recollection of someone removing his breathing tube. Then she heard the buzzing sound again. She looked up to find Michael pushing the call button.
Michael! She startled and was instantly wide-awake. She stood up beside the bed and gazed down into this crystal, blue eyes.
"Michael, you're awake."
"What are you doing here," his words came out low and raspy.
"I was worried," she reached out to stroke to his face.
He looked around the room and then stared back confused, "Where am I?"
"Hospital in New York, apparently there was some kind of incident with your cover?"
His eyes went wide, "You can't be here!"
"Michael, I…."
"I'm serious, Fiona," he grabbed her hand with amazing strength and tried to push her away. There were voices on the other side of the door just beyond in the hallway. "You need to go!"
"But Mich…."
Her words were cut off by the blonde bimbo with the Russian accent, "Victor, I'm so glad to see…" she paused mid sentence and turned to Fiona, "…who is she?"
Fiona's eyes went wide, "I…"
"No one," Michael quickly retorted, "… she wandered into my room and I was just calling the nurse to kick her out!"
Fi turned on Michael, "How dare…."
The nurse and an aide appeared in the doorway inquiring about all the noise. "What's going on in here?"
"This woman wandered into my boyfriend's room. Don't you people have better security?" The airheaded blonde bellowed at the nurse.
"But," the nurse looked from Fiona to Michael, "…I thought…"
Fiona cut her off, "I guess I was mistaken on the room number, if you'll excuse…."
"Just a minute," the nurse demanded, "…you told me last night that he was your husband. You even showed me that picture of the two of you with your kid!"
Michael's eyes went wide, as the blonde rounded the bed to get between Michael and Fi. "What's this about a wife, Victor?"
"It's nothing, Daria," Michael froze trying to compose a viable explanation on the fly.
The blonde screamed back, "I swear, if you lied to me…my uncle is…"
"No doll," Michael flashed her a smarmy smirk, "…I wasn't lying. I'm not married. That woman," he pointed to Fi, "…she's one of my ex-girlfriends. She keeps stalking me, despite how many times I've told her to take a hike."
"Well, what about the kid?" Blondey groused, fixing Fi with a disgusted glare.
"Not mine," he threw back. "She keeps nosing around trying to get child support out of me. I told her to get lost," he glared angrily at Fiona, "Get out of here you whore, and take your bastard kid with you!"
Fi backed her way to door and then turned to flee. She ran smack into Jonathon Simpson's chest outside in the hall. He was wearing a long white jacket with a physician's nametag. The handler motioned to "Mr. Jones" to come forward, as Michael bellowed, "Where's Oleg? I need Oleg to get that bitch outta here! I never want to see her near me again."
Jones/Oleg grabbed Fi roughly around the upper arm and began pushing her toward the exit. Fi could still overhear the yelling from Michael's room. "Doc," Michael bellowed, "…How'd that bitch get in here? I thought you had security around this place!"
Jonathon's answer was just barely audible, "It's taken care of now, Mr. Portnov. I just saw your associate Mr. Gorelov escorting her out of the ICU. Is that the Oleg to whom you're referring."
Michael's voice echoed back loud and clear, as Fiona exited the ICU doors. "Yah, that's Oleg! Tell him to get rid of her PERMANENTLY this time!"
'*'
Fiona stretched full length in the bed to disrupt the cobwebs from her mind. She reached for her peppermint tea, but put it back on the bedside table after the first cold swallow. She glanced at the clock, only to realize she'd been tripping down memory lane for over two hours. She shifted back up in the bed and reached for the discarded file. A few pages in, her mind began to wander again….
Michael had called her cell the following day. He was more than merely angry. He was livid and out for someone's blood. The mission had almost been scuttled, but they'd been able to pull it out-of-the-fire when he'd been declared dead. The "doctor" came up with a complication brought on by "Victor's" extreme agitation over the sight of his ex-girlfriend/Fiona. The operatives had told the blonde bimbo that Victor had bled out from his abdominal injuries the following night. Mr. Jones/"Oleg" had been able to convince Daria to deal directly with him in her time of distress. Michael barely allowed Fi to get a word in edgewise, except for a short, howbeit rebuffed, apology. He informed her he would be discharged to rehab the following Monday. She offered to fly to New York to help bring him back to Miami, but he had declined. Rehab had been arranged in D.C, so Michael could be extensively debriefed, as well as, giving him the opportunity to bring his new replacement up to speed. He was fuming over the loss of his assignment, and made no bones about telling her so. His handler, Jonathon Simpson, had also been placed on administrative leave and was pending termination for leaking information to Fiona. When she asked about coming to Washington, he again cut her off. The agency didn't want her anywhere near D.C., or him for that matter, for the next few weeks. He ended by telling her the CIA had threatened to…. This time she cut him off mid sentence, finishing the statement with her own terse reply, "Terminate you, Michael? I know you wouldn't want to risk your job just to see me! We couldn't let that happen, now could we?" She hung up the phone and threw it across the room with such ferocity, it crumbled into a million pieces leaving a big dent in the opposite bedroom wall.
Six weeks later, Fiona was making dinner, when she heard a key engage in the front door lock. She grabbed the chef knife from the cutting board and peered around the corner into the great room. The door swung wide, as Jessie appeared helping Michael across the threshold. She dropped the knife back on the counter and ran for the door. She hadn't heard back from him after their last argument, when he'd called six weeks prior from New York.
She approached him cautiously and reached out to offer a hand. He pulled back, straight-armed his palm to her and shook his head "no." She took a few steps backward, allowing Jessie to escort Michael to the living room couch. Jessie looked from one friend to the other, before shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment. He reversed his steps and ran back to the front porch. Returning again, Jessie put Michael's duffle and briefcase on the floor by the credenza.
"So," Jessie rubbed his hands together, "…what's new around here?" He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"Not much," Fiona tried to feign ignorance, "…how about things at your place? How's Travis these days?"
Jessie continued to play along, discussing his favorite subject, "He's great, but a serious handful! Lana can barely keep up with him…you know, terrible two's and all."
Fi nodded in understanding, "And how's Lana doing with the pregnancy?"
"Okay," Jessie glanced around the room, covertly stealing a glimpse at Mike, "…you know how pregnancies are…just 6 weeks to term and she's ready for it to be over."
Fiona dropped her eyes to study the floor in a vain attempt to hide the sadness, which was welling up again. Jessie had meant no harm by his pregnancy comment, but it stung all the same. He caught his slip of the tongue a moment later and tried to backtrack.
"Look Fi, I'm really sorry…."
She waved a hand to cut off the apology, "It's okay. Say, I'm just making some dinner, would you like to stick around and have a bite to eat?"
"Nah," Jessie started backing up toward the front door, "…Lana's going to kill me if I don't get home and relieve her of some Travis time. Catch ya two later," he waved and turned to exit the door, before pivoting back. "Hey, maybe we can get together sometime for a barbeque." He looked Mike's direction and shrugged his shoulders, "Well, whenever Mike's up for it." With that he closed the door behind him, more than happy to escape the tense atmosphere of the Westen household.
Fi chewed on her lower lip, while she watched Michael's every move. He looked all around the room, taking in every detail of the great room and front hall, studying the décor and furnishings, as if he'd never seen the room before. Finally he cast his gaze forward catching the glint from her apprehensive eyes.
"Hey," he softly uttered.
"Hi," she whispered back, before clearing her throat to continue on. "Um, how are you doing?" She picked at a fingernail, "Can I get you anything?"
"No," he shook his head, "…I'm good right now."
She nodded before turning toward the kitchen. Looking back over her shoulder, she offered, "Ill just keep working on dinner.
The meal had been awkward, with very little conversation and even less consumption of food. She managed to get out of him that physically he was doing fairly well, although he'd not yet regained full range of motion in his right shoulder. The agency wasn't going to allow him back in until he was physically 100%, at least not for missions, paperwork maybe, but not in the field. His eyes looked dead as he reiterated the agency line and a small spark of sympathy ignited and smoldered in her chest. She knew how important the CIA was to Michael…even more important than her.
By the time she'd cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Michael could no longer keep his eyelids from drooping. She had offered to help him get settled. He suggested the guest room, but she insisted on the master bed. She doubted he was steady enough to make his way up and down the stairs. She found him a pair of clean sleep pants, fluffed his pillows and finally helped him into bed.
Just as she was about to exit the bedroom in search of his laundry, she turned back, "Michael, would you prefer I sleep upstairs on the daybed in my study?"
He paused to considered her a moment, before folding back the covers on her side of the bed. Patting the mattress, he smiled, "I don't think that's necessary, unless it's what you prefer."
His smile sent her heart aflutter; she hadn't seen a real one in such a long time. He noticed the shake of her head and his face immediately fell, "Did you change your mind?"
"No," she smiled back, "…I'm just going to start a load of your laundry then I'll be right back."
The first night, she laid awake just staring at his beautiful face. She couldn't believe he was finally home. She wasn't sure what his presence in their bedroom indicated, but she was happy just the same. The second night, she slept fitfully, after knocking his shoulder, while trying to cuddle close. He screamed out in pain, but eventually fell back to sleep with the addition of some ice and pain meds. She kept nodding off and waking up throughout the entire night, afraid she might disturb him again. She tried to stay on her own side of the bed, just to be safe, but every time she fell asleep, her body sought out the warmth of his, as if on instinct. Each time she touched his skin; she immediately woke, as though shocked by a high voltage electrical current. No matter how hard she struggled she couldn't stay away; she was like the moth to his flame. By the third night, he noticed her exhaustion and insisted on sleeping in the guest room. She had cried herself to sleep over yet another lost chance.
The separate sleeping quarters persisted for the next two weeks. Slowly but surely, Michael moved more and more of his belongings to the upstairs closet of the guest bedroom. That was when everything finally came to a head.
They had just finished breakfast and Michael had offered to clean up the kitchen, while Fiona showered and dressed for her day at the women's shelter. With the kitchen back to its pristine shape, Michael wandered back to the master bedroom in search of a favorite shirt. He peeked his head into the room, but didn't see Fi anywhere, so he continued through the bedroom and bathroom toward the master closet. Once he'd taken a few steps beyond the bathroom door, he was stopped in his tracks. Fi had just existed the shower and was toweling off, her back to him. He stood there staring, rooted in place.
Fiona finished drying her torso and was hanging up the towel, when she heard a gasp behind her. She turned to find Michael staring at her. "Michael…"
He quickly turned around and began apologizing, "I'm so sorry Fiona. I wanted a shirt from the closet. I didn't mean to walk in. I'll just be on my way." His voice rambled a mile a minute, as it increased in pitch with each spoken word.
As he began to flee, she called out to him, "Michael, it's okay, go ahead and…."
"No, no, no…I'll come back later." He stood in the bathroom doorway face diverted into the bedroom.
She scrunched her nose in question, "Michael, STOP…what's wrong with you? Come back and get your shirt."
He couldn't move. He was trapped in the doorway. "I…."
His problem suddenly dawned on her, "Michael, TURN AROUND!"
"No, I….
She ran around in front of him, her nakedness in full view. "Is this what's bothering you?" She waved a hand up and down her body. His nervous eyes instantly dropped to the floor.
"Michael, it's not like you haven't seen me "EXACTLY LIKE THIS" a million times before." He held his breath and didn't move; eyes fixed to a spot on the floor.
She swallowed hard against the crushing pain in her chest, "So, it does bother you, but why?" No response from him.
A gasp of understanding escaped her lips, "Do I now disgust you so completely…you can't even look at me?" She clawed at the nearby comforter, pulling it off of the bed.
"Fi, NO!" He finally found his voice and propelled himself toward her.
She was so emotionally fraught his words didn't register. She wrapped herself in the comforter, hiding every slip of skin from head to toe. When she sensed his closeness, she stepped back, eyes wild with fury and pain.
"Get out!" She screamed and took two steps further away.
He reached for her, but she smacked his hand away. "Get out, I said! Get out!" She shrieked, tears flooding down her cheeks.
When he tried once more to reach her, she pushed him away and ran for the bathroom. Just as he turned to give chase, he heard the door lock click into place. When Fiona emerged 20 minutes later, dressed and ready for work, Michael was no where to be found on the first floor. Thankful for his absence, she grabbed her purse and ran for her car. The day at the shelter progressed slowly. She swore she could hear each tick of the clock. All she wanted to do was go home and lock herself away in her bedroom. She knew their marriage was in trouble, but hadn't realized just how much. She thought they had more time. She just needed to make him understand about New York, but apparently placing his job in jeopardy had been his last straw. Based on his reaction that morning, Michael already had one foot out the door.
Mercifully, the day had finally ended. One of the counselors at the shelter knew Fiona seemed somehow "off". She tried repeatedly to engage her in discussion, but Fi was having none of it. She wasn't one of those women at the shelter. She had a life and friends. She wasn't being physically abused. She didn't need any help. Her bravado quickly died, when a small voice in the back of her head whispered softly, maybe so, but you're just as emotionally lost. It was in that moment of weakness she asked to leave the shelter early.
Arriving home, the house seemed especially quiet. She had steeled herself on the drive home for another go around with Michael, but it appeared he wasn't home. Initially, she sighed in relief, but then worry set in. She wandered into the kitchen, through the great room and up the stairs. She found the door to the guest room open, the bed freshly made, all clutter swept from sight. She timidly tiptoed into the room, as if at any moment he might jump out of hiding. When she made it to the dresser, she slowly opened a drawer, only to find it bare. She opened the next and the next, all with the same result. Throwing open the closet doors, there were only empty hangers staring out from the space, taunting her with their meaning. She hurried to his bathroom and found it equally clean and bare.
The emotional panic from that morning came roaring back in full force, threatening to engulf her. She ran down the stairs to his study. All his files were gone! Racing to the master bedroom, she held out one last hope that he had decided to come back to their place of refuge. The bed was made; no trace of him was in the room. Sprinting to the closet, she found an empty bar where his clothes had once hung. Tears now trailed from her eyes, as she inspected the bathroom. She found a bottle of his cologne on the vanity. The one that was her favorite, but no other trace of him, save for a single white envelope taped to the mirror. Her name was written across the front in his perfect block script. She reached up with trembling hands and tore the note from the tape.
Carrying the envelope to the kitchen, she placed it on the table and busied herself with making a cup of tea. She paced back and forth from the stove to the table waiting for the kettle to boil. And with each lap she stared at the envelope expecting it to burst into flames.
Finally with tea in hand, she sat down at the table and reached for the note. Pulling out the stationery, she looked down to find a scant few lines. He never was one for wasting time with unnecessary words.
The letter said simply:
F
I've been transferred to London, deskwork for now.
I'm sorry if I hurt you.
I don't know how to stop.
M
She read it again and again looking for any hidden meaning. There were no words of endearment, no plans for the rest of their life. He hadn't even written their full names. Apparently she was now "F" and he was "M." Considering their past experience, she guessed she should count her blessings he even left a note. There was a time not so long ago, when he fled in the middle of the night without so much as a backward glance.
It was then the first line jumped out sending a jolt to her heart. He was in London. LONDON! The word was like a slap to the face. She was prevented from travel to England without the risk of imprisonment. She knew he'd been out of the country hundreds of times, but this was somehow different…a transfer! The finality of it all made her quiver, dropping the mug from her hand. It crashed to floor shattering into a hundred pieces, rather like her heart. She retreated toward the bedroom, leaving the mess of her life behind.
Two weeks later, after many sleepless nights spent bartering with God and a never-ending supply of tears, she finally made a decision. She contacted the attorney the very next day. He'd been able to expedite their meeting. That had been a short two weeks ago.
'*'
Shaking off the past, she glanced at the papers still tightly gripped in her hand. She was too tired to care anymore. There were no more tears to shed; no more bargains to be made. It was time to set him free just like the quote suggested. She quickly thumbed the last few pages of the document, shrugged her shoulders and turned straight to the back page. Reaching for the pen beside her, she signed her name on the designated line along with the date. She never thought it would end this way.
Scooping up all the papers, she thrust them into the Express Mail envelope. Pulling the paper away to reveal the sticky tape, she paused a moment and whispered a plea, then sealed the flap shut. Casting the package onto the floor, she reached into the middle drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a small wooden box. Lifting the lid, she withdrew the bottle of his cologne. Staring at the remaining few drops of scented liquid, a few teardrops escaped her eyes. She sprayed his pillow with a fine mist of the cologne and inhaled the scent that was him. Placing the bottle back into the box, she closed it away for safekeeping. Only a few more spritzes she mused and then it was time to move on, much like him…two feet out the door. The tears caused her lashes to stick, obscuring her vision. She turned out the light and hugged his pillow close to her body.
"Just a few more days, just a few more days," she repeated in an unending chant hoping to find just this once the peacefulness of a dreamless sleep amidst a sea of turmoil.
'***'
To be continued…
'**********'
AN: Just remember there are always two sides to every story, or perhaps three: hers, his and the truth. Next up, Michael's thoughts on the events of the first five years of their marriage.