Jensen came down the hall carrying a box, and Cuddy zeroed in on it instantly. "Legal papers?"

The psychiatrist handed it over. "They seem to be, but judging from the dust on the box and the dates on the first few, I don't think they're too current. This was on the top shelf in the closet."

Cuddy sighed but took it anyway. "Old legal papers are closer than anybody else has come so far, at least." She ran quickly through the contents, skimming, but nothing titled Last Will and Testament jumped out at her, and she set it aside. "I think you're right, but I'll go through them one at a time this afternoon. We're on lunch break right now."

"Did Thornton go to get food?" Jensen asked, looking around the room. Abby and Rachel were playing with stuffed animals in the floor with Marina in a nearby chair watching. Cuddy and her husband were both on the couch very close together; she looked worried, and he looked tenser than before. Jensen guessed that he had run into something with bad associations from the past, but having him here at all was progress, and the piano was a strong ally. Hopefully he would continue to see Blythe's house as the mixture of positive and negative that it was.

"Yes, he'll be back soon with pizza. That and boxes. What else have you found so far?"

"That bedroom is mainly a storage room now. There are several photo albums and a box of pictures; I set those aside for you." His expression added the unspoken postscript that those were pictures that would need careful handling and probably would wind up in her own storage at the moment. He had gotten annoyed himself all over again at Blythe while looking at them. In every one, either it was a group shot, with the body language all but screaming the truth to the psychiatrist, or Greg had some sort of visible injury. "Blythe had obviously been sorting things back there. There is a separate box that has pictures just of John, but it wasn't with the other pictures. His clothes are simply gone."

House came to attention. "Even the uniforms in the closet?" John had always been ready for parade, even in retirement.

"Yes. There's are no clothes of his at all."

The differential expression came to life, the puzzle irresistible. "I can't see her having a backyard bonfire. Maybe she just threw them away or gave the undamaged clothes to Goodwill."

Cuddy was impressed, assigning Blythe a few posthumous points. She had at least wanted to spare her son that potential chore. "She'd cleared out everything of his?"

"Almost. The pictures, but the ones of just John were separate. There is basically nothing of his personal items back there. Most of what's in the closet is hers, summer weather things. She probably switched out the clothes with what was in the closet in the smaller bedroom each season. Other assorted storage things. I checked pockets; no keys, no box numbers at the bank, no paperwork." He offered her the written list he'd made from the room, and House leaned over to see it, too. "The furniture probably dates from John's days. It's in good shape, though. Easily salable at a secondhand shop."

"That's probably what we'll wind up doing with the furniture. Most of the furniture." She glanced at the piano. "One other thing, Greg. Did you see that little desk in the corner of the kitchen?"

He shuddered, remembering the table, and she squeezed his arm tightly. "No. I didn't look that far."

"I don't think that was around with John; it looks fairly new. Everything in it is current, too. It's very feminine. A miniature roll top with ivory drawer knobs. It can't be over 4 feet wide, if that, and it's not that heavy. I checked."

He sighed. "Let me get this straight. You want Mom's desk?"

"Not me exactly. I thought that maybe, eventually, one of the girls might like to have it." She gave him another squeeze, then stood up. "Just a minute." She headed for the kitchen, and Jensen sat down on the other side of House.

"Holding up okay?" he asked very softly. Nobody else in the room could have made out the words. The girls were absorbed in their play at the moment, and Marina was on the other side of the room and pointedly not watching the two men right now. Jensen had already worked out from her expression that whatever memory House had run into, she was aware of it and had seen his battle, but if House dodged answering, he would let him for now.

"It's the same kitchen table," House admitted after a moment, just as softly.

Jensen flinched. During sessions, he had heard many meal-time displays of John's sadistic streak. But House was still here in the living room, sitting down; he hadn't bolted outside and insisted on leaving. "You obviously beat the memories, though. That's good."

"With help," House qualified.

Jensen shrugged. "So what? That doesn't deduct points. Actually, it adds them."

Cuddy returned just then, sitting back down next to her husband and holding out the cell phone. "There."

House studied the picture. "That definitely wouldn't have been here when John was alive. He wouldn't have had something that sissy looking in the house. It is kind of cute, though." He easily could imagine his mother sitting at it.

"Would you mind if we had that around?" Cuddy asked carefully. "It would make a neat present for Rachel or Abby someday."

Rachel perked up immediately, her attention caught by the word. "Present? Where?"

They all laughed, and Wilson, coming down the hall just then, wanted in on the joke, so Cuddy explained about the desk again. He slipped into the kitchen for a look himself and returned, nodding.

"It does really look like her," he agreed.

"I have my grandfather's desk in my office, and I always enjoy the special significance," Jensen put in. "It's a neat connection to him."

House pictured Jensen's desk, which was far larger and more solid than this one. "Good thing you don't want to ship his," he said to Cuddy. "That thing probably weighs a ton. It's even bigger than your office desk, Lisa."

Rachel trotted into the kitchen for her own inspection, then returned, looking unimpressed. "Just a old desk," she dismissed, promptly refocusing on trying to get Mr. Bear to ride the stuffed Ember.

Wilson grinned. "One of these days, Rachel, you'll actually want grown-up stuff."

"Greg?" Cuddy asked.

"This one's lighter?" he asked. "I all but had to take out a loan to ship yours."

"Worth every penny," she assured him, giving him a quick kiss. "But yes, this one is much lighter. It's not solid wood, just veneer."

"You've already decided anyway," he grumbled, though he knew she hadn't. "Don't complain to me when you have to reshuffle your perfectly arranged furniture to stick it somewhere. Can't just put that in a box to keep until the girls are older."

"I know," Cuddy agreed, her mind already starting to gnaw on that logistical detail. "Thank you, Greg. How's it going, Wilson?"

"She liked romances and murder mysteries," the oncologist replied. "There are two bookcases full back there. Other than that, clothes mostly. I haven't found a will. I even looked under the mattress." He had been proud of that thought, thinking it fit in perfectly with her character and the books, but the bed was only a bed, not a safe deposit box.

"Did you look under the mattress, too?" Cuddy asked Jensen. He nodded. "Patsy said there's a retired lawyer at the center who might know who Blythe used, but he's out of town for a few weeks."

Just then, Thomas' rental car was heard pulling up outside. Wilson went out to see if he needed help carrying things, and a minute later, Thomas entered with two pizza boxes balanced on one hand, a sack of drinks and a Dairy Queen cup in the other. Wilson, entering right behind him, had a large pot with a bag of potting soil stuffed in it for easier carrying, as well as several flattened shipping boxes tucked under one arm. Thomas had left the door open for him, but the oncologist, his hands too full, dropped the boxes just as he came through it, and Cuddy jumped up to go rescue the pot and dirt.

"Thank you, Thomas," she said, setting them aside. "I suppose Blythe probably has a shovel in the garage or somewhere."

"I thought she would," he replied. "I wasn't sure about the pot and the soil. She doesn't seem to have houseplants, just yard plants." He set his pizza boxes down on the coffee table with the sack of drinks alongside, then offered the Dairy Queen cup to his son silently. House stared at it for a moment, and Cuddy watched carefully. The last time Thomas had given her husband a milkshake, House had pointedly paid him - over paid him - back in cash on the spot. The room seemed to be holding its breath for a few seconds. Then House took the cup, giving it a trial slurp. Chocolate. Thomas relaxed.

Rachel and Abby were both trying to pry into the rest of lunch already, Rachel into the pizza boxes, Abby into the sacks, since she already knew what pizza boxes held. Wilson finished picking up the scattered shipping boxes, closed the door, and propped them against the inside wall. "We need paper towels," he said. "Surely she at least had that, even if she didn't have a will." He headed for the kitchen, returning a minute later with a full roll. "And more chairs. I'll bring a few from the table."

House tensed up again, and Cuddy firmly vetoed. "No chairs, Wilson. We'll make it work with what's here."

Wilson looked puzzled for a moment, looking from her to House, then realized that must be John's table. Of course. "Yeah. Right. We'll fit somehow."

It took a little adjusting, but finally, they were all munching, Rachel in Marina's lap and Abby in Cuddy's. Rachel at first protested that the horse wanted pizza, too, but Thomas jumped in even ahead of Cuddy's firm negative. "Rachel, there's a problem there. Horses don't eat pizza." He was glad she liked it this much, though. Watching her hang onto that horse was worth a hundred times the price he'd paid for it.

She looked over at him, deferring to the actual-horsed expert. "They don't?"

"No. They don't like it. You know what horses like?"

"What?" she asked him.

"Carrots. They just love carrots." Rachel's expression was enough to make the rest of them smile. Carrots weren't among her favorites. "Vegetables are healthy, and horses know it. Your horse wouldn't want pizza, and we don't have carrots, so it will just miss this meal."

She looked at the horse, then slowly put it in the floor by Marina's feet. "Ember," she told him again. "My horsey is Ember. Like your horse."

He smiled at her. "Thank you, Rachel. I'm sure Ember is honored to share it. That's a good name."

Abby, looking over to her father's cup, suddenly came to attention. "DQ," she said. She reached out and traced the capital letters on the cup. "DQ." Thomas watched her, soaking it in. Cramped and inadequate seating or not, he was loving every minute of this lunch even more than the formal meals in the hotel dining room.

"Right," House told her. "DQ. Which spells yummy stuff. Speaking of which. . ." He grabbed another piece of meat lover's to illustrate and shoved down a too-large bite. This lunch was refreshing in a way. There was no greater antithesis to eating a meal at the table with John than eating pizza straight out of the box informally in the living room. The fact that this had been John's living room once just made it sweeter. He took another bite.

Conversation was kept light during the meal, but as House finished his last piece, he looked over at Cuddy, who was clearly both will-chasing and furniture-rearranging mentally while feeding herself and Abby. "Relax, Lisa. Even if there isn't a will, I'll get the house eventually anyway as her son."

"After a whole lot more hassle," Cuddy said. "She had that bad accident three years ago; she had to be aware something could happen. It would make perfect sense to make arrangements. So where is it?"

"You sure it's not in a book?" House asked Wilson. "You said she liked murder mysteries. Did you shake all of them out individually?"

"No," Wilson admitted. "It would have to be a pretty small will to fit there, though."

"Shake them out," Cuddy insisted. "And did you look under both sides of the mattress?"

"Yes, I looked under both sides of the mattress. Are you sure it isn't in that desk?"

"Positive."

"Unless there's a secret compartment," her husband threw in, getting into the spirit of the chase. "Maybe we'll fail today but discover it 10 years from now on one of the girls' birthdays when they get the desk as a present. Think of the irony. All those years, it was right in our own house under our noses, and we never knew."

She glared at him. "This is serious, Greg." She was glad he could be playful in this house, though, especially after the earlier flashback. He had come a long way in three years.

He stuck out his tongue at her and noisily slurped down the end of his milkshake. Thomas smiled, watching them, feeling the house itself seem to relax around him, finally free of John's influence.

(H/C)

The search continued all afternoon. Abby eventually fell asleep, though Rachel was determinedly not yielding to a nap today, a battle she would lose but much later than her sister. Marina took her outside to let her play in the back yard for a while; the temperature was chilly but warmer than the last few days, quite nice for January, really. Cuddy remained in the kitchen for a while sorting, but the box of old legal paperwork proved to be just that, not a will in sight, mostly old tax returns and things predating John's death. Thomas, firmly put on light duty by Cuddy, drifted around the house helping out where he could and trying to keep watching the girls and his son without getting objectionably close to them.

Wilson went back to the bookcases and shook out every last mystery on the shelf, coming up blank, but House, finally making his way into Blythe's bedroom, surprised him by picking up an old atlas. "You want that?" the oncologist said. "You're a walking atlas already."

"Something to teach the girls from," House said thoughtfully, his face distant. He and Blythe had taken imaginary trips from this atlas, another rare escape from his childhood prison. Oddly for someone who lived the constantly uprooted life of the military, she had always wanted to travel, not to be stationed somewhere but to really see it as a vacation. He was glad she had found that in her club the last few years.

Holding the book gently, he walked back to the living room, where boxes had been assembled and were being loaded for their ultimate destinations, and he put it into a Princeton box of pictures. He looked around the living room quickly - nobody in sight: Thomas in the kitchen watching Abby sleep and watching Rachel through the window; Cuddy in there with the paperwork; Jensen in the garage now - and then he picked up that Sound of Music book off the piano rack and the other few music books piled on the top corner. They might come in handy teaching Abby. He gently placed them in the box, then dug down, pulling out a few pictures to go back on top of the books, hiding them from view for the moment.

Rachel came back inside just then, and House moved quickly away from the boxes as she and Marina entered the living room, Thomas trailing like a sheepdog. She ran up to her father. "I can run like you."

"I know." He picked her up with an effort; she was more solid than Abby, and he wasn't sure how much longer this was going to work.

"Did you see me?"

"Not that time, Rachel, but I've seen you run lots of times. You're very good at it."

She yawned, rubbing her eyes. "I can run."

"I saw you," Thomas said tentatively from the doorway.

She turned to him immediately. "I can run fast."

"Yes, you can. I could see that."

House handed Rachel off to Marina and walked toward the piano. "What about a little more music, Rachel?" He settled in on the bench, again wishing for his cushion from home, and started playing. No Flight of the Bumblebee this time. He played soft, gentle melodies, and Rachel was asleep within 10 minutes. Marina stood up to go put her on the blanket in the kitchen with Abby. Thomas after a moment walked over to continue boxing pictures in slow motion, and House played on, thoughtful meandering around the keys, mostly light blues now.

A while later, Cuddy appeared in the living room doorway. "Come outside with me for a minute, Greg." She had Blythe's shovel in hand; Jensen had found it easily, though the garage didn't seem to contain a will any more than the rest of the house did.

Her husband sighed and stood up slowly. He needed to stretch his leg again anyway. This bench was murder on infarcted thighs. Cuddy picked up both of their coats and offered him his, then took the pot and the soil, and they went into the front yard.

The hours of work all this outdoor landscaping represented struck her all over again, especially given that Blythe had had slight balance issues and used a quad cane since being hit by a car. A true labor of love. "She did most of this after her accident," she said.

"Yeah." House turned away from her, limping heavily around the yard, inspecting the line of bushes. "This is your idea, you know, so you're the one who gets to dig in January."

"I know." She looked at the shrubs. "Which one do you want?"

He took another limping turn and then stopped. "You pick. You get to hold the damned thing the whole plane trip back."

Concealing her smile, she plotted her attack on the shrub he had stopped next to. The ground was hard to dig in in January, using a shovel was unfamiliar, and she was sweating by the time she had the bush potted. The remainder of the sack of soil neatly filled the hole; she wondered how many times over the years Thomas had seen Emily gauging potting soil required to job. He clearly had an eye for it. House watched her work, looking away every time he thought she might be watching him. With the bush safely prepared for transplant, she started to carry it back into the house, then changed course and simply took it to the van. It was already at outside temperature anyway.

House smoothed out the disturbed dirt a little with his foot. "If Patsy's brother docks us the price of one bush, just remember who stole it." He suddenly smiled, one of his rare full smiles that lit his whole face, as she walked back from the van. She was still holding the shovel, planning to return it to the house.

"What?" she demanded suspiciously, and in the next moment, he had pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture. "Greg!" The hand without the shovel rose to check her hair.

"Now that is a picture I never thought I'd get. Lisa Cuddy-House with a shovel in hand, a couple of dirt stains, and hair out of place. Wonder what the hospital would think of that one."

She sighed. "Watch it, Greg. I'm armed." She brandished the shovel threateningly, and he turned in mock fear and made his best limp for the shelter of the house.

Back inside, the search was winding down. Wilson came out of the spare room just as Jensen returned from the garage. "I'd swear there's no will back there. And yes, I looked under that mattress, too. Both sides."

Jensen shook his head. "The garage is nicely organized, but there's nothing legal out there." Not that he had expected there to be. Even for Blythe, a garage would be an odd place to put your will. He had tackled the garage in order to find the shovel.

Cuddy felt the familiar irritation kicking in. "Damn it, Blythe!" she snapped. "You had to know things could happen, so why didn't you make arrangements?" She couldn't resist a quick, guilty look a moment later toward the kitchen, where the girls were asleep, and was glad they hadn't heard her swear.

"But we've looked everywhere," Wilson insisted. "There isn't a will here, so she must have . . ." He broke off as Thomas came to attention, his face suddenly looking eerily familiar.

"The piano bench," he stated, not a suggestion but a fact. "If she wanted to make sure that Greg would be able to find something important without her around to ask, she would put it in the piano bench."

"But he hardly ever uses music," Cuddy protested, then stopped. "You're right. She would." A sweet thought, trying to make things easier for her son, but based on incomplete knowledge of him. Perfectly Blythe.

House had already limped over to the bench he had spent a few hours sitting on today, and he opened it quickly. Two more elementary level music books. Below that a stapled couple of typed pages titled clearly across the top Last Will and Testament. Below that an envelope, sealed, and written across the front in his mother's unmistakable handwriting was, "To Greg, to be opened upon my death."

He stood there stunned, staring at it, a letter from beyond the grave. Cuddy came up quickly to join him, and he numbly handed her the will, but she hardly looked at it, too busy following his riveted gaze. The others crowded around, everyone looking at the inscription. No one said a word. Slowly, House turned away from them, limping back to Blythe's bedroom, holding the sealed envelope as if it might burn his fingers, and the thud of the bedroom door as he closed it behind him echoed through the stilled house.