As we go inside, Kensi slips her hand into mine, gripping on tightly. I notice her fingers are chilly. "It's only a house," I whisper, not wanting her to set too much store by initial impressions.
"No, it's not. It's the house. Our house. Our dream house."
And she is right. This is definitely it: walking inside the house is like coming home and my heart sinks down into my boots. It would be hard to find a more perfect house. I know that we could be happy here: we could build our life together here. I've never wanted anything quite so badly in my whole life.
"The current owner has done some extensive remodelling," the realtor says. She's in her mid-forties and looks slightly harassed, like she's not been doing this for too long, otherwise surely she'd realise what a great piece of property this is. The minute word gets around, people are going to be lining up around the block to rent it.
"So I see." Kensi looks around, taking in the large open space that's been created by getting rid of all the interior walls that once divided the living and dining rooms from the kitchen, so that one whole side of the house is completely open, creating a large space that gives a clear view from front to back, where French windows open out onto an enclosed garden. It is so fucking perfect that neither of us can actually say anything.
"And the kitchen's completely new, " the realtor says eagerly, like we can't see that for ourselves. The poor woman doesn't realise she doesn't have to sell the house to us – it's doing that all by itself.
We just nod, standing there, looking around and knowing there is some huge mistake. We can never afford somewhere like this, with all these brand new hard wood floors, the fieldstone fireplace and the kitchen fitted out with state of the art stainless steel fixtures, wooden cabinets that echo the flooring and marble work tops. There's even a built in coffee maker, for crying out loud. We have slipped into some alternate reality.
The realtor pushes her hand through her hair, and smiles nervously at us. "And then there are two bedrooms and a bathroom over here. That's all new too. With a power shower."
"No jacuzzi?" I ask, only half joking. This place couldn't be more perfect if we'd written down all our fantasies and posted them off to Santa Claus.
"I'm afraid not. Is that a problem?"
I almost feel sorry for her. She's not going to last very long in this cut-throat world. The bedrooms are great – with the master situated at the back of the house, with another set of French doors leading out onto a deck that stretches across the whole back of the house, and then leads down into the garden, which is saturated in the golden light of dusk.
"There's no problem. None at all," Kensi assures her. "It's a great house. In fact, it's just what we've been looking for." I think she might be on the verge of tears.
The lady looks so relieved that for one minute I almost think she might hug us. "So you like it?"
"We like it." I squeeze Kensi's hand very hard, so that she doesn't say anything more. There's no sense in getting our hopes up any higher than they already are. "And pets are okay? We've got a dog, you see." There has to be some mistake here, after all. Only now I'm almost certain that Monty isn't going to be a problem. Or indeed that there aren't going to be any problems at all, because this house is meant for us.
"Dogs are fine," she assures us. Funnily enough, I had a feeling she was going to say that.
"And the rent?"
"Is it too high? My client is willing to negotiate. For the right couple." Okay, she's given the game away.
"The rent's fine. We're the right couple," Kensi assures here eagerly, completely missing the realtor's telling slip of the tongue. "We're both federal employees, and very reliable. And the rent is fine," she repeats." Little does she know we don't have to sell ourselves, even if we would both sell our souls for this house. It was ours before we even got here.
I'm glad Kensi is doing the talking, because I'm lost for words. Like I said, this is far too good to be true. Things like this do not happen. Unless… the more I think about it, the more suspicious I become. It was just a little too convenient the way that Nell just happened to know someone who happened to know about this house suddenly appearing on the market. And the fact that Hetty was conspicuous by her absence just about confirms it. As I know to my cost, Hetty is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Nothing happens in OSP that Hetty doesn't know about. Heck, she probably knows that I'm wearing my David Beckham specials today. She really should have been called Macavity.
"And we love the house, don't we?" Kensi is sensing that I've got a few doubts. Her whole body is tense, like she thinks I'm going to ruin everything.
"We love the house," I confirm and Kensi looks as if all her Christmases have come at once.
What's not to love, after all? This is being handed to us, all gift-wrapped, shiny and new. And I know exactly who the mysterious benefactor is. After all, Hetty has got more houses than most of us have overcoats. Some she lives in and others, it would appear, she rents out. So she wants to rent this house to us? Fair enough. She knows us, knows we're reliable (apart from my slight tendency to be accident prone) and although she would rather snog Leon Vance than admit it, I know she thinks of us as rather more than employees. We're not just her team, we're her family. And families help each other out. That's something I'm coming to realise, and it feels good. We havn't asked her to do this – this is something Hetty wants to do and it would be churlish to turn it down. Not to mention completely crazy and the quickest way to having my death certificate signed, courtesy of Kensi.
"So you'd like to take it?"
"We would." The words fly out of Kensi's mouth before the realtor has stopped speaking. If she had the papers to hand, I reckon Kensi would have snatched them out of her hand and signed there and then, just to make sure. As it is, we exchange details and the realtor makes arrangements to have everything couriered over to us tomorrow.
"I can't believe this is really happening." Kensi has wandered back into the main room, and is standing looking around in awe. "We're really going to live here." And then she leaps up into the air with a sharp exclamation, rubbing her butt at the same time.
"I was just pinching you. Like you asked me too – remember?" I remind her.
"That was then and this is now."
"And we are what we are?"
Kensi breaks into a smile when I say this, and I know she's thinking back to a time when neither of really knew what we felt – except confused. Only that was a very long time ago, when we were different people. Now we're a couple. We might even be Densi.
"We are. And we're happy, right?"
"Definitely." In fact, I'm so damned happy I pick her up and swing her around.
The realtor stands at the front door, giving us what can only be described as an indulgent smile. "I think you'll both be very happy here. And Monty too." That settles it. I know I've not said his name, and neither has Kensi. But I don't want to give the game away, so I let it pass without comment and Kensi is far too high to even notice that little slip.
Once we're all outside and have said our goodbyes, I wait until the realtor has got into her car and then walk over and lean in through the window. "By the way – tell Hetty she really shouldn't have done this, will you?"
She gives me guarded look. "I've no idea what you're talking about."
"Yeah, I know. But tell her all the same, okay?"
Hey, my mom might have had a lot of faults, but she did bring me up to be polite and to say 'please' and 'thank you'. And I know just how much I owe Hetty – not just for this house, but for pretty much everything in my life right now. I was drifting along like some kind of gypsy boy until she found me and brought me home. That woman has turned my life around: she's given me a new purpose, a new partner and now she's giving me a future. Somehow, I need to find a way to thank her.
"What was that about?" Kensi asks when I get into the Porsche.
"I was just thanking her for showing us the house so late on."
The engine purrs into life and once again the blood rushes just a little faster through my veins. I'll never take driving this car for granted, even if it has spoiled me for all other vehicles. It was almost worthwhile getting shot to get the Porsche. Now all I have to do is to try to persuade Hetty to upgrade Kensi's current car. She's worth so much more than a soccer-mom SUV after all. What she really needs is something sleek and sexy, and that packs one hell of a punch. I know, that's typecasting, isn't it?
I call Hetty early next morning. "We need to talk."
"Do we?" She does love to answer a question with a question, bless her heart. But I'm not going to give anything away – not just yet.
"I think so. How about we meet at your place - the one I was at before?" I'm careful to keep my voice as neutral as possible.
"I'll need an hour before I can meet you." She's playing for time.
"That's fine." I end the call, and try not to grin too hard. It couldn't be more perfect. An hour gives me just enough time to make my purchases.
"You're up to something, aren't you?" Kensi asks suspiciously. She's overheard my end of the call, but she has no idea who I was speaking to.
"I might be."
She gives me a searching look. "It's not something dangerous, or that's going to get you into trouble, is it?"
God, I hope not. Hetty might be small, but she's deadly. "Of course not," I say, with a confidence that might be completely misplaced. Still, a man's got to do what a man's got to do.
Kensi doesn't look as if she entirely believes me. "Be careful."
That's actually very good advice. "I will be."
It's almost exactly ten o'clock when I pull up outside Hetty's house, which is huge and impressive. I can't help thinking that she must need a small army of people to keep this place and the gardens in order. The lady has some serious money behind her. That must be nice… Not that I'm ever going to find out, of course. As the car wheels crunch over the neatly raked gravel driveway, the front door opens and Hetty walks out to meet me.
"Nice house," I say, with a casual nod of my head.
"It is," she agrees warily, like a chess player trying to gauge her opponent.
"We like the house we saw last night," I say, by way of an opening gambit. "It's just right for us. In fact, it's almost as if the owner knew us."
"Isn't that remarkable?" Just the merest hint of a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
"Quite remarkable. Whoever she is, she's a good person. We were getting pretty desperate, you know?"
"I've found that something usually turns up when one is least expecting it."
"Something – or someone?" I ask her. I don't believe in fairy godmothers, but I am prepared to think of Hetty as our very own guardian angel, right here on earth. She saved me from myself when she brought me into NCIS. God knows where I'd be right now if it wasn't for her.
"Does it matter?"
"Not really. All the matters is how things turn out in the end, I guess."
"And how have they turned out, Mr Deeks?" She knows we are talking about more than the house. We're talking about my life.
"You turned everything around, the day you made me sign those papers, you do know that, don't you?"
"Anyone listening to you would think I coerced you," Hetty chides gently, even though we both know she didn't exactly give me a choice. And as things turned out, she was quite right. Sometimes I'm too stubborn for my own good and I needed a dose of reality, in the form of a small but forceful woman to make me wake up and smell the coffee.
"How about we settle for the fact you were just acting in my own best interests? Even if I didn't quite know it at the time."
"LAPD was no place for you." She says this with complete conviction and I wonder just how much she knows about my time there. Too much, probably. Not that it really matters any more. That was then and this is now, and I'm a different person. Thanks in a large part to the interference of one Henrietta Lang.
"You're probably right. Sometimes I swear that I think you can read my mind, Hetty. Or maybe I should just give you my hand and you can read my palm and tell me the future?"
For some reason I actually stick out my hand, and she takes hold of it, smooths back my fingers and regards the lines gravely.
"I see a long life, and a happy life," she eventually pronounces. And you know something? I think I believe her.
"You didn't have to do that, you know? The house, I mean."
"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," Hetty says stoutly, but her eyes are sparkling.
"Yeah, right. And if you hold a guinea pig up by the tail, its eyes drop out." I grin down at her. "But I do appreciate it. Really."
"Sometimes one can have too many possessions, and they can serve to weigh you down," she muses.
"I hope this isn't going to add to your burden then." I reach into the car and pull out a carrier that's been sitting in the footwell of the passenger seat. "I wanted to get you something, just to let you know how much I appreciate what you did." Hell, that didn't come out right.
"You didn't need to do that – but thank you." She takes hold of the bag and clutches it to her chest.
"I know. But I wanted to. It's not much, but I just wanted to say 'thank you'. For caring." And I'm going bright red, I know I am. I'm standing in the middle of Hetty's driveway, and I just know that even the tips of my ears are burning and that she can probably feel the heat radiating off me.
"Nevertheless, it is very kind of you. And it means a lot." And now she is blushing too, so this seems as good a time as any for her to delve into the bag and pull out her gift. "Oh my."
"It's a Japanese maple," I say, probably superfluously. Looking around me, it's clear that Hetty probably knows more about plants than I do about surfing. Don't ask me why I picked on a bonsai tree as a gift, but maybe it was something to do with the years of artistry, skill and dedication that went into creating something so small and incredibly beautiful. Then again, the glazed pottery dish it is sitting in is almost exactly the colour of Hetty's eyes. Anyway, I saw it and I thought of her. I just hopes she likes it.
"It's beautiful." She strokes the leaves of the little tree with something approaching reverence. "And it was very thoughtful of you. Very thoughtful indeed. There's hope for you yet, Marty Deeks. If you don't kill us all through worry, that is."
We stand there awkwardly for a couple of minutes, neither of us sure what to do next. If this was a movie, then we'd probably hug – but I'm not going there and, thank God, neither is Hetty. So I shuffle from one foot to the other, ruining her neat gravel and she looks down at the maple tree, until the silence gets so tense that I simply have to break it.
"I guess I'd better be going into work now."
Hetty puts her head to one side. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
Please tell me she doesn't want me to kiss her? "Uh – am I?" Behind my back I've got all my fingers crossed.
"It's Saturday, Mr Deeks." Hetty turns sharply on her heel and walks back to her house, holding the bonsai out in front of her. "Do have fun with your furniture shopping, by the way."
One of these days, I will get the last word in a conversation with Hetty. One of these days – but I'm betting it won't be any time soon. That's just the way things are. And do you know what? I wouldn't have them any other way. Well, except for the shopping part, of course. Shopping and men are mutually exclusive concepts. It's just that women don't seem to understand this basic fact of life.
Just as I'm getting into the car, a small grey cat comes and intertwines itself around my ankles, in that cunning way cats do, trying their best to make you fall over and break your neck while pretending to be affectionate. I reach down to pet it and notice a name tag on its collar, with a single word on it: Macavity.
I'm still laughing as I accelerate down the drive and out of the gates.