Sorry, Bettyq, but you're getting another cliffhanger.
Thanks to those of you reading, but especially those of your responding. It's nice to see how the work is being received. I'm especially grateful to phnxgrl and to Skateaway, whose lovely Firefly story "Breaking Stasis" I really need to get back to.
For those of you keeping track, I told you in the beginning it would take 52 weeks to tell this story, so we're closing in on the end.
Ghosts That Haunt—45
Mariah was simply worn out. It had been a trying week, and because there had been a security breach in one of the government offices, it had been a long week. It didn't help that Mariah's head was somewhere else—more than one somewhere else at that.
She had taken the intelligence she had gleaned from her off-the-books investigation of her husband and his supposedly true identity to her father, had given him the summary and copies of selected bits of evidence from which she had pieced together the truth. He had been tight-lipped since, other than asking for the full report, and refused to say what he'd done with what she'd learned or even whether he had given it to the Americans. She felt relatively certain he had shared it with Beckman. Mariah had taken to varying her routine and her routes to work, to the store, to home, just in case—because she wasn't sure she trusted the Americans at all at this point.
To make matters worse, her father had decided two days before to invite her to lunch. Hoping he might have word about John, she had eagerly locked the data she was analyzing in her office safe, closed her computer files and logged off before she scooped up her purse to meet him. She arrived first, and the maître d' showed her to their table. She was reading through the menu when her father arrived—with his blonde du jour.
It had been obvious he was seeing someone, but Mariah had been so wrapped up in her shattered private life she hadn't known who. It pissed her off to realize her father's current playmate was not only an employee of ISI but had gone through the Institute with Mariah. Debi Wallace was four years older than she and a decorated field agent. The last was enough to sour Mariah's day, especially since Mariah had been the one who graduated first in their class, who should have had first pick of assignments, but who had been denied because the boss listened to her father. Mariah's appetite was suddenly gone. After all, if her father was introducing them, it was more serious than most of his women. It also irritated Mariah that she could hardly complain about the age difference given the gap between her and John.
Lunch was a strained affair. Debi gloated, or that was Mariah's jaded view. Perhaps she wasn't being fair to Debi or her father, but Mariah was in no mood to be fair. As far as she was concerned, she didn't have to be. He was her father, she loved him unconditionally, but she didn't approve of his string of increasingly younger women. She supposed that if he really wanted to date the self-centered, he was welcome to do so, but she didn't have to be sympathetic when the inevitable end came. She would also prefer not to have the intrusion into the limited time her father could give her. It didn't help matters that Debi managed to make bladed conversation so that every remark she made cut to the bone, either.
As a result, Mariah went home with a pounding head. Early the next morning, her father came down to ICOM and closed her office door. Mariah wasn't feeling much better than she had the night before, and for her father to come to her meant whatever he was there for was likely not going to be pleasant. He sat in the spare chair across from her desk and hunched his shoulders, his right hand cradling his dead, gloved, left one between his open thighs. "I know what you're thinking," he said without preamble.
Mariah seriously doubted it, so she held her tongue.
"I know lunch didn't go well yesterday," he told her. "I was hoping we could try again."
Her heart sank. She had problems of her own, and her father's love life was low on her priority list at the moment. "Dad, I'd rather not. You're a grown up, and I really don't need to know."
"I like her, Mariah."
She sighed at his defensive tone. It was going to be another one of those, she suspected. They would have a hot and heavy romance, and then something would go wrong: his attention would wander, Debi's attention would wander, they would grow bored with one another, and then something would do it in. Mariah could wait it out. She had before. "I'm sure you do, Dad," she said, rubbing her tired eyes. She really hadn't slept much the night before, and her father's new lover had very little to do with it.
"I know the two of you never got along that well," he continued. "I also know that was mostly professional rivalry."
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes in disgust, Mariah crossed her arms on the desk in front of her. Debi wasn't her rival. Mariah had not been allowed in the field for several years. By then, Debi was beyond her league. Mariah hadn't resented that, nor had she resented the success of her classmates compared to her own stagnated career. If there was a rivalry, it wasn't on her side.
The truth of the matter was that Debi was the sort of woman Mariah had never liked. She was tall, willowy, and stunningly beautiful. Mariah was short, lean, and passably pretty. Debi probably got out of bed with every hair in place. These days Mariah couldn't get out of her apartment without at least one milk stain or Victoria's spit-up on her blouse. Everything probably fell into Debi's lap, too, and Mariah was more than a little tired of fighting for the things she wanted.
"I'd like to try this again, on your turf this time."
Mariah saw where this was going. She and her father had dinner each Wednesday night when they were both in the same city. They had resumed the tradition when she returned to Ottawa, but it had always been their alone time. She resented having Debi intrude on that. Even as she thought it, she realized her father must be more serious about Debi than Mariah thought if he wanted to bring her along. She sighed. "Fine."
Her father's crooked grin made an appearance and was quickly followed by his deadpan, "I'm glad you're so enthusiastic."
She didn't even try to conceal the glare she aimed at him. "What might Debi like for dinner?"
He shrugged, assured Mariah the other woman seemed to like everything, and excused himself, noted as he left that he would be out of town the rest of the day and would see her tomorrow evening for dinner.
At least Wednesday was one of her half days, Mariah thought as she roamed through the market that afternoon. She had decided to feed her father one of his least favorite meals as retaliation for inviting his girlfriend into her home and into their private time together, but as she walked along the fish stalls, she saw some truly beautiful fresh shrimp. She thought about angel hair pasta with the shrimp and a garlic wine sauce. Her father loved it. She chewed her lip, torn, but then walked on. By the time she found some excellent lamb chops, her mad had worn off some, so she bought the chops. Herbed and grilled, she would serve them with a rice pilaf and whatever fresh vegetables she could find. She'd follow with an Italian cream cake, she decided.
Mrs. Gerrard took one look at her as she hauled her purchases inside and suggested she let her prepare dinner. Mariah, tired and still not sleeping, appreciated the offer but declined, though she let the other woman unpack the bags and store the food away while she held her daughter and listened to Mrs. Gerrard's recitation of how they had spent the day. Mariah smiled at Victoria, who was at that stage where she could sit on her own and could babble. Mariah just stayed out of the way as the other woman rattled off a string of details about their walk in the park that afternoon. It had been unseasonably warm the last few days, and the ersatz nanny had taken to bundling Victoria up and taking her in her stroller through a nearby park. It made Mariah nervous as hell, but Mrs. Gerrard had once been one of ISI's best operatives. She wouldn't recklessly risk Victoria's life.
When they were alone again, Mariah cradled her daughter in her lap and talked softly to her. She wasn't sure why she did so. It was unlikely Victoria understood anything she said, but it made her feel better. Ironically, Mariah talked to her daughter about her grandfather, Mariah's father, and the woman he was bringing to their home that night. "Lucky you," she finished as Victoria yawned. "You get to sleep through it."
She put Victoria in her high chair, gave her a few toys she could chew on, and moved it next to where she worked. She made the cake and prepped the chops. She would marinade them, she decided, and prepared the marinade, chopping fresh rosemary and oregano.
In the early evening, she nursed her daughter, bathed her, and then rocked her until she fell asleep. Mariah put Victoria gently in her crib and turned on the monitor before she returned to preparing dinner.
Her father was always punctual, and she assumed that this evening would be no different. Perhaps that was why she jumped when the door buzzer went off thirty minutes before he was due. She called up the video, and frowned at Debi, noted the woman appeared to be alone. She pushed the button and asked, "Yes?"
"Your father had to pick up a package," Debi said. "He dropped me here and said to tell you he'll be about fifteen minutes late."
Mariah sighed. Great. She got to entertain Debi for forty-five minutes or more. She buzzed the other woman in then waited by the door for her to arrive.
As long as she didn't think about the fact that Debi would go home with her father, would likely spend the night with him, Mariah found it surprisingly easy to be civil to the other woman. She asked if she could help, but Mariah shook her head and suggested the other woman have a seat. Debi sat on one of the bar stools at the counter and watched as Mariah worked. Mariah offered her a drink, but Debi said that she'd help herself—if that was okay. Since she wasn't interested in waiting on the woman, she waved a hand at the sideboard behind Debi that passed as a bar and told her to go right ahead.
"Want anything?" Debi asked as Mariah put the rice on.
She shook her head. "Can't."
Debi made a face. "Why not?"
"Nursing."
There was a moment when Mariah wondered if the blonde thing was true, conveniently ignoring the fact that she, herself, was blonde. The other woman frowned, obviously puzzled. "I thought you were working in ICOM?"
She nearly rumbled one of John's growls. "I have a six-month-old daughter."
Understanding dawned slowly. For a smart woman, Debi had certain cognitive issues, Mariah thought snidely. Lounging against the counter near where Mariah worked, Debi sipped her martini. "That's right. You married the very yummy John Casey."
Mariah gritted her teeth and then resorted to channeling her husband by giving a not-quite grunt of agreement. It was that or demand to know how Debi could possibly know whether John was yummy or not. She did, though, drop a hand for a moment to the drawer where she kept a loaded Glock, rapidly calculated the odds, and removed her hand only when the other woman changed the subject.
"So where is she?" Debi asked.
"Asleep," Mariah said as she turned the lamb chops in their bag of marinade. She decided to focus on preparing the meal so she wasn't tempted to shoot the other woman and only briefly hoped Debi gave her an excuse to do exactly that. The chops sat on the counter where she would let them come close to room temperature before she started the grill. There were advantages to having a professional stove, she mused. One was that she didn't have to go out on the cold terrace to grill the chops.
The sharp smile that curved Debi's mouth when Mariah looked up should have warned her, but she was too tired to think what the little hint of smirk might mean. "It must have been so difficult for you to find out Casey isn't who he claimed," the other woman said, and Mariah's jaw clenched. "V. H. says you should consider a divorce."
Her father would have said no such thing, she knew, and certainly not to Debi if he had. Despite briefly considering a few very particular uses to which she could put the very sharp knives near to hand, she didn't change her grip on the chef's knife she held and simply said placidly, "I love my husband—and he is exactly who he claimed to be."
That seemed to be news to Debi, but Mariah didn't care. How dare that woman come into her home and take digs at her, at John?
Debi sipped her martini again and eyed Mariah over its rim. Privately, and completely without guilt, Mariah hoped she choked on the cocktail onion. "I see you're as blindly loyal as Casey."
She didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead, she put water on to boil for the fresh vegetables she planned to steam and started the grill. At least Debi hadn't called him Coburn. Mariah was certain she would not be able maintain her polite façade if the other woman used that name. She wasn't certain she wouldn't do her serious bodily harm if Debi mentioned it.
"Your father said Casey was fired."
Mariah didn't reply to that, either, remained focused on cooking. In an attempt to distract herself from contemplating—or actually committing—murder, she ran her mental checklist. She had set the table before Debi arrived, so that was done. She opened the bottle of wine she'd selected and carried it to the table so it could breathe. She would have to get her father to reach the wineglasses for her guests, but she would drink milk instead.
"So what have you been working on in ICOM?" Debi asked when it was clear that Mariah wouldn't talk about her marriage.
Knowing better than to gossip, especially since she was getting quite a few of the really sensitive assignments, she simply shrugged. "This and that."
Debi had resumed her seat on the bar stool. She leaned forward, both elbows on the counter, and cupped her martini glass in both hands. "Dave usually tells me."
Mariah could just imagine, especially if the other woman exposed as much cleavage as she did at the moment. She had to make a conscious effort to keep her tone even when she responded through gritted teeth, "I'm not Dave."
Her father apparently decided to use his key rather than have her buzz him in since she heard it turn in the lock as she shut off the stove and placed the last chop on the tray. Debi slid off her stool and made her way toward the door, and Mariah thought she could have at least taken a dish to the table on her way.
On tiptoes, Mariah reached for the wineglasses, not sure how long her father would take greeting Debi and unwilling to witness it. She was barely able to slide the glasses out of the rack from which they hung. She needed to think about having the rack lowered or about putting some glasses in an easier to reach spot. When she turned, a glass in each hand, she dropped them in shock.
She couldn't breathe, felt faint. Not at all certain she wasn't hallucinating, she started to rush forward, but John barked, "Don't move!"
For a moment, Mariah keenly felt rejected. Then, when he moved forward and lifted her, his arms around her waist, she remembered her bare feet and the shattered glasses. She wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders and neck and just clung to him, closed her eyes tightly. God, she had missed him.
She sincerely hoped she wasn't hallucinating. He felt real, solid, and she breathed in his scent. She clung because she was afraid she was imagining this, because she was afraid that if she released him, he would disappear again. For a moment, she thought she could forgive her father for foisting Debi on her because he brought her husband to her.
"Riah," John breathed in her ear, and she squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, tightened her arms around him. It had been so long since anyone had called her that, and to hear her husband's husky whisper made her want to cry.
"John," she whispered in return and blindly turned her face to his. He caught her mouth, and she kissed him back for all she was worth.
Her father, perhaps predictably, told Debi, "This is the part where he molests my daughter. Maybe we should just leave them to it."
John let her mouth go and shot a look at her father. "No one's keeping you," he growled.
"Are those lamb chops?" her father asked, but Mariah wasn't the least fooled by the innocent tone in his voice.
John turned and put her down away from the broken glass. Mariah retrieved a broom and started to efficiently sweep up the remains of the wineglasses. John stopped her and took the broom and the dustpan and nodded at the food waiting to go to the table. She walked around the counter and stepped carefully to where the bowls and platter sat. She would have to set another place, she realized, and then she worried whether the food would go far enough.
Perhaps it was the therapy she had undergone, but she realized she was worrying about mundane issues to avoid the big, ugly one: her husband, the man she loved, the man she married, had apparently lied to her, had at the very least omitted something vital about his past, and here he was, cleaning up broken glasses as if nothing had happened. Her hands shook when she reached to open the cabinet where she kept the plates. She took flatware out of the drawer, and she crossed to set a place for him at the table next to hers. She headed back to the kitchen and saw him reaching down more glasses. "Three," she told him as he reached for the second pair. She took a tumbler from the cabinet.
Dinner was odd. John said little, and neither did Mariah. Her father filled the gaps with help from Debi. The other woman asked a couple of prying questions before John gave her the Death Glare. Mariah admitted she enjoyed that. The good news was the other couple didn't stay long, and when Mariah had seen them to the door and spied John's bag next to it, she had a brief moment of panic, nearly begged her father to stay. He gave her a sympathetic look as he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Debi had already gone out into the hall and pushed the elevator button.
"Remember," her father said softly, "he didn't lie about everything, and there were reasons for what he did. Hear him out."
Mariah twisted her hands together as she walked back to John. He stood near the couch that faced the windows. "We need to talk."
"That's never good," she said, then regretted that the first thing she thought popped right out of her mouth, especially since it echoed what she had said to him the first time he'd said those words to her. She breathed in deeply and waved a hand at the couch that faced the windows. He waited for her to take a seat, and she folded herself into a corner, crossed her arms over her chest and pulled her bent legs up against them. John sat on the opposite end of the couch, and that made her uneasy. She wanted him beside her, but she knew they had things to say before they could see where this would go. It suddenly occurred to her that the last time he'd told her they needed to talk and they faced off from opposite ends of a sofa she had lost her virginity.
She fought down the momentary hysteria she felt at that thought.
Mariah had a sudden memory of a cartoon she had once seen in an old magazine. Two scientists were at a blackboard following a complex equation, and in the middle of the equation were words to the effect, "And then a miracle happens." Mariah rather thought she might need a miracle to survive this. The pain she had felt when she learned that John had once pretended to be Alexander Coburn, had loved a woman, had planned to marry her, and had never once mentioned her to Mariah had cut worse than anything she had ever experienced. He had a daughter ten years younger than she was, a grown woman, and he had told Mariah nothing about any of it. He had promised to be honest, to never lie to her, and she could argue that he hadn't, but he had hidden a significant piece of his history, a piece that partly made him who he was, and she couldn't help but wonder now what else he had kept from her.
He didn't look at her, and, somehow, that made it worse. "I should have told you," he began, and Mariah bit her lip to keep from agreeing. He had to say it, and he didn't need her to take cheap shots while he did so. "There are a lot of reasons I didn't, Riah, not the least because there really was an Alex Coburn, and he's dead." John sighed, rolled his shoulders forward a little. "I was never comfortable with anything connected to him—the real him or the part that was me pretending to be him."
It was coming out awkwardly, but it often did when John was talking off the cuff and wasn't sure what to say or where to go with something. That reassured her a little. She wasn't getting a practiced speech, a pat story, and that made her relax just a bit.
"None of us thought it would take this long to play this out," he said after a few moments. "When Keller was dishonorably discharged, disappeared, I hoped that was the end of it. Alex Coburn could go back to being dead. I can't say I didn't expect Keller to turn up sometime, but when he did, I thought at first he would threaten you and Victoria. I was stunned when he mentioned Kathleen and what he would do to her." He shot her a look then. "How he missed you, missed that I had married you, I don't understand. It isn't like our marriage wasn't public knowledge or that the Ring doesn't know. All I can assume is that he was sloppy, didn't look beyond the obvious because he knew how I felt about Kathleen."
John's eyes closed, and Mariah could read the pain there before they closed. Part of her wondered if this Keller had chosen Kathleen because he knew her danger would wound John more than Mariah's. "I didn't know about her daughter," he said. Something about that her worried Mariah. She wondered if his denial that she was his daughter, too, was self-preservation, wishful thinking, or rejection. He sighed. "The last time I talked to Kathleen, she told me she had big news. I thought it was about the wedding."
Mariah chewed her lower lip. As she watched him hunt for the words to continue, she felt guilt of her own. She hadn't told John she was pregnant the first time, either, hadn't told him about her miscarriage, but she had known he was still alive. Kathleen thought he—Alex—was dead. In some ways, she was less to blame than Mariah had been.
He lifted his head and looked at her. "Riah, I won't lie to you. I loved her. She was the love of my life, but I chose my country over her."
And there it was, Mariah thought numbly. He couldn't reconcile that choice now that he had stared at what he'd missed. She noted the past tense in his words, but she read present tense on his face. Mariah realized she was second choice once again. Suddenly, she was tired, so very, very tired. She knew what that meant, and she hugged her middle a little tighter and waited.
There was something expectant in his look, and she finally realized he was waiting for some kind of response from her. She wasn't sure she could make a civil one. She wanted to throw something at him. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him, wanted to hit him. She wanted to hold him and tell him she understood even though she was pretty sure she didn't. Instead, she said the one thing that had continuously run through her mind from the moment she'd learned about Alex Coburn: "This would have been so much easier if you had just told me." She had tried not to make that sound recriminatory, but she didn't think she had succeeded from the look on his face. "You told me about Ilsa, and while I didn't like that—especially not when she thought she could still have you—I coped. I think I could have taken this, too, John."
"Did you ever love someone so much it hurt?" he asked quietly.
Mariah felt the tears gather, and she looked down and away, determined not to let them fall. She nodded. She did. Him.
"That's how I love you, Riah," he said softly. Her head shot up and she looked at him, studied the naked honesty on his face. "That's how Alex Coburn loved her."
She felt that stab deeply. She breathed in once, then again. Pain squeezed tightly. He said Alex Coburn, but he was that man. She wondered if he was trying to tell her he still loved the other woman or if he was trying to tell her that love had been confined to his pretense to be Coburn. Whichever it was, Mariah wasn't willing to share, and she decided she would take John's advice from the Christmas when he proposed and be selfish for once in her life. John was hers. She had no intention of sharing him with this Kathleen, let alone stepping aside without a fight.
He must have read something in her face. "I've had some time to think about it," he said, and Mariah's heart sank, her courage retreated, certain he was about to tell her he'd made a choice and she and Victoria had lost. He changed tack, though. "I walked away from her for duty. I walked away because I had a job to do. I rarely regretted it, Riah, but once in a while I would remember her, remember what I felt for her." He rubbed a hand over his face. "When I met Ilsa, I thought I had finally let go of Kathleen. When Ilsa died—well, when I thought she died—I decided I was allergic to emotion." He swallowed, then shot her a sideways look.
"This might be easier if you said something," he told her ruefully.
She licked her dry lips, swallowed. "I simply don't know what to say, John," she told him. "You promised you'd never lie to me, and I suppose, technically, you didn't, but then I have our home invaded by representatives of your government. Suddenly, I'm being treated like a criminal, and no one, including Sarah Walker, will talk to me or tell me what's going on. They insist you aren't who you claimed, they tell me our marriage is invalid, and they tell me I'm no longer welcome and am being deported." She pulled her legs tighter against her arms and chest, forced herself to relax the muscles that tightened during that recitation. "Then I get here only to find out that apparently it's all true. I'm told about your . . . your Kathleen and your. . . daughter." She covered her eyes with a hand, swallowed. "My whole life with you suddenly looked like what a lot of my life has been: one big lie no one prepared me for. If there's anything I've learned, John, it's that secrets like that don't stay buried. They always surface."
Mariah lowered her hand. He was staring out over the lights of the city. When he said nothing, she continued. "I will admit our life started on a lie, but it became real—or so I thought." She floundered in her thoughts for a moment. "I feel for you, John, I really do. You made a choice many of us never have to actually make, and it wouldn't have been my choice—I don't think—but I need to know what you plan to do now. She's apparently free. She lives near you, which until they lift the deportation order, if they do, I won't be."
"Riah—"
"No," she cut him off. "I've seen how you are with Victoria. I know what you feel for our daughter. I find it hard to believe you can ignore a child of yours. Don't make a decision until you're sure, John. Don't make more promises to me, to us, you might not be able to keep." She studied him. "I don't know what's really going on here."
His expression was neutral, but his eyes gave away the truth. Strangely, the tightness in her chest eased a little at what she saw. She simply hoped she wasn't misreading him, wasn't seeing what she wanted rather than what was. "You don't need to explain that to me, not now, but you're going back to Burbank, and I'm going to be staying here for the moment. I don't like it, but that's the way it is. I presume that's to protect us." He gave her a spare, cautious nod. The tightness was back, and she had questions she would not ask, not yet. "Perhaps you should use the time to decide what you want."
"What do you want?" he asked.
She nearly told him, nearly said that she wanted him, wanted to go home, wanted to know that he wouldn't drag her into some dysfunctional relationship like those she had grown up with where the delicate dance around connections and family could turn metaphorically deadly. Instead, she said, "What I want isn't important right now. You have to decide what you want. Then we can deal."
It sounded heartless, even to Mariah, and she wondered if she said what she did to start the distancing process. She couldn't compete with a first love. They were legendarily the one no one ever got over. It was apparently true in John's case, and it was definitely true in hers. She knew she wouldn't get over him, knew she would love him always. She also knew she had to love him enough to let him do what he needed to, but she wasn't entirely sure she was that strong.
He looked at her, opened his mouth, then closed it again, chose not to say whatever it was he had been about to say. Mariah rolled her lower lip between her teeth and bit down, waited, and when she was certain he would say no more, she met his eyes. "You may stay here if you like," she offered tightly. "Victoria sleeps in the spare room, but there's a bed there—or you can sleep here."
She stood, and so did he. Those manners of his used to amuse her. Now they simply made her feel like they were strangers. He followed her back to the bedroom doors. She quietly turned the doorknob on Victoria's door and slowly pushed it open. John stepped inside, crossed to the crib in the corner and looked down at his daughter. Mariah wondered if he thought about that other daughter as he watched Victoria sleep. She had stayed in the doorway, but now she pushed away from the door jamb to go to her own room. Victoria stirred, gave a whimpering cry, and Mariah, by now familiar with her different cries, knew she wouldn't settle back into sleep.
John reached into the crib for his daughter, and Mariah listened as he softly talked to her. By the time he had Victoria cradled against his chest and turned to face Mariah, their daughter was making her displeasure known. Mariah stepped forward and reached for her, but John frowned and hugged Victoria a little closer. "She needs to be fed," she said quietly. "At this time of night, I usually change her first." To her surprise, he turned to do it.
It occurred to her that they were reduced to banalities and talking about their child. As she watched him, she chewed her lip, wondered how he felt about her having reminded him of a routine he knew well. It wasn't as if he had had time to forget, after all. When he was finished, she reached for Victoria. He disposed of the dirty diaper and followed her out of the bedroom. He washed his hands and Mariah stopped on her way to the rocker. He looked up, frowned. "Would you like to do it?" she asked quietly.
John looked confused, and then he flushed, waved a hand at her chest, and asked awkwardly, "Don't you have to . . . ?"
Victoria was just beginning to eat solids, and she usually fed her daughter a little cereal in the morning. She had nursed Victoria earlier, and she could probably wait to do so again in the early morning. There were two bottles of breast milk in the refrigerator, and if John wanted to feed Victoria, she could warm one and pump more while he fed their daughter. She explained she could heat a bottle before she renewed the offer, and he accepted, followed her into the kitchen, watched while she warmed the milk. She waved him to the couch, waited as he shed his jacket and the shoulder holster with the SIG Sauer and took a seat before she handed him the bottle and briefly explained what to do. When he seemed to have the hang of it, she moved to quietly begin clearing the table and load the dishwasher.
She heard John talk softly to Victoria, but she was too far away to hear what he said. She stacked the pots and pans in the sink and padded softly to her bedroom where she quietly closed the door behind her. Mariah tried not to think as she pumped milk. She needed to make sure Mrs. Gerrard had enough for the next day anyway, she thought, and tried hard not to mind that Victoria was nestled in her father's arms.
-X-
Casey cradled Victoria. Her blue eyes stared up at him as he held her and wished like hell his wife would take a seat beside him. He didn't know what to think, didn't know what Riah thought, but he knew he had to make this right.
He needed them back.
Victoria's tiny hand patted his fingers where they held the bottle. He smiled at her, something twisting in his chest as she patted at his hand once more, those big blue eyes locked on him all the while. "Any ideas how to get your mother to forgive me?" he whispered softly. Victoria's eyes blinked closed and then opened to focus on him once more. He thought about the look on his wife's face when she turned to see him standing there. Shock had been chased by a radiant happiness only to be replaced by searing hurt. He hated seeing that kind of pain on her face. He'd seen it all too often, but this had been one of the very few times he had been responsible for that look.
Riah moved quietly while she removed the remnants of dinner from the table. He could hear the occasional chink of china and the scrape of a utensil removing waste from a plate before she loaded them into the dishwasher. Victoria wiggled a little but continued draining the bottle. "I could really use the help here," he assured her. Her hand patted his again, faster this time.
He glanced across at his wife as she rinsed pans in the sink. He used the running water to mask his voice. "She seemed happy to see me," he mused, thought of how his wife had kissed him in those first moments after she saw him, and watched as Riah stacked the pots and pans in the sink. Victoria stiffened a moment and then relaxed, her feet kicking slightly. He lifted a brow and looked at his daughter. "I hope that isn't your way of telling me she's going to kick me out," he told her softly. He supposed he'd deserve it if Riah did, but he didn't intend to go quietly or without a fight.
"You know," he confided softly, "your dad's an idiot, but he loves your mother." Victoria's eyelids drooped a little. "I love you, too," he added. "Never forget that." He watched Riah walk from the large, open room to her bedroom door and close it softly behind her. He sagged, sighed, and focused on his daughter once more.
He didn't think Riah intended to divorce him, but there was a niggling doubt. He couldn't blame her if she did. He had promised her honesty, and he had hidden something that could—did—come back to haunt him. She was hurt, and a few times during that awkward conversation, she had looked like she might cry, and for once, he had half hoped she would so he had an excuse to hold her. That, of course, assumed she didn't use such proximity to do him damage.
Victoria finished her bottle, and he leaned forward, set it on the coffee table and sat her up, rubbed her tiny, soft back. His hand could almost cover his daughter's entire back, he marveled. Then he wondered who had done this for the other girl, wondered if Kathleen had been forced to care solely for her daughter or if she had had anyone to help. He thrust those thoughts away. Speculation would change nothing.
Obviously sleepy, Victoria yawned, so he took her to her room, sat in the chair Riah had placed there. She had a rocker in the living room, but Casey preferred the soft darkness of Victoria's small room and the larger, more comfortable armchair there. He thought about all those nights he sat with his wife while she fed their daughter, sat and talked softly about them, about their day, about Bartowski and Walker and Beckman, about how much he hated retail hell, about what they could be doing and where they could be instead. He lifted Victoria to his shoulder, rubbed her back gently. This was one of those moments he looked forward to, one of those moments that helped keep him sane, and he wondered if this would be one of the last times he'd have it.
He heard Riah leave her room. He didn't think she would keep Victoria from him, not even if she sent him away. The truth was, though, that if he couldn't get her to forgive him, he was unlikely to spend much time with Victoria. His job would keep him away from them, especially if Riah stayed in Canada. He lowered Victoria to his chest, and she settled against him, closed her eyes. He wanted desperately to keep this, to make things right with his wife, and he considered ways in which he might persuade her.
Because Casey was a well-trained professional and because it was quiet in the apartment and he was listening, he heard the soft pad of Riah's bare feet outside. He didn't look up, though, not yet ready to face her again. Their conversation earlier hadn't gone well, hadn't resolved anything, though he was grateful it hadn't involved screaming or tears. He needed time to plan, time to consider options, time to build his argument. He was well aware of how little time he had, but he couldn't rush this. It was too important. He relaxed a little when he heard her return to her room.
He continued to hold his daughter for quite a while, even after she went to sleep. He studied her face, noted the changes since he last saw her, memorized her features, the feel of her, the scent of her. He finally put her in her crib.
When he returned to the main part of Riah's loft, he looked around. His bag was still in the hall, but he knew he wouldn't sleep no matter how tired he might be. He was tempted to go to his wife's room, but Riah had made it plain he wasn't welcome there. He shoved a hand through his hair and headed toward the kitchen. He opened cabinets, looked for a glass, and when he had found one, he eyed the pans in the sink. He set the glass on the bar behind him, rolled up his sleeves, ran water, and washed the pots and pans. It took him a few tries to find where they went when he was finished, but he finally had them put away.
Picking up the glass once more, he returned to the living room, paused only to take the bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan scotch. He sat both on her coffee table before stripping off his tie and tossing it on the table next to his shoulder holster and weapon. Sitting, he splashed a healthy measure of scotch in his glass and sat back in the dark, looked out over the city lights and lifted the glass.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there in her dark living room thinking through various strategies for convincing Riah to forgive him, take him back, but he had splashed whisky in the glass several times. When he heard the doorknob turn, he nearly reached for his SIG on the coffee table before him until he realized it was Riah's bedroom door that opened. He sat back and silently watched her walk into the room where he sat and cross to the bookcases along the brick wall near where it joined the glass. She ran her fingers over the books, appeared to be searching for something from memory. Casey reached up and switched on the lamp next to him.