What He Offered

Chapter 34: Christmas Present

"Yeah, baby!" Booth put the post-game coverage on mute, and turned to Bones in triumph. "This is the year, you just wait and see, Bones. The Steelers are going all the way. Oh, yeah! Super Bowl forty-six here we come."

Bones put down the article she'd been reading, and regarded him levelly. She was not much of a fan of the game of football, but, to make the season endurable, she had selected a team to follow, and it did not play in Pittsburgh. She did not have the inclination to ride the emotional rollercoaster inherent in supporting a team with little better than an average chance of winning, and so she had done her research and picked the organization which, like herself, was generally acknowledged to be the best in the field. Of course, the fact that her choice made Booth crazy didn't hurt either. "The Patriots won their game today as well," she reminded him. "I agree that the Steelers are a lock to make the play-offs, but they'll have to beat New England in order to represent the AFC in the Super Bowl, and they haven't managed that very often in the last decade or so."

"Way to ruin a moment, Bones," Booth grumbled.

"I'm merely attempting to spare you the disappointments attendant on irrational optimism, Booth. I consider it my wifely duty."

He scowled. "You know, don't you, that rooting for the Pats is grounds for divorce in Pennsylvania?"

"It's fortunate for me, then, that we live in Virginia." She rose from her armchair, and made her way to the Christmas tree on the far side of the room. "I am so certain I will win our wager, that I have already purchased an officially-licensed Patriots jersey for you to wear when Tom Brady leads his team against the NFC champions next February." She drew a medium-sized, colorfully-wrapped package from under the tree, and brought it to him. "Care to guess whose number I chose for you?"

He crossed his arms, and stuck his hands in his armpits. "It's not Christmas for another two hours."

She placed the present on the couch beside him, and retreated to the nearby ottoman. "Let's call it a belated solstice gift, then. Happy New Astronomical Year, Booth!"

He picked up the present reluctantly, and gave it a shake. "Feels too heavy to be a jersey. 'Course you might have done some creative packaging…"

"Quit stalling!"

"All right, all right!" He detached the shimmery bow, and began tearing away the red and green wrapping paper. "But, just so you know, I'm not removing any of the tags, so you can exchange it for a smaller size Troy Polamalu jersey when the time comes." He lifted the top of the shirt box, and a flurry of white peanuts rose up and out onto the floor. "What the…?" Among the peanuts nestled, not the dreaded red, white and blue Wes Welker jersey, but two small, rectangular packages, each enveloped in plain brown paper. "Books?"

Eyes alight and lips pressed tight in anticipation, Bones said nothing.

He chose the lighter of the two, first. Inside the wrapping, he found a rather unpromising object: a cardboard-backed notebook with a worn cloth binding and grimy covers. He looked up at his wife, and raised his eyebrows.

"Open it," she suggested.

He took up the notebook, and turned back the front cover. At the top of the first page of unlined paper, he read, Dear Booth, it has been scant weeks, in calendar terms, since I watched you walk up the concourse away from me at Dulles International Airport, but it seems like an eternity. It has been universally acknowledged since Einstein that space and time are relative, so, perhaps this accounts for the dilation, but… "Bones? What is this?"

"They're the letters I wrote you when I was in Maluku. They're in journal form. I meant to mail the notebook to you in Afghanistan when I'd filled it, but, with one thing and another, I… never did."

Booth was flipping through page after page of neat writing and the odd little illustration. "I… I can't believe it! You wrote all this for me?"

"With you in mind, certainly. When I read, in 'The Tale of Twin Booths,' how much a phone call or letter would have meant to Vic, I remembered this notebook, and thought you might like to have it. I would have given it to you sooner, but I couldn't find it for the longest time. There's a second one, too, somewhere."

"This is so much nicer than a football jersey! Thank you, Bones!" He set the box on the floor, and, crossing the short distance between them, bent down and kissed her. "This might be the best present you've ever given me."

She grinned up at him. "Better than the tommy guns?"

"Those were pretty sweet," he allowed.

"Don't forget: there's a second gift. You might like that one best of all."

"I can't imagine…" He resumed his seat on the couch, and took up the remaining package. It was a thicker, heavier rectangle: definitely a hardcover book. "An advance copy of your latest thriller?" he guessed.

"Find out for yourself."

He undid the wrapping, and discovered, as expected, a book. It had an onionskin dust wrapper, which, when removed, revealed a moderately thick volume bound in hand-tooled leather with tasteful gilt decoration. The front cover bore the title in gold-embossed letters: A Tale of Twin Booths. "No way," he said, softly. He quickly flipped to the title page, and there, on crisp matte paper, was his title, with his name, Seeley J. Booth, and that of his co-author, Phillip Cameron, PhD, neatly centered. "This is incredible!"

"It's a bespoke edition, the only one of its kind. Did you notice the frontispiece? It's one of three drawings I commissioned from Angela."

Opposite the title page was a pen and ink rendering of a Grecian urn decorated similarly to the one he had described in his story, with a man kitted out as a warrior pursuing a fleet-footed nymph with her head turned back over one shoulder. About midway through the text, there was a second illustration, showing the same urn, this time with the nymph chasing the warrior, and finally, opposite the page bearing the word "coda," was the urn featuring the nymph and warrior standing toe-to-toe, faces angled toward each other, only a second away from their lips meeting in a kiss. "I don't know what to say." He riffled the pages, releasing the pleasant smells of new paper and fresh ink, and ran his fingers over the maroon leather of the binding. "I'm… overwhelmed. I'll treasure it always."

"I'm so glad you like it. And, listen to this: I've pitched the book to my publishers, and they're definitely interested. Of course, it's more of a novella at its current length, so the tale will have to be fleshed out. We're thinking of adding chapters from the sisters' point of view; you know: their daddy issues counterbalancing the Booths' mommy issues. The working title is 'Twin Tales'."

"Hold on. Go back a bit. Who's this 'we' you're referring to?"

"Dr. Phil and myself, of course. Who else? We've been discussing it over the phone ever since the possibility of our working together came up over dinner."

Booth sat up, alarmed. "I thought the two of you were joking!"

"I don't know what would've made you think that. It's a perfectly viable project. My editor is wildly enthusiastic."

"But, Bones, it's much too personal! I never meant for anyone to read that stuff but you!"

Bones waved that objection away as trivial. "All proper names and professional details will be changed, obviously, and, if anyone does suspect the story is loosely based on us — which I don't envisage happening — we'll simply deny it. And, the book will be published under a pseudonym — we can't decide between 'Brennan S. Cameron' or 'Cameron S. Brennan' — so that will further muddy the waters. If it relieves your mind, you can have as much input on the final draft as you'd like."

That mollified him, somewhat. "And, if I still object once it's done, then what?"

"Well, then, we'd have to abandon the book, and return any advance the publisher gave us, which would be a shame since that amount, and anything we earn in royalties could be donated to benefit returning war veterans and their families."

Booth was intrigued. "Do you think the royalties would amount to very much?"

Bones shrugged. "Who can say? The publishing world is unpredictable. And, by the way, I'm only talking about our share of the royalties. Phil will do what he likes with his own."

"So, now he's 'Phil,' is he?"

"My relationship to your former therapist is collegial in nature, one writer to another, not patient to doctor. I'm scarcely going to insist on being called 'Dr. Temperance,' after all! Besides, he's so easy-going, it's hard to stand on ceremony with him. I didn't expect to like him, as you know, but he seems to have a combination of Sweets' and Chef Wyatt's best qualities and none of their hidden agendas. I quite enjoy collaborating with him."

"I can't say I'm liking the sound of this, Bones," he growled.

"Honestly, Booth, you're not going to have a fit of jealousy, are you?"

He considered her narrowly for a moment, and then, in a decisive fashion, got to his feet. "No, and I'll tell you why. Or, rather…" He retrieved a squarish parcel from under the tree, and offered it to her. "I'll show you."

She did not quibble about its not being Christmas Day, but accepted the present, and took a moment to admire the opulent foil paper and enormous satin bow. "You didn't wrap this yourself," she deduced.

"No, Angela did it for me. You'll see why in a minute."

The paper once removed, there was a double layer of bubble wrap to deal with. Finally, the packaging disposed of, Bones lifted up a framed and matted print of a bright orange and white clown fish swimming down through an upper stratum of turquoise sea anemone tendrils toward a lower one of deep inky purple. Just above the lower edge of the mat, in beautiful calligraphy, were the words: "You and I, we're bound to one another." The print was signed and dated by Angela Montenegro.

Bones gazed a long moment at the print in her lap, and then, she lifted eyes brilliant with unshed tears to her husband, and smiled. "I love my Christmas present, Booth."

Her look, her words swept him back in time to another Christmas Eve, when he'd been standing with his son Parker out in the cold on the other side of a chain-link fence from her. She was standing at a window, a bright square against the darkness, holding her cell phone to her ear and gazing out at them. He'd been dazzled nearly speechless by the picture she made, and he remembered vividly thinking to himself, "'Man, oh, man, you are toast."

"Earth to Booth…"

He became aware of present-day Bones, on her feet now having just propped the framed print on the wide shelf below the fireplace, out of harm's way. "I was just thinking of the Christmas you celebrated with your family in the prison trailer. Remember? Parker and I decorated a tree, and set it up for you in the parking lot?"

"Yes, of course. What brought that to mind?"

"What you said just now: 'I love my Christmas present, Booth'." He shook his head, ruefully. "That guy back then? He didn't think he had a snowball's chance in hell with you, Temperance Brennan, but here I am, married to you, with three great kids, a wonderful home, and even a hardcover book to my credit!"

She waded through the discarded packing materials, and took the hands he held out to her. "You're happy." She beamed at him: no hint of a question, only gratified recognition.

"You know it! How 'bout you, Bones? Happy?"

"Incomparably."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." He drew her closer until they were standing toe-to-toe, then, released her hands and wrapped his arms around her waist. "So, it's you and me." He angled his head toward her; she raised hers slightly to his. They were nose to nose, now, their lips mere millimeters one from the other's. "Booth and his Bones, living happily ever after."

"Amen," she said.

And, the rest, as they say, is… steamboats.