"Where flowers bloom so does hope." – Lady Bird Johnson

"This is Prentiss."

"Emily, hi," I say, a little surprised by her gruff tone. It's been a while since things between us were strained. Usually she's been pleasant when we chat on the phone or meet up for coffee or lunch.

"Mom, hey," she says, her tone softening and the gruff tone disappearing. "Sorry, I didn't realize it was you." I smile at her explanation, feeling a warmth spread through me as she admits that the harsh tone was out of place in a conversation with me. A true sign that things have changed.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"Yes, but it's a welcome interruption," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "My eyes need a break from staring at paperwork."

"Oh, I remember those days," I say with a smile. I never thought I'd see the day that Emily would sit behind a desk for her career – she's always been a bit too restless for that – but this change has been nothing but good for her.

"I don't know how you did it for all those years. My inbox is overflowing, and even when I take some home with me I can't keep up."

"You learn to be very efficient on those rare days when you don't get interrupted," I say, a wry grin tugging at my lips.

"I haven't had any of those yet," she says with a chuckle. "I would love one though."

"All in due time."

"I hope," Emily says with another small chuckle. "So what's up?"

"I got a call earlier today from Jacqueline. You remember her, don't you?"

"She worked in Grandad's old store, didn't she?" Emily answers after a moment of silent thought. "He left it to her when he died, right?"

"Yes, that's right," I say with a smile as I recall the hours Emily had spent curled up in that very bookstore, with Jacqueline and Dad spoiling her rotten with delicious treats and new books.

"How is she?"

"She's good, and she says the store is doing well."

"Good."

"She called to let me know that she found some old letters while she was cleaning out your grandfather's old office."

"Letters?"

"Apparently your grandfather kept the letters he and your grandmother wrote to each other before they got married."

"Really?"

"So it seems."

"Is she going to send them over to you? I'd love to read them." The excitement in her tone is not lost on me. She'd been very close with him, and had always been curious about her grandmother.

"Actually, I thought I might fly over and visit."

"Oh?"

"Yes," I say with a nod, even though she can't see me. I take the briefest of moments to gather my courage before taking a breath. "And I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," I say in one breath. I'll admit, I'm secretly hoping that she'll agree to come with me. It's been some time since we spent any time together that was longer than the span of a lunch or dinner, and I would love to get a chance to really reconnect with her.

She stays quiet, and I fear my hopes will be crushed. I know she has work, and Derek to think about…but I find myself still hoping that the allure of visiting her grandfather's cabin and old store are enough to sway her. I know we're not the closest, thanks to many years' worth of our relationship being strained, but we've been working to mend it, and I like to think we're a lot closer than before…

"When were you thinking of going?" she asks finally.

"I hadn't decided yet. I was hoping to be able to talk to you and figure out when works for you too…" I answer honestly. "My schedule is much easier to work around now that I'm not tied to appointments and meetings."

"You know, I never thought I'd see the day you enjoyed not having to work," she teases.

"Yes, yes," I say as I shake my head. "I know. You've made it quite clear I was married to my career."

"I'm just teasing, Mom. I have to talk to my supervisor, and Derek, but I might be able to swing a week off."

"Really?" I say, unable to keep the excitement from creeping into my voice. I didn't think she'd actually be able to accompany me. She's still getting her feet wet in her new position, and is settling in to a relationship with Derek. Things are far from settled, and flying to France on an impromptu trip would just add to the overall upheaval in her life at the moment.

"Yeah," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice again. I smile at her tone – my daughter is actually happy to possibly travel with me. "I haven't been back there in a long time, and I should really check on the cabin…"

"Excellent. You'll let me know if you can make it work? Once you have a chance to speak with Derek, and your supervisor, I mean. Derek's welcome to join us, if you'd like. I'll cover the cost of the flights," I ramble, starting to get a bit ahead of myself as the prospect of a trip with my daughter becomes a real possibility.

I hear her chuckle. "Yes, Mom. I'll let you know. I think I'd like this trip to be just you and me though," she says, and I feel my heart swell. "Besides, I doubt Derek would be able to get the time off right now."

"Well, just let know once you hear for sure and I'll book the flights."

"Will do. I have to go though," she says apologetically. "I have a meeting that I unfortunately have to go to."

This time it's me who chuckles. "Have fun."

"Oh, I'm sure I won't," she replies with a groan. "Bye, Mom."

"Bye, Em," I say with a smile.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom. It's Emily."

"Emily," I say, as a smile spreads on my face. She calls more often now, and almost always answers when I call her, and yet every time I hear her voice, I can't help but smile. It wasn't so long ago that I thought I would never hear her voice again, so I treasure it every single time that I do hear it. "How are you?"

"I'm good, I was just calling to let you know that I spoke with my supervisor, and she let me know that I'm okay to have a week off at the end of the month."

"And Derek?"

"It's just going to be you and me. He can't get the time off right now."

"I'm sorry," I say, knowing she would have loved to take Derek and show him where she experienced so much joy in her childhood.

"It's okay. We both know all too well how difficult that job can be for making plans."

"Still, I know you would have loved to bring him to see your grandfather's cabin. And something tells me you would have shared your secret spot with him too."

It's easy to see how much she loves Derek, and how much he loves her. They look at each other the way Mom and Dad used to, and it warms my heart that my little girl has found that in her life.

"I'll just have to drag him over there another time," she answers, and I can hear the hints of disappointment in her tone.

"Yes, you will. I'll go ahead and book the flights and email you the details."

"Hey, is there any chance we can stay a day in Avignon?"

I frown. "Avignon?" We had never stayed there when Emily was younger, and as far as I know she doesn't have any ties to there…but then again as her apparent 'death' had proved, there is a whole side to Emily that I know absolutely nothing about.

"Yeah. Is that possible? I'll cover any extra costs."

"No, no. Don't worry about that. I'm sure I can make it work."

"Perfect. Thanks, Mom."

"Of course. Can I ask…why Avignon?"

I hear her let out an exhale before she answers. "There's a friend there I'd like to visit. I haven't seen her in a few years, and…I owe it to her to visit."

I frown at her response as I recognize it for what it is – a dodge. Clearly she doesn't want – or maybe isn't ready – to tell me the real reason. While I might have pushed her on it in years past, I decide that in this instance I should just let it go.

"Okay. I'll make the arrangements."

"Sounds good. Thanks, Mom."

"Thank you, Emily. I'm glad you're coming with me."

"I am too. I'll talk to you soon."

"Bye, Em."

"Bye, Mom."

"Did you want some company?" I ask carefully as I watch Emily pick at her nails – a telltale sign of stress for her. She's sitting on a chair in our hotel room, staring blankly at the wall, clearly thinking deeply about whatever it is that has us in Avignon in the first place.

Her hands stop twisting in her lap and she turns to face me. "Pardon?"

"I asked if you wanted some company," I repeat softly, noting just how full her eyes are with emotion. Whoever it is that she's visiting here in Avignon – it's taking a heavy emotional toll on her, and it has me a little worried. "I can just wait in the car, or pop into some nearby shops while you visit your friend."

"Oh, no, I'll be-" she begins, but stops herself and lets out a quick exhale. "Yes," she says with a nod after a second of careful thought. "That would be nice."

I nod in reply and offer a small smile that I hope brings some comfort and calm to her. I don't know what it is that's got her so distressed, but whatever it is I'm glad she's going to let me lend her some support. "There's a car downstairs with a driver. He just needs to know where we're going," I explain.

"Okay," she whispers as she rises to her feet. "Let's go then."

The two of us slide into the back of the car I'd arranged for us, and I try to avoid staring at Emily as she asks our driver – the same that had driven me around my last few times in Marseille – to take us somewhere she can get some fresh lavender flowers. Our driver lists off a few local florists, but Emily shakes her head. She wants to pick her own, even if it means a little bit of a drive.

I watch her face carefully as she converses with the driver, and I can't help but think that maybe she doesn't mind the drive because she needs the time to compose herself.

Our driver smiles as he tells us his family owns some land near Gordes where lavender is in full bloom. Emily smiles at his words and nods when he asks if the 45 minute trip is okay.

Close to 50 minutes later, we've arrived at the land our driver's family owns, and Emily and I step out of the car. The scent of lavender floats in the air, and I can't discern the predominant emotion on Emily's face. She seems to be simultaneously overwhelmed and yet determined.

"Why lavender?" I ask, wondering what the significance is.

"It's her favourite flower," Emily says with a small smile. Ah, so her friend is a woman – at least I'm getting pieces of information about our little detour.

We spend half an hour picking some flowers and enjoying the beauty of our surroundings before we climb back into the car and Emily gives our driver our next destination. I try to keep the shock off of my face when the GPS unit he types the address into tells him it's a cemetery.

I feel my heart clench at the realization. So that's why Emily has been so out of sorts since we landed in Avignon. She's visiting someone that she's lost. Someone who is clearly very important to her, given that she was adamant about getting fresh lavender flowers.

But who? Emily has spoken a few times about how most of her social interaction is with her former team at the BAU and work colleagues. It's not that she doesn't have friends – because she does – but not ones she would make a detour of thie magnitude for.

We drive in silence, and I find myself watching as Emily twirls the flowers and bunches them together, only to reposition several of them many times over. It's as though she doesn't know what to do with her hands, and instead is just keeping them busy as her mind races. And I know her mind is racing because she has that look in her eye. The same one I'd seen many times throughout her childhood, and a few times in her adulthood.

Just as she's about to reshuffle the flowers for what seems like the hundredth time, I reach over and grab her hand in mine. She looks up immediately, her eyes wide with surprise at my gesture. It has been many, many years since I'd shown this kind of affection, and it shows in Emily's reaction. A reaction which has me feeling tinges of regret and the tiniest of a furrow forming on my brow.

I meet her gaze and give her hand a comforting squeeze while offering a small smile. Her eyes flit down to our clasped hands and she returns the smile, but I can't help but notice the tinges of sadness in it.

It's a little over an hour before we reach the cemetery, but neither of us make any move to exit the vehicle once we arrive. I see her swallow a few times, no doubt trying to banish a lump of emotion that had lodged there as we drew nearer and nearer to her friend's final resting place.

Our driver, bless his heart, seemed to realize that we needed some time and quietly exited the car with a well-worn book under his arm. He took a seat on a nearby bench and leaned back as he cracked open the book.

"Her name was Tsia," Emily says quietly, bringing my attention back to her. I give her hand a squeeze of encouragement, watching as she fixes her gaze on the flowers in her lap. "I worked with her before I joined the FBI."

Ah, the mysterious time when she and I did not speak much, if at all. I used to believe that she had joined the FBI straight after she completed her master's degree, but the more I think about it, the more I realize a different agency may have gone after her. Her degree, her linguistic skills, her understanding of psychology, her compartmentalization skills…there's no way a different agency hadn't gone after her. It wouldn't surprise me if the CIA, or even INTERPOL had recruited her.

I wouldn't dare ask her. It's become one of those things that we don't talk about. I'm sure if I asked the right people I could find out exactly where she had worked. But the mere fact that she isn't willing to talk about it means that perhaps it's something I shouldn't know about.

"She was a good friend to me. Way better than I ever was to her," she says sadly.

"I'm sure that's not true, Emily," I say softly, doubting that Emily – the woman who cares so fiercely and so deeply for those she lets into her world – would ever be a terrible friend to someone she considered a close friend.

She shakes her head vehemently before meeting my gaze. "It is. It's my fault she's dead."

I frown at her words, and my shift in expression asks the question I can't quite verbalize.

She drops her gaze back to her lap before she offers an explanation. "I gave her some terrible advice, and she did exactly what I told her to do, and it got her killed."

I consider her words carefully, trying to place the circumstance on a timeline. It isn't making any sense to me. Just how long ago did she die? Where did this event fit onto Emily's already muddied timeline?

"Did you know it was bad advice at the time?" I ask gently, tilting her chin up so her eyes meet mine. I see tears threatening to fall and I feel a wave of worry wash over me. This is hitting her hard.

"No, but-"

I shake my head as I interrupt her excuse. "Emily, you can't hold yourself responsible for her death then. I don't know the circumstances, but I know you, and you would never do anything to hurt a friend."

"She's dead because of me," Emily retorts brokenly. "She got shot because of me. Because of what I told her to do. Because of what I did all those years ago."

What she did? I frown again, wondering just what this has to do with. And what did she mean all those years ago?

"What do you mean, Em?" I ask softly.

"I was reckless, but I couldn't just let them-" she begins but cuts herself off, apparently realizing what she'd revealed. My expression stays as is – conveying my worry. She shakes her head as she closes her eyes in frustration. "I can't tell you why."

My expression shifts to a frown. Was she just holding back because of our strained relationship, or was it the case that she wasn't permitted to? What exactly had my daughter gotten into during those years that we were so distant and she dropped off the face of the earth for months at a time? What kind of trouble had she been in?

"What do you mean, you can't tell me why?"

She sighs sadly. "It's classified."

I can't help my eyes from widening at her admission. Things begin to click into place, but it led to more questions. Had my daughter worked in intelligence? Covert missions? Had she dealt with sensitive information that had led to her friend getting killed? What was this 'reckless' thing that she's done?

"Classified?" I say, looking to make sure I hadn't misheard her. She nods. I put aside the dozens of questions swirling in my mind and instead focus on my daughter in this moment – who is looking so broken and lost, in a way that I hadn't seen in quite some time. "Was she your partner?"

"In a way, I suppose."

"Then she knew the dangers of the job, Em. She knew it could end in her death, just as you knew."

Emily stays quiet, apparently absorbing my words. I can only hope they sink in and she believes them. My daughter carries enough guilt around with her, she doesn't need more. I know she feels responsible for her friend Matthew Benton's death for whatever reason, and I know she feels terribly guilty over her own "death" and what it did to me and her friends.

"Come on, Em," I say, tugging her hand gently as I open the car door. "You came here to pay your respects to Tsia, and that's what you should do."

Emily allows me to pull her out of the car, but once the door shuts behind us she freezes. "Mom," she says as she shakes her head. "I don't think I can do this."

"Just think of it as a chat with a friend. Just tell her what you want her to know, and think of it as a one-sided conversation with her."

Emily nods at my words and takes a minute to compose herself before she walks purposefully into the cemetery. She somehow knows where she's going, and I watch as she winds down the pathway before stopping and facing a small grave stone. I turn away and shift my gaze to the trees to give her some privacy.

Minutes pass before she returns to my side and immediately wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. I hold her tightly, willing strength and comfort to flow from me and into her.

"All done?" I ask softly after we break the embrace.

She nods. "Yeah."

"Then let's go," I say, nodding toward our driver who just seemed to know we were ready to leave.

I begin to walk back to the car when I hear her call for me. "Mom?"

"Yes, Emily?"

She licks her lips as she stalls ever so briefly. "The one-sided conversation…did you do that at my grave?" she asks hesitantly.

I feel a thick wave of emotion wash over me as I remember those days I'd visited her grave and spoken to her for what felt like hours at a time. "Yes," I answer as a lump forms in my throat.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

I shake my head and wrap my arms around her again tightly. "Don't be, Emily. I got you back, and if it wasn't for all of that happening, I'm not sure you and I would be taking a trip together. Did I go through hell losing you? Absolutely. But I got my daughter back in my life because of it."

I feel her squeeze me that little bit tighter and I feel a sense of peace wash over us. Maybe she had finally started to let go of some of that guilt that she'd been carrying around. I pray that she has, because I think she's gone through more than enough strife and deserves some peace in her life.

So...did you enjoy this moment between mother and daughter? Was Emily's reaction to visiting Tsia's grave heart-breaking? Let me know.