Disclaimer: Oy with the disclaimers already.

AN: I tried to write the traditional winter holidays and it was so awful I deleted it. Thus the time jump ahead to January 2007. Sorry. I really couldn't make the holiday season work out. Assume Rory was in London, Lorelai hung out with Sookie, Luke spent time with April, and Richard and Emily were quietly melancholy and alone. There, see? Saved you 4,000 words of pointless maundering.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ignoring her half-eaten vegetable fried rice, Lorelai re-read the summary, looked up, and said to Paris, "Thank you. I mean it. This is in almost-English."

"My pleasure, and from what I've gathered from my sources, your father is in excellent hands, and this medication regimen is an intelligent preventive measure," said the younger woman in her crisp, decided way. "I think you should take note of the appendix, second page."

Sharing an amused glance with Rory, Lorelai did so. "Okay. Five most stressful events in life… moving, divorce... Oh my God, Dad…"

"Precisely. The less upsetting this process can be, the better for everyone's health, mental and physical, given the somatic effects we suffer from emotional stimuli. The human limbic system really isn't very well-designed for modern life, but I'm certain it served our ancestors well." Paris poked at her own food container, frowning. "I am almost positive this is not recyclable. Someone needs to talk to Panda Distress about that."

"Remind me again why she doesn't run the world?" quipped Lorelai to Rory.

"Too busy," said Rory sagely. "So Grandpa's had to do moving and divorce. What else… Oh my God, death!"

As Paris looked on in consternation, Lorelai suddenly and inappropriately burst into giggles. She laughed until her breath hitched, then her ribs hurt, and finally her eyes ran. She squealed, squeaked, and finally squawked, "How… Stressful… Is it… To be… Dead?"

"Wow," said Paris clinically. "Rory, should we do something?"

"Nope."

"This is typical?"

"This is stage three Lorelai-ing. Stage one, you freeze up. Stage two, you babble. Stage three, you get the giggles."

"What are the other stages?"

"Well, at stage four, you do something massively embarrassing. Mom? What qualifies as stage five?"

"You cancel your wedding or steal a motor vehicle," said Lorelai, recovering enough composure to breathe. "Okay. I'm better."

Paris's raised, disbelieving eyebrows nearly set her off again. Lorelai sipped very bitter tea, from a restaurant that only Paris would call Panda Distress, glad that the onlookers in the mall food court decided she wasn't the afternoon cabaret.

"You have a point," said Paris finally. "The dead aren't capable of stress. It's poor phrasing. C'mon, Gilmore, you're my ride, and I have intercourse scheduled with Doyle. Lorelai, always a pleasure."

Paris marched off. Rory and her mother shared a laughing glance, a shake of the head, and a hug. "Call," they said simultaneously.

Table covered in half-eaten things Paris called alleged food, Lorelai decided to enjoy people-watching. Couples. Singles. Kids. The food court was remarkably free of red and pink hearts, had no lobster, no hopes attached. It was a great way to unwind with the Vineyard anniversary a month away. People absorbed in themselves, unaware of pain or pretending bliss, affirming that there was life despite her lack of a partner to talk to the cable guy or run errands or whatever else came to mind.

The sad truth, as Lorelai had learned, was that few couples had equal share in those chores and errands. Someone always took more care of something. Kids, houses, earnings, dishes, cooking... There were always reasons for there to be unequal distribution. The man who made more money than the woman, for example, felt he had no need to take out the trash. That, for Lorelai, was probably the story of the guy walking next to a woman, with the woman toting four bags and the man carrying none. Then there was the woman with the two kids, juggling two large bags while the kids sucked on soft drinks and played on their phones. Her story was probably like Lorelai's, a single parent, harried, buying two of everything on sale, so tired that the smell of coffee lured her but after a glance at the prices, she walked away. That woman probably had to do everything herself, and so not everything got done.

A man and woman emerged from a department store, each pushing a stroller. The child being pushed by the man was larger, and snoozing. The child in the other stroller was probably a year old, and was making quiet babble noises. The man and woman (Lorelai hoped they were the parents) coordinated their steps in order to share a kiss. A perfect weekend afternoon, kids and all, but the earrings on the woman screamed apology diamonds to Lorelai. She'd seen such on women in Hartford all her childhood. Certain jewelry was for anniversaries, and some for apologies, and some…

Some was unsuitable, given to keep a woman's mouth shut and stave off whining and arguing over senseless marketing gimmick holidays. Because, after all, the woman would obviously throw a tantrum if she didn't get jewelry, rather than an immediate truthful, "I'm so messed up with this April thing, I forgot to buy something."

Truth was a much better gift than gold or diamonds.

Lorelai shoved Paris's summary into her bag, and cleared the table quickly, efficiently. She took out a pen and notebook. It was important, right now, for her to write down what she could, when she had no one to talk to, and no chance of interruptions.

Maybe all the naysayers could have said, "Gee, you're a single mom working insane hours and also trying to get a college degree and buy and run an inn, how about we stop complaining that your laundry isn't done on schedule. We could even shut up about your erratic dating life, what with you having time to see a guy for a cup of coffee before you need to run like hell to catch up to your to-do list before it gets further away from you."

Lorelai smiled, felt her face twist into a grimace. Her house was cluttered but clean, and the chores were done, and if she tried to cook from scratch, she'd have no time to eat. That was reality. She'd love a life so leisurely that her house looked amazing and her home-canned preserves won prizes at some fair. Of course, if she didn't have a job, or didn't try to pay her bills on time, or have a life outside her job and Rory… A snap of the fingers.

That, she knew, was something she and Luke needed to discuss. He really had no idea that she'd had it harder in some ways, and a moneyed childhood did not pay her adult bills. That was, she acknowledged, part of Rory's rejection of Lorelai's life. Rory wanted it to come easier, and more power to her, but…

She stopped writing in the teal-and-silver notebook. She steadied herself.

But, Luke, she printed carefully, it felt like she was criticizing me the same way Mom did. I didn't make it perfect enough, so it wasn't good enough. It sucks. Believe me, the whole tell-the-truth-thing ties into this. I told Rory the truth, but I didn't like admitting it. Nobody thinks their parents did it all okay. Everyone has something to point to that wasn't just-exactly-perfectly-as-desired. Some more than others. Maybe I should have left Rory to Emily, but without Rory to work for, I'd give up. I wasn't enough to do it for, and I'd probably have done nothing with my life at all but whatever I was told to do, as long as enough alcohol was involved. I can't stop feeling sorry for Chris about that. Seeing him as a lost kid and being there for him was like helping, in my head, and I didn't like seeing Rory the same way. I lost track of my thought, but the essence is, I'm writing this notebook in response to your notes, so maybe someday we can talk in person, stop being pen pals. Not right now, I know you've barely gotten through the first custody hearing with April's mom. I want to give you time to process and

Something tugged at her attention, a familiar way of moving and a hint of a chuckle.

She turned, and saw Luke. He was with a very fit blonde, both dressed as if they'd come to the mall after a nice exhilarating hike in the snow. It couldn't be true, she thought, that he'd be at a mall in Hartford, on a date, but when the blonde leaned over and kissed his lips, and he blushed and muttered, she knew it was true.

She flushed icy and hot simultaneously.

Hadn't he just written a note last week, saying Giving up on us was the worst mistake and I hope I can fix it?

They walked into a store that sold, of course, winter gear. When they emerged, Lorelai saw that Luke wore a warm knit cap, not the blue ball cap she'd bought him ages ago. His arm was around the blonde's waist, and hers around his. The body language didn't lie. Neither did the laughter, and the look they exchanged.

Lorelai turned her back. Her eyes and throat ached. She should have known. Actions. Words. Why did she think being allowed in the diner around April, once, meant anything? Why had she poured herself into this notebook, because of an hour and a cup of hot chocolate? Was she so desperate for love that she'd see hope in Luke giving her what he'd give Kirk in distress?

She wrote in the notebook, with deep-cutting strokes, But I see you're dating again so I guess you're done processing. You know how to be a dad and have a girlfriend. You stand up to April's mother in court. You told me it was easier to walk away and you wanted to try, like we only argued over wallpaper, when it was much more. For me, at least, it was a lot more.

She paused, drew several calming breaths, and finished with a slash of her pen. It was like blood, not ink, on the page.

I'm sending this notebook to you, not to make you feel bad or to cause trouble, but to show that I've learned a lot from my mistakes. That I can give you my truths. I started this notebook with apologies. I'll end it on gratitude. Thank you, and I hope the best for you.

She meant it. That was what hurt most, for Lorelai. She meant it. She'd learned much since the fragmentation of her life from the grenade of Who's the lucky guy? She had learned that, as much as she wanted to lash out with Who's the lucky girl?, that she had no claim on Luke, and possibly she never had. Actions spoke for him. She should have paid attention to those. That was on her.

She closed the notebook. She stopped at the post office on her way home. She mailed it. Properly.

There was one small comfort. She didn't miss coffee anymore.

GG GG GG

Richard sighed, and wiggled his toes.

Lorelai had worried he would not like the home foot spa machine for Christmas. He loved it. He beamed with pleasure at it, bubbling happily around his aching arches. She had babbled anxiously about his having everything and what could she add to that, but a foot spa turned out to be perfect.

The hell of taking a doctor's advice was that things hurt. For example, the treadmill was one thing, and walking miles about Hartford another. This peculiar exercise device meant to mimic cross-country skiing did wonders for his heart rate, but played havoc with his ankles for some reason. Why sore ankles led to pain in his back, Richard did not ask. He only knew that he hurt, and the foot spa took that away.

He sighed again, happily, and let little vibrating things rub the bottoms of his feet while warm water jetted against everything from the ankles down, all of it scented of citrus and mint. That had been Rory's contribution, a variety of cleansing, soothing, rejuvenating powders to add to the water. He had no idea if his qi was adjusted by the vibrations or if the little bubbles had actual therapeutic value, but he didn't care. His feet were being rubbed, massaged, warmed, soaked, tickled, all at once. It was delightful.

Someone knocked at the study door. "Mr. Gilmore? Your supper is ready."

That sigh was not a happy one. "Yes, Miss Cartman, thank you."

He switched off the machine and rubbed his feet dry. He put on socks and loafers. He rolled down his trouser legs. He walked into the small dining room.

The night's entrée was a rather interesting change, a lentil stew with crisp bits of toasted bread, and a rather odd-looking dessert. "May I ask what this is?"

"Oh. It's, well, sir…"

He smiled at her. She was a fine-looking middle-aged woman, who typically appeared only on Monday mornings to confirm the rest of the week's menu with him.

"We had a freezer malfunction," admitted Miss Cartman, color rising up her throat to her cheeks. "The sorbet is every berry I had in the freezer. In layers."

"Ah." Richard studied the cup. He could guess strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries, but the other color mystified him. "Green?"

"Gooseberry."

Once, Richard did not like Mondays. That time had gone. He lit up inside. "Gooseberry? As a boy, I loved gooseberry jam on toast." He rubbed his hands together. "Well now. I believe I signed off on the menu this morning, Miss Cartman, so that should be all."

"Sir?"

Mildly irked, Richard bit out, "Yes?"

"May I ask about the foot spa you were using? I don't want to intrude, but, well, I'm on my feet most of my day and…"

"Of course. I shall text you the make and model later."

She smiled, and he blinked. A woman's smile had not done that to him in some time. "Thank you, Mr. Gilmore. Enjoy your meal. Good night."

He thought, for a moment, of asking her to stay, but he knew the look of her. It was that of a woman who had built a business, who ran her business, who had business problems to deal with, and she would not rest until the issues were resolved. He respected that in her, as he did in his daughter, and in anyone who had a hands-on approach. She was not yelling at someone else to fix it. She was going to be on the phone herself, he could tell, all night if needed. She was already on it, dickering with an appliance rental firm, before she was out the back door. Though her voice was low, he lived in quiet, and heard the crisp, "Look, Victor, I know that you know I need a freezer, but if you…"

Richard dutifully ate his stew and little crisp rounds of whole-grain seed-enriched toast. He attacked the sorbet with glee. He wondered what Lorelai's inn could make of such a thing, with locally grown berries, and texted her. Then he tidied away his foot spa, settled in with his cup of evening green tea, and took his medication as scheduled.

The house was soft with its own noises, of heated air in ducts, and the tick of the mantel clock, the tiny rattle of windows in the gusting wind. The air smelled of his supper, and foot soak, and slightly of soap from the house cleaners, dominated by paper and ink when he opened his book.

The peace slipped into his bones.

It was strange, thought Richard, that he did not miss Emily as much as he had expected.

He was well into Far from the Madding Crowd when he recalled his promise to text Miss Cartman. Then he smiled, struck by an idea, and left his daughter a voice-mail instead. "Lorelai, my dear, could you find another of those marvelous foot spas? I will pay, it's a gift for someone I know who could use it."

Within moments, she'd returned the call. "Dad? Gift? I mean, sure, yes, I can pick up another one, and drop it by your house tomorrow if you want, but I didn't think I was missing anyone's birthday."

"Oh, it's not a birthday, it's for Miss Cartman. She asked about it, you see."

Many questions were loaded into Lorelai's simple, "Dad?"

Richard emitted a loud chuckle when he realized the implications of those unspoken inquiries. "Nothing like that, good heavens, it's simply a kindness to someone, and I realized this evening I don't have to worry about justifying the expense to anyone."

There was a busy, thinking silence before Lorelai said, "Like the time you were caught tipping the maid who starched your shirts the way you like."

"Precisely," said Richard, relieved that she did not directly refer to her mother, or any other unpleasant topic. "No rush, I won't see her until she drops by with next week's menu. Thank you, Lorelai."

"No problem, Dad. Thanks for… Uh, well, y'know. Thinking I can do something."

He boomed a laugh. "Good night, Lorelai."

"Good night, Dad. Oh wait, did you…"

"Yes, I took my medication."

Shaking his head as he set aside the phone, Richard smiled. It was nice, this life, in ways he never anticipated.

GG GG GG

AN: Yes, the characters are inconsistent, uneven, in their feelings about situations, selves, and others. Why? Becuse that is, sadly, consistent with human nature. E.G., dinners like the one in chapter 12 do not end with a mass exodus because the habit is to try to stick it out, per the show.

Blame for Luke, btw. I asked what aguy would do. My husband replied, "Something stupid that hurts everyone, because it'll look easier than embracing the suck." And there you have it...