Disclaimer: Again with the not-mine-ness.

AN: For some reason, site kept saying I did not update since two days ago. I did, so here is hoping this posts properly...

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lorelai waved until Rory's car was out of sight. It had been good to see her daughter. Not so great to see Logan remained her choice, but then, Lorelai was in no place to criticize someone's love life. Her own history proved it.

She went inside, into the kitchen (ignoring the fact Paul Anka was currently growling at the refrigerator because, well, it was Paul Anka). She reached up and pulled down the stair-ladder to the attic. She sneezed, climbed up, her bucket of cleaning supplies bumping her leg.

First, she cleaned the windows. Then she wiped the walls with a cloth, damp-clothed her boxes and other stored items, and finally dust-mopped the flooring. It was vinyl, in a dark wood grain pattern that showed every bit of dirt. The sand-warm walls, by contrast, looked creamy-clean. Nodding, she went on to her last step. She took down the little curtains from the windows in the gable ends, and put up new ones. They were identical to the old, crisp white with broad red ribbon tie-backs.

She carried down two boxes labeled Spring! Most contents were in their dollar-store bags. Cheap resin butterflies to set between the weather vanes. More pinwheels to line the walkway, maybe. Or she might, she concluded, surround the back porch with those. She had a month before spring arrived by season, if not by calendar, and lots of time to decide how to arrange little touches of cheer that weren't going to require a green thumb.

She plugged in her hot glue gun, assembled various bits and pieces, and settled in to make a springtime wreath for her front door. A plastic egg fell on the floor, sent the dog yelping for cover in his fireplace bed. Lorelai let him go, focused on cute little bright eggs, baby birds cut out of some indestructible material, a scarlet ribbon bow, white tulips made of what Lorelai hoped was fabric. "Day off," she ordered herself. "Do cute craft things. Therapy. Now."

She looked from the magazine to the things on her table, and did her best. She was glaring at the bow, glue gun in hand, teeth gripping her tongue as she concentrated, when the back door opened.

Lorelai threw the first available weapon. As it happened, it was a small plastic egg.

He flinched anyway.

"Hey," said Luke uncomfortably. "Red doors. Nice touch. Stands out. But, uh, why the back door, too?"

"Because it's my house and I can and the porch has red, too, it's very patriotic if I add some blue." Lorelai carefully placed the hot glue gun on the table, over a bit of foil, lest glue drip. "I didn't leave the key under the frog."

"I know."

"So how did you get in? And why?" Arms folded tight over her ribcage, Lorelai glanced at her phone, though she had no idea who she would call for rescue. "How did you find the key?"

"The windchimes are made of old keys."

"And?" seethed Lorelai, eyes stinging. She felt 911 becoming a real option. "I got it at the craft fair to raise funds for the high school drama department."

"So I figured that must be where you hid the housekey." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Um. I gave myself a month. To see if it was still the same."

"That's nice," replied Lorelai, marveling at the inanity of the conversation. "How have you been?" Mentally, she slapped herself for Most Banal Comment Ever. "Besides honing your Mission: Impossible skills." There, she decided, that was better.

"I'm good. I mean, not great, but good. Doula's good. Liz is good. TJ's insane. The usual."

"April?" asked Lorelai politely. "She'll be fourteen next month."

Something passed over his face, pained and pleased at once. "Yeah. Uh. Because of her age. The judge is taking her wishes into consideration. Final ruling's going to be right around her birthday. Anna can't move to New Mexico till the end of school this year, at least."

"Oh. New Mexico." Lorelai dredged up her very scant knowledge of Nardinis. "Her mom?"

"Yeah. I still say it's smarter to bring her mom to Connecticut." He shrugged, looked up the stair-ladder, began opening cupboards at random, closing them. "So. Uh. This is not going the way I planned."

"Tell me about it," muttered Lorelai, not without sarcasm. "Looking for something?"

He stopped turning over a mug that had a dragonfly on it, set it down, and shook his head. "Did you ever do something to prove you were over someone, and all it did was prove you weren't?"

"Not exactly that," hedged Lorelai, her thoughts going to Jason. Better what she could get than what she couldn't, had been the logic at the time. Needling Emily had allowed her an excuse, no more, and Lorelai mentally sighed at the shame she felt. To Luke, she said merely, "I understand the concept. Luke, why are you breaking into my house? I have a doorbell."

"Oh," said Luke. "I keep forgetting you have one. That works. Right. Sorry. Um."

Lorelai exploded, "Would you just spit it out? I have hobby craft stuff to do and silly movies to watch and a day off to enjoy, damn it!"

She slapped her hand right down on the glue gun. The tip was hot enough to melt acrylic. She hiccupped in pain, snatching her hand away.

The next thing she knew, Luke was holding her hand under cold running water, muttering, "Oh geez, where's the first-aid kit, you have one, right, you never have one, what am I thinking, oh wow, this is gonna blister, that's…"

Sobbing, Lorelai wobbled out, "First-aid kit. Drawer to left. Of stove. I cut. Salads. There."

He disappeared for a heartbeat, returned, and exclaimed, "Lavender oil? What the hell?"

"You have it in the kitchen at the diner," she accused, "it's all green and natural and non-toxic-ish!"

He did, in fact, have that exact burn ointment, of lavender essential oil, vitamin E oil, tea tree oil, and some other nice safe happy oil. Spattering grease meant burns, he'd told her when she'd teased he smelled like perfume. The idea of a non-icky ointment had appealed to her.

Luke dabbed the red blistering patch on her palm. Lorelai shook. The whole situation was wrong, and she wanted to run screaming. She blurted tearfully, "If we were right for each other, then we'd have worked, okay? And we didn't. And it sucks. And why're you here?"

Luke used non-stick gauze pads and tape to cover the injury. "So the blisters don't rupture too soon and you don't have direct contact with the ice."

He bustled off to her refrigerator, dug through the freezer for an ice cube, dropped it into a sandwich bag, and gave it to her to hold against her burn.

She wanted to banter, make distance, but she was too tired to quip about his making special trips to prevent blisters. She sank to a chair and watched dully as he unplugged the glue gun, poured two glasses of water, and sat down across from her.

"Why are you here?" she repeated mournfully, and stifled more sobs.

"You remember about wasted time and all in?"

She nodded. Her day worsened, against all expectations.

"I was seeing someone."

Proud that her voice was steady, Lorelai replied, "I know."

"Your dad said last fall. If we both wanted to try, to re-learn each other. We might. We could make it. And when you started to come back. The notebook. Coming to the diner that time. Y'know."

Lorelai picked at a fraying patch on her jeans. "Yes, I do know. I got the message, Luke. Actions speak. Yours said…"

He broke in, face taut, shoulders hunched. "That I'm a coward. I could do notes. I couldn't do more. I ran. It hurt Susan, and you, and I asked her out when I should have asked you. Same as Nicole. Same as Rachel, only that was… When you wore her jacket, I decided that meant you'd be like her, and leave, so why bother. Okay? I'm a coward."

Lorelai drank water. She digested his words. She pushed her emotions into a box for later examination, and said kindly, "I should've talked to you, not waited till I filled up a notebook. I was scared. So I waited. I shouldn't have. Life's not a romantic movie."

"No, it's not," agreed Luke a little too quickly for Lorelai's taste. His skin changed from flushed to pale, back to a strangely embarrassed-seeming red. "I should go."

Bewildered, Lorelai shrugged. "Okay. Lock up on your way out, since you know where the key goes." Mentally, she amended for now. If it meant no more such invasions, she'd simply stop hiding a spare key, and change the locks. Luke had always said she took work, but she wondered if he knew how exhausting he was. And for the first time, she did not append "Dirty!" to that thought.

GG GG GG

Life for the young moved in rapid, interlocking whirlwinds. School. University. Job. Marriage. Children. The points on the graph looked discrete* and self-contained. In reality, Richard knew, they were overlapping tornadoes, some of which engulfed others, and none of which were as tidily arranged as on the mythical maps of How Life Happened.

For example, Rory's best friend had twin sons, a husband, in the proper order. Rory was off interviewing for jobs in New York, while allegedly standing godmother to the twins, all in the flushed excitement of opportunity and disappointment. The godfather was no surprise, apparently, to hear Rory tell it at Sunday dinner. Brian played in the same band as Lane and Zach, was known to hold responsible jobs and be a very level-headed sort of young man, and was a long-time friend. It made sense, Rory had said, then dashed off to Yale to pack for a trip to somewhere for something.

Lorelai's expression reminded Richard of what it had been when he had done that. Home, supper, pack, business trip, gone.

"But it's all good," his daughter insisted, with the bright toothy smile she used to hide hurts. "I mean, it's what she's wanted, we've wanted for her. Get out there, carpe the diem, be the next super-journalist, win a Pulitzer."

Richard dutifully listened, while parking his old Mercedes in a spot by the glossy dealership office.

"And now I'm really glad I changed houses, I mean, three bedrooms for me and a dog, when my kid's gonna be jet-setting it in no time?"

The pain was too much to bear. Richard put his hand over her forearm and squeezed. "Lorelai."

She surrendered the façade more readily than he'd thought possible. "I know. It's just. I was okay. I was Wonder Woman, sort of. Grabbing my life by the whatevers. Unsinkable me. And now the jeep is dead and I can't stop crying."

Richard nodded understandingly. "The grieving process is a peculiar thing, Lorelai. I thought myself quite composed, quite settled, about my father. Then, in university, I encountered the smell of his cigars, and all the events in between did not matter. I believe I drank far too much and may have done something excessively stupid, but the point is…"

"The last straw," whispered his daughter. "When Gypsy said no more on the jeep. I wanted to ask for help. From Luke. But. I couldn't. He's in that life. The one he didn't want me in. No dogs or Lorelais allowed."

"The jeep?" prompted Richard.

"When you like a girl, you ask her out, right?"

"Of course."

"And if you're just friends, you don't."

Remaining baffled, Richard slowly agreed, "Correct."

Lorelai raised sorrow-filled blue eyes to his. "When the jeep died, I thought, hey, Luke keeps that old truck going, he'll know. But… I can't ask him. And the jeep… Dad, it's all I have left. That was just mine." She reached for her purse, fumbling until she found tissues. She blew her nose. "Then the jeep died, and there's this thing I bought, with money I earned by cleaning bathrooms and making beds, that meant I'd made it. I had a car. A big grown-up thing I did by myself. Nobody helping."

"Oh," slipped out of Richard as full comprehension set in. "Oh my dear."

"And now it's gone, too. Rory. Luke. The house. Coffee. It's all gone, Dad, and I feel like getting another car is… It's…"

Her hands tried to shape the words she needed.

Richard supplied them. "When you buy another car, you will feel as though you've betrayed yourself."

"Oh my God, I'm stupid," his daughter sobbed into her handful of tissues. "Certifiable nutjob stupid. It's a car. Who cares?"

A collector of antique autos, Richard could say much on the subject, but knew it was not the time. Later, he promised himself, he would tell her how the classic old autos gave him a sense he remained connected to fairy-tale worlds described by his mother and father. At the moment, Lorelai had to get a new car. She enjoyed riding her bicycle, he knew, but she could not be expected to ride it to New Haven to visit Rory, nor to Hartford, to visit him.

"I went to the library," his daughter announced as they left the sanctuary of the old Mercedes, rich with the scent of years of Richard's bay rum cologne and leather conditioner. "I know what the consumer advocate magazines say are best. I can't afford those. And it has to be able to fit Paul Anka in his doggy crate."

Richard's opinion of the cars around them was not repeatable in polite company. "I assume… I hope… You've narrowed it down?"

"These have space, these have safety, these have price," said Lorelai, handing him three different sheets of paper from her purse. The pink and purple stars around the border reassured him. He had feared Lorelai would resort to bland linen paper in some shade of not-quite-white. If colorful silliness was involved, then his daughter was not entirely lost to herself.

Richard harrumphed, took out his reading glasses, and studied the three sheets. "The cars you can afford do not all appear on the lists that have space and safety. Nor space or safety."

"Yeah, I know. And no, I don't want money, but if you've got advice, I'm all ears."

He studied her clothing. Something was odd. He pinpointed it as they approached the glass-walled building. "You are not dressed to, how do I put this nicely…"

"To use flirting to get my way?"

Richard reddened, cleared his throat, and admitted, "Well, yes."

"I tried that the other day," replied Lorelai forlornly, "and all I got was groped. And three invitations to dinner that sounded more like…" She scrunched up her face and deepened her voice. "Hey, baby, come up and see my stereo some time."

Despite himself, Richard chuckled, and put a kind hand on her shoulder. "Flattery didn't get them anywhere?"

"Nope. So today, I'm going in cold. Walking softly and bringing a big negotiator."

"Ah, my purpose revealed."

Within fifteen minutes, a greasy-seeming man was stuttering, "I, uh, I'm six feet even, sir, what does that have to do with, the, uh, this…"

"It's not my jeep," said Lorelai flatly, and left the Toyota sedan. "What else?"

What else took time. Test drives. Richard examining engines as if he understood any built after 1960. When Lorelai was browsing, worrying, comparing, or test-driving, he also took the time to walk to the dealership next door and do a bit of research. Negotiations always went better when a man came informed, if not actually armed.

Nine cars and five hours later, Richard found himself looming over a sales manager. He used his tried-and-true disarming, "What is your height?"

"Uh, five-six, what…"

"Fascinating. The average height of a man in America in your age group is closer to five-ten."

"Really," said the sales manager, sweating what may have been actual bullets of moisture. "Um…"

"Now, I grasp that this is business, I'm quite the businessman in some circles, and my daughter owns a business, we understand profit. I also understand profiteering."

"The, uh, base value of a…"

"Yes, yes, and I'm certain you're overpricing it by at least twenty-five percent, but you will reduce that to fifteen percent," said Richard smoothly, rather enjoying himself. "Do you see that young woman?"

"Er, yes?"

"That is my only child, and if she wants the nice safe Subaru Forest…"

He waited, smiling to himself. He always gave people that tiny comfort of superiority before he cut them off at the knees.

The manager corrected, on cue, "Forester."

"Then she will have it. It's only four years old, traded in for a smaller vehicle, I believe, unless the affiliated dealership next door lies."

The sales manager set his jaw and picked up a pen. "It's a good vehicle. But we do not have it in red. Or 'jeep green'. We have one, it is black, tan interior, the end, sir!"

"Which is fine," rumbled Richard, "but not at the price you're asking."

"I'll have you know…"

"Reduce the price, you oily little con artist," growled Richard, using his height to full advantage. "You will make a profit, my daughter has a car that meets her needs for space and also has an excellent safety record, and I will not call the man from whom your employer leases this land. I am not without influence."

"So buy the car for her!"

"I respect my daughter's independence," said Richard, startled to find the words for once did not stick slightly in his mind or throat. "Your price is reasonable, for a 2005 or 2006, but certainly not that year."

Agreeing while disagreeing was, for Richard, such a standard tactic that he wondered how anyone rose to the title of manager without being immune to it. It occurred to him that if he so desired, he could own the dealership within a month of being employed at any level in the place. It was a warm fuzzy glow in his soul to know he hadn't lost that wonderful it of success.

"Okay, got it, you're holding aces, I've got queens," said the sales manager. "But we're not detailing it!"

"That's fine," said Richard in his most affable, stately manner, smiling as he polished his reading glasses. He was, after all, only a harmless old duffer, wasn't he?

The sales manager glowered. He would never see Richard that way again.

"Excellent," boomed Richard. "Lorelai!"

His daughter had red cheeks, snapping fire in her eyes, and a stomp hidden in her stride. The salesman had obviously been pushing her to look at still more vehicles, including the showpiece of the place, a used BMW. "Yes, Dad?"

"The manager mistook the pricing," said Richard happily. "A bit of confusion on the model year."

The sales manager showed her the revised price. Lorelai sat down by her father in the hard plastic chair, blinking. "Um. Dad. You didn't. Y'know. Do. Something. With a checkbook, maybe?"

"On my honor, no. I simply was curious as to the odd pricing on the vehicle, and asked a few questions."

Lorelai scowled at him, but her expression eventually eased. "Okay. You're not lying, but you're doing that thing, aren't you?"

"What thing?" he protested innocently.

"Uh-huh, right." Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Okay, a black thing with tan interior feels way too Hartford, but… It runs, it'll fit the dog, and it can handle winter, so if it's really this price… I'm in."

"Excellent!" chorused the sales manager and Richard.

"I can always buy seat covers in pink leopard print or something," muttered Lorelai, and looked at her bankbook with a tiny scowl curling her forehead. "Thirty percent down, Dad? I hate to tap the savings, but I'm thinking lower payments every month would be better."

Something struck Richard, in that moment. First, she was asking advice without sarcasm. Second, she was thinking in a way he understood. Cost-price-risk-benefit, both short-term and long-term.

Third, and most surprising of all, he was proud of her. Genuinely proud, no reservations, no regrets, no qualifying adjectives. She was headstrong, rebellious, unwilling to accept aid or ask for it, and one damn sharp cookie.

"Celebratory supper?" asked Lorelai when they left the building. "Because I know you did something, Dad. That guy had that face. The one that said he'd been Gilmore'd."

"Now why ever would…" he began, and admitted, "Well, yes, I may have pushed a very little bit. No more than is proper, I assure you."

"I wish you hadn't. No, wait, Dad, I'm not saying I'm not saying thank you, I am!" she hurried out, and in the lines of her face, he saw himself, and his mother, and her mother. "I'd like to think someday I won't need anyone. I needed Rory to keep me going. I needed Luke to help me out. I needed help for Chilton. Being needy sucks."

So had she looked as a toddler, who could not yet tie her shoes. Not childish, merely tired of requiring help for what she felt was hers to do. Richard considered his words with great care. "We're human. We need."

"I wish we didn't." Lorelai turned, hugged him hared. "Because it hurts when people stop needing you."

"Rory," guessed Richard, and pecked Lorelai on her forehead. "Now, there's an excellent little restaurant not a mile away, you can follow me in your new old car."

Lorelai smiled thinly. "On me, Dad. I mean it."

As Richard started his beloved old Mercedes, he mused that as much as he missed Emily and Lorelai missed Luke, neither would admit to it. There was too much chance of finding out they were not missed in return. Or, as his daughter would say, needed.

GG GG GG

AN: Sadly, the car dealership is based on a real one. Happily, I also walked away with ten percent off the total price.

*Discrete: singular, self-contained, individual, as in a point of data in statistics or an event in time unconnected to others. Discreet: careful, subtle, unobtrusive.