Disclaimer: What? Yeah. Uh-huh. Theirs. *zzz*
AN: Whoops! Forgot today was a two-chapter day! Chapter 27 is now also posted. *headdesk*
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Emily studied the koi pond. It was meant to induce serenity.
The fish were dead. It seemed they had found ultimate serenity.
The expert from the boutique fish dealer shook tiny bits of water in little vials, held them against strips of paper, and jotted down notes. He scooped out the dead decorative carp, interring each in its own piscine body bag.
"Well?" asked Emily, comfortably seated nearby to watch for no real reason beyond boredom.
"Ammonia," said the expert, rising to his feet and tugging his trousers into place. "Filter issue, is my guess, koi put out ammonia, then it kills them. If you don't keep the ammonia levels acceptably low, the…"
"Yes, yes, you answered my question. The groundskeeper failed to maintain the pond properly, dead fish, I quite understand. I think a lily pond will be more my métier. You may send me the bill."
The koi expert hefted a toolbox that reminded Emily far too much of a certain much-despised diner owner. His expression was not quite neutral enough to hide his being taken aback by her unconcern. "You'll want me to take the deceased with me?"
Emily rolled her eyes heavenward, and flicked a finger toward the back gate. "For pity's sake, of course I do! What would I do with them? Have supper? Haven't you anywhere else to be?"
The man blew out a breath that might have been a farewell and profanity, and soon enough ceased to irritate Emily by his existence.
She watched the flutter of leaves in the breeze. She listened to the spish-spish of the artificial waterfall placed to appear as if it drained the koi pond into a bedded area of dense green Irish mosses. She felt the silky chill of her watch against her wrist. She tasted the faint fumes of traffic, mulch, fertilizer. She smelled quite strongly the jasmine tea in a cup and saucer balanced on her lap.
These, she had been informed, were excellent ways to enjoy life to its fullest.
Emily's anxiety strengthened.
She sipped the tea. Mindfulness was happiness, or so said the people at her day-spa. She minded the floral jasmine in her nostrils, and curling against her taste buds, like a bouquet on its last day.
She stared at the china. It was a new set, her own choosing, with the descriptive title of "evening opulence". The rims of all pieces looked a bit like black marble, with a 14-karat gold band inside it, that suited her new décor yet not restricted to it. The fineness of the design of the gold band intrigued Emily, reminding her of the interiors of opera houses and theaters she attended. It spoke to the heyday of wealth and the power of money to have beauty.
She listened to the clink of the cup on the saucer. It rang.
Her anxiety peaked.
Mindfulness gave her great awareness of her aloneness.
She took the cup and saucer to the house, and left them for the maid. She shouted, "I'm leaving but I have security cameras, you won't get away with anything!" Then she put on a nice tweed jacket, got into her car, and started to drive.
She did not have a destination.
She found herself at the Wadsworth, which was acceptable, and habitual. Museum attendance at random was never pitiable. She might even find a lecture or similar, which would provide her with some cachet. After all, self-improvement was never out of fashion, and a divorced woman could fly free, and so on.
Her chest tightened slightly when she heard a rich, rolling laugh.
She did not turn. She knew it was Richard.
She glided down the corridor to accost an employee for details on an upcoming temporary exhibit. Emily didn't know, nor care, about someone whose art looked like a child's painting to her, but she put on a face of attentive interest. The flustered employee recognized her name (a nice balm to her ego) and darted off to find someone more qualified to cope with Emily's simple request for information.
This allowed Emily to turn, casually, and catch sight of Richard, chatting away to one of his dull old Yale friends. By the look of it, they were sharing photographs of grandchildren or similar. The gleam in Richard's eyes told her he'd scored a coup. Obviously, the other man's grandchildren weren't Yale alumni.
The two men parted.
Richard had a bag from the gift shop. She wondered why. Her own birthday gift for Rory was a lovely set of Tiffany earrings, to be sent by insured shipping, upon the proper day. Even Richard couldn't think Rory would want some tacky postcards or dreadful resin-cast miniatures of sculptures. Her nostrils flared. Surely Richard wouldn't sink so low as to buy Rory an imitation Hermes scarf.
Twenty minutes and one useless conversation later, she strolled into the shop, told the cashier, "I can't replicate my husband's gift and he's been very secretive, can you tell me what…"
As it turned out, Richard had purchased a book titled 100 Things to Do in Connecticut. He'd also bought, apparently on a whim, some sort of artisan tea.
Emily smiled, thanked the clerk, and chose a book about Frida Kahlo. That, and earrings, trumped silliness by far.
She spent the afternoon shopping for a new wardrobe, only certain of one fact. If she stopped moving, she had to be mindful of her life, and that was not an insanity she could risk.
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October was a birthday month for a certain Gilmore. Luke tracked down her location, and shipped off a box of brownies and a bland card. Inside the card, he wrote Rory, chocolate-chip pancakes don't travel well. Luke.
It was small, but within the rules, such as they were. No hugging, no kissing, no flirting (even by indirect insults about eating habits and such), and no assuming. Brownies were perfectly fine.
On Rory's birthday, Lorelai showed up at the diner, first thing, in a soft gray-blue sweater that made Luke remember all over again how bright her eyes were. She announced, "She's not home. I can't tell her. I lost the tradition. I didn't want to wake her up, she's so tired, y'know, and I ended up leaving the story on her voice-mail." Lorelai perked up a little. "At exactly…"
"I know," interrupted Luke, and gave her a cup of strong-brewed green tea. They'd agreed she'd come by if she needed to, and there she was. He hadn't really expected her. It felt like he'd won something to see her there, giving him that trust. "You need to wallow?"
"No. Yes. I dunno. Sookie's still home with Anthony, and…" Her eyes filled, shone, and she resolutely shook her head. "It was scary, how tiny he was. I'm just glad they're both doing okay."
"Yeah. Me, too." Luke ducked behind the counter, grabbed the plate he needed from the pass-through, and delivered it to Taylor. Back at the counter, he asked Lorelai gently, "Do you need anything? Muffin? Spinach? Beer?"
She didn't smile. "I have to get to work."
"Got a second?" asked Luke hopefully.
"Thirty," said Lorelai with a cheerful smile belied by her lonely eyes..
He took something out from under the counter. "It's a picture."
"I see that," she said, with a small teasing smirk. "Pretty frame. It's…"
The photograph was an eight-by-ten family portrait. April insisted on having it done. She stood between her parents, Anna's arm around her, and Luke's hand on her shoulder. He'd worn a nice shirt and tie, shaved, gotten a haircut, the whole deal. He'd burst with pride, and awe, to see he was the dad of this amazing kid.
"Wow," said Lorelai, voice drooping. "Uh. Wow. This is great. Look at you."
He leaned on the counter, wanting to kick himself. He muttered, "Is it because Chris never showed up for something like this for you and Rory?"
Her glare almost stopped him.
"Look, I gotta ask, I can't decide what you're thinking, right?" he prevailed hopefully.
"True, no, you can't, and it's not Chris," she replied, and sipped some tea, forehead crinkled. "That's good tea. It's kinda sweet but it's not sugary."
"I put in a little honey," said Luke, and laid a hand on her wrist, very lightly. He retrieved the photo. "I'm not gloating. I'm not saying they're my family over…"
"Luke," interrupted Lorelai in a cool, fragile voice, "you have a family, that's good. Did you get pictures taken with Liz and April, too? Doula and April and Jess, the cousins?"
"Yeah, we did," he confirmed, clearing his throat, and hid the April photograph under the counter. He pulled out the other. He pointed out, rather unnecessarily, "This one's just me and Liz and April. And Doula. Couldn't get Jess, no shock there."
"I can see resemblances," said Lorelai, more steadily and honestly, with a hint of a frown that was also a smile, in that way she had. He still found it captivating. "A bit of chin here and eye shape, and I think there's a little nose thing trying to happen. And thanks for sending Rory something. I mean, I sent her something, and Dad did, and Emily did, but it was nice to send her the brownies."
"I'm screwing this up," he sighed, and ignored a cry from Kirk about a refill. "I'm, uh, that guy now, is all. The one who talks about his kid and shows off pictures and I'm making this worse. I know, okay? I wish… But we…"
His temper ignited. He wasn't certain why. It simply did.
"And I'm not going to act like I don't love my kid just because we lost one!"
His voice had risen.
He knew it when the busy clanking of forks and cups came to an abrupt halt.
Lorelai's face was red. She stood, voice very low, very rough, her teeth clenched. "I didn't ask you to. I don't expect you to."
The venom in her words burned through him, down to his anger, and left him paralyzed.
He gulped air, feebly.
"I can feel sad and glad at the same time, Luke," spat Lorelai, tossing her hair, and throwing a five-dollar bill on the counter. "Sad because I'm missing my kid, glad you're with yours!"
She snapped a glare at Kirk, who leapt out of her way despite still being seated, and walked out with her shoulders back and head held high, her heels clicking quick and ominous as gunfire.
Inner-Luke ordered, Move, go, talk, quick!
Luke shook his head. He had the diner. He had things. He had stuff. He had customers!
"Everyone out?" inquired Taylor snidely.
Luke dismissed him with a sneering look, then told Kirk, "Yeah, got it, more raspberry jam in the green jar, I'm on it, Kirk."
Kirk said humbly, "Thank you, Luke, and thank you for letting me finish my breakfast."
He nodded grimly. "You're welcome."
"Do you want me to…" began Lane under her breath as he passed her at the coffee pots.
"No, I'm fine," said Luke, ignoring that he knew very well he was not fine, and that he'd gone ahead and put the worst spin on Lorelai's uneven mood, and lashed out at her.
So much for giving these moments some time before asking about them. His inner Other-Luke proceeded to then give him a mental movie of every time he lost his temper and she had that same quivering sorrow in her gaze that meant she was hurt. Not angry. Hurt, you idiot, you're the anger-response man, she's the comfort-eating woman, get a grip, get outta here! Go get her!
At the grill, Cesar snatched the spatula away from him. "No way, boss. You mutter like that, everyone gets charcoal instead of food."
Luke wanted to shout at Cesar to mind his own damn business.
Cesar was, in fact, minding Luke's business. Literally. The one that depended upon his customers not fleeing again. He'd only had the regulars back for a year or so.
Cesar then said, "Guess Lane gets the twenty bucks."
"What twenty dollars?" asked Luke with a sense of impending disaster.
"Everyone's been betting on this stuff," shrugged Cesar, plating eggs and pancakes with a deft flick of the wrist. "She and I were betting who'd make the first big screw-up. I said Lorelai, she said you. Hey, look at it this way, Miss Patty talked everyone out of a town betting pool. Well, her and Jackson."
When two of the four biggest gossips in town declined to allow a gambling pool on something, it spoke to the somber nature of that something. Or, perhaps, they'd learned sensitivity. All Luke knew was how lousy he felt. He reached into his wallet, pulled out two ten-dollar bills, and handed them to Cesar. "For Lane. She gets tips, you don't."
Cesar grinned, said, "Order up!" and turned back to the grill.
Luke wondered if putting his hands on the hot surface would teach him to stop metaphorically burning himself. Knowing his luck, he concluded, it wouldn't.
Fear and habit rose, choking him. He went to deal with the register, and turned around to find himself face to… Well, at Lane's height, more her waving hand than her face. "You," she said fiercely, "you better not give up."
Luke brushed her aside, verbally, with a curt, "Me and Lorelai, it's complicated."
"I'm married to the front man in a rock band! Who has groupies! And sons pooping out foods they're not supposed to eat yet! Don't talk to me about complicated!"
Startled, Luke conceded she had some good points. They all seemed to be aimed at his throat.
"I really thought, okay, he figured it out, and here you are again," scolded Lane in a whisper. "Don't make me write a song about you!"
Somehow, Luke discovered he was no longer carrying his order pad, or his cleaning rag, and he was marching out the back door.
He heard a sudden, appalled, "Oh my God, I just talked to my boss like I do when Kwan knocks his breakfast on the floor."
As the door clicked shut, he heard Cesar's quiet, "Here's your twenty."
AN: Actually, I've no idea if the 100 Things to Do In… books were available in 2007, but I know there is one for Hartford, Connecticut. The museum in question does sell teas and books about Frida Kahlo. Now, anyway. And I don't own those books, or anything else you can recognize.
Lane's twins were born in March 2007 (based on air date of episode). I'm going on the assumption that, as in real life, someone (Mrs. Kim?) is possibly feeding them a little inappropriately for their age. There's always someone.
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