Author's Note: For those of you new to this story, this is just a reminder that it is an AU(alternate universe). Those well-versed in Sholiver will definitely recognize that to be true because AU Oliver moves at a much different pace than what we see in the movies. And I have to admit, I'm rather enjoying it! Thank you to Martha Williamson for creating these beloved characters and to Eric Mabius and Kristin Booth for making them so real!

Chapter 7

"Oh my gosh, Oliver, you're not going to believe this!" Shane gently slid the clipping over to Oliver. She watched his face and waited for his reaction.

Oliver set the letter down and looked down at the paper Shane had put in front of him. It was yellowed but in remarkably legible condition. He scanned the paper. He remained silent, reading it several times. At one point, he looked up at Shane, seeking something. What? He wasn't sure. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, trying to contain unexpected tears. "Ah, ah..." He didn't realize Shane had moved to his side until her perfume filled his senses.

Shane put her hand on his arm. "Oliver, are you okay?" She leaned close to him. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Ahem, I, uh, am fine."

"What is it, Oliver?" Rita asked.

Oliver straightened himself, smoothing his tie. "This newspaper clipping that fell from the envelope is of rather historical and personal significance."

Rita reached for it but was stopped by Oliver's hand.

"I'm sorry, Rita. But given the age of this, it's best if we handle it as little as possible.

"What does it say?"

"Former Colorado Poet Laureate Joseph Lindley O'Toole presents Mrs. Margaret Brown, Denver, the Red Cross Volunteer of the Year, September 8, 1914."

Norman piped up. "Hey, what do you know? Another O'Toole!" Norman's face lit up. "Oh, wait, is that the same O'Toole as you?"

Oliver gave a single nod. "Yes, Joseph Lindley O'Toole was my great-grandfather. I never knew him, but my grandfather told me many stories about his service to the post office and his work as Poet Laureate for the state of Colorado." His voice carried the pride of his family roots.

"Wow, that's so cool!" Rita studied the picture. "Oh my gosh, Oliver, you look so much like your great-grandfather."

Shane took a closer look at the clipping. "Oliver, Rita's right. The resemblance is uncanny. I see where you get your penchant for suits." Shane's eyes kept moving back and forth between Oliver and the newspaper clipping. "Why does the name Margaret Brown sound familiar? Is there anything in the letter that gives us more information?"

Oliver turned back to the letter. "This letter came from England from a woman named Esther Hart."

"Would you read it, Oliver?" Shane asked.

"Dear Mrs. Brown,

I hope this finds you well. I am writing to express my deepest gratitude to you for your great kindness on that harrowing night of April 15, 1912. While I try to put that tragic evening out of my thoughts, I do occasionally recall the incredible acts of compassion and bravery that were shown that night."

All four of the DLO team members were silenced by the words Oliver read.

"Wait, Margaret Brown? April 15, 1912?" Shane asked.

"Yes. Oh my goodness." Oliver's face lit up as the pieces of the puzzle started fitting together. "Margaret Brown. She was a survivor of the Titanic, and she lived in Denver."

"I thought her name was Molly Brown," Norman said.

"Margaret Brown was Molly Brown, though, if I recall, she never went by that moniker. If I recall correctly, an author referred to her that way, and then the press picked up on it, and the name stuck."

"Only 706 out of 2,240 passengers survived the sinking of the Titanic. Sixty-one children didn't survive."

Shane's gasp drew everyone's attention. "That's so sad." Tears welled in her eyes, and with a blink, a single tear fell onto her cheek.

Oliver wanted to go to Shane to comfort her, but given their mixed company, he was limited in what he could do. He had to settle for expressing his emotions through a tender smile. "Let me continue."

"My cousin in Denver sent me this newspaper clipping. She recognized your name from news reports and thought we may have met on the Titanic. It reminded me that, in the middle of everything, I never properly thanked you for your assistance on that fateful night. Once we were safely ensconced on the Carpathia, my attempt to locate you was futile, given the commotion aboard the ship."

"In the midst of all the chaos and despair, your words of encouragement and your willingness to lend a helping hand provided me and my daughter, Eva, with the strength and hope to persevere despite what we lost. Having you by my side on the lifeboat and the comforting words you offered were actions that exemplified the very best of humanity."

Oliver stopped. The gravity of that night unfolded before them through the words of Esther Hart. "I can't imagine what it must have been like for those passengers to be woken from their sleep only to find themselves fighting for survival."

A silence enveloped the room, leaving his three colleagues speechless. The weight of the letter hung in the air, casting a somber atmosphere over them.

"Go on, Oliver," Shane whispered.

"Although the memories of that fateful night will never leave me, I take solace in knowing that I was not alone, thanks to individuals like you. Your generosity and empathy have touched my life in ways that words alone cannot convey, and for that, I am forever thankful.

With deepest appreciation,

Esther Hart"

Shane swept a single tear from her cheek.

"Team, we have unearthed a piece of history. Based on the age of this letter, I assume both the writer and recipient are deceased. So, it is up to us to determine who should now receive it."

Shane's fingers began flying over her keyboard. "Oliver, do you remember the images of Pennsylvania Street that I showed you? One of those was the Molly Brown house.

Oliver found himself next to Shane, looking over her shoulder. Even though the intrigue of their current letter occupied his mind, being so close to her was a challenging test of his ability to maintain a professional demeanor. As she flipped her hair back over her shoulder, the citrusy scent of her shampoo wafted toward him, reminding him of how his hands had woven through her blonde waves less than twenty-four hours before.

He stood, spellbound, until Shane brought him out of his musings.

"See, Oliver. It looks like the only building on that block that wasn't destroyed or converted to apartments."

"That's because it's a museum. I remember now. I went on a field trip there when I was in, oh, maybe the fifth grade."

"Oooh, I would love to see that."

"Duly noted, Ms. McInerney," he said under his breath.

"Oliver, I found a database for survivors of the Titanic. As I expected, Esther Hart is deceased, as is her daughter." She continued her search. Margaret Brown is, of course, deceased as well.

Shane released a disappointed sigh. "What do we do now?"

"Well, we look for the next of kin of Mrs. Brown, and then we'll forward it to them with a note explaining the circumstances around the delayed letter."

"That could take a while," Shane warned him.

"Press on, Ms. McInerney. I'm sure with your abilities, you will be able to track down a rightful heir to the letter."

#######

"Oliver, would you like to come over to my place tonight? I could grab dinner on the way home," Shane asked across the quiet DLO as she programmed her final search for the day.

Oliver's head jerked up from what he was reading and surveyed the room.

Shane flashed a subtle, knowing smile at Oliver. "Don't worry, Oliver. They're gone," she reassured him as she made her way to his desk.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Oliver's feigned ignorance wasn't convincing.

"Yes, you do." Shane nodded. "You wanted to make sure Norman and Rita weren't around to hear me asking you over for dinner."

He chuckled. Of course, she knew what he was doing. In the time he'd known her, he'd come to realize her intuition was usually spot on, and he had to admit, sometimes, he struggled to keep pace with her.

Oliver began straightening his desk. "Why don't I stop and pick up dinner and meet you at your house?"

She shook her head and said, "No, no, no. I invited you. Besides, I know a fabulous Italian restaurant with amazing food. Do you have any requests?"

Oliver rose and thought for a moment before answering. "Hmm, anything but clams."

Shane raised her eyebrows. "Okay, no clams." She slid her hand up the lapel of his jacket. "Why don't you stop at home and change into something more casual? That will give me time to pick up dinner."

His eyes followed her as she sailed out of the DLO, her blonde hair bouncing down her back. The navy blue dress she wore hugged every curve, and it had distracted him all day.

He made a quick stop at home to swap out of his suit and tie for something more relaxed. He chose a pair of dark slacks and a crisp button-down shirt worn under a cornflower blue cashmere sweater. It seemed an extravagant splurge at the time, but the saleswoman, who he thought surely was trying to make a sale, insisted that the sweater made his eyes appear "as blue as the summer sky."

Oliver couldn't believe he was spending a third evening in a row with Shane. Even during the brief time he dated Holly, they didn't see each other with such frequency. In retrospect, it should have been seen as a huge red flag, but his experiences with dating were somewhat limited, and when he met her, a long-term commitment wasn't something he could have foreseen. It just happened. And he had paid dearly for his lack of judiciousness when marrying his first wife.

Oliver huffed. If it weren't for Shane, he would still be married to the woman who left with no warning and barely a goodbye. It wasn't that Shane told him to find his wife and settle things, no, but she was definitely the spark that ignited his desire to do just that.

As he approached her bungalow, the soft glow of the porch light illuminated the swing. Though it sat empty tonight, it still held the promise of memories yet to be made. Winter would be here before they knew it, and soon, it would be time to put it away. Still, he was hopeful for the opportunity to make some of those memories before the season changed.

He found himself uncharacteristically nervous for the evening, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the notion of being in Shane's inner sanctum, her private space, that seemed more intimate than any time they'd spent together so far.

He knocked, and while waiting, he wondered about her style. The exterior gave off a distinctly vintage charm, but knowing her propensity for modern things, he was curious if, behind the door, he would find all things sleek and stainless steel in stark contrast to the exterior.

He felt the bubble of anticipation as footsteps approached. When the door swung open, he was met with her radiant smile, far brighter than the one she graced him with in the office. Her hair, usually worn down, was pulled up, with soft tendrils curled along her graceful neck. Her jeans, similar to the ones from the night before, grabbed his attention and were just as alluring. Her simple black sweater was the perfect backdrop for the gold necklace he'd noticed she wore every day, and he made a mental note to ask her about it.

He crossed the threshold into a foyer painted a soft canary yellow. It was a small and intimate space with just enough room for a coat rack and a small side table that held a bowl for keys and mail. The room felt warm, or maybe it was just him. Their chosen scents mixed and mingled to create a unique fragrance all its own. He stood stiffly for a moment before remembering the bottle of wine in his hands. "Oh, I thought we might enjoy this with our dinner."

The awkwardness that had been the hallmark of his teenage years reared its ugly head, and he stood there, unsure of what to do next. Should he kiss her hello? Hug her? He finally settled on a kiss on her cheek, but as he leaned in, she turned at just the right moment. Their lips gently touched, and what was meant to be a peck on the cheek became a passionate embrace fueled by the strong desire to do what he'd wanted to do all day.

He broke the kiss and stepped back. Apologetics replaced passion. "Please, forgive my brashness."

Shane leaned in, her lips still red from their kiss and tantalizingly close. "No forgiveness is needed, Oliver. I rather like your bold side."

He wanted to pull her into his arms again but was halted by her invitation into the living room. Large windows bookended the room, and he imagined the space drenched in both morning and late afternoon sun. But tonight, the curtains were drawn, and only a couple of small lamps cast a warm glow. Flames swirled and flickered in the fireplace that appeared to have once been wood-burning but had, at some point, been upgraded to a more modern and efficient gas unit.

An overstuffed white couch looked like the perfect place to relax with a book or, for Shane, maybe one of her electronic devices. A small television —well, small by today's standards—sat off to the side. It pleased him that the TV didn't appear to be the focal point of the room. Something in the corner of the room caught his eye, and he walked over to check it out.

"Oh, my goodness. Ms. McInerney, you never cease to surprise me."

Shane laughed. "I'm glad. I like surprising you." She walked over to join him.

"I never would have imagined you to have a turntable and albums." Oliver crouched down and began flipping through Shane's small but impressive album collection. "I see you like Billy Joel."

Shane's fingers tightened around the neck of the wine bottle. Her other hand rested on Oliver's shoulder. "Those belonged to my father," she murmured. "Those and the turntable. I didn't take much from him, but these had some sentimental value."

"Ah, well, it's a wonderful keepsake." Oliver rose. "Maybe we can listen to something later?"

The corner of Shane's mouth quirked up. "I would like that very much. It's been a while since we danced."

As they continued through the room, Oliver noticed the blue blanket she'd been wrapped in the night before. It lay haphazardly strewn across the corner of the sofa. In his house, it would have been folded and draped neatly across the back of the couch. Her way seemed more artistic and fit in with the ambiance she had created. It was decidedly feminine but not so much that he was uncomfortable.

"Uh, your home is lovely, Ms. McInerney."

"You sound surprised, Mr. O'Toole," she raised a brow.

His face flushed. "Not surprised. It just, ah, it wasn't quite what I expected."

Shane narrowed her eyes. "And what did you expect?"

Oliver's words came out haltingly. "Well, you, Ms. McInerney, are the epitome of a modern woman, all very high-tech and cutting-edge." He studied her face, measuring her reaction. When she crossed her arms and twisted her lips, he hurried to clarify his statement.

"I mean that as a compliment," he said, his eyes gentle and lips curling into a smile. "I mistakenly assumed that your house would be an extension of your preference for all things contemporary."

"Ah, well, Mr. O'Toole," she said. "I can see how you might make that assumption, but the truth is, I prefer cozy and comfortable, a place where I can retreat to at the end of a long day."

"Well, it certainly looks as though you could do that here."

Oliver found the dining room intimate, with just enough room for a table, chairs, and a small sideboard. The Pink Depression-era water glasses, positioned next to more contemporary wine glasses, were reminiscent of some that had lived in his grandmother's china cabinet for as long as he could remember. Shane's glass-topped table had natural wood table legs, which balanced the sleek and traditional. Placemats, napkins, and silverware were already on the table. All that was missing were plates of food. Shane's impressive talent for fusing styles made her home feel much warmer in comparison to his own, which had a more conservative and traditional style. He was curious what she would think of his style.

It was the kitchen where he saw a bit more of the modern Shane he'd come to know and love. Whoa! The idiom flitted so quickly and easily through his head. But where did that thought come from? He tried to turn off the notion by returning his attention to the white cabinets contrasted with sleek black countertops and stainless steel appliances. The candle and rose, which graced their table the night before, now took center stage on a quaint breakfast table. The wooden top, which bore a patina earned by years of wear, softened the sharp corners of the rest of the kitchen.

"Are you okay, Oliver? You're awfully quiet."

"I'm simply admiring the charm of your home."

Shane looked pleased. "Thank you. I was lucky to find it. My realtor said homes in this area don't come on the market very often. It reminds me of the house I grew up in." She busied herself getting dinner together.

Oliver fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. As Shane moved effortlessly around the kitchen, a sudden tightness gripped Oliver's chest. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the feeling that had suddenly overtaken him. The last time Oliver was in a kitchen with a woman was in his own home with Holly. Only then he was the one making dinner, while she waited impatiently. As Shane handed him a plate, the momentary tightness he experienced turned to warmth, and he found himself surprisingly relaxed.

They were finishing dinner, and Shane asked, "Oliver, I saw your reaction when you recognized your great-grandfather in that newspaper clipping. Did it upset you?"

Oliver put his fork down. "I don't know that upset is the right word. I was certainly caught off-guard. That was obvious." Oliver slowly sipped his wine, letting the subtle flavors unfold on his palette.

Shane covered his hand, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles and stopping where his wedding ring used to sit. 'You've never talked about your family."

"Well, there isn't much to tell. I never knew my great-grandfather. I was very close with my grandfather. He and my great-grandfather both had long-standing and highly decorated careers with the USPS."

"What about your father? Did he work for the USPS, too?"

Oliver lifted his glass and took a long sip. "Yes. He did."

"And?" Shane persisted.

His tone remained abrupt as he tried to cut the conversation short, saying, "And what?"

Shane rolled her eyes. "Did you work with your father at the USPS?"

"Ahem." Oliver's stomach sank. It had been so long since he'd talked about his father that he wasn't even sure where to begin or what to say. "I left home when I graduated high school. While I was in college, my father left the USPS, so no, we never worked together."

"Where's your dad now?"

"I don't know." He paused, not sure if he wanted to continue down this line of questioning. But then he looked at Shane and felt the softness of her hand squeezing his. He felt safe and encouraged to continue. "We have been estranged for almost 15 years."

Her brows knit together. "I don't understand."

"It's complicated."

"I'm sorry, Oliver, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Shane laced her fingers through Oliver's.

"No, you should know. My father cut me off from contact with my mother so I cut myself off from contact with him."

"What does that mean?"

Bolstered by her touch, Oliver took a deep breath. "My mother and father divorced when I was thirteen. It was the first divorce ever in the O'Toole family line. I remained with my father. My mother, a, uh, lovely but restless spirit, left and married a man I never met."

Shane blinked back the tears that filled her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Oliver. That must have been devastating for you."

Oliver looked at her tenderly. "Well, it appears you and I share the common thread of having a parent leave us."

Shane cringed. "I don't think that's something anyone wants to have in common. Where's your mother now?"

His jaw clenched, and a pained expression crossed his face. "One Friday, when I was seventeen, my father announced that she had died that Monday." Oliver struggled to get the words out.

Silent tears fell down Shane's cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Oliver."

Sadness clouded his features. "Thank you. It was a long time ago, and while the recollections of my mother have dimmed with time, the moment when I learned of her death has not."

Oliver stood, signaling the end of that topic, and began gathering their dinner plates. The heaviness of the conversation was dampening their evening, and he didn't want that.

"Oliver, stop. Let me do it."

"Ms. McInerney, I am certainly capable of helping with the dishes. Besides, you were responsible for dinner."

"All I did was order it and move it from to-go containers to the plates," she laughed.

"Either way, I want to help." They were both leaning across the table, gathering the remnants of dinner. "I may have an ulterior motive."

"And what is that, Mr. O'Toole?" Her eyes sparkled as their friendly back-and-forth banter was able to help dispel the tension from their earlier discussion.

"I seem to recall you mentioning it's been a long time since we danced."

Working together, they cleaned up dinner quickly. Oliver washed dishes while Shane dried them and put them away. "I thought for sure you would use your dishwasher," Oliver said.

"I do, but it's just as efficient to do it this way. Besides, I rather like seeing you up to your elbows in dish suds."

Even though he rarely did dishes by hand, preferring the convenience of a dishwasher, sharing this domestic chore with Shane was rather enjoyable.

They moved to the living room with cups of tea, and Oliver took a place on the couch. He watched as Shane moved to the turntable and pulled an album from the sleeve, setting it in position. She turned it on and set the stylus on the edge of the record.

Soon, the slow, mournful chords of Billy Joel filled the room. Oliver recognized the song immediately. It was the one they'd danced to just before he left for Paris. Maybe this was their do-over.

He held out his hand to Shane, and she took it. Oliver gently drew her close, intertwining his fingers with hers and holding her hand against his chest, where his heart beat with the deep resonance of a bass drum. His other hand wrapped around her waist, holding her tenderly. Her hand gently slid behind his neck, and he shivered as her fingers played with the tuft of hair that swirled there. Their eyes locked in a mutual gaze so intense that words became unnecessary.

Tonight's dance was about something other than spins or steps. No, tonight was about the intense emotions that surged whenever the two of them danced together. Oliver hadn't even realized the music stopped. They stood suspended in time. His hand moved from her waist to cradle her face in his hand. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, and he leaned in, his eyes piercing hers. Their quick breaths mingled between them. He closed the distance, and their lips met in a gentle yet electrifying kiss. His arms wrapped tighter around her, and he was lost in the pure euphoria of the moment. He savored the connection and closeness that had eluded him for so long, and now, he reveled in finally having found it.