Sources

Chapter 26

Sara swore under her breath, wrestling with the strap of her shoe. "Stupid strappy sandals, with their stupid high heels. It's all a plot by those male chauvinist shoe manufacturers. They're bent on ruining the bone structures of millions of women. Stupid."

"It's just for one evening, dear," Trudy chuckled. "Now stop squirming, please." She expertly twisted Sara's hair atop her head, pinning it securely in place.

"Hey!" Sara turned in surprise, yanking her hand out of Leslie's grasp. "What the hell is that?"

Leslie peered at her curiously. "Nail polish," she said, holding up the bottle. "Blushing plum."

"No way," fumed Sara. "Stop right there. I've already got pinchy shoes, and panty hose up my ass. You are not painting my fingernails. Besides, blushing plum? Since when do plums blush?"

"I saw Mr. Grissom downstairs," Trudy confided, a twinkle in her eye. "He looks rather dashing in a suit."

Sara closed her eyes briefly, and reluctantly gave her hand back to Leslie. When the younger woman started running a file across her nails, she gritted her teeth. Grissom in a suit, she reminded herself. Grissom in a suit.

Upon learning that neither Sara nor Grissom had brought dressy clothes with them, Trudy had whisked them off to a nearby mall. She dropped Grissom off in the men's department, then spent two hours helping Sara find the "perfect outfit." As far as Sara could tell, the perfect outfit meant the right combination of pain and a high price tag.

"Done," Trudy announced, putting the finishing touches on Sara's makeup. "Come look in the mirror, dear, and try not to touch anything. Those nails are still wet."

Sara stood and looked at her reflection, her eyes widening in surprise. Her black sleeveless sweater's off-the-shoulder design accented her collarbone and sleek neck, and the faux fur neckline made her skin look like porcelain. Between the long black satin skirt swishing around her sandals and her elegant hairdo, she felt feminine and delicate. She frowned slightly at her reflection. Don't get used to this, she told herself firmly. We're back to jeans and tank tops tomorrow.

Grissom looked up and caught his breath when Sara descended the stairs looking positively regal. She took in his navy suit and light blue shirt and tie and smiled, deciding it had been worth all the torture upstairs.

"Wow," he breathed, unable to move.

"No kidding," she whispered back, noticing how his shirt matched his eyes.

Gary walked in, checking his watch. "Trude, we're going to be late, are you read-" He froze when he caught sight of Sara. A proud, almost paternal smile formed, and he sighed. "Oh, Sara. Look at you."

She blushed with pleasure.

Trudy bounded down the stairs in a green dress. "I'm ready!" she said breathlessly.

Gary planted a kiss on her cheek. "Mr. Grissom, every man at this shindig is going to be horribly jealous when we walk in with these beauties on our arms."

Grissom had to agree.

The gallery was located on a small side street downtown. Rodney Harper, a rising star in the art world, was opening an exhibit there that night, and it was packed with people. Grissom held Sara's elbow firmly as they entered, steering her toward the bar.

"Champagne," she told the bartender, handing a glass to Grissom and taking one for herself. "A toast?"

Grissom nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "To. us?"

"I'll drink to that," she affirmed. They maintained eye contact as they drank.

"Come on, let's have a look around."

Harper's paintings were mostly dark, modernistic portraits of women. Sara disliked them instantly. She turned to Grissom. "What do you think?"

He scrunched his nose up in distaste. "Not my style."

"What is your style?"

"I like Caravaggio," he said thoughtfully. "His use of light and shadow. how about you?"

"Mm, I love Rothko."

He blinked in surprise. "Mark Rothko? Seriously?"

She nodded earnestly. "His paintings are such an interesting juxtaposition of simplicity and depth. And his use of color is flawless."

"True," he agreed. "You know who-" he stopped suddenly, his eyes growing wide.

"Grissom, what's wrong?" Sara asked, puzzled. She turned to follow his gaze. An older woman in an elegant gown was walking toward them with a wide smile. When Sara caught sight of her blue eyes, she had an idea of who this might be.

"Gilbert," the woman said warmly, raising a hand to his cheek. "What a lovely surprise."

Grissom leaned down and gathered her into an embrace. Pulling back, he lifted his hands and signed to her. I had no idea you would be here, it's a wonderful surprise for me as well. He turned to Sara, signing his words as he spoke. "Sara, this is my mother, Patricia Grissom. Mom, this is Sara Sidle."

Patricia's eyes lit up. "Not the Sara Sidle," she said, teasingly.

"Mom." Grissom said warningly.

She winked at him. "Sara, it is a real pleasure. Gil speaks of you so often."

Sara colored slightly. She signed her words jerkily, wishing she'd practiced more. Mrs. Grissom, I am so glad to meet you. I have heard wonderful things about you from your son.

"You can sign!" Patricia exclaimed with delight. "What a treat for me! Reading lips does get rather old."

Your speech is excellent, Sara signed. You do not sound hearing impaired.

"My mom didn't lose her hearing until she was in her late twenties," Grissom explained. "People who go deaf when they're older are able to speak without difficulty."

"What do you think of this Mr. Harper's work?" Patricia asked Sara, studying her closely with the same stare that Grissom directed at crime scene evidence.

"I'm no expert," Sara demurred.

Patricia smiled. "No, but surely you have an opinion."

Reluctantly, Sara swept her eyes over the paintings. She might not know a lot about art, but she knew about the human psyche. "The women are all low on the canvases, looking up at him. It suggests that he's placing them in submission. His brush strokes are hurried and erratic. Poor self-control. The dark backgrounds indicate that the idea of female submission is on the forefront of his mind."

Grissom chuckled. "You're working up a criminal profile on the guy."

She shrugged. "In answer to your question, Mrs. Grissom, I don't care much for his work."

"I don't either," Patricia said. "Gilbert, be a dear and find some more champagne for me and Sara, will you?" He nodded and walked in the direction of the bar.

"Ah good, alone at last," she said to Sara with a conspiratorial smile. "I can't tell you how nice it is to finally put a face to the name. Gil has mentioned you in nearly every letter he's sent me for the past five years."

"Really?" Sara felt her heart flutter.

"Really. Just yesterday I received a note from him saying that you two were finally going to try dating. Simply marvelous."

"I think so too," Sara said shyly.

"After what happened with Maria, I'd feared he would never open his heart again."

"Maria?"

Patricia looked surprised. "Maria Decker. A co-worker of his many years back. They dated for a while, and she hurt him terribly."

Sara nodded. Things were making more sense now.

"But it's different with you. I can tell from the way he writes. It's one of the reasons I never took to e-mail or electronic conversations - I can't tell someone's mood. But when Gil writes me letters, his emotions come through on the page. He writes about you with such affection and certainty. It's never been like that before." She reached out and took Sara's hand. "I'm happy for the both of you."

"I'm back," Grissom announced, walking toward them and passing out glasses of champagne. "Time to pretend you weren't talking about me."

"You? Don't be ridiculous, Gilbert, we were talking about baseball," Patricia said haughtily.

"Is that so?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her. "What's Sara's favorite team?"

"It's. uh." Patricia blinked. "The Yankees?"

Sara groaned. "Sacrilege! I'm a Red Sox girl to the core. It's hard to spend any time in Boston and not be. Who's your favorite team, Gil?"

Grissom blinked, realizing she'd unconsciously used his first name. "I'm partial to the Cubs," he admitted. "I like rooting for the underdog."

An older man tapped on Patricia's shoulder, speaking to her when she turned to look at him. "The artist would like to meet with us," he said, not looking enthused about the prospect.

Patricia groaned. "Duty calls. Sara, a pleasure. Gil." she kissed his cheek lightly. "Write me often. Your letters keep me young. Lovely to see you both." She disappeared into the crowd.

Sara turned to Grissom. "You know, we're only about a mile from Moody Blues. Want to walk home?"

He nodded. "Just let me grab something out of Gary's car."

She waited outside the gallery, furrowing her brows when he came back with Gary, holding a plastic bag. Gary winked at her and walked back into the gallery.

"What's in the bag?"

He handed it to her, and she peered inside. Looking back up, she rewarded him with a huge smile. "You are my hero."

Pleased, he watched her pull her worn Nikes out of the bag and slip them on her sore feet.

"You should never wear those high heeled shoes," he said, taking her hand as they began their walk back. "They throw the back and legs out of alignment."

"Believe me, if it had been just you and me in that gallery, I would have taken them off," she sighed.

He leaned close to her ear. "If it had been just you and me in that gallery, we would have taken a lot more than that off."

She stopped and stared at him, desire flashing in her eyes. He leaned forward and captured her lips in a searing kiss. Pulling back to catch her breath, Sara panted, "How fast can you run a mile?"