Wherefore

Chapter 10

He knocks on my door promptly at six, carrying my luggage out to his car despite my feminist protests.

"It's not about being a man," he grunts, hefting the large suitcase into his trunk. "It's about me having more upper body strength, and you not understanding that we're going to be there for three days and you don't have to bring your entire collection of vintage bowling balls."

"Wuss," I mutter, climbing into the passenger seat and settling my purse on my lap.

"Seriously," Grissom presses, following me into the car and turning the key in the ignition. "What did you pack? I have a duffel bag that weighs two pounds and a garment bag for my suit. Meanwhile they're going to have to dump fuel mid-flight to account for the extra weight in your suitcase."

I turn to him with a flutter of my eyelashes. "Girls need makeup to look pretty." In actuality, my makeup bag and hairbrush are both tucked away in my purse. But he buys it and drives on, none the wiser about the six pairs of black pumps in my suitcase. They all looked the same, what was I supposed to do? We'll be in LA for three days, and I've brought seven sets of clothing. What do rich people wear to these sorts of things, anyway?

The drive to the airport takes a while, as we compete with commuter traffic. He reaches up, pretending to switch on the emergency siren on his car, and I swat his hand down with a grin. Eventually we make it there, and leave the car in a parking garage.

He's delighted when we board the plane and find that the man across the aisle from me is about a hundred years old. Delighted, that is, until I remind him quietly that I like older men. I've found out that the man's name is Duke, and that he went to Duke University (no relation, apparently) when Grissom taps on my right shoulder and tells me he urgently needs me to help him with his crossword puzzle.

"Forty-three across is pseudonym," I tell him, leaning against him lightly. He inks in the letters, then surprises me by slipping his arm around my back. It makes no sense in the space, and he's clumsy and awkward about it, and there's a definite sense of dismay when I realize that if he backs off this time, I may have invested too much of myself to recover.

After we land, there's the trek to baggage claim. A couple about my age is waiting with three young children, who squeal and almost bowl Duke over when they catch sight of him. I grin all the way to the car rental counter.

Our hotel rooms are across the hall from each other. Neither of us is tired, but the funeral is tomorrow morning. Sometimes working graveyard shift means wasting a day trying to switch your body back to the sleeping patterns of the living. So we bid each other a shy good night, and I lie on the bed, trying not to think about what an ALS would show on the sheets.

By about one a.m. I'm still not tired, so I click on the TV. The shrill ring of my cell phone startles me.

"Hello?"

"Try channel fourteen, there's a great documentary on about passalid beetles."

Smirking, I press the remote until fourteen appears. "No luck," I mumble. "The picture's too fuzzy."

"Come over here, then."

Sucker. My picture's fine. I run a brush through my hair and straighten my pajamas, then pad across the hall. He opens the door, wearing sweatpants and an undershirt, and I slip by him into the room.

"Where should I sit?"

He motions to the king-sized bed and a hundred dirty thoughts run through my head. But I just settle against the headboard and he sits next to me. As we watch the documentary, Grissom keeps talking over the narrator, telling me trivia about the beetles. I don't mention that I've actually seen this program twice. It's an hour before he dozes off, still upright, and I slip out after turning off his light.

In the morning we meet up in the hall, dressed in black suits. The hotel serves breakfast, but neither of us is hungry, so we leave for the funeral early. Good thing, too, because the cathedral is packed.

There are hundreds of whispers when we walk in, as people turn and notice Grissom. In spite of preparing myself for it, I'm surprised at the openly resentful looks coming my way.

A large placard inside the door shows a lovely portrait of Josephine O'Dell. Grissom stops and looks at it for a melancholic moment, sighing deeply.

We make our way down the aisle, clutching programs and avoiding the icy glares. Near the front of the room, Juliette is talking with a tall, regal-looking woman in a navy suit. When she catches sight of us, she excuses herself and strides over quickly. Grissom doesn't notice her until she reaches us.

"I'm so glad you came," she says fiercely, pulling me into a tight hug. "God, I'm so glad. Everyone here can't stop talking about Robert, and what he did. I'm not sure I've heard Mom's name mentioned even once. I'm just... I'm so glad to see you two."

Grissom hugs her lightly after she and I part, then she leads us to seats that are a few rows from the front.

"I saved these for you. Sorry, I've got to get back to talk to Reverend Noonan." A quick, sad grin and she's heading back up front. My eyes follow her, and I catch sight of the tall woman in the navy suit again. She's frowning at me and shaking her head, over and over.

"I'm so uncomfortable," I murmur to Grissom.

"Yeah," he says, frowning back at the woman. "Not too warm a reception." He takes my hand and interlaces our fingers.

It's more religious a ceremony than I'm used to. Lots of hymns and psalms and prayers that everyone else seems to know by heart, including Grissom. The stares get haughtier as people realize I don't know the words, that Gil Grissom has brought some heathen woman who doesn't recite holy scripture like they do.

There's no personal words of remembrance about Josephine, save a few from the minister. The speeches must be coming on Sunday, at the memorial service.

We're into the third verse of "Amazing Grace" when I catch sight of the girl a couple rows up. She's turned around to watch me, her brows furrowed as she ignores the off-key singing and focuses on my face. She looks about twelve, with short hair and dark eyes that are trying to place me. Keep trying, kid. I don't belong here. I suppose in another time, another place, I'd try smiling or nodding, but I'm just frozen.

My dad's funeral wasn't packed. There was no church service, just a burial. In all, counting the minister and the man with the shovel waiting for us to finish, there were ten people there. My brother Ben and I stood with Mrs. Weitzman, our social worker, who smelled like worn leather and kept calling me Martha. Then there were my uncles, Tom and Dwight, standing side by side and looking ill. Dad's old drinking buddy, Zeke, came with his wife. We were allowed to call Zeke by his first name, but his wife was Mrs. Cinelli. She played with the hem of her sweater during the service, not looking up

And then there was the other man.

He was younger than my parents. Looked to be in his late twenties. Blond and clean-cut. Wore a new suit and a red striped tie. The service lasted for thirty minutes, and I spent all thirty glaring at the man. He wasn't a business associate; my parents had done all their dealings at the B&B, and I'd met the few people they'd dealt with. Wasn't a friend, wasn't a relative. And yet here he was, wearing red instead of black, attending a funeral of a man he surely didn't know. I couldn't quite bear to think of my father lying in that wooden box, so I stared at the man. Hoped my glare would make him squirm, make him leave and allow us this last private moment with our father. Dad wasn't the best man, but he was the only father Ben and I would ever have, and that was something, anyway.

So now I let the girl stare at me, because I know. Sometimes your brain can't quite focus on the grief in front of you, on the knowledge that Mom's in prison and Dad's not walking you up the aisle anytime soon, and you'll be living with strangers and nothing will be comfortable again, and it's easier to stare at a man in a red striped tie.

"Hey."

I blink, and the service is over. Grissom is looking at me expectantly. "You ready?"

"Sure."

We stand up and follow the flow of people outside, milling on the grass for a moment. I catch sight of Juliette, standing across the lawn and holding Ian while she talks with an older couple. Grissom doesn't seem to notice her, but he's shifting from foot to foot nervously. Waiting for something.

I start to ask him, but then I notice the tall woman in navy walking toward us. Her frown deepens when she notices he and I are holding hands, and when she reaches us I realize I know that frown.

"Gil," she says distantly.

He nods. "Mother."