Wherefore

Chapter 13

A combination of guilt and fear wrestle in my stomach for a while, as Grissom drives us north on the Pacific Coast Highway. We're both quiet. Under the guise of observing the scenery, I zone out and think about the millions of scenarios in which one of us screws up and ruins everything. I could say something thoughtless without even realizing it, and come home to find him gone without a word. Assuming we live together at some point.

Not that we've ever even kissed.

But he loves me, and my heart somersaults at the thought. I might be up here on this tightrope without a net, but he's up here too, and he took the first step.

I wonder why he's so quiet. Maybe he's pondering why I didn't tell him I love him, didn't pledge my undying devotion, didn't offer him a modicum of security.

We stop off at a convenience store so that Grissom can grab some lunch, and by the time we make it to the beach, he's already finished his sandwich. The shoreline is relatively deserted, and the location is charming. Romantic, even.

"Is this where you used to go when you were little?" I ask, picturing a mop-headed boy combing the beach while deep in thought.

"No," he says, opening the car door. "I went to a beach closer to my house."

Ah, so this isn't about sharing. He's holding me at arm's length again.

With a sigh that gets lost in a gust of wind, I head down toward the water. Halfway there, a smooth piece of green sea glass catches my eye, and I stop to pick it up. A few yards further, I spot a blue one, and the hunt is on. I manage to gather two blue, four green, two yellow, and one elusive red one before I realize that Grissom's not beside me. He's sitting down by the shoreline, watching the waves. Pocketing the sea glass, I slip off my sneakers and enjoy the feel of the sand between my toes. I won't chase him. I won't.

Instead, I move further down the beach before approaching the water. The air is chilly, thanks to the wind and the spray off the waves. My arms wrap around my torso involuntarily, and it's only moments before I feel a jacket being draped over my shoulders.

"Thanks," I murmur, and my throat tightens when he slips an arm around my waist.

"Let's sit down," he says, leading me back onto the dry sand. We sit next to each other, not too close, and gaze at the Pacific.

"You grew up in San Francisco, right?" he asks.

"Near there, yeah."

"Did you go to the beach a lot?"

"Actually, no. Hardly ever."

"How come?"

I could tell him that skin cancer runs in my family, or that I didn't like the taste of salt water up my nose, but instead I opt for the truth. "The ocean scares me."

He nods, slowly. "Well... it is big. And deep. And if you go too far in, you risk losing control and your sense of self..."

I roll my eyes. "And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Griss."

"Analogies, it is true, decide nothing, but they can make one feel more at home."

I'd continue this Freud-quoting extravaganza, but I'm pretty sure at some point we'd come to 'How bold one gets when one is sure of being loved,' and that's a topic I'd rather avoid at the moment. So I pull out my sea glass collection.

"Check out what I found."

"Not bad," he comments, sifting through the pile and plucking out the red one. "My mom had a thing for red sea glass. I used to scour the shoreline looking for a piece to bring back to her. They were always the hardest to find."

I smile wryly. "Maybe I should give it to her when I see her next. Maybe then she'll like me."

"Don't hold your breath. Never worked for me, and I gave her dozens."

"Don't say that." I search his face for a hint of humor, but there's none. "Grissom, she's your mother. She loves you."

He just stares at the water, his expression inscrutable. I look out on the horizon too, squeezing the dull pieces of glass in my hand. The waves seem even fiercer here than they did back home in San Francisco.

My brother tried to teach me how to surf a few times. He'd come home on break from college, throw me in the back of his beat-up Datsun, and take off for what he called "those sweet breakers." Didn't occur to me to argue, since those were the rare occasions he ever paid attention to me. I'd stand on the waxed board like a newborn deer, all long legs and wobbly knees, waiting in terror for a wave to knock me down. Afterwards I'd be covered with big, purple bruises. Ben would give me his hand on the drive home, telling me to squeeze it as hard as the bruises hurt.

"So," Grissom says, breaking the silence. "Where do you want to go today?"

"What?"

"There's tons of places for visitors to sight-see," he says absently. "I'm sure you'll find something that makes your trip here worthwhile. There's Disneyland, Universal Studios, Hollywood Boulevard..."

One of the perks of interviewing hundreds of suspects is that you learn how to bite back your anger, how to compress it into a dense pill and swallow it whole.

"You think I came for the tourism?"

He blinks, then relaxes a little. "I'm being a bastard, aren't I."

A wide grin is my only response.

"Okay," he nods. "Where would you like to go?"

If I were kind, I'd say Six Flags, or Knott's Berry Farm. We'd eat cotton candy and ride roller coasters, and maybe he'd win me a stuffed animal. But instead I ask: "Where'd you grow up?"

"Marina del Rey."

"What sorts of things did you do there for fun?"

He frowns in memory. "I read. A lot. When my mother forced me to play outside I'd grab a pad of paper and go for long walks, taking notes on the beach fauna. What about you?"

"Me?"

"What did you do when you were little?"

"Went to the library," I say, shaking my head. "What a pair. We both grew up by the beach, in the most beautiful state in the U.S., and we passed the time with our noses in books."

"What a pair," he agrees.

"Did you ever hang out with your dad when he was alive?"

"Sometimes. I helped him with the gardening," he says, rubbing his shin.

"He liked to garden?"

"He liked vegetation." I guess that's a private joke, because he smiles to himself as he says it. Must be nice, having those sorts of memories of your father.

A loud beep sounds from his pocket, and he pulls out his cell.

"My mom," he says, reading the caller ID.

"She can talk on a cell phone?"

He snorts. "Text messaging, Sara. Wave of the future."

I manage to resist the urge to slap my forehead. Moron. "What did she write?"

He doesn't have to say anything, because I'd recognize that tight-jawed, flared-nostril look anywhere. Grissom is mad as hell. There's no way the message could be long enough for him to stare at the screen for the past two minutes, so I turn back to the sea glass, trying to figure out what brand of bottle each came from. I bet if I could run materials analysis, and match the exact pigment, then I could probably-

"Sorry." He sticks his cell back in his pocket.

"Not going to write back?"

"No."

I don't know what to say. Somehow, I doubt 'Hey, we both have dead fathers and whack job mothers, how's that for coincidence?' is quite appropriate.

"She just-" He grunts in frustration. "She... I don't know."

"Here," I say finally, slipping my hand into his. "Squeeze my hand as hard as it hurts."

His face softens, and he turns my palm up. "Is this the hand that... in the lab explosion?"

"Yup."

"It healed well," he notes, tracing the faint line with his finger. "Your scar is almost invisible."

Story of my life.

His pocket beeps again. With a quick flourish, he pulls the phone out and turns it off. "Okay, we need a plan," he says firmly. "Tomorrow we see Amy, Sunday's the memorial service... so how do you want to spend the rest of today?"

"I don't know. I don't have a lot of experience with LA. If you don't have any ideas, can't we just go where the tide takes us?"

"Tide imagery, from a woman who hates water?"

"I don't hate all water."

"Okay, I'm intrigued," he says, tilting his head. "What's your favorite kind of water?"

"The kind with two hydrogens and one oxygen, generally." At his groan, I shrug in concession. "I prefer still water. Small lakes, ponds, that sort of thing. Are you familiar with Edvard Munch?"

"Sure," he nods. "Early 20th century Norwegian painter. Best known for 'The Scream,' though my favorite of his is probably 'The Dead Mother.' He was a big influence on German expressionism."

Sometimes I think I must forget who I'm talking to. "That's the guy. Anyway, when I was in college I had a print of his hanging in my dorm room. 'Starry Night.' It's a night landscape of still water by a dark shoreline. Whenever I'd get really stressed out, I'd take deep breaths and picture myself sitting by the water."

When I look over at him, he's got a silly grin on his face.

"What?" I demand. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Nope. I just decided where we're going today, that's all." He hops to his feet, waiting patiently as I try to brush all the sand off my jeans. Finally I remember that we have a rental car, and I give up the battle.

We make our way back up the beach towards the car. I hand him the red piece of glass, and he rubs it twice with his thumb before sticking it in his pocket.

"Thank you."

I bump his shoulder lightly as we near the car. "It killed you not to make a quote about still waters running deep, didn't it."

He lets out a long breath. "You have no idea."