Wherefore

Chapter 18

We sleep in separate rooms that night, by unspoken agreement. He looks relieved as I bid him goodnight.

In the morning, I'm showered and dressed when he knocks on my door. His kiss tastes like toothpaste, and I wonder if this is what the future holds. Maybe the most I can hope for from him are occasional sleepovers and warm glances, soft kisses and softer words.

It's more than I ever imagined possible.

The Twilight Gallery is on a quiet street in Venice, near the water. Grissom does an admirable parallel parking job, then squares his shoulders. "This'll be quick, I promise."

"Okay."

"Bring your suitcase," he says, getting out of the car.

I follow, tugging my bag out of the backseat and frowning in confusion. "Why?"

"So Grant will see that we're in a hurry. He tends to ramble."

From Maude's personality, I would have expected her gallery to be filled with still-life oil paintings, so I'm surprised when I step in the door. The ambient lighting is dim, with track lights bringing focus to dozens of sculptures, arranged on pedestals throughout the room.

"Wow," I breathe, and Grissom nods.

"She has an eye," he agrees.

The sculptures vary from clay to marble to glass, classical to modern, but there's a common theme of rich, deep colors and organic shapes. Considering how different our personalities are, I'm surprised to find that Maude and I have similar tastes in art.

"Shakespeare!"

Grissom groans softly as two employees catch sight of him. They dart over to greet us, clapping their hands in delight.

"I cannot believe it!" exclaims the taller, slim man. "My dear boy, we haven't seen you in years! How are you?"

"And who is this vision?" demands the balding man, grabbing my hand. "Is there a Mrs. Shakespeare?"

"Sara, meet Harold and Franklin," Grissom sighs. "They've worked with Mother in her gallery since it opened."

"And yet she failed to tell us about this beautiful female companion of yours," Harold says dramatically. "I am most wounded, truly."

"Is Grant around?" Grissom asks, looking antsy. "He wanted me to stop by before we leave for Vegas."

Franklin nods. "I think he's out back. I'll fetch him for you." He disappears through a back door, and I look around at the artwork again.

"We mostly have Henrik Vegglund works out on the floor right now," Harold says, clearly delighted at my curiosity. "He's a sculptor from Drammen, very hot right now. If you'd like, I can show you some of the others we have in storage."

"Maybe some other time," Grissom says quickly. "We have a plane to catch."

Harold chuckles. "Oh, Shakespeare. Still no interest in your mother's trade?"

"Still no idea what my name is?"

"He used to come into the gallery when he was a lad," Harold stage-whispers to me. "He'd bring books that were bigger than he was. We tried getting him involved in the artistic process, but he'd just sit in the corner and read all day."

"I wonder if Franklin needs help finding Grant," Grissom muses pointedly.

"Hamlet, King Lear, he read them all. I think it was Richard who came up with the nickname for him."

"He was a clever one, that Richard."

"Enough about the past," Harold says, waving impatiently. "Tell me what you're up to, out there in the desert. Last time Maude showed us a picture, you were looking kind of... doughy."

I have to cough to hide my laugh.

"But not anymore," he adds, running an appreciative look up and down Grissom's figure. "Nice and fit now. Great arms. Firm backside. I swear, if I were a few years younger-"

I've never seen Grissom look more relieved as he catches sight of Franklin returning. "Find him?"

"He's in the studio," Franklin calls. "Wants you to come out back."

It's no surprise when Grissom drags his suitcase along with him.

We make our way out the back door of the building, toward a small shed. Grissom opens the door for me, and we step into a small, well-lit studio. A tall man with white hair and light blue eyes is waiting inside.

"Gil," he says, clapping Grissom's shoulder. "How have you been?"

"Just fine. Grant , I'd like you to meet Sara Sidle. Sara, this is Grant Calloway."

"Pleased to meet you." He glances down at my luggage, then Grissom's, then looks up with a twinkle in his eye. "I take it you're in a hurry."

Grissom nods. "Mother said you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I had a question about the globe." Grant moves a blowtorch to the side of his work table.

"What globe?"

"The Shakespearean globe."

"The Globe Theater?"

Frowning, Grant leans over to pick up a wooden crate. "The globe your mother commissioned. Don't tell me she hasn't told you about it..." He opens the crate, reaches into the packing peanuts, and pulls out a small red sphere.

Taking the sphere from Grant, Grissom turns so that I can see it, too. It's about six inches in diameter, and made up of small red pieces of glass, held together by thin lines of a silver metal. Across the expanse of red are additional silver lines, marking continents, oceans, and topography.

"All of the detailing was done in pure silver," Grant says, pointing out the land formations and markings. "Maude was insistent on that, she didn't want it etched. And she wanted me to base the globe on an Elizabethan map of the world. So like I said, a Shakespearean globe."

It really is a gorgeous piece. The silver script is flawless, and it looks like Grant even managed to recreate the handwriting of the time period.

"My question," Grant continues, "was whether you think the globe should be mounted on a wrought-iron stand, or hanging from a chain."

"Why does it matter what I think?" Grissom asks, a bit subdued. "It's her globe."

"No, Gil, it's to be given to you when I finish."

Grissom looks like he's been slapped. "She's giving it back?"

I shake my head, confused. "Giving what back?"

Blinking, Grant points to the glass surface. "It's, uh, made of pieces of red sea glass... from what I understand, Gil brought them to his mother when he was a child."

I can feel the blood draining from my face. Maude has taken the one gift of her son's that she ever valued, and is returning it to him. He's got to be crushed.

Sure enough, he's handing the globe back to Grant as if the glass is burning his fingertips. "I don't care what you do with it."

"Would you like to take a look at the stand?"

"No." Looking pale, Grissom turns to me. "You ready to go?"

"Sure," I respond, thrown.

Grant follows as we head for the door. "Wait, Gil, what style of-"

"Whatever you want," Grissom throws over his shoulder, grabbing my suitcase with his and lugging them both out the door.

"You don't have any preference?" Grant calls.

"No. Sara, let's go." Grissom disappears from view as I face Grant, smiling apologetically.

"It was nice meeting you," I offer. "And the globe is beautiful. You're very talented."

He smiles. "Thank you. But I worry that I've upset Gil somehow."

"It's okay. He's okay."

"You'd better hurry, or he might leave without you."

"He wouldn't dare."

When I make it back to the car, Grissom's rifling through my suitcase.

My hands on my hips, I swallow my annoyance. "Can I help you?"

"How many goddamn shoes did you bring?" he growls, dumping a pair of pumps on the sidewalk.

"I'm not sure how that's any of your business. Why are you in my suitcase?"

"You said you'd pack the red sea glass you gave me, because your bag had better insulation. Where is it?"

"In my jewelry roll." Leaning over, I pull the silk roll from under a jumble of shoes. "I thought the globe was done, though."

"It is."

"Then why do you need the glass?"

"I want to throw it away."

One look at his stormy face, and I know he's not kidding. "In the trash?"

"I was thinking the ocean, but the trash will do."

"Grissom, what the hell!"

"It means nothing to her," he hisses. "Every time I heard her crying in her bedroom, I'd go off in search of red sea glass. I'd scour the beach for hours, and usually I wouldn't find anything." He starts pacing back and forth, staring at the jewelry roll with fury in his eyes. "But every once in a while, I'd find one, and it was like I'd won the lottery. I'd wash it off in the surf and then run home as fast as I could, just to see the look on her face."

I unzip a pocket on the roll, and pull out the glass. "That doesn't explain why you want to throw this away."

"Didn't you hear me? Sara, I imagined the whole thing! The connection we felt, on account of that... damned red... it was a delusion. I was a lonely kid with a distant mother, and I concocted some semblance of bonding-"

"Yeah, okay, but this wasn't her glass, Grissom. It was mine. I gave it to you. Just because your mom's a bitch doesn't mean-"

"You don't get to speak that way about my mother." He's very still all of a sudden, and it's scaring me a little.

"Are you kidding?"

"No. You have no right-"

"No right? I have no right?" I can feel tears forming behind my eyes, and will them not to fall. "If you really feel that way, then what are we doing here, anyway?"

"That's an excellent question." He bends over to shove my shoes back in the bag, and I take the opportunity to swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. "An excellent question indeed. Let's go, Sara."

He won't look at me.

I'm sorry, correction, he did look at me when I set off the metal detector. But other than that, there's been no eye contact. No conversation, either.

We get to our gate at the airport early, and I head for the ladies' room. Note the time on my watch and allow myself exactly three minutes to cry. People are coming in and out of the large bathroom, all chatting breezily. I perfected the silent sob years ago, and it comes in handy when a child uses the stall next to mine. She sings off-key and swings her feet. I feel like I'm losing something before I ever had it.

Five splashes of cold water on my face, and I'm good to go. He doesn't look up when I return.

Our section is called, and we board the plane. He takes the window seat and immediately pulls out a book.

"You have until the seatbelt sign is turned off," I say, staring straight ahead.

He frowns, then glances up at me. "What?"

"I'm giving you until the 'fasten seatbelts' sign is turned off to collect yourself, and then we're talking about this."

Grumbling under his breath, he buries his head back in the book. But after five minutes pass and he still hasn't turned the page, I know he's doing as I asked. Eventually the telltale ding sounds, and a stewardess announces that we're all free to move about the cabin.

Grissom surprises me by sticking his book in the seat pocket and turning expectantly.

"Okay," I begin carefully. "What happened back there, at the gallery?"

"We had an argument."

A wave of relief washes over me. It's just an argument, not a breakup. "We had an argument because you shut me out."

"No, it was because you insulted my mother."

I give him an incredulous look. "I think I was rather generous, actually."

"She was a deaf single mother trying to survive in a world that gave her little to no assistance. She did the best she could with me, and that demands your respect."

"I respect her for helping raise you. But I can't respect the way she treats you now. You're a successful, kind, and decent man. For her to say that your father would be ashamed-"

"Please." He looks away. "Don't."

"She knows you've built up defenses to her criticisms. So she uses your dad. It's wrong, and-"

"And she could be right."

When he sits like that, with his shoulders slumped and hair tousled and bottom lip poking out, he almost looks too young for me.

"Grissom, what do you think of Amy?"

He cocks his head. "Amy? I... I think she's wonderful, Sara, you know that."

"And Juliette?"

"She's a good person, and a fine scientist."

I take his hand gently. "And me? What do you think of me?"

His eyes soften. "I think you're a stubborn, willful, belligerent woman with weird-looking toes."

I don't know why, but that touches me deeply.

"So, if the three of us, if Amy and Juliette and I love you so much, and you respect each of us, then why do you listen to what your mother says? Whose opinion do you value more?"

He doesn't respond, and he doesn't really have to. We're still sitting quietly, our fingers interlaced and my head on his shoulder, when the plane touches down in Las Vegas.

My life is full of routines. I suppose everyone's is.

Before bed, I wash my face and brush my teeth. Set out work clothes for the next shift, along with a suit if I'm due in court. Check the locks, check the windows, check my email. Following a routine means nothing gets left out.

I'm in bed, about to turn off the light, when my cell phone rings. I don't have to look at the display to know it's him.

"Hey there, stranger."

"Hi," he says, and I wonder whether there will come a time when his voice doesn't warm me through and through.

"Trouble sleeping?"

"Kind of. You in bed?"

"Yeah, but I can talk. What's up?"

"Nothing."

I sigh fondly. "You can't miss me, Grissom."

"Why not?"

"We were ready to gouge each other's eyes out at the end there. You don't want some breathing room?"

"Your door needs painting."

He's a hardheaded, brooding, bowlegged man with a lifetime of baggage. But he's also waiting outside, so I pad over to the door to let him in.

For someone so dependent on routine, it's funny how easily I let him become a part of mine.

We learn how to share a sink in the evening, occasionally battling for mirror rights. He starts shaving, and when I protest, he just tells me he prefers not to shred my face. We eat breakfast and dinner together, usually leaning against the kitchen counter. Neither of us is much for formality.

His townhouse has probably three times more square footage than my apartment, but he's always here. We have to add an extra wardrobe to accommodate all his clothing, and his storage bins of shoes and toiletries add nothing but clunky clutter. I try complaining, but he just grins in delight. The smaller our space, the happier he seems to be.

So we compromise, packing up my non-essentials and storing them in his spare room. The bugs have a trial period at the apartment, but after Grissom drops a hissing cockroach and loses it behind my floorboards, the terrariums are moved back into his place.

At first he's nervous in bed, anxious that I'll expect more than is feasible from a middle-aged man. I'm more than satisfied, but his occasional failed attempts leave him moody and embarrassed. It's mended only by the passage of time and the building of trust. Eventually we both relax, and he purchases a pricey new mattress and box spring, deeming it an investment.

There's no grand announcement to the team. Our coworkers don't have some huge breakroom epiphany where the clues suddenly click and they know we're together. Instead, there's just off-handed acceptance. By the time Warrick hands me a form and asks me to bring it home for Grissom to sign, I've realized that their tacit acceptance is tinged with approval.

Every month, we hop in the car and head for Los Angeles for a long weekend. It takes about four hours, but with all the new security stations at the airport, it can be faster than flying.

Most of our time there is spent with Amy. She's a little frailer every time we see her, and I know it weighs heavily on Grissom's mind. I give them some time to themselves each visit, scheduling a lunch or shopping trip with Juliette.

One afternoon, I arrive back at our hotel to find him sitting on the bed, holding the red glass globe, now mounted on an ornate wrought-iron stand.

"I take it you saw your mother today," I say lightly, tossing my purse onto a chair.

"It was a last-minute thing. Grant finished the globe, so she wanted to give it to me."

Wordlessly I take a seat next to him.

"She said it's symbolic," he concludes blankly.

"So... it's supposed to mean you're her whole world?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it means she thinks Shakespeare is my whole world. Or she's saying her feelings for me are hollow." He shrugs, leaning over to set the globe on the nightstand. "It doesn't really matter."

"Why not?"

Grissom has a thing he does, where he'll lift up one arm, and it's understood that I'm to slip under it and cuddle him tightly. I take my cue, and once I'm securely in his embrace he replies, "Love shouldn't have to be a matter of interpretation. It should be understood."

Later that evening, we throw my piece of red sea glass into the ocean. The waves pick it up easily, reclaiming it into their swells as we watch silently. Only after the sun begins to dip into the horizon do we turn to leave.

On the walk back up the beach, I catch Grissom unconsciously scanning the surface of the sand. Squeezing his hand, I help him search, straining my eyes to catch a glint of red.

FIN