Summary: You can't go back and change the past—but sometimes, if you're lucky, the past catches up with you… and you get a chance to change it in the here and now.

Notes: AU. This story was started long, long in advance of the end of season 6 and the beginning of 7. (I just hate posting a chapter here, a chapter there—it all goes up when it's done, even if it takes a year.) While some things have been adjusted slightly, I am choosing to ignore most of what happened from February 2009 forward. (Too much angst, if nothing else.) Ziva and Rivkin and the trip to Israel never happened (though she is on the fast track for citizenship and permanent NCIS status here, too); 2009 is pretty much what fall 2008 was, once everyone came back to the team. And Mrs. Mallard is faring much better than she had been in seasons 6 & 7. (Fanfiction means being able to ignore the passing of a gifted actor.)

Reposting. EI was originally posted at the end of 2009/beginning of 2010. I started it at the beginning of 2009 and screeched to a halt. Writer's block? Writer's town, verging on writer's state. A challenge posted on IMDb's NCIS board got me past it. It sat on the site, gathered friends… and then a group of self-appointed monitors began reporting stories that were in violation of site rules (often in violation only in their point of view) and people began losing their accounts. Rather than risk my account, I pulled EI because a) the sex scenes went so far beyond M we were verging on Z and b) about a fifth of the story is song lyrics. One story with two big no-nos. But there have been enough requests to repost it that I am doing so—and taking advantage of the chance to clean up some of the more glaring typos and other minor glitches.

Betas and cheerleaders: A huge thank you to Tallis224 for many emails full of idea bouncing and tweaking. The fact that we both came up with similar ideas and little character bits independently… well, this is how Volcano and Dante's Peak ended up being released one after the other. GMTA and all that jazz. My eternal thanks to LosingTrack—her writing challenge got me past what had been a several months of writers' block.

Comments: Collected notes will be at the end of the last chapter unless it is imperative that you know it now. I have never been fond of footnotes; much preferred them at the end of the report.

Genre: General Drama/Romance

Pairing: Ducky/OFC

Rating/Warnings: Rated M: contains very mature, sexually explicit scenes (frequently gratuitous; this is fanfiction after all) and situations in several chapters and random strong language throughout. Real life caution: Consensual sex presumed to be between adults may not always be. No slash; no BDSM.

Spoilers: None

Timeframe: Spring of 1969; Summer 2009 forward

Disclaimer:All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

ENHARMONIC INTERVAL

by Aunt Kitty

Enharmonic Interval: Two notes
that differ in name only.
The notes occupy the same position.
For example: D sharp and E flat.

Chapter One: Impromptu Cavatina

Impromptu: A short piano piece,
often improvisational and intimate in character.
Cavatina: A short and simple
melody performed by a soloist
that is part of a larger piece.

June, 2009

"Good morning, Ducky!"

Ducky glanced up from his computer screen, slightly surprised but with a broad smile. "You're certainly chipper this morning, Ziva. An attitude far too few people have on a Monday morning."

"Ah," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "But I have a surprise for you." She held out a hand, one finger hooked through thin string wrapped around a small pink box, the box dangling in midair.

"Doughnuts?" It looked like a bakery box; she and Abby had a fondness for the messy artery-clogging delights.

She shook her head. "No. They are things that would be perfect with morning tea. Or afternoon tea might be better… but I do not want to wait for you to try them."

"I can take a hint," he laughed. He filled the kettle and set it on the coil. "Earl Grey?" he asked, hand hovering above the tins of tea.

"That would be fine." She managed to keep the box tantalizingly just out of reading range as he walked back and forth setting up tea service on the cart. "It is a surprise," she chided when she caught him adjusting his glasses and trying to focus on the imprinted top.

He poured two mugs of tea, set out milk and sugar, and sat with an exaggerated look of patience on his face.

"Close your eyes." Smiling and shaking his head, he did as he was bidden. He could hear her untie the string and remove the lid. "Open your mouth… Do not worry," she said when he hesitated. "You will like it. I promise. Now… bite."

It was a testament to how much he trusted this acknowledged assassin that he bit down with no further hesitation. Definitely not a doughnut. It was something firm and crumbly and sweet—a cookie, or— "Ohhh…!" Memories of tea with his mother and grandmother flooded over him: piping hot tea, cups and saucers of paper thin bone china, tiny cakes with dusting sugar, slices of nut cake with soft butter, and sweet triangles of… "Shortbread!" He opened his eyes and saw her grinning down at him. "This is the genuine article, too. Homemade, none of that tinned—" he waved a hand dismissively. Walker's wasn't bad—for 'prefab' shortbread, it was quite acceptable. But nothing beat the real deal. The highest quality tinned shortbread was a Pinto; this—he took another bite, sighing—this was the baker's version of his Morgan. "Where did you find this?"

"Abby was invited to a… party… and asked me to go along as—mmh, backup, if you will."

"Backup?" He had finished the shortbread and was trying to unobtrusively peer into the box. Ziva took a chocolate wafer and pushed the box toward him. "What sort of party was it that she needed backup?" He resisted the siren call of the shortbread—there were easily a dozen rounds left—and tried to decide among the other dozens, finally taking a square decorated in dark and white chocolate.

"It…was a baby shower."

His mind tried to wrap around a growingly complex picture. Abby at a baby shower. Ziva at a baby shower. Abby needing Ziva to provide backup at a baby shower. "What kind of baby shower?"

Ziva frowned. "The usual, I would say. Frilly food, silly games. Chattering females. It was for a sister of one of the sisters on her bowling team."

"I beg your pardon? A baby shower—for a nun?"

"No, for her sister!"

He held up a hand. "Wait. You mean a non-religious sister—a sibling?"

"Yes, a sister—a sister of Sister Xavier Marie. I believe her name was Clarice."

"Thank heavens—no pun intended."

"Abby was afraid she would be the only 'Abby' in a room full of Muffies and Buffies and former cheerleaders." She plucked a macaroon from the box. "As it turned out, there were ex-cheerleaders, yes, but Abby was not the most unusual person there."

"I'm almost afraid to ask. Abigail is not run of the mill—and we wouldn't want her to be," he added hastily.

"No. But Sister Xavier's mother used to belong to a club. A motorcycle club," she clarified.

"A—a biker gang?"

"Not quite that bad. But her stories became very interesting when she got to her fifth or sixth mimosa."

"I almost wish I had been there." Almost.

"One of the Muffy-Buffies arranged for a local tearoom to do the catering. When we heard some of the cookies were Scottish shortbread, Abby and I decided we had to stop by this morning. They are on the way from my apartment, just not a street I had driven before. The owner says it is a family recipe."

"It's fantastic. Sublime. I don't know enough adjectives to properly describe it." He took a bite of a shortbread topped with delicately toasted almond slices and sighed in near ecstasy. "I've died and gone to heaven."

Ziva gave him an impish look. "You are the master of the tea—from now on, Abby and I shall be the mistresses of cookies and treats."

"Don't let Anthony hear that. He would take it in a whole different manner."

"But Ducky—that could be fun!" He wasn't sure… but he thought he saw her wink.

He shook his head. "I'll stand aside for that, if you don't mind. But you'll get no objections from me, 'mistress.' If I can start my mornings like this, I won't care what the rest of the day holds. I'm just surprised Abigail isn't here with us."

Ziva winced. "She is at the dentist. She broke Frank during the shower—she thinks it was caused by an olive pit. I think it was eaten by the mimosas." She leaned in confidentially. "They were quite strong. But she will not be in until lunch."

"Poor dear. We'll have to pick out the softest cookies for her."

"She will be so pleased that you like this—especially the shortbread, since it is from Scotland."

"Ziva, everything I've tried so far is fantastic. I must stop there sometime. Mother would love this. Is it a new shop?"

"No—actually I recall seeing a mug for sale, they had a twenty-fifth anniversary a while ago."

"Good heavens, how have I missed them all this time?"

She shrugged. "It is a large city. It is a busy city. And you do not live here."

"But one would think…" he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We've found it now. With twenty-five years under their belt, I'd guess they're staying. Where are they located?"

"Georgetown. Prospect near 36th." Her cell phone rang; she caught it before the third ring. "David."

Gibbs' voice was clear from a couple of feet away. "Where are you, Ziva?"

"Autopsy—"

"Good, grab Ducky, tell him to join us. Two dead Marines found behind the theatre at Union Station Mall. Grab your gear!"

"Mr. Palmer is not in yet, shall I drive with—"

"Ziva, he's a safer driver than you are, Ducky can manage on his own."

Ducky stifled a laugh at her slightly disgruntled face.

"Very well, I—" but she was talking to empty air. "There are times I hate when he does that," she grumbled.

"Don't we all," he said with a chuckle. "I'll put these in the refrigerator for safekeeping; it won't harm most of them, and I see some have fruit and jams that shouldn't sit out."

"The little ones with tiny strawberries are very soft," she said, handing him the box lid. "Those would be best for Abby after the dentist. Do you know where Union Station Mall is?"

"I could drive there with my eyes closed," he assured her. "Which is how I often prefer to drive with Mr. Palmer at the wheel."

"Good. I will see you there." She gave him a quick kiss to the cheek; HR be hanged, she and Abby treated him like a favorite uncle or grandfather. "Thank you for tea. I shall bring a new box of treats when this one is empty," she promised as she hurried toward the door.

"Thank you, my dear, I look forward—" his voice faltered. "To it."

No wonder the shortbread tasted like he was back in his grandmother's parlor; the name on the lid, Ealasaid's, was an old-fashioned Gaelic name. It conjured up visions of kilts and green meadows, sweet heather and lilac, misty mornings carrying a piper's tune across the glen. "The briar and the rose," he murmured, looking at the artwork under the delicate script. He felt a wrench at his heart.

As the song says, you can never go home… He laughed shortly. Moody Blues, wasn't it? Of course.

He slipped the lid onto the box, popped it and the milk into the fridge, left the tea things in the sink for washing up later, and hurried to the change room to pull on a jumpsuit.

Work. Thank God for work.

He stared at himself in the mirror. "You're getting old," he said morosely to his image.

And the day had started off so well.

/ / / / / / / / / /

September 10, 2009

"Abby?"

Abby didn't even glance up. "Hi, Ziva. Got something?" she said listlessly.

Ziva plunked down into a nearby chair. "It is an epidemic."

That caught Abby's attention. "Epidemic? What? Where?"

"You!" She waved her hand. "No music, no Caf-Pow, you are as depressed as—"

Abby sat up sharply. "As depressed as—" she prompted. When there was no response, she filled in, "As depressed as Ducky?"

Ziva let out a deep breath. "Yes. You have seen it, too."

"Oh, Ziva, that's why I'm just sitting here—" she flapped her hands in frustration. "I don't know what to do! I've known Ducky since, jeez, it seems like forever, and once in a while I might see him get pissed off at someone, usually with a really good reason, but I've never, never seen him like this, I mean even when that whackjob stabbed him, damn, he had a really good reason to be depressed and he was, kinda, but he snapped back so fast, I mean, fast, considering, and Dr. Hampton, he had a really good reason to be depressed and he was, kinda, but he was okay after that ended I was really surprised—not surprised they were together, I mean, surprised it ended and I guess surprised he took it so well—"

"Abby—breathe!"

"Oh, Ziva! I just—I want to help him, I just don't know what to do! He wouldn't even let me take him out to lunch for his birthday later this month. I don't even know why he's so sad—even hugging him only works for a couple of seconds, he just pats my shoulder and says, 'I'm fine, dear,' and I'm still stuck not knowing what to do! He's been so quiet for, my god, weeks, now—"

Ziva nodded, shoulders slumped. "I understand your dilemma. It has always been Ducky to do the talking. Now I go downstairs for tea and I do all the talking. I am running out of words!"

"Tea."

"Tea," Ziva repeated.

"Okay, this may sound stupid—"

"Abby, at this point I would ask Ducky's dogs for advice."

Abby slowly grinned. "What are you doing Saturday?"

/ / / / / / / / / /

September 12, 2009

"Mallard residence."

"Ducky! It's Abby. What are you doing at two?"

The same as he was doing the rest of the weekend: nothing. "Nothing set in stone, my dear. Why do you ask?"

"Ziva and I want to take you out to tea!" She was absolutely burbling.

Oh, Lord.

He really had to pull himself together. Yank himself up by his bootstraps. Something, anything to snap himself out of this absurd pity party. He appreciated their concern, but he just wasn't in the mood.

But if it was bad enough that they were conspiring to take him on a—a field trip outside of the office, he really needed to do something.

Well, isn't that how you get over the megrims? How did that phrase go—act as if, and the feelings will follow? Something like that. "That would be nice." He forced a smile on his face, hoping it would come through on the telephone.

"Okay! We'll pick you up—"

"Ah, Abby? None of us own a car that will seat three." He thought of Ziva's little Cooper and Abby's long legs. Or Abby's vintage hot rod that would seat two—maybe two and a half… not to mention the driving habits of either young woman were enough to age him a decade. "Not comfortably, anyway."

"Oh." That stopped her in her tracks, but she quickly rallied. "Well, I'll come pick you up and we'll meet Ziva there."

"Where are we going?"

"It's that place Ziva keeps getting shortbread for you from." He tried not to wince at the scrambled grammar. "In Georgetown, you know, Ealasaid's."

Too late to back out now. "Rather than have either of you drive back and forth—twice!—why don't I just meet you there?"

"But—but this is supposed to be a special thing for you, you shouldn't have to drive yourself to a treat outing!"

The smile was easier this time. "It will still be special, Abby, spending a Saturday afternoon with you and Ziva."

"Well… all right. I still feel like you're getting gypped."

"I'm spending a Saturday with two of my favorite people, Abby. That is far from being 'gypped.'"

He cradled the receiver with a sigh. Ha. It was those blasted cookies that had started this royal blue funk in the first place. Not that they weren't good; quite the opposite. It was the name, stamped in the center of the pink box. Ealasaid's. Not common here in the States; common enough back in Scotland at one time, but slowly being pushed aside by the more frequent Elizabeth. Funny, he could name twenty or more women he'd met over the past forty years—Elizabeth, Liz, Beth, Betsy—and not one caused even the slightest flicker of pain. But the first time he runs into Ealasaid—and not even a person, a company!—he ends up in a fit of the blues worthy of a 'my dog died, my wife ran off, I lost my job and somebody stole my truck' country-western song.

"Oh, grow up," he said sharply, causing one of the dogs to bark. He patted the offended Corgi almost absentmindedly.

Everybody makes mistakes. Live with it.

/ / /

He half expected to fall apart just walking through the door, but it was quite the opposite. Ealasaid's was the quintessential tea room: lace curtains, fresh flowers, the smell of something wonderful baking and the soft buzz of conversations mixed with gentle tink of cups being set on saucers. If you ignored the current mode of dress, it was like going back in time fifty years. The place was packed; Saturday afternoon tea was apparently the rage in Washington. Several young women clad in just-past-calf-length dark dresses and sparkling white pinny aprons glided effortlessly through the tables, ferrying pots of tea and plates of sandwiches and sweets. Two more were running the retail counter, filling bags with tea and boxes with cookies and tarts and other goodies as quickly as possible to get through the long line of customers. At the far side of the room, a young man was handing teapots and service up to a woman on a stepladder; the holes in the display were silent testimony to the sales of tableware being as strong as the food. It was a homey, bustling place. Very pleasant.

But part of him still wanted to be home, indulging in his fit of pique. He caught sight of Abby and Ziva seated at a window table and smiled. How could a person keep dragging himself down into the doldrums with two such determined rescuers? They were only doing this because they cared. Enough self-indulgence, Donald. Bootstraps.

"So," he said, after exchanging cheek busses and taking the remaining seat that faced the front window, "the two of you have conspired to haul me back into the sunlight, eh?"

Abby gave Ziva a split-second look of panic, then both of them turned and in perfect chorus said, "What do you mean?"

"I have wanted to come for Saturday tea but did not want to come alone—" Ziva started.

He placed a hand atop one of hers. "Ziva…" He covered Abby's hand as well. "Abigail… Thank you. Thank you both. I appreciate this, truly I do. And I apologize—"

"Oh, Ducky, you don't need to—"

"Ducky, that is not—"

"Hush. I've been fair impossible to live with. And I've taken it out on my friends. My family," he corrected.

"You haven't been. Really." Abby's voice was small. "You've just been so sad, so—"

He nodded and squeezed their hands. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"Can we help?" Ziva asked.

"You have. It's over, it's done—" Amazingly, the words were true. It was as though walking through the doors had cast off a spell. "I'm fine. Really." He meant it, and they believed it.

Ziva actually sighed in relief. "It was like having the planet spin backwards."

"Next time—I know there won't be a next time, but in case there is a next time—talk to us? One of us? Both of us? Whoever, whatever—" Abby bit her lip. "We love you, Duckman. You never have to be alone."

He blinked, hard. "If we keep this up—"

Abby sniffled loudly. "You're right, you're right." She nodded firmly and handed around menu cards. "I was thinking the tea for four—even though we're three. I could eat two peoples' worth," she warned.

"Maybe we should order tea for eight," Ziva teased.

"You can always take home leftovers." A voice came from behind Ducky. He looked up and saw a waitress had slipped up behind them. "It's good to see you on a weekend, Ziva."

"Tori, what a surprise to see you out here."

"We're short two servers. One is taking a makeup exam, the other called in sick. That's the fun of food service—" she grinned. "The manager fills in wherever needed."

"So you own Ealasaid's?" Amazing. The name fell out effortlessly.

"No, no, my Aunt Liz owns the shop. I came in, gosh, ten years ago when the company I worked for closed its doors with no warning. I couldn't even boil water when I first started," she laughed.

Ducky couldn't help but smile. She was quite fetching, pale blonde hair piled high in a bun, blue eyes dancing behind round spectacles. She had a rather Gibson Girl-ish look; belatedly he realized that all of the servers carried through that theme. He caught sight of her nametag. "Victoria, is it?"

"Oh, lordy, if anyone else had muffed it like this I'd write 'em up," she half-groaned. She put a practiced smile on her face. "Good afternoon, welcome to Ealasaid's. My name is Victoria and I will be your waitress this afternoon. Our specialty today is, of course, Saturday afternoon tea; the soups d'jour are vegetable beef and cream of mushroom." Ziva giggled and Victoria gave her a stern look. "Hush, Miss David, I'm trying to remember my lines, here!"

"You must come in with great frequency," Ducky laughed.

"Twice a week, like clockwork," Victoria confirmed. "Monday is usually assorted shortbread and a hodgepodge of cookies; Thursday is always blueberry scones." She rolled her eyes. "God help us if we ever run out!"

Ducky nodded; that fit with what he found in the refrigerator. "We share tea at work," he said by way of explanation. "Of course, our tea is nothing like what you offer here, despite the sweets coming from your shop," he added, noting the descriptions on the menu. The tea sandwiches alone were three columns long.

"Oh, I am sorry!" Ziva shook her head in annoyance. "Tori, these are friends of mine from work. Abby Sciuto—Abby is our Forensic Specialist—"

"Hi!" Abby held out a hand.

"Victoria Cameron," Victoria said, shaking the offered hand. "Tori to most everyone."

"And our Medical Examiner, Dr. Donald Mallard."

She blinked, startled. "Donald… Mallard?"

He laughed; after 60-odd years, he was surprised when his name didn't get a reaction. "And most people call me Ducky." He took her hand and bowed slightly over it.

"Ducky." She quirked a smile. "Donald Mallard… Ducky. Very pleased—"

From the back corner came a shriek overlaid with a crash and a thud with a loud, "Mrs. Hamilton!" from the stock boy.

"Aunt Lizzie!" Victoria abandoned her table, dashing to the wall.

"Ow! Oh, damn—ow!"

That decided it; someone was hurt. Ducky followed the path of staring patrons to the disaster near the corner. The small stepladder was toppled over, and pieces of broken china and pottery lay on the ground surrounding the woman who was struggling to a sitting position. "Aunt Lizzie, what happened? Are you all right?" Tori fretted.

"I'm fine." It was just this side of a snap. She was facing the wall, a hand waving at Tori. "I'm mostly embarrassed. I slipped off the ladder, my pride is hurt, I'm fine, just please go back to what you were doing!"

"You should go to the emergency room—"

"Good god, Tori, they can't x-ray a bruised ego." Her hand covered her face and she shook her head. "I am beyond mortified."

"It could happen to anyone," Ducky said comfortingly. "But your niece is right, Mrs. Hamilton. That was a nasty fall and quite a number of things you could have cut yourself on, you should be checked out."

Another negative shake; "I'm fine."

Now he knew how Ziva and Abby must have felt. He exchanged 'well, what can you do?' looks with Victoria. "Be careful," he cautioned as she shifted around, trying to find a better position from which to rise. "You might have—"

A sudden indrawn hiss cut him off. She had moved to put her left hand down to brace herself and just as quickly pulled it back before she even touched the floor—she'd barely moved it a few inches; he could see her right hand was clenched to the point of tremors.

"You have hurt yourself. Here—let me—"

"No." Her voice quivered with pain.

"I'm a doctor," he said gently. She might be going into mild shock, especially if it was a break and not just a sprain.

"Please. No." She sounded almost plaintive.

She was stubborn, but his Hippocratic Oath was more so. He shifted slightly so that he could at least get a better look at her injured arm. "Even if it's just a sprain, you should get an x-ray." He had been told more than once that when he wasn't snapping at someone for gross incompetence, he actually had a soothing voice. He hoped they were right. He could see her one arm cradled in the other hand; he was willing to bet it was fractured. "You could have a greenstick fracture," he started, trying to ease her into the concept of broken bone/go to ER/get a cast. He broke off abruptly. A silver bracelet dangled from her limp wrist. A familiar silver bracelet.

No.

Impossible.

He leaned forward slightly, so that he could see her face. Her hair, blond with a generous sprinkling of gray, was tumbling down from the requisite topknot and tears sparkled on the lashes of her closed eyes. "Elizabeth?" he said softly. The "Ealasaid…?" that followed was barely audible. He could see the front of the bracelet: Ealasaid written in delicate script, bracketed by tiny engraved roses and briar thorns. And he knew that on the other side would be…

"Donald." She bit her lips and slowly opened her eyes; he couldn't help but draw in a breath. The same odd shade of greenish blue that had caught his eye forty years ago. The same feeling of walking off a ledge and falling through space. The same hand grasping his heart and squeezing mercilessly that had followed later.

Oh, God.

"You… really do need to see a doctor," he said evenly. See a doctor? She's seeing one now. "Go to the ER," he corrected. "I think your arm may be fractured."

She stared at the floor and nodded mutely. The fight was gone. "I'll, uh, I'll go over to Georgetown—"

"You can't drive with your arm like that," he chided gently. "Let me drive you—"

She silently shook her head. It hurt to admit it, but it was probably a good idea not to drive her. "Ducky?" Ziva placed a hand on his shoulder; she and Abby had followed him, and from the look on their faces had seen the disastrous reunion. "I can drive her to the hospital." She flickered a smile. "Not how I normally drive. I promise."

He barely managed a smile at her poke at herself.

"Mrs. Hamilton?" Ziva squatted down next to her. "Do you remember me?"

"Ziva. Yes. Of course I—of course I remember you."

"Let me drive you to the hospital. You need to get that looked at—soon."

She nodded, and started to rise from the floor. Ducky instinctively reached out to help her, pulling back abruptly and staring at the floor as he realized his attention was probably quite unwanted.

Elizabeth.

Ealasaid.

Ziva caught his eye and mimed talking on a phone; he nodded. Tori came running back with her aunt's wallet. "Call me when you know something?"

"I will," Ziva promised, helping Elizabeth around the debris.

"Well, let's get this cleaned up," Abby said briskly.

"No, you—" Tori objected.

"The more hands, the faster it will go," Abby returned. She took the whiskbroom and dustpan from the hands of the stock boy who was hovering at the edge of the group. "Trash can?" she prompted him.

It was a welcome break. Ducky stood out of the way while Tori and Abby quickly cleaned up the broken china.

Elizabeth.

Ealasaid…

The one who got away. The one he let get away.

"Dr. Mallard?" He jumped at the hand on his arm. "Why don't you and Abby come back with me?" She nodded toward the kitchen. "Megan just arrived, we'll be fine with only one missing on the floor." With a reminder to the young man to mop the area for china slivers and dust, she led Ducky and Abby back through the kitchen to a private office. She motioned them to take seats around a small table. "Be right back."

She returned in moments with a cozy-covered teapot and a tray of tea sandwiches. "English Breakfast?"

Ducky exchanged a look with Abby. "Fine," he said. He'd be happy with just about anything. At this point, single malt would be even better, but probably not available. Or advisable

Tori set the table with three place settings, dashed from the room and returned with a platter of cookies and sweets. "Okay, I am off the boards." She checked her wristwatch. "Tea should be ready. I swiped it from the line." She slipped into an empty chair. "I'll be mother." She poured three cups; Ducky took his usual milk, Abby a teeth-aching amount of sugar and Tori almost a full half a lemon and several lumps of sugar. "So," she said brightly, "we can talk about trivialities or ask the big question of the day." She looked at Ducky expectantly, almost speculatively.

He stirred his tea slowly. "Your aunt and I knew each other years ago." He tried to sound nonchalant. "Back in 1969, I posted to California for two months during my 5th year of medical school. Her father was the clinic coordinator." He gave them what he hoped passed for an amiable smile. End of story.

"I'm not trying to pry, Doct—Ducky," Tori corrected.

Then please don't.

"But—you were pretty shook when you saw Aunt Liz. And that bracelet—"

He nodded.

"Ealasaid. And Donald. I have never seen her not wear that bracelet. Ever. Even when I was a child."

"I'm glad she likes it," he said mildly.

"She's divorced, you know."

"No, I didn't know." It was a forty-year gap, a forty-year silence; he hadn't even known she had married—though the "Mrs. Hamilton" was a hefty clue.

"Mm-hmm. My dad died when I was four, Mama not long after. We were living with grandma and grandpa after Dad died. I don't remember it very well, but Mama wasn't well—and Aunt Lizzie came out from Washington. Mama said I would be staying with Aunt Lizzie until she got better and… it never happened." Abby reached over and covered her hand in sympathy; Tori smiled at the gesture. "She died from heart failure."

That brought Ducky up short. Tish would have only been about thirty, maybe a few years beyond, at the most; heart failure?

"I think, really, it was a broken heart," Tori said softly. "She was crazy about Daddy, everyone said. When he died…" she trailed off. She stared off, idly twisting the ring on the ring finger on her right hand. "So… Aunt Lizzie was my guardian, then my adoptive mother. Aunt Liz… but not Uncle Walter. He left the day we came back from California. For the longest time, I was sure that he left because I moved in."

"Kids always assume that if something bad happens, it's their fault," Abby said cynically.

"And they are usually wrong," Ducky said firmly, looking over his glasses at Tori.

She nodded. "Aunt Lizzie made sure to let me know that the divorce was a long time in coming—from the day they got married, she said once. They were married for only two years or so."

"Tori," he said uneasily, "I'm a little uncomfortable gossiping about Elizabeth like this."

"This isn't gossiping," she said reasonably. "She'd be telling you the same thing if she were here, asking about your wife, your children, and catching up after all these years."

Abby was staring into her teacup. Silent, for once.

"Not married. Never married. No wife. No children." He realized how short he sounded and tempered it with a smile. "So—how long have you lived in Washington?"

"Virginia, if you're picky… Gosh. Um… Aunt Liz already lived here, so—since I was almost five. Forever. You knew my mother, too, didn't you?"

"Patricia. Tish. Yes." He managed a pleasant tone. He had swung hot and cold with regard to Patricia, but had ended up being quite fond of her. The news of her death still shocked him.

"And you knew Uncle Dennys, too, right?"

"How is Dennys?" He suddenly remembered Dennys Stewart with a painful clarity. He hadn't thought about him in four decades—not directly, anyway.

It was Tori's turn to stare into her cup. "All things considering… pretty good. He doesn't drink any more—well, not like he did when he was younger, from what I gather. A glass of wine, maybe a beer. He still has… problems once in a while. But he's pretty together—more than most of the people out in California. He and Aunt Mad have been married for thirty, thirty-five years. Something like that. He still works in the music business, but he 'got religion' a while back—not over the top or anything," she quickly added. "He's not officially a minister, not licensed or anything, mostly works out of the local UU. He and Aunt Mad have fostered probably a hundred kids over the years."

"Unitarian Universalist," Abby translated. He nodded; he was familiar with the name and the term.

"He's a youth counselor. Darn good one, too. He and Mad live just down the way from Grandfather. He—my grandfather—got remarried after Grandmother died." She smiled. "His secretary, if you can believe that."

"Cecelia?" Amazing how the smallest details were in perfect order.

"One and the same. Actually, she was a good choice. She keeps him out of the doldrums. After Grandmother Julia died, he got this idea that he was the reason his kids had all screwed up their lives."

"We are each responsible for our own choices," he said a little stiffly.

"Not necessarily," she said softly. A quiet knock at the door made her jump a bit. "Yes?"

One of the counter girls poked her head in. "Victoria?"

Nothing else was said, but more was communicated. "Please excuse me. I'll be right back." She slipped out of the office, leaving the door ajar.

Ducky quietly sipped his tea. Glancing over the rim of the cup, he could see Abby worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "Abby?"

"Ducky, I—I know Ziva and I brought you here to have the day off, to have some fun—I'm sorry, we had no idea—"

"Abby—neither did I. It's all right."

"I should leave."

"Nonsense."

"Ducky—you were in love with her, weren't you?" she asked. She looked miserable.

She'd get it out of him eventually, anyway. He sighed. "Yes. Very much so."

"She's still wearing your bracelet after all these years, she must still love you—"

"Habit."

She made an exasperated noise. "Ducky, a woman doesn't wear a piece of jewelry out of habit. Not like that."

"Abby…" He closed his eyes. "When I left California, I wrote more letters in three months than I had my entire life. No answer. Not one. I called, I finally reached her mother—she said Elizabeth had moved out—moved out and told her not to give me her address or number. So, apparently, it is just habit."

"And she almost started crying when she saw you because…?"

"She was in pain?" he suggested.

"It was more than that. I could see her eyes, Ducky."

He shrugged. "I don't know. Delayed guilt?"

"She lied."

They both turned sharply toward the door. Victoria had slipped back in, silent and unnoticed. "Pardon?" Ducky said.

"My grandmother. She lied." Simple words, blunt tone. "Aunt Liz didn't know for years, Dr. Mallard. By then, it was too late." Her hands were folded at her waist, prim and proper. "Grandmother browbeat her into getting married because that's what all 'nice' girls do. Get married, have a family, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And she didn't think some medical student—especially a 'foreigner,'" she said with exaggerated distaste, "was good enough for her daughter. So she burned your letters… and lied on the phone. So then Aunt Lizzie ended up with a business-slash-poli-sci major who would earn as much as a doctor but have much better hours. Too bad he was a complete jerk." There was more than a tinge of bitterness.

He remembered the oh-so-solicitous tones of Mrs. Stewart. So sympathetic. So kind. Such a lie. He took a sip of tea, trying to quell his rising anger—and the sick feeling in his soul.

She let out a deep breath. "Except for when Mama died… that was the only time I ever saw her cry," she reflected as she slowly walked back toward the table. "Grandmother and Grandfather came out for a visit. I was fifteen, almost sixteen. Aunt Lizzie made sure there wasn't any alcohol in the house—but that didn't stop grandmother," she said with a tart smile. "She was blasted when they arrived for dinner—in vino veritas," she said drily. "I think she had a private stash in her purse, because she got worse and worse as the evening went on. I couldn't understand what she was saying to Aunt Lizzie—you know when people say things that only the intended party will understand—little snippy comments that finally just pushed her over the edge."

"It must have been a lot to do that," he said unintentionally aloud. "I mean—the Elizabeth I knew, it took quite a bit to even make her speak sharply."

Tori nodded. "She finally threw down her napkin and said, 'Library. Now!' and they both stormed out of there. I was left going, 'Coffee? Cake?' like World War Three wasn't breaking out twenty feet away behind closed doors. After forever, Grandmother comes stomping out like Godzilla going out of Tokyo, Grandfather and Uncle Den and Aunt Maddie apologize and go after her—and that was the end of that family reunion."

"Wow," Abby breathed sympathetically.

"I went into the library and Aunt Lizzie was sitting in her favorite chair crying and crying and—" she shook her head. "She was my world. If I had stayed with my grandparents—" She rolled her eyes. "God, what a mess that would have been. So for her to sit there, sobbing like her heart was breaking, it just killed me."

Ducky closed his eyes, opening them when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Tori's understanding gaze. "Grandmother sank you two like a U-boat," she said gently. "Don't blame yourself." She resumed her seat and drank down half her tea in one gulp. "Aunt Lizzie told me everything."

Probably not. But it confirmed a thought in the back of his mind—Tori knew her aunt's version of the past; she was looking for his as a comparison.

"You and another boy came over from Edinburgh for a couple of months."

"Fifth year students have the option of doing clinic work overseas," he explained. "It's a way of… broadening your horizons."

"You were the last two of the year. You had to come out every week for dinner, she said. And apparently my mother was—uh—the other boy—"

"She was smitten with Edward," he said smoothly. "A bit, anyway." There; that was polite.

"Aunt Liz said it was both of you—but you barely gave Mama the time of day. Which suited Aunt Lizzie just fine—since she fell head over heels for you when you walked through the door."

He blushed faintly and couldn't help but smile. "I think you're exaggerating."

Abby grinned and took a sandwich from the plate Tori offered. "I doubt it."

"I'm not. She said that when you told her you loved her, life was perfect. She would have waited forever. She sent dozens of letters—"

"I never—"

She held up a hand. "My grandmother 'mailed' them. So, when she never got an answer, Grandmother convinced her that you were just interested in a fling. It made it that much easier to push her into marrying Walter. Grandmother admitted she burned the letters. Yours and hers. And she lied to you on the phone when you called. I told her she should try to find you, but she figured you had moved on, had a wife, children… 'What would I say after all this time?'" She stared at him intently; she looked a lot like her mother, but without Tish's hard edges. "God brought you here for a reason."

"Tori—"

"How long have you lived here?"

"Ah—over twenty years," he said uncertainly.

"We've been out here over thirty, had the store here almost as long. D.C. may be a big town, but—come on. We didn't cross paths until today?"

"Ziva and Abby—"

"This morning, Aunt Liz said she's thinking of retiring. Turning this over to me and moving back to California."

His heart skipped a beat. "When?"

"The end of the year. Just talk—but she sounded pretty certain."

Three months. Maybe not enough time to sell a house, but plenty of time to pack and disappear.

"You would have missed each other. Again." She reached over and grasped his hand. "Call it God, call it universal balance—call it my grandmother trying to make right what she so royally screwed up—but you're here, now, for a purpose. You need to talk to her. She needs to talk to you." As if on cue, the telephone rang. "Private line," she excused herself. She hurried over to the desk and caught the phone on the third ring. "Ealasaid's. Oh, Ziva! How is—what?"

Ducky watched her intently. Her face was unreadable; she nodded several times, listening in silence broken by occasional noises of acknowledgment.

"When will she be out? That long? Okay, I'll come over when we close. I don't know how I can thank—" She grinned. "Ziva, you're like the little sister I never had. You know that. Thank you. I'll be over as soon as I can."

"How is she?" Ducky asked before she had even hung up the receiver.

"The bad news is, she needs surgery. They're going to have to put screws in, maybe a plate. She has three fractures—"

"From a fall that short?" he said sharply, over Abby's, "Oh, my God, poor Liz!"

"Her arm was fractured before. It healed 'well enough,' but this time it broke on the old fracture lines and left a lot of bone fragments." Tori gave him a measured look. "I told you Walter was a jerk."

No. Oh, no.

"If it's any consolation… he died in prison. His second wife pressed charges."

Ealasaid… People she had loved and trusted who had betrayed and hurt her, all gone, dead and forgotten.

All but one. "When will they operate?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"Just a bit. Ziva said Lizzie just went to pre-op, higher than a kite. That's the good news. Apparently, she's not in any pain and talking a blue streak," Tori laughed, oblivious to his inner demons. "She should be out of surgery in a couple of hours, we close at seven—"

"I'd—I'd like to go over. Now," he blurted out.

Tori slipped over behind him, set her hands on his shoulders and leaned over. "I think… seeing you will be just what she needs," she said softly. "Thank you, Dr. Mallard."

"Ducky," he said absently. "Everyone… everyone calls me Ducky."

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