Chapter Twenty-five

Time passed and everything was right again . . . as it was in the past.

The world seemed brighter, and the streets of New York held promise; the sights, sounds and smells were less agitating. Moreover, Goren's tendencies to fall into periods of paranoia and suffer from untimely anxiety attacks slowly ebbed to a manageable level. He was sleeping at night again, and starting to fall into a sleeping pattern that allowed him to dream, (and even remember a few dreams for that matter).

His energy had returned, and he'd started eating better meal portions, that which he could thank Eames for, (he likened her to a little hummingbird – who crashed when she got hypoglycemic). It turns out that a hypoglycemic Eames was a very bad situation indeed, but now that he had his life back on track, he was able to put his extra energy and attentiveness into being able to gauge her better. Oh, and he wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to stay with him . . . and to never, ever leave him on his own again.

With the future at their doorstop, and after almost a year of general confusion, they were finally back in synch. And without surprise, he found that returning to the norm was pure bliss. In fact, he wrote off the crazed nine months or so of her pregnancy, (and their past relationship), as a period of growth. He'd even managed to convince himself that the struggles they'd faced had brought them closer together, and that the bond that they now shared appeared to be stronger than it had ever been.

So throughout a most beautiful NYC autumn, their strictly police partnership had rekindled into a second honeymoon, a renaissance . . . it was as if they'd turned the page into this new golden era with no real reason to look back. In fact, they never did. Not a word was spoken between them about the months during Eames' pregnancy: the close proximities, the gentle touching, the sexual encounters, the informal sharing of feelings and thoughts that surpassed the narrow confines of their working world, the intimacy of him suckling colostrum from her breasts, to the relaying of the most prized words of all – I love you.

Indeed, it was the elephant in the room.

Then one particular December afternoon, long after the leaves fell from the branches, and as the weather turned over into the unpredictable; the bubble burst.

It all came to pass as they were investigating an interesting character by the name of Harvey Gruenwald: a strange, mousy creature that dabbled in PR and charity events. It seemed likely that Gruenwald might be a player in what 'appeared to be foul play' orchestrated by an even stranger character . . . the deceased's widow.

"Well I'm starting to see how Harvey does it; hubris, flattery – a big part of it," he gesticulated broadly, playing into the mind and mannerisms of the curious character Gruenwald, "and the facial tick, its uh, . . . disarming. The more anxious he gets, the worse it gets. And if it's like most simple motor ticks, than it's developed in early childhood." (Yes he was rambling, and the nice thing was that he didn't have to filter everything that came out of his mouth. Less than six months ago, this would have been a totally different story.)

But every great honeymoon period must come to an end, and the official end of their blissful return came as Eames was reporting a relevant piece of information to Deakins; i.e., one processed copy of a check that Eames had written during her last two months of pregnancy, in which she apparently attended a First Responder's benefit.

"Five hundred bucks." Deakins looked surprised (and who wouldn't be on the measly salary they both were issued every two weeks), "who's Terry?"

"My date," Eames replied simply.

It was hard not to notice Deakins' double take, or the look on Deakin's face that might have easily been interpreted as, 'you go girl.'

"Well, what was I supposed to do while I was pregnant, stay home and knit?" Eames shrugged her shoulders, and Goren tried not to look directly at her, or show any signs of the searing surprise and extreme jealousy that was starting to take over his body.

He lifted his hands up reflexively and tried to mask his irritation as Eames handed him the photocopy. He knew his ears were burning red . . . but what was much worse, was that he knew that Eames had read everything she needed to. The elephant in the room just woke up and was now starting to stomp all over the goddamned place.

"Check the endorsement," she nodded her head sharply.

Goren shook his head, "Bergdorf Goodman's?"

With that, they left One Police Plaza and went to a steep men's clothing store in midtown east, just shy of the park between Madison and 5th avenue.

The car ride was a straight shot up north, but traffic could prolong the five-mile drive up to thirty minutes. Sitting in the driver's seat, the minutes ticked by at a plodding pace. Inside her Ford Explorer, it was painfully quiet as an early evening cold drizzle started to streak the windows. He watched the short city blocks blur by in succession with his face intentionally turned away from her. He was afraid to look at her, afraid that he'd say something careless because he was still distressingly jealous and angered by her actions.

Why would she go out with another man so soon after they'd stopped seeing each other? Did she . . . or rather, was she still seeing him? Did she have sex with him? Did she let him taste her colostrums too? They were his initial pained thoughts, primitive at best, but honest and heartfelt. And he felt crushed, so much so that he found it suitable to sulk in front of her.

The rain picked up, and he cracked his window to catch the subtle scent of the fresh ions in the air. Shutting the window a few seconds later, he let the sound of the droplets hitting the windshield distract his mind and wounded heart.

Their investigation at Bergdorf Goodman's proved to be fruitful and rather brief, for after probing the manager on duty, he soon found himself back in her passenger's seat on a slightly shorter jaunt to a senior center in Astoria. Time is relative, he mused . . . for example, the time spent in the clothing store passed quickly, most likely because they were snapped back into their smooth detective routines. And now back in the car, time took a turn for the worst, cloaked in a palpable silence.

From the senior center to tracking down Esther Gruenwald in Queens, Eames finally decided to combat the utter silence that cocooned them in the vehicle by openly venting, she rattling off about how irritated she was that her hard earned money was spent paying off a debt that purchased dressing accessories for celebrities. For some inane reason, he felt like baiting her, informing her that she should not have been so naïve to support a charity that she hadn't fully researched.

He knew that baiting her was bullshit. He knew it primarily because he knew where the impetus to say such a thing was originating from - from a deep jealousy born in his heart. More primitive thinking: all born out of protecting his soft sensitive side. You went with someone else when you shouldn't have, and this Eames, this is how you are rewarded.

And when all was said and done, and he'd decidedly been an aloof ass all night, she asked him if he wanted a lift back to the station. They were in Queens, so it would be silly for her to drive all the way back into town. She wasn't a goddamned chauffer after all . . .

"I'll take the subway," he forced a smile.

"You sure?" she squinted back at him, a deep mistrust painted on her expression.

He nodded definitively, unbuckling his seatbelt while simultaneously pulling up the files at his feet.

"It's late," she mumbled, "I can't believe you have the energy to keep going."

He shrugged and turned his face away from her, as it was getting so fucking hard to hide his disappointment.

And that was that.

On the subway ride to the station, his emotions were eating him alive. Eames' revelation about 'Terry' was piercing his soft, vulnerable insides. And truthfully, these days it wasn't easy getting past his crusty exterior, his skin was thick, years of dealing with a dysfunctional family will do that to you.

As the city passed by above him, he tried perusing through the police files, but his brain was racing – racing to places he never wanted it to go.

You fucking idiot. You broke up with her, and you did it because it was necessary - so stop trying to convolute the issue. You know damn well that you can't give her what she needs, and maybe, just maybe, this guy Terry can. You've got to fucking grow up and let go. And if you do really love her, you need to look out for her . . . so for fuck's sake, just let go, she's better off now.

So he let it all go, he pushed it away, raised his head and did what he could to mentally reinforce his noble actions. Inside his tough exterior, his heart continued to ache.

It was less than a week before Christmas. The urban signs were ubiquitous, now they just needed nature to blanket the streets in white. And then there was the other complication of the yearly, and awful he might add, obligatory departmental Christmas party in which most of the older detectives got shit-faced within an hour. Perhaps they shouldn't always hold the party at the same Irish pub, but breaking tradition was clearly not in Deakins' blood.

At the party, despite the obvious fact that they were partners, 'minorities stick together' was their secret pact: Eames because she was a woman, and need he say that he wasn't part of the Irish majority?

"This is bullshit," Eames muttered nursing her beverage, "same fucking thing every year . . . as if I haven't been exposed to a scene like this enough in my life."

"Don't go yet," he hedged nervously, his finger rubbing 'round the edges of his coaster, "I hate this party too, but you're the only reason I've got to stay."

She snorted, and pushed the rest of the alcohol down, "fuck it, you're a big boy . . . you can fend."

"Tell me what you really think Eames," he tensed his shoulders before releasing air sharply through his nose, "I know I've been a real, uh . . ."

"Asshole." Eames finished the sentence without missing a beat; she pounded her glass down on the bar and slid off her uneven barstool, "Merry Christmas."

He watched helplessly as she wove through the bar, nodding her farewells to a handful of their eleventh floor compadres. He clenched his jaw in frustration and swung his head around quickly to remove her from his view, only to quickly double back when he heard another male colleague oodle, "Leaving so soon, Alex?"

Fucking Reilly he thought, he wants to nail her so bad that he doesn't even bother to take it down a notch. Has he even heard of subtlety?

He watched at a distance as she pushed her way out of the bar, and as the door closed shut, he felt a sense of emptiness hollow out in his chest. A half second later he decided to leave.

He started down her path slowly, not even bothering to say farewells, Deakins gave him a nod and lifted his drink, he tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

Suddenly, he rushed outside to see if he could catch up with her, only to find Reilly two steps ahead of him, trying the same tactic.

"Jesus, she's quick."

He refused to dialogue back.

Reilly laughed sharply, "Good luck to you too."

"She says you remind her of everything she hates about her family," he commented smugly.

"Maybe so," Reilly gestured inappropriately, "but it's better than being the department freak show."

He shook his head and started to laugh menacingly, "and insulting her partner is the best way to get in her pants? You're a fucking idiot."

With that he squared his shoulders away from Malachy's Pub and pulled his scarf tight around his neck before hailing a cab.

It was nearly Christmas, (a few days before), one of the two big ones: Christmas and Easter. And this year, considering everything they'd been through, he wanted to give her something that was meaningful, even on his modest budget.

Moping around in his sterile apartment, he'd been reminded of the time he'd spent in her bedroom, her simple surroundings which had not evolved since the loss of Joe. And even though he'd failed at creating a functional relationship with her, he truly did want to help her move on, continue to evolve, grow and eventually find love with the right person.

All of this pondering brought him back to one of their earlier cases that happened to take them to a local art museum in Troy, New York. He was taken back to a youthful looking Eames, and how her face had beamed when she stared at, (what eventually turned out to be a fake, but good rendition of) a Claude Monet painting. He teased her lightly when she'd professed her love for Impressionism. "It's too pretty," he'd ribbed her gently, secretly wanting to blurt out "but it has nothing on you, Eames."

So with the little/no hours he allowed himself in pursuit of leisure activities, (post the working day that is), he spent those few extra hours in the Chatham Square branch of the New York public library off of St. James Place. Eames jokingly referred to this as his second home, (One Police Plaza being his first and his apartment coming in at a close third).

Cloistered in the familiar and rather quiet walls of the NY Public library, he absorbed books that focused on Monet in order to pick the correct print to adorn her bedroom wall. He considered that based on her comments at the museum in Troy, that Eames was drawn to Monet's later work. He also considered the colors of the walls and textiles already present in Eames' bedroom . . . and soon he found himself drawn to the series that was on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts. His detective like research ensured he could get a relatively good quality print on fine acid-free matte paper – and his buddy Lewis knew a guy, who knew a guy, that could frame the print so that it meet his rather narrow expectations.

"So who is this for?" Lewis raised an eyebrow, "it came out nice, huh?"

"My mother," he lied, nodding his head, pulling out his bill clip before exchanging the tender to Lewis, "tell James he pays close attention to detail."

"Nice tip," Lewis nodded, "he'll appreciate."

"So, can I borrow the old beastie?"

"Oh sure, yeah, sorry I shoulda offered. Lord knows you don't wanna heft that on the Metro."

Smiling, he took the keys from Lewis as he clapped him on the back, "Thanks man, as usual, I owe ya."

He made sure she was home before he set out in one of Lewis's old clunkers. In addition, he also led on that he wanted to drop something by . . .

"Are you giving me my Christmas present early?" Eames asked in her familiar suspicious detective tone.

"Yes," he sighed, "you found me out."

"We usually exchange gifts at work."

"This one is too big."

"Really? Now you've peaked my interest."

He smiled into the phone.

"How far out are you?" Eames queried.

"I'm on my way."

"Shit."

"What?" (Was Terry there?)

"I haven't wrapped your present yet. Can you take your time parallel parking?"

"Yes."

And with that, the time had come, he was now at her door, the print wrapped loosely in simple brown packaging paper, all awkward, bulky and large.

Eames covered her mouth when she opened the door and waved him inside.

"It's, uh, . . ." he started, but stopped as she started peeling the sides of wrap from the red twine.

"Oh my god," Eames eyes popped, before she turned into him and drew him into a tight hug, "it's . . . it's so beautiful . . ." she spoke into his ribcage.

"It's uh," he continued, "or, it was inspired by the fleeting effects of nature . . . seemingly innocent, ingenious, and instinctual, and uh, I began to see the connections between the piece and uh, the beauty that is you, Alex."

She was silent.

"Well, uh, that and I remembered how much you liked it."

She looked confused.

"The . . . the museum in Troy?"

"Oh, right," Eames whispered, her eyes sucked deep into the print, "I've never owned anything like this . . ."

"Monet drew inspiration from his water gardens in Giverny, a, uh, a world that excluded all but the unsullied beauty of nature. I can see why, um, why you are drawn to it. I'm starting to appreciate it more every day."

"Jesus, Bobby," Eames breathed in visibly, "where am I going to hang this?"

"I was thinking in your bedroom."

She nodded quickly before running into her bedroom. Moments later she came out with a very small soft pouch, "this is for you."

"Thank you," he ran his fingers repeatedly over the soft fabric, before slipping his fingers into the enclosure.

A silver chain slipped from the pouch with a simple iconic charm – the Virgin Mary's profile imprinted aesthetically to an oval design.

"I followed you that day," Eames whispered as she came a step closer, "the day I tracked you down at the cleaners. I was," she stopped smiling and lowering her eyelids, "I was bored out of my mind and missing the job, . . . and you of course."

He cocked his head to the side, a bit surprised to find out that Eames had essentially been stalking him that day.

Eames pulled in closer, until she was nearly in his arms, her finger slowly pushed the charm about in his much larger palm, "my father gave this to me when I earned my blues," she looked right into his eyes, "to protect me of course."

"I can't take this Eames," he whispered.

"No," her eyes still locked on to his, "I can't not let you take it. It's the only way I'll sleep at night."

His brows creased, and he was suddenly distracted and intrigued by the knowledge that she had trouble sleeping too.

"Maybe if I'd only given this to Joe," she spoke softly into his chest, "but . . . I won't make the same mistake twice."

He pressed his lips into the top of her head, "Thank you sweetheart."

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Eames."

And when all was said and done, it was one of the most meaningful holidays he'd experienced in his life. With his perspective back in tact, miniscule issues that revolved around the unnamed Terry became meaningless. The past was the past, and it was time to live in the now.

So he spent the evening helping her hang the Monet print. And afterwards, on his drive back to Lewis's garage he held the chain of his Christmas present tightly between his fingers. For now, the chain would represent his connection to Eames, and each night, it would live under the pillow where he laid his head to rest.

On top of that same pillow, his waking life fading into the realm of dreams . . . a place surrounded by extraordinary beauty: where Eames would be able to move away from the sorrows of her past, and where he could feel the safety and piece of mind that comes from the knowledge of true unconditional love.

THE END