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Author Topic: An Unusual Sequence of Events  (Read 15405 times)
sarapals
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He's still wearing this shirt--2013!


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« on: April 04, 2012, 05:09 PM »

A/N: Of course we do not own CSI nor its characters; just having a little fun! Short story, several chapters, set after "Malice in Wonderland" and a reason for the plant! Thanks for reading.

An Unusual Sequence of Events
Turmoil: A state of great confusion

Chapter 1:

The rain came early, unexpected, and weeks before the traditional start of the season, thus no one was prepared for the sudden intensity or magnitude of it. And it rained without ceasing for five days and nights—torrential downpours that made walking on flat ground tricky and traversing a mountainside precariously dangerous. The storm began in the north where dark sullen clouds lay over treetops and mountain villages disappeared in a rain-soaked miasma and then it drifted south, heavier with rain, rolling down the valley. As the storm gathered strength and grew, the group of researchers had worked feverishly to cover several shallow trenches with stout tarps only to see water fall so fast and furious in the first hour of the storm that their work had been for nothing.

Thinking the storm would pass, the first night, as the constant racket of rain and thunder kept them from sleeping, they had talked—of nothing important—of the weather, of life away from this place, of the extra time it would take to excavate the water filled troughs. Or, one suggested, perhaps the rain and mud would prove to be helpful in closing down this site for the season. They had already talked about covering the trenches in loose dirt making their work nearly invisible to anyone looking for artifacts. Not that this dig in the mountainside held any treasure or ancient relics of value to anyone other than researchers, but some of the locals believed the simple presence of these strangers meant there was something to be found worthy of all the manual labor they did.

By the third day, when solar powered satellite phones had been drained of power and the fuel indicator for the small gas range moved into the red bar and the flame sputtered out before coffee was made, they talked of walking into the nearest village—an easy thirty minutes walk in good weather—but decided to wait because surely the rain would cease by the fourth day. It did not.

They were an optimistic group of men—pessimistic people did not traipse all over the world in search of the unknown and certainly not in search of long dead insects—so they waited, talked, read, slept and ate cold food from cans. Several times one man or another commented about how easy it was for men—women, they agreed, would have a tough time in all this rain and mud. No one admitted to missing a wife, but as they were all married men, each one knew the truth. Each one thought about a worried spouse, the one person who would be waiting, puzzled by the lack of a phone call as a third day stretched to a fourth. But none of the men voiced this very intimate concern as they resolved in various ways to wait out this storm.

In their isolation, they had no way of knowing the nation-wide disaster made by torrential rains—overflowing rivers, muddy landslides, sections of roads washed away, entire villages crumbling, and in the country's capitol, the end of an airport runway was simply swept away into a steep mountain valley. Thousands of people lost homes, hundreds were dead or missing; life as it was vanished as the rain continued into the fifth day.

That night Gil Grissom stood in the doorway and watched as darkly opaque sheets of rain created a waterfall along the sloping canvas edge of the narrow porch. At least the building was elevated several feet above the ground, he thought, as water dug deep rivulets into the muddy ground. He swatted a fly on his thigh, thankful for the only dry item of clothing he had remaining—a pair of black silky boxer shorts his wife had insisted he pack because the fabric would dry almost immediately. Everything else was damp or wet and muddy and hanging from pegs and hangers in a futile attempt to dry in one hundred percent humidity.

The other men were soundly sleeping judging from the snores and deep sighs coming from the bedrooms, but he could not sleep—not when his thoughts were thousands of miles away in Las Vegas. Not when he had promised to return on time, no delays this time. He wiped a hand across his face.

He missed his wife. She would know why he had not returned; their last conversation had been about the sudden storm and weather reports were easy to follow—and she would understand. She would tell him "It's okay—a few weeks and we'll try again." But he knew she would be disappointed, saddened again by a missed opportunity. Not angry—Sara would never be angry with him and, he admitted, he often took advantage of that sweet trait of her personality. He smiled imagining her face when she heard this story as she pulled his dirty clothes out of his suitcase—more than once she had met him in a strange city with clean shirts and pants because she insisted he would not be allowed to fly in the nasty, smelly clothing he had worked in for weeks.

Sara made him respectable, he thought with a smile. Going back into the small building, he ambled into one of the small bedrooms in search of an empty bed. The sheets were damp and chilly and reminded him again of the warm bed and body waiting for him at home. Sara waited—gentle, sweet Sara, patiently waiting as she had done for so many years—for him. He still found it troubling at how close he came to losing her forever, and in his isolated loneliness, he could not sleep.

Desperately, he wanted to do the one thing for her she desired, and plans had been made, doctor's appointments kept, bad news and good news led to extensive testing and a round of fertility medications, and then a second try when the first did not succeed. He understood fully the window of opportunity, especially for Sara, for women of a certain age, and he had promised a quick trip and return, back in bed with her and let nature take its course—with a little assistance, of course.

As he lay in bed, beads of sweat forming along his hairline, he thought of Sara, reliving some of their moments together—the way her face looked at climax, when she thought of something that excited her, the way she announced she wanted a child. Only Sara would do it with a book—his book—two copies, exquisitely bound and printed, one for him and one for their future child.

With snoring men on either side of the thin walls, he tossed and turned, tangled in the sheets, tried to plump his pillow, attempted to count sheep, before the steady deluge of rain beating on the metal roof finally put him to sleep. Not where he wanted to be…not where he wanted to be…not what he wanted…

Suddenly, he jerked awake, instantly alert to the sounds of a door slamming shut. The chair creaked and groaned as he struggled to get up; the Barcolounger had seen better days but he refused to give it up; it fit his form, he insisted. He stuck his feet into an old pair of sandals as he heard a voice—a screech from his wife.

"Get in here, Gil! All these groceries are for you! Get out of that damn chair and bring them into the !" Her loud yell grated on his nerves, but he hiked his shorts and headed to the . The dog, well aware of the scolding he would get for entering the , lifted his big head, gave a quiet moan, and resumed his nap next to the chair.

A quick imagine entered Grissom's mind. He wished he could jump this ship—a tropical island, cool breeze moving a hammock while he drank a beer and watched lovely women—real women with hips and breasts and luscious smiling lips. Instead, he answered, "Yes dear. Whatever you want—how about tea? Would you like some tea?"

His wife gave him a penetrating stare. "What have you been doing? You know my temp is up—we got to do it quickly! You better not be drinking beer—or anything else! Are you wearing those boxers I got you? This had better work this time. I'm the one taking the shots and doing everything while you sit around the house! Are you going to bring in the groceries or do I have to tell you to do everything?" She paused for a quick breath. "I'm getting in bed. Get yourself ready. I hope you took a shower while I was gone."

She continued to talk as he ducked into the garage. Groceries consisted of crackers and soup. Several times he had tried to tell her she was too thin—anorexic, her physician said. But she insisted she was small boned—yeah, right, she was half the size now from the time they met. With fertility treatments, she had gained some weight but in bed she still felt more like a coat hanger than a woman.

In the beginning he had been enthusiastic about a baby, his baby, their baby—it would make them a real family—give his wife a way to spend her days while he worked. But now, when they realized it would not be easy, it consumed every thought and action she had. Their lovemaking had turned into an ordeal regulated by time, temperature, and temper. Not what he had imagined. He opened the car door and began removing sacks of groceries; not that she bought real food. Everything was low calories or no calorie—he couldn't remember the last piece of chicken he had eaten that had any taste to it.

Taking longer than necessary, he daydreamed, asking himself how his life had turned into this frightful chaos. Who was this skinny woman in his house? Some long forgotten girlfriend he had never intended to marry! This was not where he wanted to be…

....more to come...
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"Long long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke..." (Longfellow & Sara Sidle, Ending Happy, 2007)
sarapals
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« Reply #1 on: April 07, 2012, 01:11 PM »

Chapter 2

Confusion: the state of being perplexed

A cold sweat covered his body; the sheet had been thrown from his narrow bed and even his boxers seemed damp. The rain continued to pound on the metal roof and as he lifted the sheet from the floor, he felt a sprinkle of water across his back. Finding his flashlight, he shined it upwards. Water, a long line of dripping rainwater was coming through the roof.

He sat up, found his shoes, and in darkness managed to move the bed about three feet to the middle of the floor. He sat down on the bed and tried to recall his dream—something not pleasant, he thought. And how in the world did an old college girlfriend get in his dream? His dream was a nightmare, a confusing conglomeration of an old girlfriend and secret fears. He wanted to be a good husband, hopefully a good father, to keep his promises. The thunder rumbled, echoing against the mountains; the sky lit up with lightening. Wrapping the sheet around him, he settled back into bed. Only, the constant drip-drip-drip of rain drumming into his brain kept him awake. He covered his face with the thin pillow and closed his eyes.

“I’ll think of Sara,” he said to himself. He chuckled remembering how she had explained to his mother they were planning a baby. His mother had thought a baby was actually on the way and in ten minutes the two women he loved had made a list of names and pulled up an internet site about decorating a baby’s room. He would not even attempt to imagine what the two had done while he was away.

His thoughts drifted to the fertility clinic—very caring, compassionate professionals—he had no idea of the problems, the number of couples who had problems with conceiving a baby. The process scared him—he had talked to Doc Robbins about all of this and had a thorough physical after hearing about the advanced and invasive procedures if first attempts did not succeed.

This time sleep did not come; instead, he dosed a few minutes and then the sound of rain and thunder woke him again and again until finally he gave up. The lightening flashed so brightly it seemed to come into the building. He was halfway out of bed, that moment between sitting and standing, when a tremendous quaking crash reverberated throughout the house. The bed shook, his watch and glasses rattled on the table top, metal screeched, and wood shuddered. For an instant he thought “earthquake”, and then the confused shouts and yells of the other men came as a great vibration convulsed across the building.

It had never happened to him before, but Grissom knew a tree had fallen on the house. Grabbing his flashlight, he was in the hallway with the others as confusion mounted for several minutes and quickly dissipated when they managed to shine lights into the large -dining area where an enormous tree had fallen. Limbs, branches, and sodden leaves reflected their lights and made it impossible to see what was left of the building.

One man uttered a common thought, “holy !”

In the dark with several flashlights, the men decided there was little to be done until they had more light. Grissom was so exhausted he thought sleep would come quickly as he straightened the sheets before crawling between them. But his body resisted as new sounds filled his ears. The building creaked and groaned, the weight of the rain soaked tree cracked as it settled into the broken roof, and the constant dripping hitting the floor made sleep impossible.

Getting up again and walking to the window, he thought he could detect a faint grey light and checked his watch. Surely with dawn the rain would stop or slow. He was certain the others would agree it was time to leave, even in the rain, and get to the village where the local daily bus would take them to a busy highway where another bus would take them into the city. Everything was packed into cases each man could carry and a backpack held personal items.

Maybe, he thought, if they were lucky, a telephone would be working in the village or the sun would come out. He pulled on damp pants and found a shirt. Coffee was probably not going to be possible this morning, but using his flashlight, he thought he might find a way underneath the fallen tree’s foliage to locate food. He wasn’t the only one to think of food; two other men were already crawling over and under massive limbs by the time he got to the wrecked section of the house.

In short order, they found food and water, but also discovered the water pump has been destroyed by the tree so a few bottles of water were all they had. The entire end wall of the building had been knocked down along with a large section of the roof and by the time the others joined them, everyone knew they would have to leave—rain or not. And it kept raining.

The building, while well built, was a simple structure, used by different research groups for a few weeks at a time. Each group brought what was needed, hauled it in, and what was not used, was taken away when they left. As Grissom’s group expected to stay a week, they had not brought much, and left with less. Wrapping themselves in plastic rain ponchos, they started out, an easy walk on any day except today.

The smell of earth permeated the air; the tree on the building had not been the only to one fall in the night. Leaves covered the path, and more than once they crawled over a downed tree; in other places they walked in mud sliding over and covering any trace of their path. And they did not talk much. When someone stumbled, a hand was held out; many times the person leading the way called out a warning of rushing water, deep muck, or low hanging trees.

Finally, more than an hour after starting out, the group rounded a curve and, even though hard to see, they squinted through the rain and made out the roofs of the small village in the distance. The narrow path opened up to a muddy dirt road, now knee deep in ruts, but at least cleared enough so they could walk easier. Walking past fields, they saw no one—only fools would be out in this weather with rain soaking faces and mud covering clothes.

The streets—two paved crossroads—were deserted, but all of the men smelled food and after cold beans and canned tomatoes for several days, they would have paid a king’s ransom for a bowl of hot food. They also knew where the local cantina was located and looking like the refuges they were, automatically, they turned at the corner and all breathed a sigh of relief when they saw the metal shutters rolled open and the porch nearly empty of customers.

There was much confusion when the men entered—several men watching a television set turned and look at the wet, mud-covered group. As rainwater dripped from their clothes, everyone seemed to take several minutes to comprehend what was happening. The researchers heard of the nation-wide disaster for the first time from the television news reporter; the locals figured out the drenched men were the researchers from the mountain side and instantly everyone started talking.

Hours later, as if by some miracle, Grissom’s belly was full of roasted chicken, beans, and rice, washed down with local beer, he was wearing borrowed clothes, and resting in a clean, dry bed in a family’s home. The other men has been similarly fed, clothed, and housed in the small village; everyone was excited to have something to talk about other than the monsoon rains, the washed out roads, and the flooding in the valleys.

The house where Grissom was a guest was small, with three tiny bedrooms and one bathroom, but the children smiled, hiding grins behind their hands, as they made room for the stranger who wore baggy pants belonging to their father. Grissom heard the quiet sounds of the family going to bed as he lay in the narrow bed, a clean blanket spread over the mattress, and paint peeling off the ceiling.

He didn’t think he would sleep easily with his mind troubled by his delayed return and the impossibility of getting a message to Sara, but his eyes finally closed as he stared at the ceiling and thought of where he wanted to be…

Sudden screaming jerked him awake—into the  of his house—how did he get here—where toys and bottles and diapers and dirty dishes covered every surface. A pile of laundry was heaped on the floor; another messy heap of clothing covered the table. Not one but two babies were crying from colorful swings; his mother was bent over one swing attempting to lift an unhappy baby who was belted into the swing. His wife, her back to him, was making ‘shushing’ noises to the other crying infant. He knew better than to interfere with the child care his wife and his mother practiced. The smell of something burning met his nose. His wife turned, her hands were signing as her face distorted with anger.

He grabbed a hot pad, opened the oven and removed a prepared dinner, burned around the edges, but it still seemed edible. As the children screamed, he reached into the back of a cabinet and poured himself a shot of whiskey, stopped briefly, and continued pouring until several inches filled the glass. As he lifted the glass to his lips, the housekeeper ran into the .

The woman spoke Spanish most of the time and he clearly understood her to say “I have to do everything in this house! I do not know how you people live when I am not here!”

She took the hot pad from Grissom and shooed him out of the way. Just as quickly, she reached for the baby girl who instantly quieted as the woman sang a soothing Mexican lullaby to her. His mother turned to his wife and the two women signed to each other; Grissom did not even try to follow their conversation. One baby was quiet while the other continued to scream; his wife and his mother seemed unaware of the crying. He took a step toward the infant as the housekeeper reached for the swing, unsnapped the belt and easily lifted the baby into her arms. Deciding to stay away from the circus in the , he swallowed his liquid lunch and headed to the living room where the television was on.

His old recliner chair had disappeared; a play pen filled with toys had taken its place. The sofa was nearly covered in blankets, toys, an infant carrier, more diapers. A purple dinosaur was dancing around on the big screen of the television. “This is hell,” he mumbled as he cleared a place to sit.

Just as he settled on the sofa with the remote, his wife appeared. She ate three grapes before she removed the remote from his hand. She signed “The children need vocal stimulation.”

He did not point out that the children were not in the living room.

His wife continued signing, “It’s good for the children. Don’t be so selfish. I thought you said this marriage would be perfect! I want perfect children! How can you be so selfish!”

When he made no response, she clapped her hands to get his attention, moved between the television and where Grissom sat and signed “I’m full. Lunch is burned. If you and your mother want to eat, you have to order it.” She turned and stomped out of the room, taking the remote with her.

He was confused; he had never meant to marry Julia! How had this happened? This was not where he wanted to be…this was not what he wanted…

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« Reply #2 on: April 13, 2012, 10:47 AM »

Commotion: a scene of noisy activity

Chapter 3

Struggling through a sleepy haze, his hands found the blanket and he remembered where he was—a strange bed, a stranger’s house, wearing a stranger’s clothes that did not fit. He was breathing as if he had been in a foot race—a nightmare, he thought as he remembered what he had dreamed. He needed to talk to Sara; the bewildering dreams would disappear, he knew, if he could hear her voice.

Sitting up in bed, he realized he no longer heard the steady beat of rain. Looking at the window, he got up, pulled a thin curtain back and saw moonlight—a bright, almost full moon—making the world outside the window one of bright images and definite shapes. Finally, the rain had stopped. As if to support his thoughts, he saw a large bird flying across the sky, its wings casting a shadow as it flew.

He returned to bed and slept, soundly, not stirring until he heard voices in the house. When he opened the bedroom door, he found his shoes, pants and shirt, clean and dry, had been placed beside the door. He had no idea how his clothes had been returned to him as they were—but in a while, as he ate a breakfast of fresh tortillas, hot beans, soft cheese, and fruit, one of the children explained how his clothes had been washed on the back porch and hung over the  stove to dry, and the boy, age twelve, had cleaned the shoes.

Before the group left the village riding in the back of an old pick-up truck, satellite phones came to life and each man got a quick message sent. Grissom, knowing she was likely asleep, texted a message to Sara, briefly, saying they were on their way to the capitol city.

Quietly, each man had left money in the home where they stayed—as a gift, not as payment for hospitality—telling the parents to buy treats for the children. The lead researcher had also paid several men to remove the fallen tree and make repairs to the building on the mountain. Slowly, the men were driven along a muddy road, partly paved but in places completely washed away. The driver attempted to avoid the biggest mud holes, but at times, he had to inch his truck through water a foot deep or the men in back jumped out and edged around a cavernous pot hole that might have drowned a loaded truck. Finally, they arrived at the main highway; a dozen or more people waited at the bus stop.

One of the men groaned. “A full bus, from the looks of it.”

“Let’s hope there is a bus,” Grissom grumbled.

A small store selling drinks and snacks was doing brisk business; Grissom filled his pockets with candy. The proprietor insisted the bus would be there in an hour; and a bus did arrive and passed blowing its horn without stopping. People onboard waved and shouted, pointing behind them. Someone figured out another bus was coming; it arrived two hours later and by that time over two dozen people were waiting to board. Somehow, everyone managed to get on the already crowded bus—or on top of it. Grissom hesitated to climb the rickety ladder to the roof, saw two children watching from the bus window and offered to let the two small children sit on his lap for a seat beside their very pregnant mother. His legs straddled two research cases while his back pack disappeared overhead.

When the bus jerked forward, Grissom would have slid onto the floor if there had been floor space available. His knees bumping into a person sitting in the bus aisle, he said “Pardon” and received a reply in English of: “Can’t be helped.”

For a while, the children were quiet but gradually began laughing as Grissom offered candy and made funny noises which developed into a game of “I-spy” colors and objects inside the bus until the small children fell asleep, one on each of his shoulders. When the young mother attempted to move one child, Grissom shook his head insisting the children stay with him. Their mother’s belly took up most of her lap—twins, she said as she held up two fingers and quietly explained the reason she was on the bus.   

An hour passed, then another. Grissom felt he was in the middle of a poorly made movie when the bus stopped in the middle of the highway—no traffic, no houses, nothing as far as one could see. The bus driver barked directions and everyone climbed off the bus, women on one side, men the other—for a bathroom break. With surprising order, everyone returned to their seats or floor or rooftop to continue the trip. Evidence of the storm was everywhere—swaths of down trees, water-filled ditches, an occasional wash-out of a segment of the highway.

The bus cautiously crossed a bridge, one-lane, because half of the bridge had disappeared in the rain swollen river. Every person on the bus held their breath, said a prayer, or made the sign of the cross; some did all three. There were other bus stops along the highway, all crowded with passengers, but the bus driver sped up instead of slowing down. The crowd waiting for the bus shouted their disappointment while the passengers on the bus yelled their approval.

The young English speaking man sitting near Grissom’s feet asked “Is there really another bus?”

Grissom chuckled and answered “There is always another bus.”

In late afternoon, the bus pulled over on the outskirts of the city and everyone climbed off and joined a long line waiting for the city buses. As they waited, the men heard of more flooding, more devastation from the storm and the massive efforts of rescue and recovery along with a mention of problems at the airport. As everyone waited, some complaining occurred, but overall people waited, amiable and friendly, frequently laughing as stories were told of interrupted plans.

Grissom and the men with him were still several bus loads away from getting on a bus when a small white van made a turn into the waiting area; the driver’s window was down and a woman called a name—one of the researchers—and then called several more names, including Grissom’s.

“Heard you were coming in today so thought I’d get out here to pick you up! This is my third trip!” Her voice and laughter caused visible relief in the faces of the men. 

The woman worked at the hotel where the research group stayed when in the city. She had known some of these men for fifteen years, met their families, and welcomed them as they arrived and as they returned. Throwing bags and cases into the back of the van, the tired men almost fell into the seats before she had fully stopped.

As the driver shifted gears, Grissom saw the young pregnant mother and two children who had given him their seat on the bus.

“Gloria—can we provide a ride to three more? The pregnant woman and her kids?” He pointed to the trio. “The kids gave me their seat. She’s coming into the city to have twins by caesarean next week.”

Gloria laughed and stopped the van. “Put them in—Lord, how do they do it? She’ll be back home in ten days probably plowing fields with a baby strapped on her back!” She motioned toward the woman and Grissom opened the sliding door.

The men shifted seats, giving the mother and children the middle row of seats. After a short conversation, the driver got an address and headed into the city.

Gloria drove with her left hand and kept her foot on the accelerator as close to the floor as possible; Grissom did not think she used brakes at all. It perplexed him as to how a population who spent two to three leisurely hours at meal time could drive across town at breakneck speed. He held on to the back of the seat in front of him as the van turned a corner and narrowly missed pedestrians crossing the street. In some way among the maze of narrow streets, the driver found the address given to her by the pregnant woman and as soon as the van stopped, five or six relatives appeared to help. Everyone talked at once; the men shook hands with everyone, and, as quickly as they had arrived at the small house, they left, returning to the crowded streets and dizzying traffic.

Grissom could not remember when he had been so happy to see a hotel—the consensus of every man in the group. A luxury suite at the Ritz would not have been more welcome than the front of the small hotel, no more than twenty rooms, with a protective gate at the entrance and a seldom used courtyard. And by the time Grissom got to his small, clean, and air-conditioned room with a hot shower, he knew he could sleep for hours.

Much to his relief, a basket of crackers, cookies, bottled water, and tea bags sat on the countertop next to an electric kettle. As he ate the cookies, he called Sara and immediately got her voicemail; his message was: “Call me—whenever you can. I’m in the city—finally. I love you!” After a brief pause, he added “and I miss you.”

With his phone working, he made another international call to a favorite garden center in Vegas, giving instructions for a specific type of plant after getting assurances it would be delivered at the requested time. “The sentiment?” he repeated when asked; thinking briefly, he said “just ‘from Grissom’. Thank you,” smiling as he ended the call.

After a long hot shower, he crawled between clean, dry sheets, naked except for the black silky boxers. He was physically exhausted, drained of thoughts, and his room, at the back of the hotel with a large window overlooking the dark courtyard, was totally quiet. It was so quiet Grissom couldn’t close his eyes for a long time and he thought again of where he wanted to be…

The banging in his head seemed real as he fought his way out of sleep—he had been asleep, certain of it—yet he was sitting in the bathroom, his boxers at his ankles, a letter in his hands. Someone was knocking—no, banging on the door.

“Gil! Gil! What’s taking so long? Are you reading that letter again? I told you not to plan another trip! I don’t care where those damn bugs are or where they want you to go! Your life is here now—with me. Gil? Answer me!”

“Yes, dear, I’ll be right out,” he answered, meekly, as he stuffed the letter between pages of the newspaper. Why, he asked himself, had he let this happen? He had choices, he made decisions—and this one had proven to be very wrong. One request, one mistake and he had been manipulated when all he wanted was—he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

The banging continued except the sound had changed from the rapping of knuckles to a flat-palm thud against the door. He folded the newspaper and opened the door.

“We need baby formula, Gil. You’ll have to go to the store. Hurry! I have clients to see in one hour.”  His wife was immaculately dressed in her black working suit, not a hair out of place, make-up carefully applied. Her skirt hugged her shapely hips, her blouse plunged to show ample cleavage. A goddess, he thought, one made of cold, hard stone with emotions to match. Why had he married this woman?

“Can’t the nanny go?”

His wife gave him a look that would have melted glaciers. “She’s taking care of the twins. You wanted a family and I paid a lot of money for the little screamers! The least you can do is drive to the store. And get diapers too. They need to be changed once an hour—make sure you check after the nanny.”

“Yes, dear,” he mumbled as he buttoned his shirt. He glanced at his wife; she was preening in one of the many large mirrors that had remained in her house from the days when it served another purpose. He moved so he could catch his reflection in the mirror—he knew this was a dream! He loved Sara! He would never have married Heather…this was not where he wanted to be…


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"Long long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke..." (Longfellow & Sara Sidle, Ending Happy, 2007)
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« Reply #3 on: April 18, 2012, 07:02 AM »

New chapter posted:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7989666/4/

with one or two more chapters to complete this story!
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"Long long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke..." (Longfellow & Sara Sidle, Ending Happy, 2007)
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« Reply #4 on: April 24, 2012, 08:28 AM »

So nice to read about a happy relationship with these two again!  Story is excellent! Keep it up!!!!!
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« Reply #5 on: April 28, 2012, 11:50 PM »

Chapter 6---follow the link:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7989666/6/
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« Reply #6 on: May 03, 2012, 11:40 PM »

Chapter 7 is here:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7989666/7/
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"Long long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke..." (Longfellow & Sara Sidle, Ending Happy, 2007)
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