Smoldering Desires

Smoldering Desires
Embers Too

Agape Retreat Center
Outskirts of Las Vegas

Sara was not considered an addict nor was she suicidal. As a result, she stayed in the small cluster of cottages on the property, going to the main facility for medical treatment. Mental health appointments were held in her own quad.

She had just left her weekly OBGYN appointment. After two weeks, Sara had gained eight pounds and had dehydrated herself and her little girl. Dr. Mint, a brusque Philippino woman, was still concerned about the borderline anemia that she had been plagued with her entire life.

“I don’t eat meat.”

“I know.”

Sara withered a bit under the woman’s gaze. She wondered if she had ever considered a career in law enforcement.

“Do I have to eat meat?” Sara probed suspiciously.

“I suggest you find some other sources of protein, organic of course, that will elevate these levels.”

“I eat beans, I eat soy. I eat peanut butter, cashew butter and almond butter. I don’t know what else to eat. I eat cheese. I eat white cheese. I eat yellow cheese. I drink milk and then I eat more cheese. Can’t you give me another kind of vitamin?”

“No” the steely eyed woman said. “We have a very specific course of treatment that combines homeopathic and western medicine. The vitamin you take has been specifically designed to work with your other course of treatment. If I don’t see some kind of increase in your iron levels, I will insist that you supplement your diet with lean white meat at the very least.”

Presently Sara foraged through her cabinets searching out some form of nut butter to make a sandwich. She didn’t want to resort to meat. She would if she had to.

Gil Grissom would insist on meat. There it was again. Gil. She tried not to think of him, knowing that it would only add to her depression. But she couldn’t help but see him in every moment of every day. She saw an odd colored insect and thought of collecting it to bring home to Gil.

When she walked into the tiny, cheerful rooms, she would foolishly call out.

“Ricky!”

When Gil didn’t answer it always surprised her. More recently, the dreams had started. First it was Gil telling her funny stories about learning to sign. Then it was the days in Paris. Lately, the dreams had been steamy and erotic with Sara waking and reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

The phone rang. She spread the peanut butter with one hand and held the phone to her fuller face with the other.

Greg intoned his grandfather’s accent. “I am calling for the report, ya?”

Sara licked the butter knife and giggled. “I gained three pounds. My blood pressure is excellent. Girl Grissom was sucking her thumb and had to be awakened with a whistle. We tried a bell, but that seemed to make her cranky.”

“Gil’s daughter would like whistles. Probably going to come out barking orders to the rest of us. If she at any point says, ‘Sanders in my office now’ I will no longer serve as surrogate uncle.”

Sara bit into her sandwich and spoke through a mouthful of food. “I might have to start eating meat.”

“Meat!” Greg perked up. “Fun. Now when I come over we can eat the same thing.”

“I said maybe. I am going to eat soy and peanut butter at every meal to keep that from happening.”

“I just called to tell you that I have been replaced on the visitation roster.”

Sara foraged for apple juice. “By?”

“Brass.”

“What did I do?”

“What makes you think you did anything?”

“Brass taking time off work means I am in big trouble.”

“He doesn’t trust me or Nick or Warrick for that matter when we say you are doing fine. I quote, ‘I need to see Cookie with my own two baby browns. I wouldn’t trust Sanders to report on my dog.”

Sara smiled. “He did not say that.”

“Close enough. Look, I have to go. Cath is coming down the hall. I need to look busy. Remember, forewarned is forearmed.”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Somewhere in the Southeast

Gil acquired a limp during his second week of treatment. His body was attacking itself and his right leg and the muscles therein were the first causality. Fortunately his workouts and medical treatment repaired the damage enough so that he could now walk without a cane most days.

His hair was still thick and curly but the bits of color it retained had quickly disappeared. It was now a blinding iron gray that reminded him of Sean Connery’s toupee.

If Sara could see her Grissom, she would have laughed with delight and given him a sweet toothy grin. He imagined her sitting on a kitchen counter opening her arms to embrace him.

“Look at my Grissom.”

These days he mostly wore jeans with the exception of his workout shorts. He had discarded his dark colors, a concession to the hot southern climate. Most often, he could be found in colored t-shirts he bought at the local Wal-Mart or Target. They were fast becoming his favorite places. He often felt compelled to reach for his phone and call Sara.

Honey. They have a set of Oneida flatware for twenty dollars. I say we get two.

Well, we’ll invite people over.

But it’s twenty dollars and it’s Oneida.

You know Michael Graves, the architect? He’s got an entire line of kitchen equipment.

You knew that? Why didn’t you tell me?

What do you mean you took my debit card out of my wallet? I think that’s illegal.

How much money do I have?

Ten dollars!

What can I get for ten dollars?

Let me call you back. They just put out a bin of two dollar DVDs.


The bandanas would have made her particularly giddy. Gil had never lived in such a humid and hot climate. If his hair got past the scalp level, he lost control of the soft curls no matter how much he conditioned, mused or cut it. Bandanas tied tight over his scalp seemed the easiest course of action.

Gil thought he looked a bit like the aging, Christian biker Gil had interviewed in a murder case once. Gil had found himself unreasonably drawn to the relaxed, confident man although he was appalled that the man’s wife was nearly 20 years his junior.

Gil now knew that the man’s ease with himself, his faith, his life, and the woman he loved were all things he envied.

Presently Gil sat in the café eating his second bowl of beef vegetable soup and thick fresh bread. The chair moving caused him to put down his book.

“Deepak Chopra. You must be really sick.”

Gil took in his new companion. She was the color of scalded butter. Her head was a mass of wild, sexy, low curls that looked like the rebound hair from a tough bout of chemo.

Gil smiled pleasantly. “We are all extremely sick. Or else we wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, but Deepak Chopra is ‘you are going to die in six months’ sick. Po Bronson if you think you got a reasonable shot. Rick Warren, if you think that you have maybe more than a year.”

The woman’s voice was gravely and deep. It reminded him of Sara when he first met her, before she quite smoking.

“What do you have?” Gil asked unreasonably.

“Bone cancer. Formerly Stage four. In remission, thank you very much.”

Gil gave a soft “oh”.

“Bone cancer trumps whatever you have. Which is…?”

“Olivier’s disease,” he said mildly.

“Shit.” The woman said. “My grandmother and my aunt have sickle cell. I have the trait. But Olivier’s is a bitch and a half.” She narrowed almond shaped eyes to slits. “Let’s see. You look a little like my Uncle Frank, but I don’t think you are African American. Don’t think you are Middle Eastern. Mediterranean?”

Gil shook his head. “European mutt whose family transplanted to Jamaica.”
She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Dana Owens. And you are?”

Gil shook the strong hand. “Gil Grissom.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Grissom. What do you do?”

Gil closed his book. It was like the first time he met Catherine, only tall and brown. “I am an entomologist.”

She thought for a minute. “Languages…no bugs. Am I right?”

He nodded. “What do you do?”

“Me. I am a rich, bitter divorcee.”

Gil got into the spirit of things. “Were you rich before the divorce?”

“Yes.”

“How did you become rich?” Gil slipped his glasses into his pocket. He didn’t need them to see the pretty, forty something woman.

“Family owned diamond mines in northern Africa.”

“Nice. Is your ex-husband rich as well?”

Dana grinned sweetly. “He was. And in some circles, he still is.”

“You are bitter.” Gil commented dryly.

“You would be to, if your wife left you for a twelve year old.”

Gil kept his face blank.

“Dear god, I would not have taken you for one of those.”

Gil raised his eyebrows.

“How old is she?”

“Thirty four.” Gil said automatically.

“That’s not too bad. Is she blonde?”

“No.”

“Not blonde. Breast implants?”

Gil sputtered. “Hell no.” He could not imagine anything foreign in Sara’s slender frame.

Dana smiled approvingly. “Good. Because if she had breast implants, I would be forced to cut off this potential friendship. Name?”

“Sara. It means princess in Hebrew.”

“Is she Jewish?”

“Way back. Her great grandparents left Europe. Changed their name and their religion by the time they made it to New York.”

Dana smiled lightly. “So is your Sara an entomologist?”

Gil bit into a bit of bread. “She only tolerates bugs because of me. She’s a physicist.”

Dana signaled a waiter. After she asked for a duplicate of Gil’s dinner, she returned to the topic of conversation.

“So your Sara isn’t an ego boost… a trophy wife?”

Where did he find these women? “No, she is not. She’s not my wife. I met her ten years ago and we just started seeing one another.”

“Oooohhh the ‘death looming - now or never relationship.” Dana rubbed her hands together.

Gil nodded.

“So where is your Sara?”

“Vegas, where we live.”

“Why didn’t she come with you?”

Gil stirred the last of his soup, unsure as to why he was sharing so much with this woman. Except that she reminded him of Catherine. And he had never been able to keep anything from her. “She doesn’t know I am sick.”

Dana took her bowl from the waiter. “That was stupid,” she said, looking him in his clear blue eyes.

Gil was beginning to agree. He missed Sara terribly and he was closer to calling her every day. The only think that kept him from doing it was that the disease was not in remission yet. He was better, but the he wasn’t anywhere near cured. He still had too much muscle weakness, bouts of pain and still coughed up the odd bit of blood here or there.

His shrink still maintained that it would contribute to his healing process if he at least called Sara and told her that he had not run off with some other woman.

In hindsight, that plan had been particularly idiotic. With the passage of time, it would become clear to Sara that he had lied. She would be angry with him about that. She would want to be with him, just like he would want to help her through any illness.

He had not talked to March, even though he had left a few messages with the clinic operator. Brass or Catherine would have figured it out by now. They would have had a bolt upright ‘ah hah’ moment that would propel one of them to reach for a phone or tap furiously on a computer screen. Since neither had arrived at his new doorstep, he could only suppose that March had not blown his cover yet.

Who was he kidding? If March told Brass or Catherine, it wasn’t either one of them that would show up at his door. He could just see her face, pissed off and relieved at the same time, hugging him close while muttering that if she didn’t love him so much she would kill him.

Dana waved a hand in front of his face.

“Hello there, Gil.”

“Most people just call me Gris,” he corrected.

“Like who?”

“What?”

“What most people? I want to make sure I am in good company.”

“All my friends. Sara, too.”

“So I’ll meet you on the running trail by the waterfall at seven. Four miles okay?”

Gil shook his head. “I don’t run. Muscles aren’t strong enough yet. I have become very adept at a brisk walk.”

“Deal. You can tell me about yourself. I’ll make a list of questions.”

He watched her eat enthusiastically, cheered by the fact that Sara and Catherine would like this woman.