A Tour of the Heart (3/?)
Title: A Tour of the Heart (3/?)
Author: SomewhereApart
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Characters: Eric/Calleigh
Rating: PG13
Summary: They say if you really want to understand someone, you have to understand where they come from.
Catching up? Chapter One | Chapter Two
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” Bryan murmured quietly, offering Calleigh a smile as she settled into the chair on the other side of the bed.
“And the prodigal son,” she replied, smiling back at her brother before taking her grandmother’s hand. She held it gently, her heart squeezing at the feel of paper-thin skin and too-delicate fingers. Somehow that was what made her realize it had been too long since she’d been home. Her Gran had never been frail before. She’d been vibrant and strong, part demure Southern Belle, part spitfire. A lot like Calleigh herself, actually, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Calleigh couldn’t say whether the similarities were something in the Duquesne gene pool, or whether it was just that she had idolized the woman in this bed so much, spent so much time with her while she was growing up that her personality had rubbed off.
Whatever it was, they’d been kindred spirits, and Calleigh couldn’t quite imagine life without her bi-weekly phone calls with Gran. Who else could she call to find out who cheated at Thursday night bingo, or just how much of a challenge it might be to make blackberry jam for co-worker Christmas presents? Who was going to teach her kids to make grits and swear through a smile? Was she supposed to do that all on her own? And how - how? - could she live the rest of her life without being able to escape to the old house with the long porch, and the colorful gardens?
She jumped when she felt a hand brush her arm, then shook her head sheepishly. She’d almost forgotten Bryan was in the room. “I’m sorry, I… got lost in my thoughts.”
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Happens to the best of us. What were you thinking of?”
“The house,” she admitted quietly. “I haven’t been home in….” she trailed off, shook her head. She didn’t want to admit quite how long it had been; she felt guilty enough for her absence already. “I just can’t imagine that house not being Gran’s.”
He studied her for a minute, his brow knitting slowly into a scowl as if he was trying to figure something out. She had a sudden memory of sitting on Gran’s porch with glasses of lemonade and math textbooks - she was twelve, Bryan was nine - trying to explain long division while he crumbed chocolate chip cookies all over the notebook and scowled at her just like this. Apparently some things never changed.
“Twenty-seven,” she told him resolutely, and the scowl twisted into a confused frown.
“What?”
She shrugged, smiled. “You have math face. Twenty-seven seemed like a good answer.”
Bryan chuckled, shook his head. “No, I’m just debating whether I should run a theory by you.”
“A theory?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Shoot,” she invited.
“There are envelopes on the nightstand - well, envelope now - from Gran, for each of us. We weren’t supposed to open them until after she died, but Tuck and Rob and I got good and well drunk last night and opened ours early. She told each of us what we got - thought a will was too impersonal for her grandbabies.”
Calleigh’s gaze had shifted to the night-table and the rose-printed envelope with her name penned in looped script, but her attention had caught halfway through her brother’s sentence. “You brought Rob?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged, though there was a tension to it that didn’t go unnoticed. The immediate family may have adjusted to Bryan’s “lifestyle choice,” as her dad put it (which she thought was crap; Bryan had about as much choice in the matter as she did in her eye color, but that was neither here nor there), but there was still a good portion of the extendeds who considered Bryan and Rob to be living in sin - and not in the way her cousin Carrie was with her boyfriend Jeremy and their three kids. She could think of at least three people off the top of her head who might end up making the funeral reception less than cordial if Rob was there. “I love him. He loves me,” Bryan explained simply. “He wants to be here for me.”
“You know Uncle Dean will have something to say about it.”
“Yeah. I do. Won’t be the first time. I need him here, Calleigh.” His gaze slid back to Gran, still sleeping peacefully. “Besides, she’d never met him, and I wanted her to know him before she went.”
Calleigh was hit with a stab of regret so sharp she actually looked down to see if there was a physical cause for the pain that had lanced through her chest. Bryan had reminded her of who else had never met Gran - and never would: Eric. They’d talked about him plenty over the years, but they’d never met. And never would. And for some reason that was just agonizingly heartbreaking. “Yeah,” she managed, her voice sounding thin and pained. “I get that.”
He studied her again, then asked carefully, “Eric working?”
“Not tonight.”
“He didn’t come with you.”
“We’re not-we had a-things are… strained right now,” she finished lamely, blinking back tears. “I didn’t…” She trailed off, unable to bear the sudden sympathy edging his gaze, because Bryan had always been able to see through her just a little more than everyone else. Most everyone, anyway. He’d know exactly why her eyes were tearing, why her fingers were trembling slightly. Nothing pained quite like lost opportunity. She couldn’t go down that road tonight, though, so she switched the subject. “What was your theory?”
“Nobody has the house yet,” Bryan told her, letting the other subject drop. “Tucker thought he might get it - he’s here, he has the kids, but… no go. There are more of us grandkids, but you were always Clara’s favorite. If any of us get that house, my money’s on you.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Calleigh insisted with a shake of her head, anxiousness and dread warring in her gut. “I’d never be able to use it. It would just sit empty.”
“You’d use it if it was yours; you know that as well as she would. And even if you didn’t spend much time here, you’d make sure it was kept up.” He sighed, raked a hand through sandy blond hair. “That house has been in the family for generations, Cal. Tyler and Gracie would tear it apart if Tucker and Charlotte moved in, and you know how hard it is for Rob and I to come back. Carrie and Jer are settled in with the kids, they’re not going to move them across state lines to the sticks. Jackson and Stacy are moving out East, and Carolyn is only twenty-four; she’s living it up in Atlanta. And she can’t afford the upkeep. You have the means, and the love, and the history for that house.”
Her gaze strayed to the envelope again. “I guess…”
“But no one knows for sure,” he added with a shrug. She nodded, but kept silent, her brain spinning with the possibility, with how she’d juggle finances to manage the upkeep, with how she could swing time to come home now and then if the house was really hers. It was a welcome distraction from everything else jumbling up her brain, and after a few minutes of silence, she caught Bryan letting go of Clara’s other hand and stretching. “I’m gonna get some coffee. You want?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, offering him a distracted smile as he pushed himself from his chair and headed out to the living room.
The rest of the night was a blur, over-caffeinated, over-tired, over-emotional. Her Gran woke for a while, and they’d talked a little. She’d insisted Calleigh read her letter now, early, before she passed, and Calleigh had carefully torn the envelope open to find that Bryan had been dead on: the house was hers. She’d cried, and Gran had patted her hand and reminded her that there was “little to be sad about when a woman dies at a ripe old age. Much more to be sad about when a woman wastes the years she’s young.” The advice had seemed pointed, and for the last time they’d shared that look of acknowledgement that had passed between them so many times before. And then Gran had murmured that she was tired, and before long she was asleep again.
At exactly 8:27 that Saturday morning, Clara Mae Duquesne breathed her last, and all Calleigh really remembered was the way her father’s arms had crushed the air out of her in a tight hug, and the way her own heart had broken. Someone - Rob, maybe? - had poured her into a car and brought her to the house that was hers now. Calleigh had climbed the stairs on legs that felt Jello-wobbly, bypassed the guest bedroom that had been hers so often as a child, and collapsed, fully-clothed, onto her grandmother’s bed and into a deep and dreamless sleep.
.
“There is a place for you beyond this space and time
That can cool the fires burning in your troubled mind.
There'll be no crying there, there'll be no fear of grief
But there is joy and there is laughter and there is sweet relief.”
--“A Place For You”
Jennifer Nettles Band
Author: SomewhereApart
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Characters: Eric/Calleigh
Rating: PG13
Summary: They say if you really want to understand someone, you have to understand where they come from.
Catching up? Chapter One | Chapter Two
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” Bryan murmured quietly, offering Calleigh a smile as she settled into the chair on the other side of the bed.
“And the prodigal son,” she replied, smiling back at her brother before taking her grandmother’s hand. She held it gently, her heart squeezing at the feel of paper-thin skin and too-delicate fingers. Somehow that was what made her realize it had been too long since she’d been home. Her Gran had never been frail before. She’d been vibrant and strong, part demure Southern Belle, part spitfire. A lot like Calleigh herself, actually, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Calleigh couldn’t say whether the similarities were something in the Duquesne gene pool, or whether it was just that she had idolized the woman in this bed so much, spent so much time with her while she was growing up that her personality had rubbed off.
Whatever it was, they’d been kindred spirits, and Calleigh couldn’t quite imagine life without her bi-weekly phone calls with Gran. Who else could she call to find out who cheated at Thursday night bingo, or just how much of a challenge it might be to make blackberry jam for co-worker Christmas presents? Who was going to teach her kids to make grits and swear through a smile? Was she supposed to do that all on her own? And how - how? - could she live the rest of her life without being able to escape to the old house with the long porch, and the colorful gardens?
She jumped when she felt a hand brush her arm, then shook her head sheepishly. She’d almost forgotten Bryan was in the room. “I’m sorry, I… got lost in my thoughts.”
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Happens to the best of us. What were you thinking of?”
“The house,” she admitted quietly. “I haven’t been home in….” she trailed off, shook her head. She didn’t want to admit quite how long it had been; she felt guilty enough for her absence already. “I just can’t imagine that house not being Gran’s.”
He studied her for a minute, his brow knitting slowly into a scowl as if he was trying to figure something out. She had a sudden memory of sitting on Gran’s porch with glasses of lemonade and math textbooks - she was twelve, Bryan was nine - trying to explain long division while he crumbed chocolate chip cookies all over the notebook and scowled at her just like this. Apparently some things never changed.
“Twenty-seven,” she told him resolutely, and the scowl twisted into a confused frown.
“What?”
She shrugged, smiled. “You have math face. Twenty-seven seemed like a good answer.”
Bryan chuckled, shook his head. “No, I’m just debating whether I should run a theory by you.”
“A theory?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Shoot,” she invited.
“There are envelopes on the nightstand - well, envelope now - from Gran, for each of us. We weren’t supposed to open them until after she died, but Tuck and Rob and I got good and well drunk last night and opened ours early. She told each of us what we got - thought a will was too impersonal for her grandbabies.”
Calleigh’s gaze had shifted to the night-table and the rose-printed envelope with her name penned in looped script, but her attention had caught halfway through her brother’s sentence. “You brought Rob?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged, though there was a tension to it that didn’t go unnoticed. The immediate family may have adjusted to Bryan’s “lifestyle choice,” as her dad put it (which she thought was crap; Bryan had about as much choice in the matter as she did in her eye color, but that was neither here nor there), but there was still a good portion of the extendeds who considered Bryan and Rob to be living in sin - and not in the way her cousin Carrie was with her boyfriend Jeremy and their three kids. She could think of at least three people off the top of her head who might end up making the funeral reception less than cordial if Rob was there. “I love him. He loves me,” Bryan explained simply. “He wants to be here for me.”
“You know Uncle Dean will have something to say about it.”
“Yeah. I do. Won’t be the first time. I need him here, Calleigh.” His gaze slid back to Gran, still sleeping peacefully. “Besides, she’d never met him, and I wanted her to know him before she went.”
Calleigh was hit with a stab of regret so sharp she actually looked down to see if there was a physical cause for the pain that had lanced through her chest. Bryan had reminded her of who else had never met Gran - and never would: Eric. They’d talked about him plenty over the years, but they’d never met. And never would. And for some reason that was just agonizingly heartbreaking. “Yeah,” she managed, her voice sounding thin and pained. “I get that.”
He studied her again, then asked carefully, “Eric working?”
“Not tonight.”
“He didn’t come with you.”
“We’re not-we had a-things are… strained right now,” she finished lamely, blinking back tears. “I didn’t…” She trailed off, unable to bear the sudden sympathy edging his gaze, because Bryan had always been able to see through her just a little more than everyone else. Most everyone, anyway. He’d know exactly why her eyes were tearing, why her fingers were trembling slightly. Nothing pained quite like lost opportunity. She couldn’t go down that road tonight, though, so she switched the subject. “What was your theory?”
“Nobody has the house yet,” Bryan told her, letting the other subject drop. “Tucker thought he might get it - he’s here, he has the kids, but… no go. There are more of us grandkids, but you were always Clara’s favorite. If any of us get that house, my money’s on you.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Calleigh insisted with a shake of her head, anxiousness and dread warring in her gut. “I’d never be able to use it. It would just sit empty.”
“You’d use it if it was yours; you know that as well as she would. And even if you didn’t spend much time here, you’d make sure it was kept up.” He sighed, raked a hand through sandy blond hair. “That house has been in the family for generations, Cal. Tyler and Gracie would tear it apart if Tucker and Charlotte moved in, and you know how hard it is for Rob and I to come back. Carrie and Jer are settled in with the kids, they’re not going to move them across state lines to the sticks. Jackson and Stacy are moving out East, and Carolyn is only twenty-four; she’s living it up in Atlanta. And she can’t afford the upkeep. You have the means, and the love, and the history for that house.”
Her gaze strayed to the envelope again. “I guess…”
“But no one knows for sure,” he added with a shrug. She nodded, but kept silent, her brain spinning with the possibility, with how she’d juggle finances to manage the upkeep, with how she could swing time to come home now and then if the house was really hers. It was a welcome distraction from everything else jumbling up her brain, and after a few minutes of silence, she caught Bryan letting go of Clara’s other hand and stretching. “I’m gonna get some coffee. You want?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, offering him a distracted smile as he pushed himself from his chair and headed out to the living room.
The rest of the night was a blur, over-caffeinated, over-tired, over-emotional. Her Gran woke for a while, and they’d talked a little. She’d insisted Calleigh read her letter now, early, before she passed, and Calleigh had carefully torn the envelope open to find that Bryan had been dead on: the house was hers. She’d cried, and Gran had patted her hand and reminded her that there was “little to be sad about when a woman dies at a ripe old age. Much more to be sad about when a woman wastes the years she’s young.” The advice had seemed pointed, and for the last time they’d shared that look of acknowledgement that had passed between them so many times before. And then Gran had murmured that she was tired, and before long she was asleep again.
At exactly 8:27 that Saturday morning, Clara Mae Duquesne breathed her last, and all Calleigh really remembered was the way her father’s arms had crushed the air out of her in a tight hug, and the way her own heart had broken. Someone - Rob, maybe? - had poured her into a car and brought her to the house that was hers now. Calleigh had climbed the stairs on legs that felt Jello-wobbly, bypassed the guest bedroom that had been hers so often as a child, and collapsed, fully-clothed, onto her grandmother’s bed and into a deep and dreamless sleep.
.
“There is a place for you beyond this space and time
That can cool the fires burning in your troubled mind.
There'll be no crying there, there'll be no fear of grief
But there is joy and there is laughter and there is sweet relief.”
--“A Place For You”
Jennifer Nettles Band