Brass

It’s a pretty routine robbery, one more convenience-store holdup, with the sad exception that the owner didn’t make it--which is why I’m here. Just what I needed at the end of shift. Not a good night.

Worse for the dead guy, though.

Phillips has just zipped him up and carted him off, leaving nothing but a blood pool, and Warrick’s sauntering around collecting prints and whatnot. I’m done interviewing witnesses, not that there were many, and I head out to take off, just in time to find the uniform on his cell, hopping up and down like a kid who’s gotta pee. I wait until he snaps the phone shut. “What is it, Hendricks?”

“Mom…hospital…heart…” he babbles, and I wave at him.

“Go, go. I’ll stay with the scene.” He takes off, and I shout after him. “Don’t forget to call it in!”

The cruiser door slams and he peels out, and I sigh and make the call myself, ‘cause I don’t think he’s gonna remember. Not that I blame him. It makes my night longer, but it’s never a hardship to hang out with ‘Rick for a while. Funny, how far we’ve come. There was a time…

But I don’t really like to remember that. So I kill the thought and go back inside. I seriously doubt that the perps’re going to come back for the two tens they dropped in clearing out the register, but I swore to Officer Gribbs that there was never going to be another dead CSI on my watch.

I pretend I don’t know that much about forensics, but I do; supervising the shift taught me a lot, and I can even do a basic collection if I have to, except the paperwork’s a bitch, so I don’t. I lean against the counter--yes, I checked to make sure he’d already processed it--and watch. Grissom and Sara are kinda the epitome of collecting; it’s a little spooky to see them interact without saying anything. But Warrick’s an artist in his own right, and if he’s cocky he has a right to be.

Not that I’d tell him that, of course.

He drifts around the place; the perps weren’t just interested in money, they were making a grocery run too. Beer, cheap bourbon, chips, and--believe it or not--condoms. So ‘Rick gets to dust the rack as well, and it’s just as well Catherine’s not here, or the innuendo would be flying thick and fast. Sometimes I think those two oughta be locked in a closet.

He’s shaking his head, and I get curious, so I amble over to have a look. “What’s up?”

“Man, these guys were fools. They swiped the cheapo stuff.”

I look around his shoulder at the empty hanger. “Maybe they didn’t have time to pay attention.” The tag on the hanger is for a brand imported from Mexico. “What’s wrong with those anyway?”

Warrick snorts and dips his brush in powder. “What’s wrong with them? No quality control, that’s what. I wouldn’t trust those things to hold water.”

It occurs to me that given the current situation, I’m going to have to reacquaint myself with the market pretty soon. It wasn’t that I’m totally out-of-date, you understand, but before Heather it had been something of a dry spell.

“What about those?” I point to a brand I’ve used before, more out of curiosity about what he’ll say.

Warrick snorts. “Not much better.”

“And you’re such an expert.” I can’t help teasing him a little, but he only snorts again.

“Hey, I’m no playah, but I got brought up right.” He glances over at me, smirking a little. “What about you, Captain? Practicing safe sex?”

I put on my best superior look. “For longer than you’ve been alive. And those aren’t bad.”

“Oh yeah? Tell that to your lady the next time one breaks on you. What’s she gonna do to you when she ends up pregnant?”

I’ll never get a better straight line than that, not if I wait all day. “Actually, she was pretty pleased.” Once she calmed down, anyway.

Warrick’s face is a picture. First he blinks, trying to make sure he heard right, and then his eyes narrow. He’s the only one at the lab who knows the story behind Ellie’s parentage, so he knows I’m not talking about her. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope.” This smugness is new--put it down to primitive male satisfaction, I guess. Displaying one’s prowess.

Warrick shakes his head, a slow grin spreading over his face. “Daaaamn.” He sticks out one hand, then pulls it back as he remembers he’s gloved. “Congratulations, Jim. Huh, I owe Nick a twenty.”

My brows go up at that. “Oh?”

Warrick shrugs. “He swore that you were serious about Lady Heather, and I gotta admit I didn’t believe him.”

I should have known. Stokes is a little old lady gossip in a power hitter’s body. “Sheesh. Who else knows?”

“Nobody--at least not from us.” He’s still grinning. “And you’re going to be a daddy again!” His smile slips a little; I might not talk about it, but Ellie’s death is no secret.

But I grin back. That wound won’t ever heal completely, but nobody has to tiptoe around it. “Yep. Come September, there’ll be another Brass in the world.”

Warrick purses his lips. “You two got married?”

“Well, no.” Dammit, why are my ears heating? “Not yet.”

I know that look. Doesn’t matter that ‘Rick’s under thirty-five and more than a foot taller, he’s got exactly the same expression as my mother would have--sort of disappointment mixed with demand. I sigh. “Relax. Before the baby’s due.”

“Well, all right then.” And we’re both laughing now, maybe because the whole thing’s a little silly, maybe because it’s true anyway.





Heather

We’ve found the place we want; the next step is to sell Jim’s house. It seems a little fast, but babies wait for no one; we’ve placed a claim on our magnificent kitchen and all that comes with it, and intend to move in before the tadpole emerges. Not that we couldn’t live together in my place, but moving would be much more difficult afterwards, and we’d be cramped as well--for of course Zoë will be here for the birth.

So--preparations. Jim has kept his place in good condition; my love is a bit of a handyman when he has time, so there’s not that much to do to spruce it up. A little paint here, a little repair there. The main task is packing.

And, as I stand in his kitchen basting a couple of Cornish hens, I detect a distinct lack of sound coming from the rest of the house, and I know he’s run into another snag.

It’s surprisingly hard for Jim, this move. He claims he’s not very attached to the house, and I think that’s true, but it’s also the last place he spent any happy times with his daughter. Every so often he’ll lose track of what he’s putting into boxes, and I’ll find him staring into space, looking…lost. It always tears my heart a little.

I sigh, and close the oven door, brushing the hair from my eyes. The coming months will bring so many challenges--not just my pregnancy, but also our moving in together. We’re both strong, independent people, who haven’t shared our lives or space with partners in many years. There’s bound to be friction.

Setting down the baster, I wipe my hands on a towel and go find Jim. He’s up in his attic space, smeared with dust and looking pensive and adorable; right now he’s sitting on an old low stool and staring at a very battered…something. A piece of clothing of some type? I step over the creaky boards and crouch down next to him. “What on earth is that, darling?”

He blinks, and smiles at me. “Hocky pad,” he says cheerfully, and tosses it with deadly accuracy into an open garbage bag. “Lots of memories attached, but I’m not keeping it.”

I put a hand on his knee; his tendency to get rid of things with little or no thought alarms me slightly. “Why not? You still get out on the ice occasionally.”

He picks up my hand and kisses it. “Heather, I love you. That pad dates back to when I was twelve. I don’t think it’ll fit any more.”

Oh. I can feel my cheeks pinkening, but I grin back. “Fair enough. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

He nods. “Have you checked your blood sugar?”

I rein in my annoyance and indulge in the love instead. “Yes, I did. Five minutes ago.”

Jim nods. “Good,” he says firmly. He’s unrelenting on this, and underneath my independence, I agree. Dr. Phal referred me to an obstetrician who specializes in diabetic pregnancies, and she was most clear. Expectant diabetics must check their blood glucose frequently, four times per day or more, for both their health and that of their babies. And while Jim’s reminders can be a little irritating, they stem from love, and his care warms me.

He even learned how to give me an emergency injection, just in case. I haven’t had an incident in years, but one never knows, and almost as soon as we had the news of my pregnancy, he was calling on my promise to show him how I inject myself. I wasn’t sure what to expect--Glen could do it, but he always turned a little green--but Jim didn’t even flinch.

Between him and Pauline, I’m well-protected.

I stand up again and lean over to kiss the top of his head before going back downstairs to make the salad, passing boxes stacked neatly in the living room. About half of Jim’s things will go into storage until the new house is ready; fortunately, there’s plenty of storage space at the Dominion, so we won’t have to pay for it. We aren’t pinching pennies by any means, but our financial needs have changed, and we’re being careful.

Dinner is good, of course--I don’t think we’ve ever actually had a bad meal, except for the one when we were fighting, and even then the food was fine. Jim washed up well, but his shirt has a few streaks of dust, and his eyes look tired.

The sun’s up by the time we’re done. “I’m going to move into the living room again,” Jim tells me as he puts plates into the sink. “It’ll be too hot upstairs.”

“Sounds good. I’ll do the dishes, my darling. You make the coffee and go get started.”

He nods, brushes a kiss along the back of my neck, and obeys. I scrub silverware and sniff the warm coffee smell, listening to the rustle of newspaper and the rip of packing tape from the living room. Jim still hasn’t replaced his battered dishwasher; I think he should, to increase the salability of his house, but he doesn’t want to spend the money, and it’s his house.

When I’m finished, I fill a couple of mugs and head out to the living room. Jim’s sitting on the floor surrounded by knickknacks and lamps, and he grins when I hand him the coffee, running an appreciative hand up my leg--a warm, gentle caress. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

I sit down on the couch behind him, setting my mug on the little side table now denuded of its lamp. “Never knew you had so much stuff, hmm?” I tease, and he sighs.

“You’re so right. It doesn’t look like much when it’s on the shelves, but…”

That makes me laugh, and I bend over and heft one of the fat dusty albums he’s stacked up for packing as he reaches for another sheet of newspaper. I should help him, but I’m...curious.

The album’s older than I expected, the plastic on the pages crackly and brownish around the edges, but I scarcely notice. It’s not as old as the photos, and I’ve never seen these before. A tiny form in an old-fashioned hospital bassinet, a knitted cap topping the small wrinkled face; a woman in the careful hairstyle of the past century holding the same little bundle, beaming at the camera; clenched fists and wide eyes dark with wonder. “Jim, you were a gorgeous baby!”

“What?” His head comes up, startled, and then he sees what I’m looking at. “Oh, geez, Heather, not those.”

“Too late.” I wrinkle my nose at him and hold the album out of reach when he makes a snatch for it. “Your secret’s out!”

For a second I think he’s going to really try to get it away from me, but then he sighs. “I guess it had to happen eventually.”

“I’ll show you mine when we pack up MY attic,” I coax, and he snorts and pushes up onto the sofa beside me.

“You’d better. Which one have you got there?”

“The first one, I presume.”

I turn pages. It’s fascinating, a long slow look at my husband-to-be’s past, amateurish black and white photos salted with a handful of careful studio shots and school portraits. I see Jim as a dark-haired infant, a strong-looking toddler tearing open gifts at Christmas, a gap-toothed child with a toy truck or a bike and a determined look. Jim tries to hurry me from time to time, but I hold the pages firmly down and look my fill, absorbing. It’s mostly him alone, or with other children at a birthday party or some other event; occasionally there is a broad-shouldered man that must be his father, or the small, pretty, tired-looking woman that is his mother.

Jim makes the occasional comment from time to time, naming one of his playfellows or the date of a given Christmas. The wistful pleasure in his voice at the sight of the cowboy outfit--hat, vest, boots, and cap guns--gives me a little more insight into why he eventually chose history as his major in college.

We go through three dusty albums, laying them open on our laps as we sit hip to hip, Jim’s arm behind my shoulders. The third one ends with Jim’s high school graduation portrait, and I have to smile at the long-haired, snub-nosed young man who is trying so hard to look casual and unconcerned.

“Ah, my hirsute days,” Jim says, running a hand over his short-cropped scalp. “Should have known it wouldn’t last.”

“The severe look suits you,” I tell him, and tweak his nose ever so gently.





Brass

I let myself into Heather’s place--well, Heather’s and mine--kind of--whew. I let myself in, and put my coat away, and go looking for her. I’m a little late this morning, but I bear good news.

“Heather?” I call, but not too loud in case she’s napping. That’s one thing I do remember--pregnant ladies need more rest.

But she’s not in her bedroom, or the bathroom, or the kitchen. I peer out the sliding door into the backyard, starting to get worried, but I don’t see her there either. She’s home--her car’s in the garage--and she wouldn’t be out for a walk. As she says, ten hours in stiletto heels means that the last thing she wants to do after work is walk.

But I can’t FIND her.

I’m seriously worried by the time I go methodical and check each room. And there she is in Zoë’s room, sitting on her daughter’s bed. And sniffling.

All my irritation goes out the window when I hear that sound. Her nose is red, which means she’s been crying for a while, and now I’m really scared. “Heather? Sweetheart, what is it?”

She looks up, and in two long strides I’m over to the bed and sitting down next to her. She just sort of leans into me, and I hug her, wondering what’s wrong. “Is it…Heather, is something wrong with the tadpole?”

Her head comes up so fast she nearly whacks me in the chin. “Oh Jim! No! No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing.” She sniffles again. “Nothing’s the matter.”

That’s obviously not true, but I see what she’s trying to say, so I let out a breath and pull her back into me. “Okay. Okay then, why are you crying?”

She makes this little helpless gesture with her hands. “It’s ruined.”

I try to think of what those words would apply to, and come up blank. “What’s ruined?”

Heather pulls away again, and reaches for the flat box on the bedspread that I’m only just noticing. It looks like the boxes that dress shirts used to come in, and its edges are kind of furry with age. She lifts the top off, and now her words make sense.

It’s a christening dress, the old-fashioned kind--yards of material and ruffles. And I’m guessing that it’s pretty old, a family heirloom kind of thing. Not just because it has that ivory look that old fabric gets after a while, but because of the holes.

“It was made by my great-great-grandmother,” Heather whispers. “Papa had it shipped from Hungary when Mama was pregnant with me. Zoë was christened in it.”

It has a sort of musty smell, and when she lifts the skirt and I see a tear run straight up it, I think I understand. This thing has been in the Marazek family for generations, and Heather was its guardian, but it’s reached the end of its existence.

I leave one arm around her and reach out myself. The fabric’s completely shot, but the lace seems to be made of stronger stuff, and there’s little pearls sewn on here and there that are just fine. “Heather, nothing lasts forever, you know that.”

She wipes her eyes. “I know. But I’ll have to explain to Mama--and tradition’s so important to her.”

I think I can figure out the rest of it. Mama won’t be happy with some new storebought outfit for the tadpole, and Mama isn’t the only one to whom tradition is important. I just stare at the ruined gown for a minute, wanting to make it all better somehow.

Heather straightens a little. “I’m sorry, darling. Call it hormones. It’s really not that big of a deal, the baby won’t notice.” She tries a little laugh, and reaches for the box lid.

And the idea comes, arriving whole in my head, the way the best ideas do. “You know,” I say casually, “my mom’s family has a christening gown too. It’s not as venerable as this one--my grandma made it for my aunt when she was born--but it’s not halfway bad.” Of course, I haven’t thought about the thing in probably two decades, but I’m pretty sure it’s still in existence.

Heather looks up at me, blue-green eyes wide and wet, and I smile a little. “It’s kind of plain, too, compared to this. But…I dunno…maybe we could use some of the lace from this one to spruce it up a bit?” I don’t know from clothing most of the time, but given the age of the thing, I’m willing to bet a lot of money that the lace is hand-made.

For a second, I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing. But then Heather’s arms go around my neck, and she buries her face in the hollow of my throat. “Jim,” she says, and her voice is strong. “You’ve just proved to me again that I couldn’t have a better husband.”
I hug her back, feeling strong and, well, masculine. Nothing like making your woman happy. In fact, it almost cancels out the worry that comes along with my great idea.

You see, I’m pretty sure the gown’s still in existence because Ellie was baptized in it, and there are two women back in Jersey who kept everything they had from her life. My ex, and my ex-mother-in-law. Which means that, to get it back, I’ll have to tell them what’s going on.

Oh boy.

We cuddle for a minute, and then Heather pulls away and puts the lid back on the box. “Zoë will be sorry,” she says, resigned. “She always loved this.” And she slides it back under her daughter’s bed.

“She’ll understand,” I say, and Heather flashes me a smile.

“Of course she will. How was your night, darling?”

I grin back. “I sold my house.”

It’s almost as much fun as watching Warrick. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops. “Already?”

I shrug, keeping it casual. “Some development group has its eye on the neighborhood. They met the asking price without blinking.” I smirk at her. “Good thing I didn’t put in that dishwasher, huh?”

It’s not often I get to enjoy the sight of Heather Marazek speechless. We set the asking price high, gambling on the booming housing market in Las Vegas and deciding that we could always drop it later if we had to. I expected to have to negotiate something lower, at the very least.

A fast sale, at the asking price--the housing gods are smiling upon us, it seems.

Heather sputters a little, then finds her voice. “Jim Brass! You are…” She shakes her head. “How soon do you have to be out?”

“Two weeks. It should be plenty of time if I don’t waste it.” I don’t really have to sort through everything beforehand, it’s just more efficient that way.

I could take vacation time, but I’m saving that for later. Gonna need it once the tadpole’s born.

Heather shakes her head, and slips back into my arms, and we just hold each other for a while. Change can be good, but it’s still scary sometimes.

“Want to go out to dinner to celebrate?” I ask at last. It’s been a while since we’ve been out on a real date--we’ve been busy.

“I have a better idea,” Heather purrs against my collarbone, and all of me jumps to attention. “Let’s celebrate at home today.”

No objections here, lemme tell you. Just for the fun of it, I slide an arm under her knees and stand up. Hey, I may be over fifty, but I still hit the gym.

Heather squeals--again, not something I hear a lot. “Jim!”

“Relax.” I carry her out into the hallway. “You think I’m going to drop you?”

She curls an arm around my neck. “I have every faith that you won’t.”

Damn straight.





Zoë

Well, here we go with attempt number two. Mom’s baby news shook me up so much I never did tell her about my internship, and things have been insane since then--the only times I’ve had time to call have been when she’s asleep, or at work. I don’t like to call her at work; she says she doesn’t mind, but I know she gets into her Lady Heather zone and being Mom when I call kind of screws with that. Besides, she’s WORKING--it’s just not polite.

I did call Dad, though, and he was really happy for me. He said he’d put me in touch with some colleagues out here to help me find a good place to stay, and while I don’t really need the help, I’ll take it--cheap is good, and cheap and safe is better. I know I’ve made him proud, and that’s a great feeling.

So I pick up the phone, half-expecting it to ring under my hand again, but it doesn’t this time. And it’s not Mom who answers, it’s Jim.

That’s still a little startling, even though I’m used to the idea of him being there. But his gruff “Hello?” is getting to be familiar.

I smile at the sound, knowing I have the right to tease him now. “Hey, Jim. How’s the father-to-be?”

His voice gets warmer. “Oh, hi, Zoë. Man, you don’t want to know.”

I can’t resist poking him a little. “Sure I do. That’s my little brother or sister, you know.”

He snorts, and I know I’ve scored a hit. “Your mom’s fine,” he says, in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

“Good. Can I talk to her?” Normally I wouldn’t mind chatting with him for a bit, but I’m all excited again, even though I know this is one more change on top of all the others.

“Sure thing. Hold on.” A moment of static hiss, and I can hear him faintly, saying “It’s Zoë.”

There’s a rustle, and then Mom’s voice. “Hello, my baby.”

“Hi Mom.” I gulp, and then just say it. “I-got-an-internship!”

There’s a pause while she processes that. “An internship? Zoë, where, how?”

She’s surprised, but I can hear the excitement too. “The Massachusetts Mental Health Center. I didn’t think I would get it, but I did, Mom, it’s really prestigious.” I take a breath. “It’s for a year, pretty intense, and it might mean a fellowship afterwards.”

She’s laughing now, that happy sound. “Zoë, you’ve done it again, sprung a surprise on me! This is wonderful!” Her volume drops, and I can hear her talking to Jim. “She got an internship at the Massachusetts Mental Health Center.”

“Go ahead and let him on the extension, Mom,” I say, feeling bold now that I’ve delivered my news and surprised her. I’m not sure I’ll ever think of him as a stepdad--I’m kind of old for that, and besides, he’s just Jim--but he’s going to be family.

Within seconds there’s a click, and he’s back on. “Congratulations, kiddo,” he rumbles, and I grin again.

“Tell us all about it,” Mom demands.

“It lasts a year and the stipend’s about twenty-one thousand. I’ll have to find a place to live, but Dad says he’ll line something up for me.”

“Good,” Mom says, and I’m glad for the millionth time that my parents don’t hate each other. They might have decided they couldn’t stay together, and I’m not saying that the time right before they split was any picnic, but they’re both classy people. It could have been so much worse.

“When does it start?” Jim asks.

“July first. Don’t worry, I can get time off for when the baby’s born, I checked.”

“Not if it interferes,” Mom says sternly, but I ignore that. There’s no way I’m going to miss it.

They let me babble on for a while, and I jump around from housing to grades to classes to what Gisele thinks of it all, with both of them sticking in questions when I take a breath. It feels so good to talk it all over with Mom the way I’ve been wanting to since I heard about it. I mean, Dad was great, but it’s not the same thing as telling her.
And when I finally wind down, they fill me in on Mom’s pregnancy, and that’s where it’s cool to have Jim--he doesn’t let her get away with anything. Not that she’s having any problems, thank God. And I’m so glad he’s there to keep an eye on her. Of course, she wouldn’t be in this condition without him, but you know what I mean.

It’s a little funny to think of him living in our house. It’s even weirder to realize that by the time I get back home, it won’t be our house any more. They’ll be living in a place I’ve never seen.

But Mom says it’ll have a room for me. And I guess that’s what really matters.

I mean, life goes on, right? I’m getting ready to be completely independent, and at the same time Mom’s starting over with another kid. Heck, I’m old enough to be the kid’s mother myself. Definitely weird.

Still cool, though.

I just hope the kid looks like Mom!