Bing
Crosby
was singing about Rudolph, and outside, gusts of chill frosted the
windows.
Inside, Sara reached into the cardboard box and looked at the folded
piece of
goldenrod-colored paper taped shut. Her brows drew together in
curiosity. “Um,
Grissom—what’s this?”
From
the other side of the living room, under
the base of the evergreen came his response, slightly preoccupied.
“What’s
what?”
“This.
I
found it in this box of your ornaments, between the plastic holly and
the
lights. Ew, you need to get rid of these candy canes,
babe—they’re like,
ancient,” she commented, pulling out the stale confections
and setting them on
the coffee table.
Grissom
backed
out from under the fresh-cut tree and rose up, rubbing his knees as he
did so.
The scent of pine followed him. “I still have candy canes? I
thought I’d eaten
them all. So . . . oh—“ he caught sight of the
paper in Sara’s hand. “--THAT.
I’d forgotten about that. May I have it please?”
“You
look a
little sheepish. What is it?” Sara asked, smiling.
“Sara—“
At
this point Grissom hobbled over, his expression distinctly
uncomfortable. She
had a feeling his chagrin wasn’t about his knees, either.
“Come
on,
I’m dying to know now,” she chided, shooting him a
playful look. “One of those
holiday newsletters from a cousin of yours—all full of brags
about little
Susie’s dance recital, or how Joey made all As?”
“Who
are
Susie and Joey?” Grissom asked, and as Sara turned to reply,
he plucked the
note from her fingers. She shot him a perplexed look that softened when
he
smiled at her, adding, “If you’re good,
I’ll show you later.”
“I,”
Sara
assured him, “--am always good.”
This
brought a slightly twisted grin and the arching of an eyebrow; Sara
blushed but
kept her gaze steady. “Well I AM.”
“Not
in
ways I want to share with Santa,” Grissom smirked.
After
they
wrestled with the lights, they turned to the ornaments. Sara felt an
inner
thrill at seeing Grissom unveil the ones he’d brought,
telling a story for each
(“My mother made this one when she was in her crochet
period,” “This one was a
gift from my car dealership.”) They hung them on the tree.
She
hadn’t
had a full-sized tree in years, and the scent of it kept sending
tingles
through her. Sara admired the eclectic display on the
branches—chunky ceramic
angels and plastic bugs and yarn Guatemalan God’s Eyes in a
brightly festive
sprinkling against the fresh green needles. Her own offerings--little
colored
tin animals, cork Santas and pearly seashells—added to the
charm.
Grissom
smiled. “I like our tree.”
“I
do too,”
she agreed.
Up
on the very top of the tree sat a chubby,
plastic little bobble headed hula dancer doll wearing a gold glitter
pipe
cleaner halo over her black yarn hair and serene smile. Sara was
reminded of
the Hawaiian dancers from the It’s a Small World ride at
“Her
name
is Lelani, and I found in the glove compartment of my first
car,” Grissom
admitted. “Complete with halo.”
“That’s
pretty . . . unique.”
“Yes.
If I
were the sort of man who believed in signs and symbols, I’d
consider it a
definite nod to peace on Earth and goodwill to man. On the other hand,
I also
suspect the previous owner of my ’66 Corvair felt he needed a
guardian angel.”
Sara
snorted.
“I’m sure you were a better driver than he must
have been. And now Lelani
guards your tree?”
“She
heralds the season.”
“I’m
good
with it. Going to share what the paper is all about?”
“Not
yet,”
Grissom smiled.
They
ate,
and sat in the living room on the sofa together, gently intertwined,
letting
the colors of the tree lights wash over them. Sara particularly liked
the flash
of green and blue against the silver of Grissom’s hair; she
rubbed her cheek
against the warm hollow of his shoulder and smiled. He shifted
slightly, amused
at her expression. “Yes?”
“Nothing.
Just like seeing you with a glow—so to speak. And the
paper?”
“You’re
persistent,” Grissom grumbled, but he smiled as he said it.
With a resigned
sigh, he fished it out of his pocket and held it up, shooting Sara a
warning
look when she tried to take it from him. “Just a moment. I
need to explain a
little here, all right?”
“All
right—“ she grudgingly agreed. Grissom cleared his
throat.
“When
Ecklie and I came on board at the lab, we weren’t exactly
friends. I was more
interested in actual field and lab work; Conrad had more of an aptitude
for the
court-related side of crime scene investigation. And of course even
then, he
was very big on paperwork.”
Sara
fought
her smirk, “Really?”
“More
so
than he is now,” came the sigh. “Back in those days
Conrad typed and filed and
processed more paper in a week than most of us handled in a month. It
was his
way of trying to control situations he couldn’t, but at the
time, I’m sure he
didn’t see it that way. And the worst part was that he made
us requisition
everything,”
“What
about
the paper?” Sara persisted, grinning.
Grissom
looked over at her. “Patience. One
Christmas Eve I happened to pass and see Conrad working away on a form
for
something—I think it was for new flashlights--and I made the
mistake of asking
if it was his letter to Santa.”
Sara
snorted. “You DIDN’T!”
“I
did.
Conrad sneered at it, feeble joke that it was, and told me that if
Santa was
going to be efficient, he probably had an entire division of elves
handling the
requisitions, and maybe I ought to get my ass in gear before the
deadline if I
wanted Santa to bring me a sense of humor. And that got me to
thinking.”
He
carefully pulled open the tape and unfolded the piece of paper; Sara
recognized
it as a LVNPD standard Purchase Order form, Carefully Grissom smoothed
it out
and cocked his head. She stared at it.
“A
P.O.?
So?”
“Maybe
it
will make more sense if I read it to you . . . “ Grissom
offered shyly. He
cleared his throat and began. “To K. Kringle, AKA S. Claus,
AKA Father
Christmas et al,
North Pole. From G.
Grissom, CSI level III,
Currently
the specific woman desired is in stock and on excellent display in the
San
Francisco CSI office; therefore I request she be relocated to Las Vegas
Nevada
ASAP for immediate delivery. Your attention to this matter is greatly
appreciated; sincerely, G. Grissom.”
For
a
long
moment, Sara said nothing, her eyes wide.
Grissom
sighed. He carefully refolded the paper. “I wrote it out on a
whim, and left it
on the table in my townhouse kitchen. Just a joke. After Christmas, I
folded it
up and tossed it into the box of ornaments. When I decorated each year,
I’d see
it lying there . . . and the hope would still be there as well. It
became a
tradition to leave it on my table, in place of milk and cookies, I
suppose. A
reminder that I DID have things I wanted, even if I was a little too
much of an
idiot to follow through on them.”
Sara
found
her voice after a moment. “You . . . asked Santa . . . for
me?”
Grissom
turned his head to look at her, and in his shyly vulnerable gaze, she
found her
answer before he spoke it. “Yes.”
“That’s
. .
. . “ She couldn’t finish the thought; his earnest
smile was too much, his big
blue eyes too bright. Grissom leaned forward and rubbed his nose
against hers,
and his husky whisper purred out.
“What
seems
impossible one minute becomes, through faith, possible the next. I
didn’t have
faith in Santa, Sara—I had faith in you.”
She
blinked, a little overwhelmed, and pressed her face against his
shoulder.
Grissom stroked her hair, waiting. She raised her head once more after
a
moment, and tears made her lashes dark. Her dimples were deep as she
smiled.
“Seven
years, huh? Well let’s face it
Grissom—you’ve always been pretty slow at
paperwork . . . “
He
snorted
and she kissed him, and after a while, the Christmas lights flashed
over them
both as Lelani serenely watched over them celebrating down underneath
her tree.
End.
