Boston Blues - BLACKBIRD book 2

2. old pictures

Far from pondering about guilty pleasures, Brock drove to DC in the light snowfall. After sleeping all he needed and giving his ear some days to start healing—and getting used to the odd sensation of his balance shifting for a moment now and then—he took his car and hit the road. If he had at least two more weeks of leave, he wasn't staying in Boston. One of the Bureau physicians in DC could clear him to go back to work.

Andrea waited for him at his apartment, and she stated that she'd stay there with him until he went back to Boston. He spent the first days taking care of those little details that always come up when any house is left alone for some time, since he had only been there for his monthly leaves. He was in no hurry, and took his time not only to fix things, but also enjoy that simple handy work and the smooth routine of living with Andrea, not a care in the world.

The girl had taken on the quest of looking after her father, no matter how much Brock resisted the inversion of roles. Until he finally gave up and let her take over. He had to admit it was a healthy exercise, that helped him to accept that his baby girl had grown up. And it was odd, this learning that she had her own mind and judgment, that she was so able to make decisions, and that she not only wanted, but also was more than able to take care of him if it came to it.

Those were days of an unexpected and smooth coming to terms with things. Being home all day, the time came to put some order to the boxes where he'd stored all sort of papers and pictures since he'd moved into that apartment. He knew what he would find if he kept going, but didn't avoid it. He went through the boxes one at a time, and finally came to those from the year of Georgia's death.

It was early in the afternoon and Andrea was at her friend Katie's house. Brock poured himself a whiskey. It wasn't nearly as good as Gillian's Blue Label—gone a couple of months ago and deeply missed ever since—but it would do. He opened the box as if it kept a time bomb and slipped his hand inside as if it were full of snakes. But it wasn't, of course. However, it did hold a surprise for Brock: he found himself not breaking down in tears. His chest didn't feel like crushing under the heavy rock of grief. His hands didn't shake.

He saw the folders of the case, worn out by the countless times he'd gone through them, even after it was all over. And he wisely avoided the one with the pictures of his own house turned into a crime scene and the autopsy report. He saw all the legal paperwork he'd had to deal with after Georgia's death. And deeper in, at the bottom of the box, he found the white envelopes.

One of them kept the last letter Georgia had written to him. They were hopeless old-fashioned fools, but they enjoyed that sweet ancient feeling of having each other's words in tangible paper, letter by letter drawn for the other one to read when they were apart. The other envelope kept his favorites pictures of her, many of them with him.

Brock put the box aside and took both envelopes, sipping his whiskey. He breathed deep and opened the letter. He didn't need to read it again: he could quote every word by heart. He just moved his eyes over the page, as if caressing every line Georgia's hand had shaped for him. Sitting at that very table, with a cup of tea and her favorite Bob Dylan album playing, while he was away, chasing down some serial killer with the BAU.

He felt the tears run quietly down his face, blurring Georgia's handwriting, but he didn't bother to fight them. For the first time ever since she'd died, he wasn't crumbling under the overwhelming weight of guilt. This time, holding Georgia's letter was almost like holding her hand. The emotion pushing those tears to overflow his eyes was only love, pure and simple. Love for something forever lost. He grabbed the other envelope and pulled out her pictures. And there he lingered, gazing down at them, warm tears still falling gently and his thin lips pursed in a smile.

It was like opening a door and all of a sudden finding Georgia there, smiling at him with that bright grin of hers, those gorgeous eyes of night sparkling at meeting his. As he looked at the pictures, recalling the time, the place, the situation of each and every one, he could almost hear her voice saying his name, calling him, laughing with him and even at him.

Brock's fingers slid over Georgia's face. All those years sunk in grief and anger and guilt. All those years obsessed with Georgia's terrible last hours. He had almost forgotten how it really felt, being with her, sharing their lives. Lost in the horror of her death, he'd almost forgotten her.

"Dad! You okay?"

Andrea's voice took him by surprise but didn't startle him. He just nodded, still crying and smiling at the same time, his eyes nailed to Georgia's image. The girl dropped everything to go to his side and put her arm around his shoulders.

"She was so beautiful... so full of light...," he muttered.

"Yeah, she was," Andrea agreed, her voiced warmed by the affection she used to feel for Georgia.

"I... I'd forgotten how radiant her smile was... Can you believe it?"

"But you remember now," the girl said, resting her cheek against his hair, fighting back her own tears.

Brock had always hidden his breakdowns from her, yet she could always read the signs on him every time he had one. But that was no breakdown. That time was different, and so, so much better.

"Yeah, I do now."

Andrea leaned a little forward and took one of the pictures, giving it to Brock. He and Georgia sat together in the sun by the river, their shoulders touching. Georgia laughed out loud at something and Brock looked down at her, trying to keep a civilized smile and not quite succeeding, infected by her laughter.

"This is my favorite," said Andrea. "I thought you'd thrown them away, or burned them."

Brock shook his head. "No. I just stored them away, 'cause I just couldn't..."

"Look at them, I know."

Andrea held Brock tighter, and he rested his head on her chest with a heartfelt sigh.

"She was the best that ever happened to you," she said.

"After you," Brock corrected.

"That goes without saying, Dad."

They chuckled at her tone and Andrea kissed his hair.

"Georgia was the best, but not the last, you know?" she whispered in his ear.

Brock shot a questioning scowl up at her. Andrea giggled and went to the bathroom for some tissues. He had to blow his nose and wipe his face before performing a decent scowl. Andrea raised her eyebrows with a little smile.

"What did you mean?" he asked, since she didn't offer any straight answer.

Andrea stepped back with an ironic wink. "Is it the profiler Declan Brockner asking that?"

Brock scowled deeper. She went to the kitchen, produced her phone and took a flyer from the fridge's door.

"Weren't you cooking dinner?" asked Brock. "You promised it like a week ago."

"We're dinning Chinese. On you, for being a dork," she replied, sticking out her tongue at him.

"Dork?"

"Yeah, dork!"

"That's not how you're supposed to address your father, young lady."

"Sure it is, if he's a dork."

"Say it one more time and you're grounded."

"You cannot ground me, dork. Ground me here and I'd just move in back with Mom, and I'm not grounded anymore."

"That's cheating. Would you cheat like that?"

"Watch me."

Brock let out a soft chuckle and Andrea's mocking smirk turned into a warm smile. She watched him put the pictures and the letter back in the box, and she felt so relieved all of a sudden, and happy. It was so great, seeing her dad with Georgia's pictures in his hands and a smile on his face at the same time. A complete first, and the best in ages. By far.