Since You Went Away - Chapter Two: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
Title: Since You Went Away - Chapter Two: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG (Overall M)
Word Count: 6839
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: Thank you so much for the warm reception you’ve given our story! We hope you enjoy the next installment. Oh, and never underestimate the motivational power of comments and feedback. ;)
--
As it turned out, Brenda didn’t have time for grocery shopping--or anything else, for that matter. On Sunday afternoon, after tidying the bathroom and kitchen to passable standards, the deputy chief was called in to a double homicide. Greg Phillips and Omar Makher, two of three partners in a downtown law firm, were found shot to death in the office by the cleaning crew. What had followed were two and a half days of hectic investigating for Major Crimes, wherein Brenda interrogated the chief suspect, the third partner of the firm, until it was proven that his alibi was rock solid (albeit illegal, as he had spent the night in the company of an underage hooker). Brenda loved cracking a case and was unquestionably proud of herself when she proved on Tuesday afternoon that it had been Makher’s wife, Lili, who had killed them upon discovering that the two men were engaged in a tawdry affair.
By the time Brenda had closed her case and returned to her apartment, she realized with alarm that the place was still in shambles, she had no food, and the captain would be arriving any minute.
Toeing her heels off her aching feet, Brenda kicked them under the coffee table and quickly got to work, stacking as many boxes as would fit into all of the little closets throughout the apartment. She frowned to herself when she realized that she had barely made a dent.
Sharon was going to mock her into next week.
Despite the potential embarrassment, Brenda found herself oddly looking forward to it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had multiple plans with the same person in one week, unless you counted Fritz, which Brenda didn’t. That had been different. Even when they weren’t dating it had felt like they were, mainly because she’d known right away that he had feelings for her. This was something altogether new, something she hadn’t done in more years than she could immediately remember: ‘hanging out’ with a friend, someone with whom Brenda could be herself without trying to attract or seduce.
The buzzer sounded and Brenda’s excited glow was immediately replaced with an exaggerated eye-roll at Captain Raydor’s unerring punctuality. She buzzed her up and opened the door, tidying the pile of mail atop the nearest stack of boxes. When that was done, she stuck her head into the hall and watched as Sharon rounded the bend at the top of the staircase carrying what appeared to be a pie dish covered in aluminum foil. “Hi there.”
Sharon smiled and immediately sized up the blonde. “You look like you just got out of work.”
“I did. Sorry...I should have called. I don’t have dinner ready yet, so I was thinkin’ maybe we could order takeout.” Brenda stood aside, allowing the older woman to enter her apartment.
Sharon’s eyebrows crept toward her widow’s peak. “Would you prefer to reschedule?”
“No!” Brenda exclaimed too loudly and stepped back, waving the captain into the apartment. “No,” she repeated in a more sedate, acceptable conversational tone, since she was inviting a dinner guest in rather than chasing a runaway perp. “Not unless you object to takeout.”
“It depends on the type of takeout, but in general, no.” Sharon smiled slightly as she stepped into the apartment, and then she stopped abruptly -- just for a split-second, so that it was really just a falter in her stride more than anything else, but Brenda noticed it and felt herself blush again. She stood behind the other woman, surveying her own apartment and trying to see it the way Sharon must have been seeing it. Oh, good gracious. It looked even worse than she had realized, with boxes towering everywhere, no furniture to speak of, and the unrelieved blankness of the off-white walls.
“Um,” Brenda began, and then stopped. “I’m not really settled in yet.”
Sharon offered a bland, neutral smile in response. “Where should I put the dessert?”
“In the kitchen, or just there on the table.” Brenda gestured toward the circular craftsman-style wooden table she’d adapted for use as a dining table. The captain walked over and put down both the pie plate and her purse and set about shrugging off her lightweight coat, and the younger woman realized she hadn’t heard the tell-tale clacking of heels. She glanced down. Ballet flats; purple ballet flats. “I like your shoes,” she heard herself say.
Sharon’s expression of polite neutrality warmed. “Thanks, Brenda.” She spoke carefully, as if reminding herself that this was her maybe-friend Brenda Leigh, not Chief Johnson, and here she didn’t have to worry about the potential annoyance of the blonde suddenly pulling rank. In fact, if she was so inclined, Sharon might be able to pull a little rank of her own; after all, she at least had proper grown-up furniture and some artwork on her walls. She draped her jacket over the crook of her elbow and surveyed all she could see of the deputy chief’s abode. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she commented, her mouth twisting into a smirk that somehow crept over her whole face.
Brenda flushed with a combination of well-deserved embarrassment and a dash of indignation. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Where’s the progress?” Sharon retorted pertly, and Brenda’s lips parted before she caught the amusement clearly dancing in those mossy green eyes, and she grinned ruefully.
“You shoulda seen how the last tenant left it,” she joked. “I got a great deal on the rent ‘cause I found it when we raided a crack den. I’ll have this place in House Beautiful in no time.”
“Double-page spread,” the brunette agreed. “What will they call this particular aesthetic? Early-modern vagrant? Frat-boy chic?”
“I had no idea you were such a snob,” Brenda retorted, wincing.
“And I had no idea you thought a futon was furniture,” Sharon fired back, just as quickly and snappily as if they were at work, swatting at one another across the dual barriers of their red and yellow crime-scene tape. “Where do you usually tap the keg, hmm? Right here in the living room? There’s plenty of space for it.”
“I believe we’ve already established that it’s a bit bare. I just don’t have much furniture yet.”
“You’re nearly fifty.”
“I’m forty-seven! And I meant most of it was Fritzi’s.”
“Oh. Yes.” Brenda knew Sharon was a little uncomfortable, whether due to the mention of Fritz or because she feared she’d crossed a line with her teasing, because she shoved her hands into the pockets of her slim-fitting grey pants. Furthermore, Sharon knew she knew.
“Can I get you somethin’ to drink?” the hostess asked, surprisingly eager to put her guest at ease. “I have water and some Diet Coke, and wine, of course --”
“Just water for now, thank you.” Sharon smiled slightly, looking relieved.
“Come on in here,” Brenda called as she sauntered into the kitchen, and when she heard Sharon just behind her she removed a binder from atop the refrigerator and handed it to the older woman. “Menus,” she explained. “Organized alphabetically by type of cuisine.” The captain looked flabbergasted, and Brenda smiled smugly. “See? I can be very organized.”
“When it suits you,” Sharon muttered, beginning to flip the pages. Brenda placed a tumbler filled with ice water on the counter beside her.
“When it’s important,” the chief countered insouciantly. “I haven’t found a really great Chinese restaurant yet, but oh, that Jamaican place is good, if you like spicy.” Brenda reached across her companion and indicated the menu. “I don’t feel much like Japanese, but we could do Korean... This North African restaurant is really good too, if you’re more in the mood for somethin’ like that.”
Sharon looked up with that soft, warm smile Brenda had seen so seldom within the halls of the LAPD. “My, my, Brenda Leigh. I had no idea your culinary tastes were so diverse.”
Brenda bristled automatically, if half-heartedly. “Why, because I’m from Georgia, and all southerners live on barbecue, fried chicken, and sweet tea?”
“No,” the brunette replied as if she were the one who’d been affronted, “because I have absolutely no idea what you like to eat, unless it’s coated in chocolate. And there’s nothing wrong with barbecue, fried chicken, or sweet tea.”
“Now I have a hard time imaginin’ you indulgin’ in a good Southern meal. I bet you run screamin’ from all that grease and cholesterol.”
“Aren’t you forgetting Christmas in the murder room? I was there, if you recall.”
Brenda snorted. “Oh yes. How could I forget? Only you could burn marshmallows.”
“They most certainly were not burnt. They had your mother’s personal seal of approval.”
“She always was the placatin’ type.” Noting Sharon’s imperiously arched eyebrow, Brenda raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I kid, I kid.”
Sharon flipped a few more pages and tapped her finger on the menu of a homestyle restaurant that claimed to have the best Southern fried chicken west of the Mississippi. “I can get my hands dirty with the best of them, Brenda Leigh. I’m not afraid of food.”
Brenda smirked. “That wasn’t a challenge, Sharon.”
“I know, but now I’m craving cornbread.”
“Me too!” The blonde sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you said that.” She poured another glass of water and retrieved her cell phone. “What d’you want? I’ll call it in.”
Sharon observed as Brenda called in their order of fried chicken, black eyed peas and rice, collard greens, fried okra, and corn bread, noting with a smirk that the blonde didn’t need to give her address. She wondered if Brenda Leigh was ever homesick for Atlanta the way she was sometimes homesick for Philadelphia. Had she felt dislocated when she left Atlanta for Los Angeles? Had she ever considered going home?
Sharon sipped at her water (Brenda at least had actual glasses) and cast her eyes about the sparse kitchen. Was it laziness on Brenda’s part that she hadn’t taken the time to customize her living space to her personal taste, or was it reluctance to adapt to a significantly large and permanent change in her life? She’d been lucky that her husband had “graciously” conceded to her keeping the house in the divorce settlement; it had smoothed the transition for herself and the kids, leaving them to deal with the emotional upheaval in the comfort of the home they’d grown up in.
Did Brenda miss Fritz? Sharon knew very little about the details of their divorce and found herself curiously imagining what had been the breaking point in what had appeared to be a relatively solid marriage. She supposed it hadn’t been as solid as she had always assumed, remembering from experience that things were so rarely what they seemed. Brenda Leigh Johnson was proof of that.
Mimicking Brenda’s examination of her own kitchen, Sharon stepped closer to the refrigerator and glanced over the pictures that were displayed with bare magnets. There were a few snapshots of Brenda’s parents, whom Sharon remembered vividly, a picture of a fluffy white cat and another of an orange cat, and a formal portrait of a young brunette girl in a graduation cap and gown.
“That’s my niece, Charlie,” Brenda offered, coming up behind Sharon.
“She’s beautiful,” Sharon remarked, noting the similarities between the girl and the deputy chief. Their eyes were the same, wide and brown and gleaming.
Brenda nodded, blonde curls bouncing against her shoulder. “She’s a good girl. Makes great brownies,” she added with a laugh, smirking secretively in a way that piqued Sharon’s interest. “Food’ll be here in thirty minutes. Wanna sit in the living room?”
“Lead the way.”
Brenda did just that, curling up on one end of the futon, carefully adjusting the floral skirt that had ridden up over her thigh. Sharon narrowed her eyes at the futon and gingerly eased herself into a seated position.
“Brenda, this is honestly the most uncomfortable excuse for a couch I’ve ever sat on.”
“And you’ve already decided that after 2.5 seconds?”
“Yes,” Sharon sniffed, “I have. First of all, when I sit down on something couch-like and it slides across the floor, I become very dubious.”
Despite the fact that her furniture was being insulted, Brenda could work up nothing other than amusement at Sharon’s pedantic explication of the rules of sofa-dom. Of course the woman had a list of criteria; she probably had rules for everything. “What else, capt’n?”
“Removable cushions: it should have them. And I, personally, am in favor of armrests, although your mileage may vary.” Sharon stopped and considered thoughtfully.
“And?” Brenda prompted.
“Those are the essentials, really. Optimally, it shouldn’t come in a box. Some assembly should not be required.”
“Thank you so much for your invaluable advice. You ever considered a change of careers?” the chief quipped, and Sharon chuckled.
“You should be so lucky.” The older woman gazed musingly at the sea of boxes surrounding their little island. “Really though, Brenda, from what I’ve seen, this is a great apartment. The building is nice, the neighborhood’s great -- How are you planning to decorate?”
Brenda hesitated. She’d known Sharon would ask; she should’ve rehearsed an answer. But on the other hand, wasn’t this the kind of thing you were supposed to discuss with your friends? She thought of Sharon’s cozy, tastefully-appointed home and took a breath. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “This is the first home I’ve ever had the chance to decorate completely for myself as an adult, and I guess I’m a little bit afraid of messin’ it up. This is my fresh start.” She darted a quick look at the other woman. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
Sharon smiled that same gentle smile, the one that made her eyes glow. “I don’t think so. When Paul and I divorced, I stayed in the house with the kids. We did it to make the transition easier for the children, but it was easier for me as well. I had enough to deal with without having to worry about paint samples and fabric swatches.” She shrugged and sipped her water. “I’ve changed almost everything in the house since then, made it my own -- especially since my children moved out -- but it was a gradual process.”
“You’re certainly good enough at it,” Brenda remarked. “I don’t even know what my own personal style is. The last house was mostly Fritz and the one before came fully furnished. Belonged to a murdered Russian prostitute.”
The brunette snorted. “At least tell me you flipped the mattress...”
“Eew! No. I got a new one. But the whole place wasn’t my aesthetic at all. There were chandeliers everywhere...”
“I don’t think you can do much worse than that,” Sharon agreed. “Maybe it’s time you put your own touch on the place, make it feel like your own.”
“You sound like my mama. It’s just so...daunting.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, Brenda. You just need a place to start and, really, you can’t start with this futon. You need to get a real sofa, and then you can decorate around that.”
“Is the futon really that bad?” Brenda asked, bouncing on the hard little cushion.
“Yes, it really is. I’ll even go with you to help you pick out a couch.”
Brenda raised an eyebrow. “Is that just your way of makin’ sure I do it?”
“Yes. Besides, if we’re going to be friends, I need a couch I can actually get comfortable on.” Sharon smirked. “I also thought you could use the moral support.”
“Yeah...yeah, I could.” The blonde smiled warmly, touched by the gesture. As she prepared to ask just when Sharon would be free to go furniture shopping, the house phone rang. “‘Scuse me,” Brenda said, getting to her feet. She crossed the room and peered down at the caller ID. Fritz Howard. She twisted her lips and bit the inside of her cheek and, with a bracing breath, decided to let it go to voicemail. “Never mind that,” she added dismissively to Sharon as she sat back down.
Sharon glanced between Brenda and the ringing telephone, barely able to contain her surprise at the other woman’s decision to ignore it. As she wondered just whom Brenda was avoiding, the automated voice message went off.
“Hey Brenda. It’s, uh, Fritz. You’re probably working...I didn’t want to bother you on your cell. Listen -- I’m heading out of town for a few days this week and wondered if you’d be interested in feeding Joel while I’m gone. I know he misses you. Gimme a call when you have a moment.”
Brenda sat up a little straighter, a wistful expression overtaking her face. Sharon expected a comment about halcyon days with the FBI agent; what she got instead was a sad little “Joel.”
Of course. “You can call him back, if you’d like,” Sharon murmured. “Don’t mind me.”
“Oh, no. If I call him back now, it’ll just look like I was avoidin’ his call on purpose.” Which she had been, plainly, but that was the kind of thing it was okay to share with your friend as the two of you chatted in your living room, but that it was politic to keep from your soon-to-be-ex-husband -- although no doubt he avoided Brenda’s calls as well... or would have done, if she’d called him.
They sat quietly for a moment. Sharon cast about for a topic of conversation that could be both innocuous and interesting. She hadn’t turned one up when Brenda suddenly burst out, “Why’d you get divorced?”
Sharon wasn’t as appalled as she should’ve been by the tactless question, because it came from Brenda Johnson, from whom she expected nothing else; and because she now felt comfortable enough with the blonde to respond by laughing and enjoying the younger woman’s obvious mortification as she processed just what she’d asked. That, and it was intriguing to think about what might happen if they mutually agreed to forgo banal pleasantries. They’d certainly never bothered with them in their workplace relationship. She tilted her head, considering.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Brenda said quickly, and Sharon chuckled.
“Somehow I suspect that’s not something you say often. -- No, Brenda, I don’t mind. Surely at this point we can be honest with each other.”
The blonde relaxed again. “Yeah,” she agreed. Besides, if the captain was willing to answer so freely, the story probably wasn’t anything too horrible.
“We were married twelve years,” Sharon said succinctly. “Jobs, stress, the kids -- We just grew apart.” It was her turn to shrug. “Not a particularly interesting story, is it? You’ve heard it before.”
“Not from you,” Brenda pointed out. She glanced at the blinking light on the answering machine. “So, uh, do you two talk? You and... Paul?”
“You have to talk if you have kids.” The smirk reappeared. “Or cats, I suppose.” Taking her cue from Brenda she asked, “What about you and Agent Howard?”
The smaller woman scrunched her features slightly. “I don’t know why, but it sounds funny when you call him ‘Agent Howard,’” she commented. “We... We just...” She trailed off with a helpless little sigh. “It’s hard to put it into words. Outwardly nothin’ much changed. It’s -- This is gonna sound ridiculous. You know how sometimes you have a really comfortable pair of shoes, ones you’ve had long enough that they’re all broken in and you barely notice them on your feet, and then one day you’re walkin’ along and realize they’ve rubbed a blister?”
Both women instinctively looked down at their feet.
“I do,” Sharon agreed just as the door buzzer sounded.
Brenda popped up, a movement that caused her end of the futon to bang into the wall. Sharon probably had a point about sofa-shopping. The chief grinned as she crossed the room to go deal with the delivery guy. “You know,” she tossed over her shoulder, “until the other night I wasn’t even sure you had any comfortable shoes.”
“You never asked,” she heard the captain say from behind her. “I hope the cornbread’s good.”
The blonde glanced back again to sneer. “You’re a Yankee,” she said flatly. “What do you know about cornbread?”
“I know what tastes good,” Sharon replied simply, heading into the kitchen. “Where are your plates?”
“Top right above the sink!” Brenda called back.
Sharon took down two plates, shocked that they matched (though they were the only two in the cupboard), and added dishes to the mental list of necessities that Brenda would need to buy if she had any desire to live like a grown-up and not a twenty-two-year-old co-ed. She set out the plates on the table as Brenda carried in the large bag of food.
“Mmmm mmm mmm!” Brenda enthused, inhaling deeply. “Smells amazin’’!”
Sharon sniffed. “It does. Silverware?”
“Drawer closest to the fridge,” the blonde replied, pulling containers out of the bag. When the bag was empty, she crumpled it up and deposited it in the trash, thankful that she had remembered to take out the garbage when she left for work that morning, and grabbed a few paper towels.
They sat at the table, each woman silently loading her plate with the steaming food. Sharon’s stomach rumbled pleasantly; it did smell good. Despite the fact that she very rarely ate fried food, Sharon was eager to indulge.
They reached for the cornbread at the same time, their knuckles accidentally colliding. “Sorry,” Brenda said, immediately snatching up a piece. She took a bite, closing her eyes as she chewed and letting out a low moan.
Sharon felt like a voyeur watching Brenda eat. She blushed faintly at the woman’s open display of pleasure in her food and looked away as she took her own bite of the bread. She nearly moaned herself; it was easily the best cornbread she’d ever tasted. When she looked back at Brenda, she realized the younger woman was watching her with smug satisfaction on her face.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Sharon confessed.
The sound of chewing and the occasional hum of pleasure (from Brenda, of course) filled the small kitchen for several minutes while they ate. The shared silence was comfortable, Brenda found. She tore into her chicken, flicking her eyes from time to time to the woman sitting across from her. She had expected to see Sharon tearing the chicken off the bone with her fork and was thoroughly pleased to see the flash of the captain’s teeth as she ate directly from the drumstick.
They were quiet for another few minutes, and then: “I was married before, you know.”
Sharon swallowed, pondering Brenda’s abrupt confession. “I hadn’t known.”
“Dennis. Didn’t last long. He wasn’t a very good guy, in the end.”
Sharon wondered what had prompted the woman to blurt out this specific detail but had decided to allow Brenda to dictate the direction of the conversation. “Not a comfortable pair of shoes then?”
“Definitely not.” Brenda pushed her collard greens around her plate. “I guess I just never thought I’d have two divorces under my belt at this point in my life.”
Sharon nodded perceptibly. It explained a lot about Brenda, the more she thought about it, taking into consideration her past with Pope and her “comfortable” marriage with Fritz. Had she settled because Fritz was easy and expected?
“Sorry,” Brenda interjected brightly. “I didn’t mean to get all glum. Tell me more about you. What’re your kids like?”
The captain hesitated briefly, having known the other woman would ask about them eventually. She decided to be conservative with the details -- for now. “I have two children -- a boy and a girl. They’re... great. I’m very proud of them.”
“Don’t all parents have to say that?”
“I’m completely objective,” Sharon replied with a soft smile. “Daniel’s a lot like me: bright, very self-aware, very stubborn. Vivien’s very much her own person; she’s much more independent than Danny. Very proud, very sharp. Wise beyond her years.”
“Just like their mama.”
That something Brenda couldn’t quite identify flashed through Sharon’s eyes again. “Yes,” she admitted. “Both in their own ways.” She lowered the remains of her chicken to her plate as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite but, the other woman reflected, she was probably just full. They’d both been gobbling down their food as if it was going out of style.
“Don’t forget there’s pie,” Brenda reminded.
“I’m not likely to forget since I’m the one who brought it.” The sharpness in Sharon’s voice was as surprising as it was unwarranted, and Brenda looked askance, but the brunette had returned her gaze to her plate and was giving the remains of her okra the eye. Brenda decided to let it go.
After maybe half a minute had ticked by Sharon shifted in her chair and returned her gaze to Brenda’s. “My grandmother cooked like this,” she said. “I barely remember her -- she died when I was just in elementary school -- but I remember those Sunday lunches at her house.”
“Really?” Brenda inquired suspiciously, taking one last bite and then forcing herself to put her fork down before she exploded. “Cornbread and fried okra and --?”
“Every bit of it,” Sharon confirmed. “I thought her cherry cobbler was the best thing in the world. Maybe it was. She was from Maryland,” she added as an afterthought.
Brenda frowned. “No disrespect to your grandmother, Sharon, but Maryland isn’t the South.”
“You mean because they fought on the ‘wrong’ side in the Civil War?”
“I think you mean the War Between the States,” Brenda teased.
Sharon hummed. “The War of Northern Aggression,” she chimed in. “I think my grandmother would’ve disagreed with you, but you could’ve had a real meeting of the minds when it came to food. My mother used to tell this story about a time when she tried to make a southern-style dinner when my grandparents were visiting. She put sugar in the cornbread --”
“Yankee cornbread!” Brenda howled in dismay, and the other woman nodded.
“Grandmother never let her forget it.”
Brenda drained the last of her water before speaking. “See, I knew you weren’t all bad. You’re a little bit southern.”
Sharon smiled slightly and pushed her plate away. “High praise indeed. Let me do the dishes.”
“Two plates and some silverware?” Brenda scoffed. “Leave ‘em. Besides, we’ll just mess up some more when we eat dessert.”
At least that meant Brenda had some more dishes, the captain noted. “I don’t think I can face dessert.”
“Not right now, but you’re not gonna rush off, are you?”
Brenda’s features had tightened in genuine disappointment, and Sharon felt the pleasant warmth of being wanted. She let it chase away the vestiges of her gloomy thoughts, or at least push them further off on the horizon. “I’m not in a hurry,” she admitted. “But I know you’ve had a tiring day, so tell me when you’re ready to get rid of me.”
“I will,” Brenda agreed, “as long as you do the same.”
It occurred to Sharon that not so very long ago either one of them would have done anything in her power to get rid of the other, and now here they were, tacitly admitting that they were enjoying one another’s company. The thought made her smile, and Brenda smiled back with laughing intelligence in her dark eyes.
“I think I’ll make coffee. Will you drink a cup?”
Green eyes narrowed. “Is it decaf?”
Brenda Leigh shuddered. “Definitely not. I wouldn’t have the nasty stuff in the house.”
“Good,” Sharon replied decidedly. “Then I’ll have a cup.”
Brenda smiled again (she was doing a lot of that) as she stood and, without looking into the cabinet, reached unerringly for a paper filter. “You’re not worried it’ll keep you up all night?”
She couldn’t see Sharon’s face as she answered because her very first dinner guest had stood and was leaning across the table, gathering up the leftovers. “Oh, I don’t really sleep that much anyway, not any more.” Before Brenda could formulate a question, they both caught the sound of Sharon’s cell vibrating inside her handbag. Sharon just cocked her head toward the living room, enjoying the fact that there was no need to explain that it might be work or apologize for the distraction. She left Brenda heaping generous scoops of pre-ground beans into the filter.
When she saw that the caller was Daniel, she considered just letting it go to voicemail -- she could call him back later -- but then she noticed that she had two other missed calls. Her stomach tightened as she whipped the phone up to her ear and accepted the call, answering with an anxious “Daniel?”
“Hey, Mom. You okay? You sound a little... tense.”
Sharon closed her eyes and breathed out soundlessly. “I’m fine, honey. How about you? What’s up?”
“Just called to say hi.”
“You called me three times, ‘just to say hi’?” Sharon demanded.
“Yes, captain, I did. You workin’?”
“No, but I’m with a friend, so can I call you back later?”
“Male friend?” her son asked, perking up.
Sharon’s response was an exasperated sigh.
“Okay, a female friend. Is she single?” he continued doggedly.
“Good-bye, Daniel. Don’t call me back tonight unless you’ve severed a limb.”
“Love you too, Mommie Dearest,” Daniel retorted, and they both hung up.
Brenda, who was stacking the takeout containers in the nearly-empty fridge, watched as Sharon turned back into the kitchen. “Everythin’ all right?” She studied the mildly-annoyed expression on the other woman’s face and recognized traces of concern.
“Everything is fine,” Sharon replied, hoping that she was right. “That was my son.”
Brenda frowned. “You seem....I don’t know exactly. Is this your ‘mom’ face?”
The brunette laughed despite herself, knowing precisely which face the other woman meant. “I suppose it is. I’m sure everything is fine,” she repeated, and she wondered who she was trying to convince. “Danny’s been acting a little strange lately. I think he’s lonely because his boyfriend is overseas.”
Brenda didn’t even blink at the admission and Sharon found herself overwhelmingly relieved. “At least in his loneliness he’s just callin’ his mama. Could be worse, right?”
The coffee maker hissed and spat as it dripped its brewing coffee into the pot. Sharon added “coffee maker” to her list for their shopping excursion. “True,” Sharon conceded. “He keeps himself busy with school but I suppose that weekends are hard for him. I’m fairly certain that he’s focusing on my problems rather than dealing with his own.”
“You have problems?” Brenda said lightly, taking down two mugs from the cabinet. “What’s he studyin’?”
“He’s a second year med student.”
“Wow...isn’t that snazzy? Must be nice to have your own doctor-in-training!”
Sharon chuckled. “His goal is psychiatry.”
“No wonder he’s focusin’ on you -- you’re his first client.”
“Don’t push it,” Sharon warned, pointing her finger in mock indignation, “or I’ll introduce him to you. I bet you’d make a fascinating case study.”
“Me? I’m just as sane as you are.” Brenda flashed her brilliantly white teeth in a triumphant smile and removed the pot of steaming coffee. “Lemme guess -- you take it black?”
“I like a little cream, actually,” Sharon replied. “I’m sure you must be stunned.”
“I am!” Brenda replied, doctoring each of the two mugs before carrying Sharon’s to the table. She returned to her own and squeezed in a dollop of honey. “There we go,” she said, sitting back down. “So, when do you wanna go furniture shoppin’?”
The brunette laughed. “Someone’s suddenly eager.”
Brenda blushed slightly. She wasn’t eager to part with a large chunk of her paycheck to furnish her sad apartment, but she was eager for the company. She chose not to admit this, not wanting to somehow push the other woman away before she’d really even had the chance to enjoy their growing friendship. “Just thought I should put in for some Sharon-time. Think you can fit me into your busy schedule?”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, because my appointment book is just brimming with social engagements.” She blew the swirling steam that rose from her cup and gingerly sipped at the coffee, trying to imagine this fictitious world of Brenda’s where people were apparently lining up to spend time with her. “How’s this weekend for you?”
“Sounds great. We can play it by ear at the end of the week.” Brenda nursed her coffee and finally, when her stomach felt slightly less packed with food, she glanced at the aluminum-covered dessert. “I don’t know if I can stand this much longer,” Brenda confessed. “I’m dyin’ to know what you made.”
“Oh, it’s a vegan chocolate pie, but I wanted to make it a little healthier, so I used carob instead of chocolate.”
It was a good thing Brenda had just swallowed her latest sip of coffee, because otherwise she would’ve spit it all over her sweater, not to mention Sharon. She still managed to choke a little on her own saliva, but strenuously schooled herself not to let her horror show on her face. Vegan was bad enough, but the woman had brought her imitation chocolate?
Brenda Leigh flashed on the way Sharon’s perfectly manicured nails had curled possessively around that crimson-wrapped chocolate bar. Wait a tic. Suddenly suspicious, she darted a glance at the other woman from narrowed mahogany eyes, and what her brother Clay Jr. would have described as a shit-eatin’ grin spread over the captain’s face.
“How are you this gullible?” Sharon demanded, reaching over to peel the foil away from the pie tin. “How do you ever get anyone to confess?”
“I’m not gullible,” Brenda groused, torn between being irked at the ease with which the other woman had manipulated her and delighted that she didn’t have to eat vegan carob pie. “I just wasn’t prepared, is all. That was a sneak attack.”
Sharon’s chuckle was low and devious. “I can be sneaky,” she agreed, and removed the foil. “Voila. Chocolate peanut butter pie. Does that meet with your approval?”
Brenda looked down happily at the creamy whipped surface of the pie, the sight of a proper dessert chasing the clouds from her brow. “Ooh,” she cooed. “Excellent work, captain.”
“I’m going for a commendation,” Sharon teased, licking a stray bit of pie-filling from the side of her thumb and rising fluidly. “Plates?”
“Oh, um, in the dishwasher,” the blonde admitted bashfully. Sharon only nodded, not moved to make any disparaging comments about Brenda’s makeshift housekeeping arrangements, and retrieved a couple of dessert plates.
“We don’t need clean forks, do we?”
“My grandmama always said to keep your fork, ‘cause otherwise you might not get any dessert.”
Sharon nodded her approval. She’d noticed that Brenda’s Georgia accent got thicker and thicker the more comfortable she felt, so she took this statement, proclaimed in an exaggerated drawl, as a good sign.
“Do you think I have an accent?” the captain asked suddenly, struck by the thought.
“Naw, you just sound like any other high-falootin’ yankee.”
Sharon’s forehead creased. “Really?” she asked, a little disappointed.
It was Brenda’s turn to laugh. “Well, I mean, you don’t drink ‘pop’ or say ‘yous guys’ or anythin’,” she pointed out. “I’d say you sound neutral.”
Sharon traced the prongs of her fork over the top of the piece of pie Brenda had just cut for her, making a design, and rested her chin on her fist. “Do you know where I grew up, Brenda Leigh?” When the younger woman’s curls danced in a negative head shake, the captain challenged, “Guess.”
“Oh, um -- back East?”
Sharon lowered her fork to the small plate and regarded the blonde steadily. “Why?” she asked. “You do this for a living. You notice some little detail about a person and you construct their whole life out of it. I’m simply curious to know if you’ve constructed mine.”
Brenda smiled, studying the woman carefully. “You’re still a mystery to me, Sharon. Isn’t that a good thing?”
The brunette shrugged. “It depends, I suppose, on the nature of your assumptions about me. If you’re right then yes, it’s refreshing. If you’re wrong, like so many people are, then...” She allowed her words to drift off and gave a sad smile.
“Like you said, I prefer not to make assumptions if I can avoid it. I like facts. I’m sure I’ve assumed a few things about you, but nothin’ harmful...and nothin’ that wasn’t based on how you present yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Like...” The blonde flushed hotly. “I guess...I always sorta assumed you were an ice queen.”
Sharon snorted. “Believe it or not, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that one.”
“But that was only in the beginning, when we first started workin’ together. You were so cold...” Brenda paused, setting down the fork beside her untouched pie, hoping to convey the seriousness of what she was saying. “I know that’s not who you are. I’ve gotten to know you over the years. You’re not as frigid and unaffected as you seem.” Brenda bit her lip and continued. “And if you don’t mind me sayin’, I think you want people to think that of you. I think it’s a distancing tactic. People make incorrect assumptions about you ‘cause you lead them to it.”
“On second thought, I don’t think I’m going to introduce you to my son. Between the two of you, I’ll be psychoanalyzed and figured out in no time,” Sharon breathlessly admitted, a little stunned by how accurate Brenda Leigh had been. If she were honest with herself, she was also relatively relieved to know that Brenda was not one of the countless others who simply couldn’t be bothered to try to understand her.
“Was I warm?” the blonde asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” Sharon said. She stabbed at the corner of her pie. “Try your pie.”
“I’m noticin’ a pattern here,” Brenda added, taking up her fork and gathering a bite of the dessert. “Whenever the conversation gets serious, you distract me with food.”
Sharon smirked at Brenda’s playful tone. “Is it working?”
“Depends on how good your pie is.” She brought the fork to her mouth and closed her lips around the bite. She rolled the confection around her tongue, closing her eyes as the perfect mixture of chocolate and peanut butter melted together. “Mmmm...oh for heaven’s sake,” Brenda moaned, opening her eyes after swallowing. “That’s amazin’.”
Sharon merely laughed. “Is food always such a sexual experience for you?”
“Some of it is. My word...I think I’d marry whoever thought to combine chocolate and peanut butter.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
Brenda flashed a grin. “And don’t you forget it.”
“I never had you pegged as so...” Sharon trailed off, gesturing vaguely with her fork.
“Optimistic?” the blonde suggested brightly, and Sharon was glad they had separate dessert plates this time, because at the rate Brenda’s pie was disappearing Sharon wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“Dumb,” the captain retorted tartly, and then took most of the sting out of the word with a smile. “No, optimistic works. I hope for your sake that the third time will be the charm, Brenda.”
Brenda sat back slightly, propping her arms on the edge of the table as she considered. Not only was Fritz about the most tolerant mate imaginable, but they had similarly demanding jobs with similarly crazy work schedules. So if she hadn’t managed to make a long-term relationship work with him, what chance did she stand with anyone else?
The thought was a depressing one, so she divided her attention between the pie and its maker. She slanted a look at her companion from beneath an angled eyebrow. “How ‘bout you?”
Sharon blinked slowly as she chewed and swallowed. “The integration of chocolate and peanut butter has my whole-hearted support.”
Brenda shook her head, unwilling to let Sharon get away with being completely disingenuous, not after that carob stunt. “What else do you do with your heart, Sharon?”
Green eyes were disconcerted for only a second. “Most people think I don’t have one.”
“I thought we’d just established that I’m not ‘most people.’”
Sharon looked down at her pie as she scooped up another bite. Brenda noticed that she ate the crust first. She was buying herself a few seconds to scout up a suitable comeback; the chief let her, because she enjoyed their light verbal sparring. “No, Brenda Leigh, you certainly are not,” the captain finally agreed, peering up from between long lashes as that sweetly patronizing smile curled her lips. “Most people have real sofas.”
***
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG (Overall M)
Word Count: 6839
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: Thank you so much for the warm reception you’ve given our story! We hope you enjoy the next installment. Oh, and never underestimate the motivational power of comments and feedback. ;)
--
As it turned out, Brenda didn’t have time for grocery shopping--or anything else, for that matter. On Sunday afternoon, after tidying the bathroom and kitchen to passable standards, the deputy chief was called in to a double homicide. Greg Phillips and Omar Makher, two of three partners in a downtown law firm, were found shot to death in the office by the cleaning crew. What had followed were two and a half days of hectic investigating for Major Crimes, wherein Brenda interrogated the chief suspect, the third partner of the firm, until it was proven that his alibi was rock solid (albeit illegal, as he had spent the night in the company of an underage hooker). Brenda loved cracking a case and was unquestionably proud of herself when she proved on Tuesday afternoon that it had been Makher’s wife, Lili, who had killed them upon discovering that the two men were engaged in a tawdry affair.
By the time Brenda had closed her case and returned to her apartment, she realized with alarm that the place was still in shambles, she had no food, and the captain would be arriving any minute.
Toeing her heels off her aching feet, Brenda kicked them under the coffee table and quickly got to work, stacking as many boxes as would fit into all of the little closets throughout the apartment. She frowned to herself when she realized that she had barely made a dent.
Sharon was going to mock her into next week.
Despite the potential embarrassment, Brenda found herself oddly looking forward to it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had multiple plans with the same person in one week, unless you counted Fritz, which Brenda didn’t. That had been different. Even when they weren’t dating it had felt like they were, mainly because she’d known right away that he had feelings for her. This was something altogether new, something she hadn’t done in more years than she could immediately remember: ‘hanging out’ with a friend, someone with whom Brenda could be herself without trying to attract or seduce.
The buzzer sounded and Brenda’s excited glow was immediately replaced with an exaggerated eye-roll at Captain Raydor’s unerring punctuality. She buzzed her up and opened the door, tidying the pile of mail atop the nearest stack of boxes. When that was done, she stuck her head into the hall and watched as Sharon rounded the bend at the top of the staircase carrying what appeared to be a pie dish covered in aluminum foil. “Hi there.”
Sharon smiled and immediately sized up the blonde. “You look like you just got out of work.”
“I did. Sorry...I should have called. I don’t have dinner ready yet, so I was thinkin’ maybe we could order takeout.” Brenda stood aside, allowing the older woman to enter her apartment.
Sharon’s eyebrows crept toward her widow’s peak. “Would you prefer to reschedule?”
“No!” Brenda exclaimed too loudly and stepped back, waving the captain into the apartment. “No,” she repeated in a more sedate, acceptable conversational tone, since she was inviting a dinner guest in rather than chasing a runaway perp. “Not unless you object to takeout.”
“It depends on the type of takeout, but in general, no.” Sharon smiled slightly as she stepped into the apartment, and then she stopped abruptly -- just for a split-second, so that it was really just a falter in her stride more than anything else, but Brenda noticed it and felt herself blush again. She stood behind the other woman, surveying her own apartment and trying to see it the way Sharon must have been seeing it. Oh, good gracious. It looked even worse than she had realized, with boxes towering everywhere, no furniture to speak of, and the unrelieved blankness of the off-white walls.
“Um,” Brenda began, and then stopped. “I’m not really settled in yet.”
Sharon offered a bland, neutral smile in response. “Where should I put the dessert?”
“In the kitchen, or just there on the table.” Brenda gestured toward the circular craftsman-style wooden table she’d adapted for use as a dining table. The captain walked over and put down both the pie plate and her purse and set about shrugging off her lightweight coat, and the younger woman realized she hadn’t heard the tell-tale clacking of heels. She glanced down. Ballet flats; purple ballet flats. “I like your shoes,” she heard herself say.
Sharon’s expression of polite neutrality warmed. “Thanks, Brenda.” She spoke carefully, as if reminding herself that this was her maybe-friend Brenda Leigh, not Chief Johnson, and here she didn’t have to worry about the potential annoyance of the blonde suddenly pulling rank. In fact, if she was so inclined, Sharon might be able to pull a little rank of her own; after all, she at least had proper grown-up furniture and some artwork on her walls. She draped her jacket over the crook of her elbow and surveyed all she could see of the deputy chief’s abode. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she commented, her mouth twisting into a smirk that somehow crept over her whole face.
Brenda flushed with a combination of well-deserved embarrassment and a dash of indignation. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Where’s the progress?” Sharon retorted pertly, and Brenda’s lips parted before she caught the amusement clearly dancing in those mossy green eyes, and she grinned ruefully.
“You shoulda seen how the last tenant left it,” she joked. “I got a great deal on the rent ‘cause I found it when we raided a crack den. I’ll have this place in House Beautiful in no time.”
“Double-page spread,” the brunette agreed. “What will they call this particular aesthetic? Early-modern vagrant? Frat-boy chic?”
“I had no idea you were such a snob,” Brenda retorted, wincing.
“And I had no idea you thought a futon was furniture,” Sharon fired back, just as quickly and snappily as if they were at work, swatting at one another across the dual barriers of their red and yellow crime-scene tape. “Where do you usually tap the keg, hmm? Right here in the living room? There’s plenty of space for it.”
“I believe we’ve already established that it’s a bit bare. I just don’t have much furniture yet.”
“You’re nearly fifty.”
“I’m forty-seven! And I meant most of it was Fritzi’s.”
“Oh. Yes.” Brenda knew Sharon was a little uncomfortable, whether due to the mention of Fritz or because she feared she’d crossed a line with her teasing, because she shoved her hands into the pockets of her slim-fitting grey pants. Furthermore, Sharon knew she knew.
“Can I get you somethin’ to drink?” the hostess asked, surprisingly eager to put her guest at ease. “I have water and some Diet Coke, and wine, of course --”
“Just water for now, thank you.” Sharon smiled slightly, looking relieved.
“Come on in here,” Brenda called as she sauntered into the kitchen, and when she heard Sharon just behind her she removed a binder from atop the refrigerator and handed it to the older woman. “Menus,” she explained. “Organized alphabetically by type of cuisine.” The captain looked flabbergasted, and Brenda smiled smugly. “See? I can be very organized.”
“When it suits you,” Sharon muttered, beginning to flip the pages. Brenda placed a tumbler filled with ice water on the counter beside her.
“When it’s important,” the chief countered insouciantly. “I haven’t found a really great Chinese restaurant yet, but oh, that Jamaican place is good, if you like spicy.” Brenda reached across her companion and indicated the menu. “I don’t feel much like Japanese, but we could do Korean... This North African restaurant is really good too, if you’re more in the mood for somethin’ like that.”
Sharon looked up with that soft, warm smile Brenda had seen so seldom within the halls of the LAPD. “My, my, Brenda Leigh. I had no idea your culinary tastes were so diverse.”
Brenda bristled automatically, if half-heartedly. “Why, because I’m from Georgia, and all southerners live on barbecue, fried chicken, and sweet tea?”
“No,” the brunette replied as if she were the one who’d been affronted, “because I have absolutely no idea what you like to eat, unless it’s coated in chocolate. And there’s nothing wrong with barbecue, fried chicken, or sweet tea.”
“Now I have a hard time imaginin’ you indulgin’ in a good Southern meal. I bet you run screamin’ from all that grease and cholesterol.”
“Aren’t you forgetting Christmas in the murder room? I was there, if you recall.”
Brenda snorted. “Oh yes. How could I forget? Only you could burn marshmallows.”
“They most certainly were not burnt. They had your mother’s personal seal of approval.”
“She always was the placatin’ type.” Noting Sharon’s imperiously arched eyebrow, Brenda raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I kid, I kid.”
Sharon flipped a few more pages and tapped her finger on the menu of a homestyle restaurant that claimed to have the best Southern fried chicken west of the Mississippi. “I can get my hands dirty with the best of them, Brenda Leigh. I’m not afraid of food.”
Brenda smirked. “That wasn’t a challenge, Sharon.”
“I know, but now I’m craving cornbread.”
“Me too!” The blonde sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you said that.” She poured another glass of water and retrieved her cell phone. “What d’you want? I’ll call it in.”
Sharon observed as Brenda called in their order of fried chicken, black eyed peas and rice, collard greens, fried okra, and corn bread, noting with a smirk that the blonde didn’t need to give her address. She wondered if Brenda Leigh was ever homesick for Atlanta the way she was sometimes homesick for Philadelphia. Had she felt dislocated when she left Atlanta for Los Angeles? Had she ever considered going home?
Sharon sipped at her water (Brenda at least had actual glasses) and cast her eyes about the sparse kitchen. Was it laziness on Brenda’s part that she hadn’t taken the time to customize her living space to her personal taste, or was it reluctance to adapt to a significantly large and permanent change in her life? She’d been lucky that her husband had “graciously” conceded to her keeping the house in the divorce settlement; it had smoothed the transition for herself and the kids, leaving them to deal with the emotional upheaval in the comfort of the home they’d grown up in.
Did Brenda miss Fritz? Sharon knew very little about the details of their divorce and found herself curiously imagining what had been the breaking point in what had appeared to be a relatively solid marriage. She supposed it hadn’t been as solid as she had always assumed, remembering from experience that things were so rarely what they seemed. Brenda Leigh Johnson was proof of that.
Mimicking Brenda’s examination of her own kitchen, Sharon stepped closer to the refrigerator and glanced over the pictures that were displayed with bare magnets. There were a few snapshots of Brenda’s parents, whom Sharon remembered vividly, a picture of a fluffy white cat and another of an orange cat, and a formal portrait of a young brunette girl in a graduation cap and gown.
“That’s my niece, Charlie,” Brenda offered, coming up behind Sharon.
“She’s beautiful,” Sharon remarked, noting the similarities between the girl and the deputy chief. Their eyes were the same, wide and brown and gleaming.
Brenda nodded, blonde curls bouncing against her shoulder. “She’s a good girl. Makes great brownies,” she added with a laugh, smirking secretively in a way that piqued Sharon’s interest. “Food’ll be here in thirty minutes. Wanna sit in the living room?”
“Lead the way.”
Brenda did just that, curling up on one end of the futon, carefully adjusting the floral skirt that had ridden up over her thigh. Sharon narrowed her eyes at the futon and gingerly eased herself into a seated position.
“Brenda, this is honestly the most uncomfortable excuse for a couch I’ve ever sat on.”
“And you’ve already decided that after 2.5 seconds?”
“Yes,” Sharon sniffed, “I have. First of all, when I sit down on something couch-like and it slides across the floor, I become very dubious.”
Despite the fact that her furniture was being insulted, Brenda could work up nothing other than amusement at Sharon’s pedantic explication of the rules of sofa-dom. Of course the woman had a list of criteria; she probably had rules for everything. “What else, capt’n?”
“Removable cushions: it should have them. And I, personally, am in favor of armrests, although your mileage may vary.” Sharon stopped and considered thoughtfully.
“And?” Brenda prompted.
“Those are the essentials, really. Optimally, it shouldn’t come in a box. Some assembly should not be required.”
“Thank you so much for your invaluable advice. You ever considered a change of careers?” the chief quipped, and Sharon chuckled.
“You should be so lucky.” The older woman gazed musingly at the sea of boxes surrounding their little island. “Really though, Brenda, from what I’ve seen, this is a great apartment. The building is nice, the neighborhood’s great -- How are you planning to decorate?”
Brenda hesitated. She’d known Sharon would ask; she should’ve rehearsed an answer. But on the other hand, wasn’t this the kind of thing you were supposed to discuss with your friends? She thought of Sharon’s cozy, tastefully-appointed home and took a breath. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “This is the first home I’ve ever had the chance to decorate completely for myself as an adult, and I guess I’m a little bit afraid of messin’ it up. This is my fresh start.” She darted a quick look at the other woman. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
Sharon smiled that same gentle smile, the one that made her eyes glow. “I don’t think so. When Paul and I divorced, I stayed in the house with the kids. We did it to make the transition easier for the children, but it was easier for me as well. I had enough to deal with without having to worry about paint samples and fabric swatches.” She shrugged and sipped her water. “I’ve changed almost everything in the house since then, made it my own -- especially since my children moved out -- but it was a gradual process.”
“You’re certainly good enough at it,” Brenda remarked. “I don’t even know what my own personal style is. The last house was mostly Fritz and the one before came fully furnished. Belonged to a murdered Russian prostitute.”
The brunette snorted. “At least tell me you flipped the mattress...”
“Eew! No. I got a new one. But the whole place wasn’t my aesthetic at all. There were chandeliers everywhere...”
“I don’t think you can do much worse than that,” Sharon agreed. “Maybe it’s time you put your own touch on the place, make it feel like your own.”
“You sound like my mama. It’s just so...daunting.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, Brenda. You just need a place to start and, really, you can’t start with this futon. You need to get a real sofa, and then you can decorate around that.”
“Is the futon really that bad?” Brenda asked, bouncing on the hard little cushion.
“Yes, it really is. I’ll even go with you to help you pick out a couch.”
Brenda raised an eyebrow. “Is that just your way of makin’ sure I do it?”
“Yes. Besides, if we’re going to be friends, I need a couch I can actually get comfortable on.” Sharon smirked. “I also thought you could use the moral support.”
“Yeah...yeah, I could.” The blonde smiled warmly, touched by the gesture. As she prepared to ask just when Sharon would be free to go furniture shopping, the house phone rang. “‘Scuse me,” Brenda said, getting to her feet. She crossed the room and peered down at the caller ID. Fritz Howard. She twisted her lips and bit the inside of her cheek and, with a bracing breath, decided to let it go to voicemail. “Never mind that,” she added dismissively to Sharon as she sat back down.
Sharon glanced between Brenda and the ringing telephone, barely able to contain her surprise at the other woman’s decision to ignore it. As she wondered just whom Brenda was avoiding, the automated voice message went off.
“Hey Brenda. It’s, uh, Fritz. You’re probably working...I didn’t want to bother you on your cell. Listen -- I’m heading out of town for a few days this week and wondered if you’d be interested in feeding Joel while I’m gone. I know he misses you. Gimme a call when you have a moment.”
Brenda sat up a little straighter, a wistful expression overtaking her face. Sharon expected a comment about halcyon days with the FBI agent; what she got instead was a sad little “Joel.”
Of course. “You can call him back, if you’d like,” Sharon murmured. “Don’t mind me.”
“Oh, no. If I call him back now, it’ll just look like I was avoidin’ his call on purpose.” Which she had been, plainly, but that was the kind of thing it was okay to share with your friend as the two of you chatted in your living room, but that it was politic to keep from your soon-to-be-ex-husband -- although no doubt he avoided Brenda’s calls as well... or would have done, if she’d called him.
They sat quietly for a moment. Sharon cast about for a topic of conversation that could be both innocuous and interesting. She hadn’t turned one up when Brenda suddenly burst out, “Why’d you get divorced?”
Sharon wasn’t as appalled as she should’ve been by the tactless question, because it came from Brenda Johnson, from whom she expected nothing else; and because she now felt comfortable enough with the blonde to respond by laughing and enjoying the younger woman’s obvious mortification as she processed just what she’d asked. That, and it was intriguing to think about what might happen if they mutually agreed to forgo banal pleasantries. They’d certainly never bothered with them in their workplace relationship. She tilted her head, considering.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Brenda said quickly, and Sharon chuckled.
“Somehow I suspect that’s not something you say often. -- No, Brenda, I don’t mind. Surely at this point we can be honest with each other.”
The blonde relaxed again. “Yeah,” she agreed. Besides, if the captain was willing to answer so freely, the story probably wasn’t anything too horrible.
“We were married twelve years,” Sharon said succinctly. “Jobs, stress, the kids -- We just grew apart.” It was her turn to shrug. “Not a particularly interesting story, is it? You’ve heard it before.”
“Not from you,” Brenda pointed out. She glanced at the blinking light on the answering machine. “So, uh, do you two talk? You and... Paul?”
“You have to talk if you have kids.” The smirk reappeared. “Or cats, I suppose.” Taking her cue from Brenda she asked, “What about you and Agent Howard?”
The smaller woman scrunched her features slightly. “I don’t know why, but it sounds funny when you call him ‘Agent Howard,’” she commented. “We... We just...” She trailed off with a helpless little sigh. “It’s hard to put it into words. Outwardly nothin’ much changed. It’s -- This is gonna sound ridiculous. You know how sometimes you have a really comfortable pair of shoes, ones you’ve had long enough that they’re all broken in and you barely notice them on your feet, and then one day you’re walkin’ along and realize they’ve rubbed a blister?”
Both women instinctively looked down at their feet.
“I do,” Sharon agreed just as the door buzzer sounded.
Brenda popped up, a movement that caused her end of the futon to bang into the wall. Sharon probably had a point about sofa-shopping. The chief grinned as she crossed the room to go deal with the delivery guy. “You know,” she tossed over her shoulder, “until the other night I wasn’t even sure you had any comfortable shoes.”
“You never asked,” she heard the captain say from behind her. “I hope the cornbread’s good.”
The blonde glanced back again to sneer. “You’re a Yankee,” she said flatly. “What do you know about cornbread?”
“I know what tastes good,” Sharon replied simply, heading into the kitchen. “Where are your plates?”
“Top right above the sink!” Brenda called back.
Sharon took down two plates, shocked that they matched (though they were the only two in the cupboard), and added dishes to the mental list of necessities that Brenda would need to buy if she had any desire to live like a grown-up and not a twenty-two-year-old co-ed. She set out the plates on the table as Brenda carried in the large bag of food.
“Mmmm mmm mmm!” Brenda enthused, inhaling deeply. “Smells amazin’’!”
Sharon sniffed. “It does. Silverware?”
“Drawer closest to the fridge,” the blonde replied, pulling containers out of the bag. When the bag was empty, she crumpled it up and deposited it in the trash, thankful that she had remembered to take out the garbage when she left for work that morning, and grabbed a few paper towels.
They sat at the table, each woman silently loading her plate with the steaming food. Sharon’s stomach rumbled pleasantly; it did smell good. Despite the fact that she very rarely ate fried food, Sharon was eager to indulge.
They reached for the cornbread at the same time, their knuckles accidentally colliding. “Sorry,” Brenda said, immediately snatching up a piece. She took a bite, closing her eyes as she chewed and letting out a low moan.
Sharon felt like a voyeur watching Brenda eat. She blushed faintly at the woman’s open display of pleasure in her food and looked away as she took her own bite of the bread. She nearly moaned herself; it was easily the best cornbread she’d ever tasted. When she looked back at Brenda, she realized the younger woman was watching her with smug satisfaction on her face.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Sharon confessed.
The sound of chewing and the occasional hum of pleasure (from Brenda, of course) filled the small kitchen for several minutes while they ate. The shared silence was comfortable, Brenda found. She tore into her chicken, flicking her eyes from time to time to the woman sitting across from her. She had expected to see Sharon tearing the chicken off the bone with her fork and was thoroughly pleased to see the flash of the captain’s teeth as she ate directly from the drumstick.
They were quiet for another few minutes, and then: “I was married before, you know.”
Sharon swallowed, pondering Brenda’s abrupt confession. “I hadn’t known.”
“Dennis. Didn’t last long. He wasn’t a very good guy, in the end.”
Sharon wondered what had prompted the woman to blurt out this specific detail but had decided to allow Brenda to dictate the direction of the conversation. “Not a comfortable pair of shoes then?”
“Definitely not.” Brenda pushed her collard greens around her plate. “I guess I just never thought I’d have two divorces under my belt at this point in my life.”
Sharon nodded perceptibly. It explained a lot about Brenda, the more she thought about it, taking into consideration her past with Pope and her “comfortable” marriage with Fritz. Had she settled because Fritz was easy and expected?
“Sorry,” Brenda interjected brightly. “I didn’t mean to get all glum. Tell me more about you. What’re your kids like?”
The captain hesitated briefly, having known the other woman would ask about them eventually. She decided to be conservative with the details -- for now. “I have two children -- a boy and a girl. They’re... great. I’m very proud of them.”
“Don’t all parents have to say that?”
“I’m completely objective,” Sharon replied with a soft smile. “Daniel’s a lot like me: bright, very self-aware, very stubborn. Vivien’s very much her own person; she’s much more independent than Danny. Very proud, very sharp. Wise beyond her years.”
“Just like their mama.”
That something Brenda couldn’t quite identify flashed through Sharon’s eyes again. “Yes,” she admitted. “Both in their own ways.” She lowered the remains of her chicken to her plate as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite but, the other woman reflected, she was probably just full. They’d both been gobbling down their food as if it was going out of style.
“Don’t forget there’s pie,” Brenda reminded.
“I’m not likely to forget since I’m the one who brought it.” The sharpness in Sharon’s voice was as surprising as it was unwarranted, and Brenda looked askance, but the brunette had returned her gaze to her plate and was giving the remains of her okra the eye. Brenda decided to let it go.
After maybe half a minute had ticked by Sharon shifted in her chair and returned her gaze to Brenda’s. “My grandmother cooked like this,” she said. “I barely remember her -- she died when I was just in elementary school -- but I remember those Sunday lunches at her house.”
“Really?” Brenda inquired suspiciously, taking one last bite and then forcing herself to put her fork down before she exploded. “Cornbread and fried okra and --?”
“Every bit of it,” Sharon confirmed. “I thought her cherry cobbler was the best thing in the world. Maybe it was. She was from Maryland,” she added as an afterthought.
Brenda frowned. “No disrespect to your grandmother, Sharon, but Maryland isn’t the South.”
“You mean because they fought on the ‘wrong’ side in the Civil War?”
“I think you mean the War Between the States,” Brenda teased.
Sharon hummed. “The War of Northern Aggression,” she chimed in. “I think my grandmother would’ve disagreed with you, but you could’ve had a real meeting of the minds when it came to food. My mother used to tell this story about a time when she tried to make a southern-style dinner when my grandparents were visiting. She put sugar in the cornbread --”
“Yankee cornbread!” Brenda howled in dismay, and the other woman nodded.
“Grandmother never let her forget it.”
Brenda drained the last of her water before speaking. “See, I knew you weren’t all bad. You’re a little bit southern.”
Sharon smiled slightly and pushed her plate away. “High praise indeed. Let me do the dishes.”
“Two plates and some silverware?” Brenda scoffed. “Leave ‘em. Besides, we’ll just mess up some more when we eat dessert.”
At least that meant Brenda had some more dishes, the captain noted. “I don’t think I can face dessert.”
“Not right now, but you’re not gonna rush off, are you?”
Brenda’s features had tightened in genuine disappointment, and Sharon felt the pleasant warmth of being wanted. She let it chase away the vestiges of her gloomy thoughts, or at least push them further off on the horizon. “I’m not in a hurry,” she admitted. “But I know you’ve had a tiring day, so tell me when you’re ready to get rid of me.”
“I will,” Brenda agreed, “as long as you do the same.”
It occurred to Sharon that not so very long ago either one of them would have done anything in her power to get rid of the other, and now here they were, tacitly admitting that they were enjoying one another’s company. The thought made her smile, and Brenda smiled back with laughing intelligence in her dark eyes.
“I think I’ll make coffee. Will you drink a cup?”
Green eyes narrowed. “Is it decaf?”
Brenda Leigh shuddered. “Definitely not. I wouldn’t have the nasty stuff in the house.”
“Good,” Sharon replied decidedly. “Then I’ll have a cup.”
Brenda smiled again (she was doing a lot of that) as she stood and, without looking into the cabinet, reached unerringly for a paper filter. “You’re not worried it’ll keep you up all night?”
She couldn’t see Sharon’s face as she answered because her very first dinner guest had stood and was leaning across the table, gathering up the leftovers. “Oh, I don’t really sleep that much anyway, not any more.” Before Brenda could formulate a question, they both caught the sound of Sharon’s cell vibrating inside her handbag. Sharon just cocked her head toward the living room, enjoying the fact that there was no need to explain that it might be work or apologize for the distraction. She left Brenda heaping generous scoops of pre-ground beans into the filter.
When she saw that the caller was Daniel, she considered just letting it go to voicemail -- she could call him back later -- but then she noticed that she had two other missed calls. Her stomach tightened as she whipped the phone up to her ear and accepted the call, answering with an anxious “Daniel?”
“Hey, Mom. You okay? You sound a little... tense.”
Sharon closed her eyes and breathed out soundlessly. “I’m fine, honey. How about you? What’s up?”
“Just called to say hi.”
“You called me three times, ‘just to say hi’?” Sharon demanded.
“Yes, captain, I did. You workin’?”
“No, but I’m with a friend, so can I call you back later?”
“Male friend?” her son asked, perking up.
Sharon’s response was an exasperated sigh.
“Okay, a female friend. Is she single?” he continued doggedly.
“Good-bye, Daniel. Don’t call me back tonight unless you’ve severed a limb.”
“Love you too, Mommie Dearest,” Daniel retorted, and they both hung up.
Brenda, who was stacking the takeout containers in the nearly-empty fridge, watched as Sharon turned back into the kitchen. “Everythin’ all right?” She studied the mildly-annoyed expression on the other woman’s face and recognized traces of concern.
“Everything is fine,” Sharon replied, hoping that she was right. “That was my son.”
Brenda frowned. “You seem....I don’t know exactly. Is this your ‘mom’ face?”
The brunette laughed despite herself, knowing precisely which face the other woman meant. “I suppose it is. I’m sure everything is fine,” she repeated, and she wondered who she was trying to convince. “Danny’s been acting a little strange lately. I think he’s lonely because his boyfriend is overseas.”
Brenda didn’t even blink at the admission and Sharon found herself overwhelmingly relieved. “At least in his loneliness he’s just callin’ his mama. Could be worse, right?”
The coffee maker hissed and spat as it dripped its brewing coffee into the pot. Sharon added “coffee maker” to her list for their shopping excursion. “True,” Sharon conceded. “He keeps himself busy with school but I suppose that weekends are hard for him. I’m fairly certain that he’s focusing on my problems rather than dealing with his own.”
“You have problems?” Brenda said lightly, taking down two mugs from the cabinet. “What’s he studyin’?”
“He’s a second year med student.”
“Wow...isn’t that snazzy? Must be nice to have your own doctor-in-training!”
Sharon chuckled. “His goal is psychiatry.”
“No wonder he’s focusin’ on you -- you’re his first client.”
“Don’t push it,” Sharon warned, pointing her finger in mock indignation, “or I’ll introduce him to you. I bet you’d make a fascinating case study.”
“Me? I’m just as sane as you are.” Brenda flashed her brilliantly white teeth in a triumphant smile and removed the pot of steaming coffee. “Lemme guess -- you take it black?”
“I like a little cream, actually,” Sharon replied. “I’m sure you must be stunned.”
“I am!” Brenda replied, doctoring each of the two mugs before carrying Sharon’s to the table. She returned to her own and squeezed in a dollop of honey. “There we go,” she said, sitting back down. “So, when do you wanna go furniture shoppin’?”
The brunette laughed. “Someone’s suddenly eager.”
Brenda blushed slightly. She wasn’t eager to part with a large chunk of her paycheck to furnish her sad apartment, but she was eager for the company. She chose not to admit this, not wanting to somehow push the other woman away before she’d really even had the chance to enjoy their growing friendship. “Just thought I should put in for some Sharon-time. Think you can fit me into your busy schedule?”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, because my appointment book is just brimming with social engagements.” She blew the swirling steam that rose from her cup and gingerly sipped at the coffee, trying to imagine this fictitious world of Brenda’s where people were apparently lining up to spend time with her. “How’s this weekend for you?”
“Sounds great. We can play it by ear at the end of the week.” Brenda nursed her coffee and finally, when her stomach felt slightly less packed with food, she glanced at the aluminum-covered dessert. “I don’t know if I can stand this much longer,” Brenda confessed. “I’m dyin’ to know what you made.”
“Oh, it’s a vegan chocolate pie, but I wanted to make it a little healthier, so I used carob instead of chocolate.”
It was a good thing Brenda had just swallowed her latest sip of coffee, because otherwise she would’ve spit it all over her sweater, not to mention Sharon. She still managed to choke a little on her own saliva, but strenuously schooled herself not to let her horror show on her face. Vegan was bad enough, but the woman had brought her imitation chocolate?
Brenda Leigh flashed on the way Sharon’s perfectly manicured nails had curled possessively around that crimson-wrapped chocolate bar. Wait a tic. Suddenly suspicious, she darted a glance at the other woman from narrowed mahogany eyes, and what her brother Clay Jr. would have described as a shit-eatin’ grin spread over the captain’s face.
“How are you this gullible?” Sharon demanded, reaching over to peel the foil away from the pie tin. “How do you ever get anyone to confess?”
“I’m not gullible,” Brenda groused, torn between being irked at the ease with which the other woman had manipulated her and delighted that she didn’t have to eat vegan carob pie. “I just wasn’t prepared, is all. That was a sneak attack.”
Sharon’s chuckle was low and devious. “I can be sneaky,” she agreed, and removed the foil. “Voila. Chocolate peanut butter pie. Does that meet with your approval?”
Brenda looked down happily at the creamy whipped surface of the pie, the sight of a proper dessert chasing the clouds from her brow. “Ooh,” she cooed. “Excellent work, captain.”
“I’m going for a commendation,” Sharon teased, licking a stray bit of pie-filling from the side of her thumb and rising fluidly. “Plates?”
“Oh, um, in the dishwasher,” the blonde admitted bashfully. Sharon only nodded, not moved to make any disparaging comments about Brenda’s makeshift housekeeping arrangements, and retrieved a couple of dessert plates.
“We don’t need clean forks, do we?”
“My grandmama always said to keep your fork, ‘cause otherwise you might not get any dessert.”
Sharon nodded her approval. She’d noticed that Brenda’s Georgia accent got thicker and thicker the more comfortable she felt, so she took this statement, proclaimed in an exaggerated drawl, as a good sign.
“Do you think I have an accent?” the captain asked suddenly, struck by the thought.
“Naw, you just sound like any other high-falootin’ yankee.”
Sharon’s forehead creased. “Really?” she asked, a little disappointed.
It was Brenda’s turn to laugh. “Well, I mean, you don’t drink ‘pop’ or say ‘yous guys’ or anythin’,” she pointed out. “I’d say you sound neutral.”
Sharon traced the prongs of her fork over the top of the piece of pie Brenda had just cut for her, making a design, and rested her chin on her fist. “Do you know where I grew up, Brenda Leigh?” When the younger woman’s curls danced in a negative head shake, the captain challenged, “Guess.”
“Oh, um -- back East?”
Sharon lowered her fork to the small plate and regarded the blonde steadily. “Why?” she asked. “You do this for a living. You notice some little detail about a person and you construct their whole life out of it. I’m simply curious to know if you’ve constructed mine.”
Brenda smiled, studying the woman carefully. “You’re still a mystery to me, Sharon. Isn’t that a good thing?”
The brunette shrugged. “It depends, I suppose, on the nature of your assumptions about me. If you’re right then yes, it’s refreshing. If you’re wrong, like so many people are, then...” She allowed her words to drift off and gave a sad smile.
“Like you said, I prefer not to make assumptions if I can avoid it. I like facts. I’m sure I’ve assumed a few things about you, but nothin’ harmful...and nothin’ that wasn’t based on how you present yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Like...” The blonde flushed hotly. “I guess...I always sorta assumed you were an ice queen.”
Sharon snorted. “Believe it or not, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that one.”
“But that was only in the beginning, when we first started workin’ together. You were so cold...” Brenda paused, setting down the fork beside her untouched pie, hoping to convey the seriousness of what she was saying. “I know that’s not who you are. I’ve gotten to know you over the years. You’re not as frigid and unaffected as you seem.” Brenda bit her lip and continued. “And if you don’t mind me sayin’, I think you want people to think that of you. I think it’s a distancing tactic. People make incorrect assumptions about you ‘cause you lead them to it.”
“On second thought, I don’t think I’m going to introduce you to my son. Between the two of you, I’ll be psychoanalyzed and figured out in no time,” Sharon breathlessly admitted, a little stunned by how accurate Brenda Leigh had been. If she were honest with herself, she was also relatively relieved to know that Brenda was not one of the countless others who simply couldn’t be bothered to try to understand her.
“Was I warm?” the blonde asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” Sharon said. She stabbed at the corner of her pie. “Try your pie.”
“I’m noticin’ a pattern here,” Brenda added, taking up her fork and gathering a bite of the dessert. “Whenever the conversation gets serious, you distract me with food.”
Sharon smirked at Brenda’s playful tone. “Is it working?”
“Depends on how good your pie is.” She brought the fork to her mouth and closed her lips around the bite. She rolled the confection around her tongue, closing her eyes as the perfect mixture of chocolate and peanut butter melted together. “Mmmm...oh for heaven’s sake,” Brenda moaned, opening her eyes after swallowing. “That’s amazin’.”
Sharon merely laughed. “Is food always such a sexual experience for you?”
“Some of it is. My word...I think I’d marry whoever thought to combine chocolate and peanut butter.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
Brenda flashed a grin. “And don’t you forget it.”
“I never had you pegged as so...” Sharon trailed off, gesturing vaguely with her fork.
“Optimistic?” the blonde suggested brightly, and Sharon was glad they had separate dessert plates this time, because at the rate Brenda’s pie was disappearing Sharon wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“Dumb,” the captain retorted tartly, and then took most of the sting out of the word with a smile. “No, optimistic works. I hope for your sake that the third time will be the charm, Brenda.”
Brenda sat back slightly, propping her arms on the edge of the table as she considered. Not only was Fritz about the most tolerant mate imaginable, but they had similarly demanding jobs with similarly crazy work schedules. So if she hadn’t managed to make a long-term relationship work with him, what chance did she stand with anyone else?
The thought was a depressing one, so she divided her attention between the pie and its maker. She slanted a look at her companion from beneath an angled eyebrow. “How ‘bout you?”
Sharon blinked slowly as she chewed and swallowed. “The integration of chocolate and peanut butter has my whole-hearted support.”
Brenda shook her head, unwilling to let Sharon get away with being completely disingenuous, not after that carob stunt. “What else do you do with your heart, Sharon?”
Green eyes were disconcerted for only a second. “Most people think I don’t have one.”
“I thought we’d just established that I’m not ‘most people.’”
Sharon looked down at her pie as she scooped up another bite. Brenda noticed that she ate the crust first. She was buying herself a few seconds to scout up a suitable comeback; the chief let her, because she enjoyed their light verbal sparring. “No, Brenda Leigh, you certainly are not,” the captain finally agreed, peering up from between long lashes as that sweetly patronizing smile curled her lips. “Most people have real sofas.”
***