October 6, 2032
Los Angeles
1 p.m.
Tomorrow the room would be covered in dust. Had she not come here.
Rane stood in the attic of Remington Steele. Each surface was
thick with dust; each wall was shadowed by boxes. After fifty
years, it would be no surprise that her grandfather's name mean
nothing. His granddaughter moved through the chaotic mess.
Five years of her parents' life in San Francisco had put a lot
of distance between her parents and her grandfather's past. Her
grandfather had been a renowned citizen of Los Angeles, which
had embarrassed her parents, she realized now. Her contained curiosity
came to life, as she went eagerly for the collection.
He'd accumulated a lot for seventy years, a world-traveled detective.
Rane chose carefully a box to her right. Removing its large top,
she flicked aside the yellowed tissue paper to reveal her grandfather's
detective license. Received in 1996 in London, it had solidified
his earlier success in Los Angeles.
Rane traced his signature on the glass. She balanced the license
on a shelf. She'd find a place for it later. She would put its
box . . .
The box fell to the floor, its holder abandoning it. From the
back of the corner, a blue trunk lay untouched. Rane moved to
it, blowing its surface dust away.
Its cloth was old, but it flaunted its dark blue loudly. Rane
moved her hand over its clasp and, allowing for its age, gently
lifted the lid. Bits of paper crumbled in her fingers; she flipped
the top completely over. On the inside was the rest of paper yellowed.
She read:
In this suitcase you will find
All the memories left behind.
Rane sighed. Whoever had written this was long gone. Her hand
caressed it once more.
The trunk's interior was blue velvet, she realized; it almost
matched the photo album that had been out of her reach as a child
. . . the album she'd missed appeared beneath her fingers.
She didn't have to be reminded that her grandfather had been gorgeous.
The little girl that had sat in his lap had stared intently into
eyes so focused on her, a rarity in adults. She'd look up at him
and a reflection of her pain would look right back. When she was
seventeen, he'd died.
Rane's near-black eyes sought out his wedding photo. Picture perfect
meant nothing really: Grandma Ana had left the family twelve years
ago; she passed away two years later.
Rane skimmed through the album, to stop at a newspaper clipping.
The photo might have been taken at any number of parties he'd
attended; Rane's eyes flicked to the photo's caption: Remington
Steele and Laura Holt. Her grandfather's associate was disturbingly
lovely. But what did a crumbling old newspaper reveal?
Her eyes flicked to the trunk. Her glance swept consciously past
a black dress, as she set down the album, in favor of a notebook.
She smiled fondly at its softness. Dated 1984, she opened it to
read:
I can't believe how foolish I was I was willing to take responsibility
for my actions. I know that what I put up with now is nothing
to the price I might pay. But I don't know how to work with this;
I want to be alone, I want my peace of mind back. I can't now,
and it's my fault.
The English was flawless. The writer knew exactly what to say
. . . a fact that shouldn't startle her except . . . it wasn't
her grandfather's writing. She flipped to later pages, stopping
at 1987 where the handwriting was gentler.
I wanted to thank him. I don't know what I wanted. I never
cease to be amazed by the events of this last month. Everything's
coming so fast, so suddenly, and finally I don't want to think
or plan anything. I'm waiting, I guess, for it to end. These things
do. Eventually.
Rane let the diary go, hey eyes darting between the diary and
the photo. Conclusion: Laura. The connection was absurd, but there
was no other explanation, unless . . . Had this woman had an affair
with her grandfather that her parents had covered up? Rane was
shocked at the unbidden thought.
She looked again. Rane's was mesmerized by Laura. A lump caught
in her throat, surprising her. She thought her eyes were the only
brown eyes in her family.
Gently, Rane took the notebook from the box, carefully set the
newspaper clipping inside
it, and removed her sweater to wrap it around the notebook for
protection.
Laura would be dead now. But everyone's past was recoverable,
a lesson her grandfather had impressed upon her.
October 20, 1987
Los Angeles
6:39 p.m.
"Mr. Steele?"
"Laura. I thought you'd left an hour ago." He rose immediately
from behind the desk.
"It seems I left something behind." She moved towards
her office, enjoying him watching her. She grinned, disappearing
into her office. "Thanks for covering the Summers' case for
me," she called out to him. She came back with her purse.
He was still looking at her. She met his glance teasingly, coming
around to stand in front of him. "I don't suppose you're
leaving soon?" she inquired suggestively.
He turned to her apologetically. "Not tonight."
She sighed and began walking towards the door. "Will you
. . . ?" She pointed to the door with her hand bag.
"I'll lock up," he promised her.
She smiled warmly. "Thank you, Mr. Steele."
"Laura?" She stopped and turned back to face him. He
was looking at her earnestly. "Did you . . . ?"
Her own face went serious. "I'm sorry; I meant to tell you
earlier. Negative . . . the test was negative." She paused
cautiously. Did he want to know because he wanted a child, or
because he didn't?
He nodded assuredly. "I'm glad, Laura."
Their eyes locked, briefly. It was understood that neither of
them wanted a child at this time. He imagined she'd want to be
a mother eventually, of course, though he would not allow the
issue of the father to enter his mind. Were she pregnant now .
. . No, he stopped himself. She was too young to lose her life
in raising a child, too young to lose a part of her self, like
others he couldn't know. . .
She smiled at the kind look on his face. He froze upon seeing
it. She searched his face fleetingly. "Goodnight, Mr. Steele."
Her questions could be answered later.
October 6, 2032
Los Angeles
3:30 p.m.
The streets exploded into droplets of wetness, as winter hailed
its approach. Rane closed her pelted umbrella. The library would
close at 5. An hour and a half here would have to do.
"Can I help you?" Rane looked up at the old woman guarding
the front desk. She glanced at the older woman's nametag: Mary,
Archives Librarian. Rane smiled thankfully.
"I don't suppose you remember Laura Holt," Rane hoped.
She pulled the newspaper clipping that she had brought with her
from her bag and offered it to the librarian. "She worked
with my grandfather, Remington Steele, a private detective in
Los Angeles some time ago."
Rane smiled. Mary raised a speculative eye, but Rane could see
that the name Remington Steele drew respect. Mary reached in her
pocket for her key: "Follow me."
The back room was almost as dusty as her grandfather's attic.
Rane tried not to cough, as
Mary worked to pull out drawers of microfilm.
Mary smiled pleasantly. "You should begin by looking under
`Laura Holt Investigations.'" Rane looked puzzled. "She
had her own agency before she joined your grandfather," Mary
offered kindly. "Miss Holt was "
"Miss Holt?" Rane interrupted, surprised by the habitual
formality she sensed.
"Oh, she was always called Miss Holt. I remember seeing her
when I was a child," Mary shared. "They worked well
together, she and Mr. Steele, but "
"He got married," Rane interrupted, realizing her uneasy
gut reaction with his life with Miss Holt.
"No," the librarian relieved her, questioning her with
a look.
"No," Rane echoed, slightly satisfied.
"Mr. Steele and Miss Holt dissolved the agency at the height
of their success," Mary continued. "It would have been
1988 when they announced their decision close up. It was in the
news forever." Mary's eyes flicked to Rane. "They could
have done about anything afterwards." Rane looked in the
glass case to see regret in Mary's reflection.
"Of course," Mary recovered as if sensing Rane's observation,
"Miss Holt could have opened up her old agency she could
have with her success with Steele but it wouldn't have been the
same." Rane sensed regret. "I think she eventually went
back to her former partner, in Denver." Mary caught Rane's
gaze. "I admired her," Mary admitted sheepishly.
Rane thought a moment. Her father would have been born around
1988. Mary waited for her to speak. Rane didn't doubt this woman
had answers.
"They must have been set financially," she fed.
"They were," Mary confirmed, pleased to reminisce. "He
was the city's most eligible bachelors for years, living where
he did. And she she never made a big deal but she was always there
during his big cases."
"But it was his agency," Rane tried.
"Yes, it was." The older woman thought. "I suppose
they had an understanding," she allowed. "You'd never
think they had any problems between them personally, I mean."
"Why do you say that?" Rane perked up.
The older woman felt Rane's urgency. "Oh, I'm sure they had
their problems, because they worked together, of course.
But nothing really . . ." Mary gazed at the newspaper clipping
that Rane was holding. "She died young, you know," she
added more gently.
"No; I didn't."
Mary moved away.
Rane breathed. She eyed the photo again. Had her grandparents'
marriage been a sham then, her grandmother a second choice? Well,
Rane couldn't know because she hadn't known her father's mother
very well and now she was . . . Rane supposed she had loved her,
in a familial way.
But if they weren't actually fam Rane cut off her thoughts, embarrassed.
It was almost four p.m. She went for the family records.
October 24, 1987
Los Angeles
5:45 p.m.
"Mr. Steele?" Laura called from her office. "What
was the number I wrote on the first page of that file?"
"Laura." His cautious tone drew her from her office
into his, and she stood beside him. "Who's Detective Roberts?"
"He's one of the top detectives at the LAPD," Laura
replied. Her hand gripped his shoulder. "Why?"
Steele scanned the contents of the piece of paper in front of
him, and finally he found the words and turned to face her. She
was young, he realized. She'd been a blonde when she was a small
child, he remembered from a photo album she'd shown him once.
Now her hair was a rich dark color, brought out by her black suit
and red lipstick. He sighed.
"He's been asking people about the agency, Laura. He's going
to want to know about our past, our records." He saw the
panic flash across her face. "He's not going to find anything,
Laura. Laura," he pressed when her face became blank.
"Pass me the telephone, Mr. Steele. Now."
November 12, 1987
4:17 p.m.
Detective Roberts sat down in his chair. The estimates in front
of him told him he definitely had a very heavy problem in front
of him. Either Remington Steele had been laundering thousands
of dollars, or he had been evading taxes for the last three years.
He looked at the list: unpaid taxes, missing records of his past
and all of his personal expenses were paid directly from the Agency's
accounts or from Laura Holt's.
A knock on his door brought him out of his calculating.
"Mr. Steele, Ms. Holt come in," he called.
Steele opened the door and stepped inside. "Miss Holt couldn't
make it, I'm afraid," he said casually.
Roberts pointed to the chair. "Please."
Steele looked like a gem, Roberts thought. The man exuded confidence
and charm. Roberts imagined Steele would challenge anyone who
didn't see it. Roberts would love to break him.
"Enlighten me," Roberts began. "Ninety-two percent
of Ms. Holt's income comes from the salary she receives from Remington
Steele Investigations. You, on the other hand, apparently have
all of your personal expenses paid directly from the Agency's
bank account. Can you explain this, Mr. Steele?"
Mr. Steele brushed aside the question, replying, "We thought
it'd be easier than transferring the money."
"I won't tell you that I think that most of your agency's
revenue is the result of her work," Roberts smirked,
"so I'll start out by pointing out that you take more than
your share . . . if this distribution form your staff has produced
is correct, of course." Roberts handed Steele a piece of
paper.
Steele nodded deliberately. "Well, I would assume so,"
he replied in an insulted tone. "It's recent." His eyes
quickly moved across the figures. Of course they weren't right
because of all the liberties they'd taken. From the very
beginning, the agency had been working towards evening out those
expenses. Over time, Laura would have been able "edit"
the records to make forms like this look correct!
But now Laura wouldn't have time, Steele thought guiltily. She
wouldn't have the chance to make this right. I'm sorry, Laura.
Roberts looked at him accusingly. "Mr. Steele, let's be blunt.
Are you blackmailing Laura Holt?"
"No," Steele answered, offended. Is that what it looked
like to anyone else? he wondered. Of course, Roberts wasn't just
`anyone else.' But then it wouldn't take anyone very long to figure
it out if anyone looked.
"I understand that Ms. Holt is in town. I'd like to speak
with her, if you'd pass on the message," Roberts said, holding
out a business card. Steele took it coolly. Roberts would call
her soon anyway, whether Steele gave her the message or not. Steele
stood.
"Mr. Steele." Roberts stopped him with his hand. "Please
sit," he said threateningly. Steele obliged, unperturbed.
"I'd like to hear your account of the last five years if
you will," Roberts demanded politely.
Steele would. He would repeat what Laura had told everyone, making
exceptions where he saw need. Then he would call Laura and tell
her what Roberts expected to hear. She'd call Murphy then she'd
call Mildred and Bernice and her mother and sister.
Steele settled for delaying Roberts now. Laura would take care
of this.
Then she would take care of him.
November 12, 1987
Los Angeles
2 p.m.
He strode purposefully down the hall. He swept past the reception
area and burst into her office, looking for "Laura!"
"Murphy!" she jumped up and strode over to him. "Thanks
for coming! I wouldn't be doing it here, except transferring
files to my home would look even worse."
He smiled. "Sure, anytime "
Laura cut him off. "I need you to re-familiarize yourself
with these cases. These," she thrust him a pile of papers,
"are the changes I've made."
"Changes?" He followed on her heels, puzzled.
She turned on him. "You've worked with Roberts; he's
not going overlook anything. I've been changing these files
to fit with what he thinks happened "
"And your effort will make it look changed!"
he retaliated. Murphy looked at her sleep-deprived face. He felt
as if he'd just walked into a hurricane zone, and he had to try
to salvage everything before the actual hurricane came . . . which,
incidentally, was Laura.
She pulled him over to the edge of her desk, before grabbing a
pile of papers hastily, to knock them on the desk aligning the
pages.
He looked around. "So is he here?" Murphy taunted. "You're
working your ass off here, where's ?"
"He's calling in favors, to help us with our records. I won't
discuss him with you, not here, and especially not now."
Laura glared at him, daring him to launch into a full-blown tirade.
Then she began sifting through a new pile of papers.
"Miss Holt?" The voice from the outer office sent her
off the ground. She rushed off her desk, closing the door firmly
behind her. "Detective Roberts," she acknowledged.
Murphy quietly opened her office door and followed.
Roberts scanned the reception area. Everything looked as usual,
though he'd hardly come here. Not as if there'd been any . . .
His old friend emerged; Roberts looked at Laura critically. She
looked exhausted.
"Laura," he greeted. "It's nice to see you again."
She crossed her arms antagonistically in reply. Murphy watched
as Roberts tried to apologize to Laura for having to investigate
her and the agency. From their demeanors, Murphy would guess Laura
and Roberts had had an affair; it wouldn't surprise him.
Roberts' gaze pulled her into a whisper. "Laura, you can
tell me the truth. We can work something out."
She met his gaze levelly. "I believe you came to investigate
the agency, not renew our . . . friendship. What do you want?"
Roberts acknowledged her manner. "All right, Laura. I came
because I wanted to talk to you. You never showed up at my office."
"No, I was busy," Laura replied.
Roberts pointed to her office, to suggest that they conduct their
interview there. "I'm still busy," she continued,
making no effort to move.
Roberts picked up on her hesitation. "Busy? What are you
doing?" Roberts demanded sharply.
"I'm waiting," she interjected. "For Mr. Steele."
"What's he doing?" Roberts prompted.
Ah! She inwardly cursed. He was probably still at the photocopier,
copying documents she'd produced just an hour ago! Laura cringed
to herself. She thought hard. "I asked him to pick up my
laundry," she answered smugly.
Roberts' surprised gasp made her flinch. He recovered quickly
and then smiled mockingly. "I didn't know you and Mr. Steele
were together."
Laura caught Murphy staring at Roberts intently. She answered
calmly. "I don't believe that information needs to be in
your file," she answered evenly.
"I'll be back, Laura," Roberts warned, turning away.
"If I have to have men posted outside the agency, his place
or your place I will."
Laura nodded. She didn't cordially smile. It wouldn't have made
a difference anyway.
She turned towards her office.
Murphy was looking at her. "How did this start, Laura?"
he broached cautiously. "You never had any problems with
the police . . ." Laura's looked quieted him again.
"I don't want to get into it. I don't know what provoked
him to become suspicious." She walked across the room and
fell into one of lobby chairs. She looked at him honestly. "Thank
you for coming, Murphy. I appreciate your taking time out of your
business and life to come help me," she appealed to him.
"I need those files."
October 9, 2032
5:45
Rane stood outside the small house. It was a long shot, she realized,
tracing Laura's sister's family, who had stayed in LA. Rane smiled
dryly: the Piper house was a dream, the way the white picket fence
perfectly lined the green lawn, the way she imagined each grass
measured the same size.
Rane grunted.
But she brought her finger up to the buzzer. In the seconds that
the shrill bell sounded in her ear, Rane wondered briefly what
she was doing here. She didn't have anything except curiosity,
and that didn't justify showing up at someone's house, unannounced:
`Let me come into your house and interrogate you.'
The door opened. A forty-ish man looked expectantly at her. Rane
straightened.
"Mr. Piper?" Rane asked warily.
"Yes," the man confirmed. He watched her closely it
occurred to her that he might not let her in.
She said awkwardly, "I don't suppose you have time to share
the legacy of your Great Aunt?"
Jason rewarded her with a curious look and bid her entrance.
If Rane had been put off by the front house her attitude had changed
within seconds of entering the house. Though it was small, the
creative use of space and the large windows that let sun in expanded
each room.
"Laura was a fabulous woman," Jason gushed.
"So you did know her," Rane marveled quietly. She felt
an unexpected pang of jealousy in her stomach at the possibility.
"Oh, no," Jason affirmed. "Only through photos
. . . over there, as you will."
Grateful, Rane wandered around the leaving room. Filled with family
photos, Rane admired a couple that had know love. She speculated
whether she would be intruding if she continued asking questions
but Jason was so welcoming and Rane wouldn't be coming back, so:
"When did they get married?"
Jason smiled. "I think it was in 1990. They'd been working
together for some time his agency, of course "
"What agency did you think I had in mind?" she tried
out delicately.
"Well, Laura had her own agency my grandfather worked for
her then."
"Your grandfather. . .?"
"Murphy Michaels." Rane nodded.
Rane considered. Would Jason be averse to talking about Laura's
time with her grandfather?
Jason smiled. "Laura and Murphy would come over for the holidays
sometimes, I knew," he explained. Of course, Rane reasoned:
the trunk alone showed that Laura had been beautiful.
"When did Laura leave LA?" Rane asked suddenly.
"Oh, well, she used to work in LA, at Remington Steele Investigations."
Rane nodded, noticing Jason's sudden breeziness. "So did
Murphy, for a while. He left soon after. They were successful
of course you'd know that if you'd lived here but I never thought
she got enough recognition."
Ah. Reason number one for breeziness, Rane thought. "She
did a lot of behind-the-scenes," she recognized. If Jason
found out that she was the spawn of the devil Rane would lose
all chance of getting her answers. Rane wondered briefly what
it was that either Murphy or Laura had said to cement this opinion
she wouldn't dream of asking.
"I don't suppose you ever met Mr. Steele." It
had suddenly occurred to Jason, and he studied her more closely.
It was a valid question they were a decade from his death. But:
"No," Rane answered well. "I never had the chance.
I was a fan of Laura's work, but I was only familiar with her
early work," she apologized. "I seem to remember that
Remington Steele Investigations underwent many changes in staff,
particularly."
"Well, after my grandfather and Steele's secretary left,
Laura brought in Mildred Krebs older woman I never met."
He regretted, Rane knew.
She tried once more: "Do you know whatever happened to him
Mr. Steele, I mean?"
"Mr. Steele married," he admitted, "a beautiful
woman: Ana."
Rane decided not to inquire about her grandmother. Jason had been
kind enough. Rane smiled. "Thank you so much." She swallowed,
"You can't imagine how much I admired your Great Aunt."
She stood up to go.
Jason stopped her. "You know, I noticed just now you remind
me of my grandmother."
Rane froze.
"It was just one of your expressions," Jason dismissed.
"I'm sorry if I . . . startled you."
Rane waited until he finished studying her for the last time,
she reminded herself. He met his eyes, she didn't smile: "Thank
you."
November 16, 1987
Los Angeles
8:45 p.m.
Her heels dug into the carpet. She paused. The outer office lights
were off, but the slit under the door confirmed his presence.
She stepped in and her fingers found the letter in her folder.
"I don't suppose you know what this is," she announced
rigidly, holding the return name for him to see: Detective
Roberts.
Her public boss rose.
"I received it this evening," she pronounced. "I
suppose you imagine only you would be contacted in an emergency."
Laura let the telling report fall carelessly. "If you want
another copy, just let me know," she invited icily.
He looked at her. She watched him pick it up slowly. He didn't
bend down, she noticed, but leant over to give her a moment of
advantage. He didn't read it, but folded it tightly, standing
up.
"It was a debt, Laura "
"It was a favor," she corrected. "One of
your buddies at the bank helped you out." She realized, "Nobody
else within 100 miles would help you repay one of your debts .
. . to Daniel, I suppose?"
"Laura, that isn't fair," he stated.
"But Roberts knew about your buddy," she continued,
ignoring him. "Roberts knew because this buddy has pulled
stunts like this for you before. Isn't that right?"
"Laura . . ." he protested.
"He thinks I know," she informed him, sickly amused.
"He even thinks that he can save me." Her smile faded,
and she withdrew another piece of paper. "Maybe I am being
unfair; I agree I've tried to change you . . . " She straightened.
"I've organized a folder that will help with Roberts. You'll
be brought in for questioning they'll have a lot more . . ."
"I'm not asking for your help, Laura." He moved threateningly
closer.
"I'm not giving it to you," she replied darkly. "If
you get caught, my name is the first one that's ruined."
"So this is about names?" he mocked her. "Because
I've got more names than you'll ever have."
"Don't even," she rebuked immediately. "I started
this agency, years of hard work. . . I'm not paying for it for
the rest of my life."
"Even though it was your decision to fool the entire world?"
he criticized.
"I know that you can punish me for this . . ." she granted.
He was revolted. "Laura, this isn't what this is about .
. .I'm not going to take revenge . . ."
"You can tell everyone that I black-mailed you," she
talked over him, "and I can spend the rest of my life in
prison." She marveled at his silence. "All right then."
She thrust the folder into his hands. "Finish off Remington
Steele, and we'll call it a day." She began to walk away.
"Laura?" he called quietly.
She froze.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
She turned back. "I didn't want to do this now," she
admitted.
Steele waited. For the first time since she'd come, he studied
her face. She hadn't enjoyed her discovery, he realized, her jaw
was tense. And she'd been . . . crying often, might have started
at work. His hand inched towards her face.
"I'm fine," she warned, not moving.
Laura closed her eyes. She felt a numbness spreading in her stomach,
and a volcano rising in her head. She wanted space and time. She
wanted him, the way he'd been before this had happened. And she
wanted herself, the way she had been before he'd ever come.
He waited expectantly.
"I didn't lie to you when you first asked," she promised
quietly. "But now wasn't . . ." her mouth twitched ".
. . the Right Moment."
He sensed sarcasm in her voice and matched it in his glare. But
she wasn't taunting him, he saw. He expected her to be relieved
everything had been said. To his surprise, she looked sad and
. . . old. She removed her heels, crossing her arms, to lean against
his desk. He joined her.
"It was a week ago," she murmured. "It was . .
. after Roberts left. You'd gone to lunch, and I went to the bathroom
to . . . Then you came in and . . ." Her attention
focused on him again. "I couldn't believe it was you who
initiated Roberts' investigation," she admitted. She was
so at peace with that, he reproached himself for thinking he'd
earned her trust. She said, "Even if we pull this off, there's
no guarantee we'll be clear. Records get saved: memories like
these don't fade." She looked away at his effort to lighten
things with a small smile. "If not him, the next Roberts
will show up . . ."
"Laura," he stopped her. "Why are you telling me
this?"
"I've lived in L.A. for almost 30 years," she explained.
"I have records, ones I can't even change ones I don't want
you to. I wouldn't move even if I had to, but . . ." She
avoided his eyes. "You could disappear at the drop of the
hat if you wanted to."
"I wouldn't," he insisted.
"But you could," she persisted, meeting his eyes
again. "Should police come to my door, there's nothing I
could do to prevent them . . . taking the child away from me."
Her arms crossed. "But . . . you're Remington Steele. Your
reputation alone could prevent . . ." She let him approach.
"I won't let the child be taken away from both of us."
He began to understand. She didn't know it, but she'd just solidified
their relationship and . . . all he could give was a promise she
might not value. "I swear to you, Laura, that everything
will be all right." He put his hands on her shoulders, but
she tensed immediately, so he removed them.
"I'll call Murphy," she moved from the desk, "and
you can get Daniel to . . . to do whatever he does."
"Laura." She turned sharply. But he wasn't demanding
anything from her. It wasn't a reproach, only a request to acknowledge
him. She gave him a ghost of a smile. He reached back to the desk
and wrote a number on the back of one of their business cards.
He closed her hand over it. It was an Irish number, she noticed.
"I'm not always there, but . . ."
"I'll let you know," she promised, turning.
His hand went to her shoulder. She stopped.
"I'm sorry, Laura."
She looked up. A smile had crept into his eyes, involuntarily.
She thought: maybe it was this quality that had prevented her
initial doubts of letting him in, what had said `here is Remington
Steele.'
He'd go on being Remington Steele, she appreciated, at the expense
of both their lives. She felt his hand. He stood before her, now,
she realized, to ask forgiveness for the four years he was now
ending and any future they might have had. And she couldn't grant
him that. She removed his hand from her shoulder. Everything that
need be said between them had. She took his hand and he understood.
They smiled.
Laura let him take her into his arms. He let her kiss him softly
on the lips. Then he left.
October 6, 2032
The Attic
6:30 p.m.
They dissolved the agency successfully, and they parted; he to
London to get the legitimate license that Laura had valued before
he returned to L.A., Laura to Denver to join Murphy Micheals.
Somewhere in Laura's pages, Rane might find how her father passed
from one family to the next. Maybe no one was around to know .
. . or care.
Had Laura been happy?
Rane would never know. Laura married Murphy. Steele found another
woman. They must have agreed, Rane justified, which is why she
couldn't explain the tear that wetly pricked her eye.
Rane felt the diary again later she would go through Laura Holt's
thoughts to find . . . anything.
Was it a secret because Laura Holt had had a "love-child,"
or was it a secret because Laura never would have come forward
to acknowledge her parenthood? How happy had her grandfather been
with Ana? Would Laura have stayed with him if they hadn't dissolved
the agency? If they worked so well together, why hadn't
they stayed together?
Rane stopped asking.
The setting sun cast a strange glow across the room through a
small window. In this light, her jeans looked tired and her face
became younger. She searched for the black dress she'd overlooked.
Her own clothes moved aside, the dress became her. A rubber band
from her pocket drew her hair back and she smiled, a light smile
she imagined resembled Laura's, before her world collapsed. She
watched as Laura's likeness approached the mirror: a beautiful,
sad sprite that only survived in Rane. Rane smiled. She missed
her grandmother.
August 16, 2004
Los Angeles
10 p.m.
She hesitated before the large house on the corner. She'd promised
herself never to find him . . . and House and Garden had
dissolved her resolve, by publishing his.
Laura stared at her stomach where their child had left her womb
five years ago. She'd been right, they had returned with background
checks, and she'd finally given in to ask Roberts' help. Remington
Steele Investigations had been closed for a year now.
Inside, Remington Steele sat back on his living room couch. Curtains
closed, his house welcomed neither visitors nor observers. His
son was asleep, his wife was away: silence, and he welcomed it
with closed eyes.
Steps sounded on his front porch. He waited. No effort was made
to silence the forced entry; he rose immediately, violently wrenching
the door open, to let in
"Laura?" he demanded loudly. "What are you doing
here?" He reached his arms around her to help her up quickly.
"Are you all right?"
She checked herself. Her eyes betrayed her steady voice: "For
whatever reason you think I'm here, you're wrong," she maintained
solemnly. "I'm not here to take away your life or reveal
your secrets," she tried to smile, and he thought he saw
his old Laura. "I saw your house in a magazine, that's how
. . ." She caught his gaze. "I shouldn't have come,"
she concluded.
"No, Laura."
She turned abruptly, but a table hit her stomach, and she winced
sharply.
"Laura?" He moved to her. She accepted his help, looking
up to him.
"I'm dying," she confirmed soberly. She looked strangely
down as he took her hand, then up at him. "I didn't mean
for you to know, but . . ."
She'd accepted death before she'd come, he realized, horrified.
To come was to remind herself - and she'd come anyway.
She backed away, as if afraid of forgetting. "There's something
I have for you. Outside." She opened the door to heave a
chest into the room. "It's a collection of things, of mine,
that I've collected over the years," she imparted. "It's
yours to do with what you want," she spelt out. "If
you should so choose to throw it away, I won't hold it against
you."
"Laura?" he persisted.
"I want it passed down to his children," she answered
tightly. "No one else need know . . ."
No one else need know who I was, he finished for her. The thought
appalled him: the woman who had meant everything to him feared
she wouldn't be remembered. "I promise, Laura," he said
deliberately.
She calmed down, smiling. "Thank you . . . Mr. Steele."
He smiled for her. But her voice began to tire so he led her to
the couch. The strain of the trip and the trunk's weight had sunk
in; he imagined dryly: memories made it worse.
Her sigh brought him back. Laura wouldn't have much time, he realized:
she needed to rest, so that every moment with her counted. Laura
wouldn't sleep in his bed (maybe she'd gotten married) so he'd
sleep on the couch with her should she allow it, and they would
be . . . like before all of this.
She watched at the thoughts flittering across his eyes. Her body
relaxed, and she smiled lightly. A little later, sleep would take
her, and she could forget that the sadness she'd been living in
hadn't existed when she'd known him.
"I loved you, Laura." His admission was met with silence
and they lay there until she was sure he would watch over her,
and she communicated without a sound that she'd loved him back.
He kissed her forehead, then her lips before forgetting altogether
about their agreement.
Tomorrow she would wake up in his arms. Then she'd be gone at
once, he knew, before her son and the rest of the world could
catch up to her. He brushed her hair from her face, thinking of
all the times he'd wanted to do that. Tonight, he was her Remington
Steele, and Laura Holt could be held as she should have always
been. The moon drifted across the sky, and August the 16th of
2004 was over. Tonight he loved her.