Steele Fragile

Steele Fragile
Date: 01 November 2000
Susan Deborah Smith
Steele Fragile Title by Joerg Plate Story by Susan Deborah Smith Steele got into the limo beside Laura and pulled the door shut. "Take us to my flat, Fred, thank you," he instructed.

"Fred, please take me home," Laura countered.
Settling back, he agreed, "Very well, then. Miss Holt's it is, Fred." He reached down and patted something by his feet. "I came prepared for every contingency."
Laura's attention focused on the small valise. "Now what is that?" she demanded.
"Shaving kit, fresh shirt, assorted-" "Take it back to your place," she advised. "You won't be needing it."
"Now, Laura," he chided. "The doctors only released you on condition that you have round the clock nursing care."
"The doctors said I'm fine," she retorted. "They just said I should have someone around the first couple of nights to-" Steele smiled encouragingly. "...to...?"
Laura, slumping back into the seat, frowned and folded her arms on her chest. "-to make sure I don't faint in the shower or something," she muttered.
"There!" he announced. "I'm your man."
Of course he recognized that look in her eye as she said, "Mildred's coming over tonight."
"Ah. Mildred." He mulled this over. "I'm afraid Mildred's had a change of plan."
That look in her eye became more intense, possibly deadly; he was reminded of that old canard "if looks could kill."
"You'll do anything, won't you?" said Laura.
***
He would indeed. Steele felt himself responsible, even though it had been Laura's idea that nearly resulted in tragedy. Filled with Christmas cheer as soon as the Thanksgiving turkey had been cleared away, she'd come over the very next day to help him decorate.
"Decorate what?" he'd asked, mystified. His flat was fully, and professionally, decorated already.
"For Christmas!" she'd replied with uncalled for enthusiasm.
As far as Steele could tell, Christmas in Los Angeles was spent watching the tots try out their new bikes and skates while lounging in deck chairs in shorts and T-shirts, slathered in sunscreen.
Those without near kin, he'd been delighted to discover, spent the holiday at the movies. All those new pictures opening "For Academy Award Consideration! One Week Only!" a veritable glut of entertainment.
He himself had heeded a poster urging him to "Spend Christmas with the Family" and all of Christmas afternoon found him ensconced at the Nuart Theater, blissfully enrapt in the saga brought to life by Coppola, Brando, Pacino and a host of others as it glimmered on the silver screen.
That had been his first Christmas in Los Angeles. Laura's appearance on his doorstep with an armload of decorations made him fear for his second.
Still, her efforts had amused him at first.
***
Between his powers of persuasion and her condition, Laura didn't have the strength to insist. She seemed grateful for the delicious meal he prepared as well she should, after two days on an IV, and then a liquid diet, and then trays of food so bland Steele himself could not describe it. Yes, a tasty and nourishing meal was just what the doctor ordered, and Laura ate it all up. A glass of wine, well, that was for him; alcohol was forbidden the patient, conflicting as it did with her medication. Steele drank hers for her.
After dinner, she directed him to a cupboard full of sheets and quilts, and he soon had a tidy bed made up on the sofa. Laura said good night and drew the curtains to her bedroom shut with a jerk. Steele set his alarm for two a.m., so he could be prompt with her next tablet.
***
His dreams, as they'd been for a week, were unsettled. In them, someone was screaming. Sometimes it was himself, sometimes Laura. Tonight, it was Laura. In his dream, Laura was screaming. He awoke with a start and realized with relief that he was at last awake and no longer dreaming.
The sound persisted.
Bolting off the couch and up the steps, he flipped on the light to discover Laura standing on her bed, brushing at herself and yelling at the top of her lungs.
Not at all sure what was happening, he got his arms around her and pulled her down onto her knees.
"Oh, my God," she gasped, full awake at last. She held onto him, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, my God," she repeated.
"What is it?" he asked for the third time. "What happened?" Laura sat back and pushed her hair out of her eyes, eyes which only just began to look out at him with some semblance of reason.
"Snakes," she said.
"Snakes?" he repeated.
"We were on a case," she explained. It seemed to require some effort. "And I-I don't know, I was in a pool or a tank or something, and there were these-" She shuddered; her fingers tightened on his arm. "-snakes or eels or ugh, something..."
Shaking her head made her dizzy; Steele felt her reel in his arms. Laying her carefully down, he tucked her in.
"Well," he said, for lack of anything better. "It's all right, now."
"It's happened before," she told him, as he brought her a cup of milk and the tablet; it was close enough to two o'clock not to make much difference.
"What?"
"This dream. I had it before, at the hospital."
"You were asleep long enough to have lots of dreams."
He didn't mention his own.
***
The doctors had suggested that a return to light work might aid her recovery, and Laura seized on that idea with a vengeance. When she came out of the bathroom, dressed and ready to face the day, she found Steele in the kitchen making breakfast. Unlike her, he was only half dressed.
Aware of her eyes on him, he glanced down, then around.
"What?" he said, carrying two plates to the table.
"Nothing," she replied, blushing. "I just When I was in the hospital I had this dream that we were "
After last night's episode, he was intrigued. "That we were what?" he prompted.
"Oh, it's crazy." She dug into her omelet.
He eyed her closely.
"It's just " Laura swallowed. "Well. In this dream, we I mean, you and I "
Steele was interested to see the blush grow hotter and spread from her cheeks to her throat, whence it disappeared somewhere deep inside her blouse.
"For some reason," she said at last, "you were just slopping around the house in your bathrobe and under- uh Well. You were..."
Laura, dreaming of him in his underwear. What a cheerful thought that was! His expression was one of interested encouragement.
She swallowed her orange juice at a gulp. "Anyway," she went on, "whatever. You were looking pretty haggard."
Haggard. In his underwear and haggard.
Steele pushed his plate away. He felt he had a right to look haggard if, in fact, he did: Up half the night with a woman who for his money should still be in the hospital under the watchful eye of medical professionals; barely a wink of sleep all week; frantic with worry ...
He hadn't been able to protect her before. Haggard or not, he would make up for it now.
***
As they came out onto the street, Laura turned and walked around to the alley where the Rabbit was parked.
"Laura," said Steele. "Here's Fred with the limo."
She kept going; he followed and watched, concerned, as she ran her hand over the bumper and the ragtop.
"Laura?"
Looking up with a puzzled expression, she said, "I thought something happened to it."
He shook his head.
It was painful to see the effort she made to pull herself together, to explain herself. "Weren't we having a picnic?" she asked. "And the Rabbit got pushed over a cliff and "
Steele pulled her against him in a reassuring little hug. "You must've dreamed it."
***
Glancing at his watch, Steele swiveled back and forth in his chair. He checked the time again, then stabbed at the intercom and demanded Mildred's presence. He had a task for her.
"She's just gone to the ladies' room, Mr. Steele," Mildred protested.
"Yes, well, she's been gone too long!"
Mildred gave him the kind of look he'd become used to. "Mr. Steele," she said. "I know you like to run a tight ship, but seven minutes isn't unreasonable, especially considering this is Miss Holt's first day back on the job since "
"Yes, yes," he agreed. "I'm just worried about her. Falling," he added unnecessarily. "Hitting her head."
Light dawned. Convinced that the boss was really concerned, Mildred went out to find Miss Holt bent over the sink, splashing her face with cold water.
"You okay, hon?" she asked.
At once, Miss Holt straightened and smiled. Maybe it was the bad lighting in the restroom that made her that ghastly colour.
"Fine, Mildred. Thanks. For a minute I thought "
Mildred pulled some paper towels out of the dispenser and handed them over.
"It was like I just woke up. And Mr. Steele was asking me where I'd been."
"Where were you?"
Laura's eyes lit up, as if it had been somewhere wonderful. "I was walking down skid row," she said dreamily. She smiled at the memory. "And Mr. Steele was asking me if I could spare a quarter "
Not knowing what else to do, Mildred put her hand to Laura's forehead. At least Miss Holt didn't have a fever.
"The boss is kind of worried," she said, tossing the paper towels in the wastebasket.
"I'll tell him I'm fine." Laura shoved the door open and
marched purposefully down the hall.
Steele heard her rooting around in her office and leaned in.
"Everything okay, Miss Holt?" he asked.
Laura whirled to face him and had to grab onto the file cabinet for support. As he took her arm to steady her, the dizzy spell passed, and she shook him off.
"Under any other circumstances any!" she emphasized, " I would resent that question."
He suppressed a smile that would no doubt be similarly resented.
"Yes, well, fortunately or unfortunately," he told her, "there's no cause for resentment here. The last thing Mildred or I want to find is you, in a heap on the tile."
"I'm fine."
"You do seem to have recovered that Protestant work ethic," he observed as she slammed one drawer of the file cabinet shut and yanked open another. "Searching for something in particular?"
Her fingers worked nimbly along the tops of the folders.
"The file on the Doke case."
That one must have been before his time. "Which one is that?" he asked, interested in catching up on some of Remington Steele's history.
"What do you mean, which one is that?" she demanded. "We spent all last week working on it."
He blinked at her.
"The swans. The royal lavulite. Our license "
His expression must have communicated something because she stopped speaking. Her mouth still open, she went and sat down at her desk.
***
Steele had expected an argument from Laura as he got out of the limo and followed her up the stairs to her loft, but she didn't say a word. He unlocked the door for her and rolled it open; she went in, tossed her jacket and purse on the sofa, and went on into the bathroom.
The water came on, and he could hear sounds of splashing. These continued for some time. Then the water went off, and he could hear her rustling around, switching on her blow dryer, opening the medicine cabinet.
As she came out, he was sitting on her bed, reading a magazine.
"I'm fine," she told him.
"Of course you are."
"You don't have to stand at the door and listen."
He turned a page. "Farthest thing from my mind."
***
"Pleasant dreams, Mr. Steele," said Laura, pulling the curtains shut with a little less determination.
He settled into his nest on the couch, prepared for the worst. Reliving that Friday afternoon after Thanksgiving was becoming a tedious chore. Thankfully, he was enjoying a rather more festive dream involving Laura and himself and a particular beach in France when once again, someone was screaming.
Not screaming exactly. Yelling. As he shoved the covers aside, there was silence. Then he heard a thump, and an exclamation of outrage or surprise. By the time he got the lights on, Laura, on the floor beside her bed, was pushing herself up on her elbows.
"What happened?" he demanded. Crouched beside her, he ran his fingers gently over her scalp. Further damage?
Compounding the severe concussion she'd suffered already?
"Did you hit your head?"
"No," she groaned. "My shoulder." She pulled herself to her feet and dragged herself off toward the kitchen. "I guess it was just another dream."
Catching up to her, Steele guided her to a chair. Then he assembled the makings of a midnight snack.
"It seemed so real," Laura added, taking a bite of her sandwich. "We were " Her eyes drifted out of focus, then looked at him again. "We were on a stake out, and we had to hide in a coffin or something, and then they put us in the crematorium, and we had to hold each other and rock and rock until the coffin fell out onto the floor."
"Just like you."
She rubbed her arm.
"It was the same case," she said.
"The lavulite?"
With a rueful smile, she agreed, "What else?"
***
Laura's recollection of events came and went, as the doctors indicated was quite normal. If Laura herself didn't think it would be too traumatic, both Steele and the doctors proposed that a return to the scene of the action might put some order to her haphazard memory. With great firmness of purpose, Laura agreed.
Steele unlocked the door to his flat and stepped aside for her. Laura went in, casually setting down her purse and turning to wait for him. It was a warm day, not untypical for Los Angeles in early December, and Laura suggested that they take their drinks diet soda for her- she was still on her medication- outside.
His heart was in his mouth as she went straight to the railing and leaned on it, admiring the view. Then she turned and smiled at him, or tried to.
"Take it easy, Laura," he advised, setting their drinks down and pulling up a chair.
"I'm all right."
"Yes, I know," he agreed. "Just take it easy."
She strolled casually around the terrace, then came back for a sip of her soda. "Clarissa Custer was over there," she said, pointing, apparently re-enacting something in her mind.
"Custer?" he repeated. "As in Custer of the West? Robert Shaw, Mary Ure, Robert Ryan. Security Pictures Inc, 1967?"
It was very reassuring, the look she gave him.
As if he were the one with the concussion, she patiently explained a long and convoluted story involving the lavulite, fake lavulite, a series of quite improbable incidents some of which were familiar to him from her nightmares concluding with some kind of showdown in his flat.
"Clarissa was over there," she repeated, finally coming to her conclusion. "You and Todd Doke were struggling. I don't know who had the gun at that point. Maybe me. Anyway, Clarissa came at me and -"
"And?"
"And we both went over the side." She took a deep breath.
"And then I was dead, and you and Mildred were burying me, and all you could find was a minister who couldn't even get my name right. Nobody could get my name right through this whole case!" she added fiercely. "Not even you!"
He nodded as he thought this over. "Laura," he said at last, leaning forward to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"How likely is it that I could ever forget your name?" Her face clouded with uncertainty.
"Mmm hmmm." He tipped her chin up. "How likely is it that you were dead?"
"I wasn't," she replied. "Not really. When I found out you were with that blonde, I jumped right up and " She flushed and looked away.
"That's what you remember?"
She frowned and continued to gaze studiously toward something behind him, in his apartment. Then she looked him straight in the eye. "Tell me," she said firmly. "Tell me what you remember."
***
Steele remembered quite a bit. The whole afternoon was etched in his memory. He would certainly never forget Laura's insistence that one string of twinkling lights along the rail was pretty measly.
"Not at all, Laura," he suggested, surveying her work. "Very simple. Very tasteful."
"We need a hammer," she said, pushing past him. "And some hooks, or nails or something."
Of course, she'd brought her tool kit along with her.
Recoiling from this affront to his masculinity a girl, bringing her own tool kit! It was as if she'd brought along an extra rappelling harness to a break-in Steele had gone into the kitchen to find his own. He knew he had one; the flat was fully equipped; it just took him a moment or two to locate it.
By the time he found it, Laura had climbed up onto the railing of his terrace and was reaching up to hammer in something to hold another string of lights.
"Laura, no!" he'd shouted, futilely, as she reached too far. Rushing forward, he was much too late as Laura, her balance irretrievably lost and with nothing to hold onto but the frail cord of the Christmas lights, disappeared over the edge of the fifth floor balcony.
He'd raced downstairs, yelling for someone to call the paramedics, the fire department, somebody! and found Laura not, thank God, smashed on the pavement, not impaled on a fence tangled up in the hedge that edged the lawn. She was scratched and bleeding, but not crushed, not broken or twisted at an impossible angle. Her pulse, not strong, just fluttering, was at least detectable.
The paramedics hadn't been far behind. His neighbours on the fourth floor saw her go down, and assumed someone had jumped. The holidays, after all, were known to make some people very sad.
***
He held her hand as he explained it to her again.
"So it wasn't Clarissa, framing us for losing the royal lavulite?"
He shook his head.
"And she didn't come over to your flat and threaten to kill us all "
"No."
"And we didn't get into a brawl on the balcony? She didn't push me over the "
He shook his head again.
"I was nearly killed stringing Christmas tree lights?"
"Very nearly, yes."
Laura considered this. "Thank God for that," she said sincerely. Then, under her breath, she added, "I could never be the mother of twins."
He blinked at her. "Eh?"
Laura smiled and leaned forward to give him a long, soft kiss. "It was just a dream, Mr. Steele," she whispered.

BACK