Confession Challenge: Holt on Holt
Date: Wednesday, May 31, 2000
Nancy Eddy <nancye@flash.net>

Author's note: This story takes place near the end of the fourth season.BEFORE "Bonds of Steele", of course--

Holt on Holt
By Nancy Eddy

All in all a wonderful evening, Remington thought to himself as he finished wiping down the kitchen counter and picked up a fresh bottle of wine and two clean glasses. From the living room, he could hear the soft strains of music on the sound system. A delightful meal, charming company. He'd even managed to tell Laura about the time he had stolen an Old Master for a "client" without ruining the mood of the evening.

Laura sat before the fireplace, watching the flames, trying to make a decision. Should she tell him or not? He was in a good mood, and he HAD confessed part of his own murky past to her- hadn't he? Turnabout was fair play, she supposed. But what would his reaction be to her own attempt to lay the cards on the table? She smiled as he came toward her, pouring two glasses of wine as he did. It was now or never, she decided, taking the glass and downing half of the contents in one gulp.

"Thank you," she told him, causing him to turn as he sat down, curiosity written on his handsome face. "For telling me about- a part of your past," Laura said, then spoke quickly, before her courage could fail her. "I have a
confession of my own to make..."

Remington's brow rose slightly. "You? A confession?"

She nodded jerkily, her gaze returning to the fireplace. It was easier than looking into those blue eyes. "You see, I don't have anyone else that I can tell this to. I can't tell Mother, or Frances--"

"Why not?" He touched her hand as a terrifying thought struck him. "Laura. You're not- ill, are you? I mean-"

"No. No," she quickly confirmed. "Well, maybe a little heartsick. But physically- no. I'm fine."

Remington took a deep relieved breath. *Thank God.* "Then what's so terrible that you can't tell your mother or sister? I mean, I know you and Abigail don't exactly get along like gangbusters, and Frances tends a bit toward the- ditzy side, but-"

Laura finished her wine and held out her glass for a refill. "Just- let me explain, okay? Without interruption?"

As he handed her glass to her, he nodded. "I'm all ears."

Twirling the glass between her fingers, she looked down. "Do you remember that case we had last year?"

"We worked on a lot of cases last year," Remington reminded her. When she shot him a look, he lifted his hands. "Sorry. Go on."

"The Morgan Case?"

"Morgan," Remington mused. "Morgan. Ah, yes. Runaway bride, family jewels missing as well."

"Do you remember Mrs. Morgan's maiden name?"

"Of course I do. Holt. I remember because Mildred wouldn't stop mentioning how strange it was that you, Laura Holt, had been hired to find Andrea Holt Morgan."

"While in the course of trying to track her in Europe, I ran across something else. Something- totally unrelated to the case." She paused, as if expecting him to interrupt again. But he sensed that now wasn't the time for another flippant remark. "I found an Edward Holt in Paris, France."

"Edward Holt. Your father?" He couldn't recall every having heard Laura mention her missing parent's name before.

"Yes."

"You're certain?"

"Ninety percent. The Edward Holt I found is the right age, has been in Paris since a year after MY father left, he owns a restaurant, -and he's married."

"I see. How long have you known all of this?"

"Not long. I couldn't check it out until the Morgan Case was resolved. And even then, I put it off. I managed to lose the file, stuffed into the back of a drawer."

"Out of sight, out of mind?" Remington suggested.

"Something like that. Then, when I was cleaning out my desk last week, I found it."

"And the investigator in you took over? I thought I perceived a heightened dedication to duty over the last few days. That's why I suggested dinner this evening."

"That's when I found out what I know. I-I even called his number- he didn't answer. It was a machine. But I knew that voice. It was HIM."

"And now you don't know what to do about it," Remington said quietly. "You could go to Paris- find out-"

"NO."

"Laura, it's obvious that you want to find him again-"

"No, I don't. He's known where I am all these years. If he wanted to contact me, he could. Hell, we were in France and made all the papers- and he never even TRIEDà" her voice trailed off as she choked back tears.

"Maybe he's just as scared of your rejection as you are of his," Remington suggested.

"I'm-not-scared!" Laura insisted, but her tears started to flow.

Remington quickly moved to pull her into his arms, murmuring softly to her as she cried as he had on another night that right now seemed an eternity ago. "Shh. There, there. Shh." When her crying subsided into hiccups, he asked, "What are you going to do, then?"

"I don't know. I don't know!" she cried softly into his shoulder.

"Laura, I just want you to know that- whatever you decide to do, I'll be here."

"Backing me up?" she asked, lifting her head to look at him with tears on her cheeks.

"Well, I always thought that's what partners were supposed to do, back each other up, look out for each other." He sat back, keeping his arm around her. "I can understand, in a way. If my own father were to suddenly appear out of thin air, I think I'd have a bit of a problem accepting him."

"What if he had a good reason for having deserted you?" Laura asked.

"Oh, I've been through all the various scenarios- as I'm sure you have. In very few do I manage to keep from throwing everything in his face and walking out on him."

"I don't think I'd walk out on my father," Laura told him in a small voice. "I think he'd walk out on me- again."

"And if he did," Remington said, his arm tightening, "I'd still be here."

Laura looked up at him. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"More than anything I've ever meant in my life. I'm not planning on going anywhere unless you're right here, by my side," he promised.

The room became silent for a long minutes, and Remington thought Laura might have gone to sleep as she lay there in his arms, watching the fire. He almost jumped when she spoke again. "I think we need to go to Paris, Mr. Steele."

The End

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