Sorrel's Long Journey to Love

Mary's announcement from the window spurred Fletcher and Sorrel to walk a little faster. He wasn't in the least interested in anything Florence wanted, but Sorrel was of the opposite opinion. Whatever Florence had in mind, regardless of the older woman's intentions, could only serve to help prove her innocence.

They reached the kitchen door and walked in. Mary asserted, "Florence is making arrangements for her and Sorrel to be away for an afternoon very soon. She said she had to schedule appointments, and when she called back she hoped no one would interfere."

"What kind of appointments," asked Fletcher?

"She didn't say, only that they were important, and couldn't be avoided," answered Mary.

"No day or times given?"

"None Fletcher, only that once she had them she needed Sorrel without delay."

"I'll call her," responded Fletcher, "we need more to go on than that."

Mary replied, "Florence said not to try to call, she'd be away from her desk and away from home for a while."

Looking at Fletcher Sorrel interjected, "You're not worried are you?"

"Who me, no, she can't do anything."

Sorrel held up her hand, waving her fingers about, "Even if she did, I doubt if she could get very far."

Fletcher watched her flit her pinkie ring around in the air. He was damn glad he'd taken the precautions he had, "No, I guess not."

Mary, pouring a coffee, asked, "So what are you two love birds up to today?" She watched out of the corner of her eye for their reactions. She enjoyed what she saw; two grown adults blushing like teenagers.

Fletcher stumbled, "I, I don't know what you mean. I'm going in to the office. I have a meeting with Pearce and Charles for later this afternoon." He reached for the coffee pot and an empty cup.

Sorrel was as distracted as Fletcher. She made a big deal out of reaching into the refrigerator for the half and half and pretending to look for something to eat, "I think I'll check out Fletcher's library. Maybe there's something good to read."

While Fletcher fumbled with his spoon and the half and half, Sorrel spilled some coffee in a cup and beat a hasty retreat to the den where Fletcher kept his small library.

Fletcher grimaced at Mary and whispered, "Where do you come off saying something like that?"

Mary, stirring her coffee, Cheshire grin on her face, "You two are having problems hiding you're true feelings."

"You didn't need to say that in front of Sorrel Mary."

"It's true Fletcher. You've got the shit eating grin of a man in love plastered all over your face, and she moons over you like some half starved calf." Mary walked over next to the ridiculously embarrassed man, "Look, I'm a good old bird. I won't ask you to explain why you felt you had to pee on her."

"Who told you?"

"Who do you think?"

"Marion?"

"Marion."

Fletcher took a sip of coffee, unconsciously slurping and dribbling some down his chin, "How much does Marion see?"

Mary scoffed, "What? How much? Are you kidding? She saw it coming some time ago."

"How do you think she feels?"

"She feels fine. She wants her Dad to be happy, and Sorrel hasn't crossed the line."

"Line?"

Mary looked at Fletcher skeptically, "So far Sorrel hasn't said or done anything to interpose herself between Marion and the memories she has of her mother."

Fletcher put his cup down and looked out the window, "You think she will?"

"What," Mary asked, "Try to interpose herself between Marion and her mom's memory, or replace her as mother?"

"I don't know. I asked you."

Mary poured some more coffee, dropped a piece of bread in the toaster and answered, "Sorrel doesn't know her place yet, but she'll find it. My guess is she'll neither interpose nor replace. She'll become something else entirely. I don't know what it will be. I do know, if you don't screw up this second chance you've stupidly fumbled into, Sorrel will create a new thing, a new warm spot in Marion's heart."

Fletcher got out the butter. He decided he'd have some toast too, "You're confusing me."

Mary took her piece of toast, buttered it and handed it to Fletcher, "You've fallen in love with Sorrel. Any fool can see that. You also still love Diana. Sorrel hasn't taken Diana's place. She just made your heart bigger, more spacious." She pulled out Fletcher's piece and buttered it, "See here, when Robert was born you didn't love Marion less, you're heart just got bigger, same was true when Richard came. We all have inexhaustible supplies of love, or at least we all have the capacity for more."

"What about Sorrel. How do you think she's handling things?"

Mary took a bite toast, "Sorrel's a real enigma. She has her own children, if you're lucky she'll have you and your three. She'll love yours, take care of you, but she's got a lot of lost time to make with her own. I think she's very much afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Sure," said Mary, "She's got two children who barely know her. How will they behave? She wants you. She wants you desperately. She wants Marion, Robert, and Richard to at least accept her, but better to love her."

"I think I see," said Fletcher, "of all of us she has the most work to do."

Mary patted Fletcher on the head, "Good boy."

"You think she can make it?'

Mary swallowed the last of her toast, "That woman has so much love bottled up inside her," Mary sniffed, "she's so filled with..." She fell into her younger friends arms, "You'll have to help her. You have to be there Fletcher."

Fletcher patted Mary's gray head, "I'll be there. I promise. I'll be there."

Mary pushed him away, "Oh go away! Scoot! Get out of here!"

Fletcher knew when to scram, "I think I'll check the den. See what she's looking for."

Mary was filling the sink with hot water and soap, clunking glasses and dishes, "Good idea."

Fletcher ambled into the library and saw Sorrel had already found something and was sitting on the big cushioned sofa reading, "Find something?"

Sorrel looked up, "Yes I did," she held up the book.

"What's that's? Little Dorritt?"

"Yes, it's one of Charles Dickens less well known pieces. I've never read it, but I think I'll like it."

Fletcher turned up his nose, "Dickens. Yuk!"

Sorrel smiled, "I know. A lot of people are put off by his writing. It's old, somewhat archaic by today's standards, and not a single car chase."

Fletcher chuckled, "No car chases! Now I know I'll never read it." He got suddenly very serious, "Sorrel, I"

"Yes?" she interrupted.

He was doing it again, getting stupid, "I, uh, well."

Sorrel rescued him, "Why don't we talk later when you get back from your meeting."

Fletcher smiled, relieved, "Good idea. Let's talk tonight." He spun on his heels and made for the door.

Sorrel watched him leave. She was all warm inside. She curled up in the big chair. She felt kind of; well, kind of, kittenish. She glanced at the walls of books, the worn rug, the old reading lamp as it sort of leaned forward, the old pictures on the walls. She felt, well she felt, she felt like she was home.

A Meeting with Pearce and Charles:

Fletcher drove into the city. He'd scheduled a meeting with Pearce and Charles. They'd done some additional research, and he wanted to see where they stood. He pulled in the lot, got out, and went in.

It was a Saturday, but Pearce and Charles were already there discussing what they'd found out.

As Fletcher walked in both men stood as was expected when a supervisor or lead shareholder showed up. Fletcher liked the deference, but had never gotten over feeling self conscious about it. He asked, "Has anything turned up?"

Pearce responded first, "We had to be careful. A lot of people have started asking questions. They want to know what's happened to Sorrel. We brushed them off with a health alibi."

"That's good. Did you get anything that might overturn the evidence?"

Charles responded, "Yes and No. I can pretty much guarantee some, but not all the audios have been tampered with. I still have one man working on that, a real expert, great technician. He thinks someone did do a pretty fancy editing job, and by the looks of things, he thinks he knows who did it."

"How so?" asked Fletcher.

Charles digressed, "The work is so good; it had to have been done by some special technique, maybe there's a new laser system not even available yet. Only one man, and our technician knows him, has that kind of pure clinical skill."

Fletcher was curious, "It's not something so developed that could be replicated in a general sense?"

"He explained it this way." Charles turned and pulled out a picture of Osama bin Laden, "Here's a man who has been sending tapes all over the world for ten years, ever since 9-11. Yet he's also a man who, by all logic, owing to his kidneys, should be dead. Yet no one in the CIA will call anything claimed to be his as fake. The voice patterns are just too close. The editing, though primitive, is still too good to be disparaged."

Fletcher reflected, "So we can't discredit the audios."

"I didn't say that," interrupted Charles, I said we can't discredit them, at least not openly. What we can do is ignore them."

"Meaning?"

"They're good audios, very good, but they aren't genuine."

Fletcher, "Then they are fake."

"No," answered Charles, they're real audios, they're just not genuine."

"I don't get it," responded Fletcher.

"Everything we hear on the audios is accurate. There is some manipulative activity, but not enough to matter. The problem is the voices aren't real." Charles hesitated then went on, this time for effect, "Fletcher the voice we hear is real, but it's not Ms. Sullivan's voice."

"Whose voice is it?"

Charles answered with a question, "Does it matter?"

Fletcher hadn't been this relieved since when Richard had been born and everyone was worried about some spinal deformity, "Sorrel's in the clear." He said to himself, in relief, in joy. He glanced over to Pearce, Did you find out anything?"

Charles rebutted, "Sorrel's in the clear to us, but in court the audios are too sensitive to refute."

"Shit," said Fletcher.

Then Pearce answered, "The only thing I found out is that none of her so called co-conspirators outside our company have the slightest clue of anything wrong. Their supervisors have no suspicions, and our government contacts evinced no indication of any wrong doing. There's no evidence of anything.

Fletcher smiled, "Then she's in the clear on the outside."

Pearce, "No I didn't say that. I said nobody knew anything. They could be lying."

"Shit again," Mumbled Fletcher. He added, "We know she's innocent, but our knowledge doesn't matter."

"That's pretty much it," said Charles.

Fletcher got over it, "You were careful when you made your inquiries?"

"Of course," was the response from Pearce, "but I have a question for you"

"What's that?" asked Fletcher.

"Why didn't we do all this research before we accused her?"

Charles added, "Did anyone think to give her a polygraph?"

Fletcher was numb, "Shit!" How stupid! Why hadn't they done the simplest, the easiest, and the most logical thing right away before going after her with a shotgun, "My brother. He was so sure."

Pearce asked, "Why did we go after Sorrel at all? Sure there's a lot of paper, but there's no real evidence of anything, any theft, any malfeasance at all. It's like the whole crime is a big mirage."

Fletcher had no answers, and no more questions. He had an innocent woman at home, but an innocence that couldn't be proved, but there were a lot of ridiculous audios and specious documents that pointed to a crime; a crime that may never have occurred.

He wasn't sure of anything, "Florence is the comptroller. She keeps the records. She would know, or should know, if there is any money, or any sensitive information missing she would be first to know."

"Then the answer is simple," chimed in Charles, "We get Florence. We get at the truth."

Fletcher held up a hand, "Let's be careful. We just about burned one innocent at the stake. We don't want to burn someone else. We'll keep all this under our hats for now. Let me find Florence, and I want to talk to my brother."

Charles interjected, "I quite agree, but you've got to remember, it might be your company, but it's our careers, our livelihoods."

Fletcher answered, "I know I know. Look let's have a dinner party at my place this week, say Tuesday. We'll invite all the same people. We'll watch what goes on, but we won't let the cat out of the bag till say Friday."

Charles and Pearce looked back and forth at each other. Neither seemed especially comfortable with the idea, but finally both nodded in agreement.

Pearce said, "OK, we'll wait till Tuesday."

Charles asked, "Why Tuesday?"

Fletcher didn't hesitate, "I'm getting her children."

Pearce again, "Why?"

"They're all coming to live with me."

Charles evinced a concerned look, "You've fallen for her."

Pearce smiled, "I'll be damned."

"Keep it quiet will you," asked Fletcher?

The two men crowded around their employer, but their friend as well.

Charles commented, "Good for you man."

Pearce added, "Yeah, good for you."

As they walked out on the parking lot Pearce followed Fletcher to his car, "Hey Fletcher."

"Yes Pearce?

"My boy Flail. He told us what he tried the other night."

Fletcher stopped, "Yes?"

"Look I'm sorry for the kid." He paused, "You wouldn't hold it against me?"

Fletcher laughed and grabbed his shoulder, "No, don't be stupid. You're a good man, and Flail will grow into an equally good man. No harm done."

Pearce shook his hand, "Thanks Fletcher."

Fletcher hopped in his car and drove home a truly happy man. Sorrel was in the clear. Of course he knew it all along. Still, it was good to get confirmation, even if the confirmation wasn't exactly provable. There was still another problem though. Somebody had done something terribly wrong. The least that could have happened was the destruction of an innocent person. Then, Sorrel aside, somebody was trying to hide something. He had to get to the bottom of it.

He drove along gaily; turned up the radio full blast, and listened to every oldie he could find. "Yes sir," he said, "angels beside us." He couldn't wait to get home and see Sorrel.

Somewhere there are two little Children:

In another part of the country; not very different in climate, terrain, or urban to rural setting could be found two children. They lived with their father and his sister. Their names were Sorrel, or 'Little Sorrel' as she shall be referred to henceforth, and her younger brother Peter.

Dan, their father, and Aunt Clara had been at best indifferent in the care of their two little dependents. At their worst they'd gone well over the edge when it came to abuse. Just short of being guilty of outright molestation, in fact, they were the center of much of the gossip in the small satellite town where they lived.

Both children had been beaten, badgered, and brow beaten to the edge of extremity. On more than one occasion Dan had been called to school to explain bruises, sprains, and cuts children in normal healthy homes never experienced. Peter had it rough, but poor Little Sorrel had come to be the special target of their alcoholic father and resentful semi-retarded aunt.

Details of their mistreatment aren't worthy of specialized description or any alliterative force here, for decent people never enjoy stories about the mistreatment of helpless children, little puppies, or cuddly kittens. It is enough to say that these were two small young people who knew their lives were askew, out of sync with the normality of daily life their peers experienced. They knew their daily condition was grossly, even brutally, different, and they knew their futures were as uncertain as the moods and whims of the two vindictive self-hating people who guarded them.

The younger child, Peter, couldn't remember his mother, but Little Sorrel remembered. She remembered the occasional visits after her mother had left, no fled was a better word. She remembered how beautiful she looked. Little Sorrel also remembered the mean things her father had done to her mother. She remembered the beatings her mom took, the times she was tied up and locked in the closet, and she remembered her mother's vivid screams when her father tortured her with his cigarettes. Little Sorrel didn't love her father. She was only afraid of him.

Yes, Little Sorrel remembered everything; the pain, the loneliness, and the loss. She also remembered her mom's night time stories, the little dresses, playing dress up, hair washings, the paper dolls, and the love. She especially remembered the love, the goodnight kisses, saying prayers, the hugs and squeezes. She knew her mother loved her. Her mother loved her little brother too. But most of all she remembered her mother's promise. She promised that one day, one day when she was able, she'd come back! She'd come back and get them! She'd take them to a safe wonderful new place where they'd all live happily ever after.

Little Sorrel cried herself to sleep night after night; sometimes sleep never found her. When, oh when was their mom coming to get them?

Fletcher Gets Home from the Meeting:

Fletcher got out of the car. He was dying to tell Sorrel what they discovered, but he'd keep his end of the bargain; no information until everything was in place. Somebody had been up to something, and he didn't know whether Sorrel was capable of keeping anything this big a secret. He knew he was sure having trouble doing it.

He walked in the front door and sped to the den, "Sorrel you still here?"

Sorrel had fallen asleep on the sofa. She'd been that way most of the afternoon. Charles Dickens was a great author, but like all serial writers, his stuff was best taken in small doses. She yawned, "Yes, I'm here."

"Come on back to my room. Let's get on the computer."

She jumped from the couch. This was the news she most wanted to here. At last someone was ready to let her help prove her own innocence, "Be right there."

They went to his small bedroom, and he yanked the laptop from beneath the bed, "I've been with Pearce and Charles all afternoon. They found out quite a lot."

Sorrel asked, "Tell me."

"No not yet. Times not right."

Sorrel thumped his chest, "Don't you think I'm entitled to at least a little hint?"

He smiled, "OK a hint." He turned back to the computer and hit the key that released his code word so he could get at the confidential information they needed.

Sorrel asked, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's the hint?"

"Oh, you want the hint."

Sorrel was impatient, and she had every right to be, "Yes, the hint!"

He put the computer down, turned around, and pulled her down on the bed beside him, "This hint is..." He stopped.

She was sitting beside him. Her hair was undone, not in its usual tight bun. It swirled and twirled around her face, framing it in beautiful long curls. Her simple white blouse had come undone, and he caught a clear glimpse of those beautiful feminine orbs. He remembered their softness. Her black shorts did little to conceal the delicious soft swell of the tops of her thighs. He thought she looked more naked dressed than most women do when they really are nude.

She was waiting for an answer.

"The hint is". He wrapped his arms around her, quickly pulled her close, so close her breasts pressed against his chest, "The hint is," he kissed her full, thoroughly, firmly, and completely on her lips.

Sorrel accepted the kiss. She attempted to move him away at first, but he was more than a woman, at least this woman, could handle. She kissed him back. She put her hands up on either side of his face, puckered up her lips and kissed him right back. It felt good. It felt more than good. It was great!