G, Hetty, Abby
"Egyptian Licorice Mint," G offered, handing Hetty the cup of tea he'd gone into the house to retrieve as soon as the game was over. The surprised smile she gave him as she accepted it made the looks he was sure to take from Savannah for secretly preparing the tea for Hetty worth it.
"Thank you, Mr. Callen."
He watched as she took a sip of tea, then opened the beer he'd picked up for himself on the way over to her and sat on the ground at her feet. Of course, Hetty had thought to bring her own lawn chair. Not that it mattered much if G sat on the ground, post-game grimy as he was already. They sat there in companionable silence for a moment, each looking out over the assembled group. Even Abby was here today, which G took as a hopeful sign, for Jethro's sake, that things were improving on that front. Training was still tempestuous on occasion. But, Hetty wouldn't have brought her if she didn't see something G had missed.
"It's been awhile since we've sat and shared a cup of tea." Hetty's voice broke into G's thoughts and he turned his head to find her watching him with that knowing look that only came during one of their private little chats when she delivered pearls of wisdom meant for him, not the team or the case. G missed those chats, though he would never say so.
"Not much room in either of our schedules for tea," he replied with a shrug.
"Until now."
G smiled a little. "Until now," he agreed.
Silence fell between them again, G drinking his beer, Hetty sipping her tea. It wasn't really the same as when they'd talked of Rembrandt exhibits or nursing homes in the office after hours. Had anyone asked a year ago, G would have said he honestly couldn't ever see Hetty sitting in the backyard for a pick-up game of football on Easter Sunday. Although, when he thought about it now, before it happened, he'd never thought of Hetty as one to instigate a barfight over a mechanical bull ride, either. But, it had happened.
"It's getting chilly again. I never appreciated a good quilt before I got involved in this business." Hetty, again, was the one who broke the silence, though she had G's full attention. "To look at it, a quilt is nothing more than scraps left over from other things, stitched together -- sometimes at random, sometimes planned -- to make a patchwork design with some pieces that match, others that clash, none of them seamless. Aesthetically, it can be hit or miss. And yet, no matter how oddly mismatched the pieces that go into making it up, when it's lined and supported properly, there's very little that's warmer on a cold, damp night."
And there it was. The pearl of wisdom. If he hadn't known she had this uncanny ability to always know what was uppermost of the worries on his mind before they'd come here, he'd have wondered if she had powers similar to Deeks'.
"Most people get to choose the scraps they use for quiltmaking these days. They cut pieces specifically to fit their design plans."
"Which is exactly what makes older examples of the craft, those made more from necessity than boredom, are often more impressive. The quilltmakers of olden days may have had to make do with what they had, but many of them were more than capable of turning mismatched scraps of cloth into something functional as well as comforting."
G didn't answer at first, just took a sip of beer, then nodded. "I never pegged you for an interest in Americana."