When I wroteA Promise Kept, I never anticipated writing a sequel, even though I got three requests for one after I posted it to ASC and the website. I sort of toyed with the idea of sending Chak and Kathryn to the rez for some cross-cultural bonding, but this story took me by surprise. It is certainly not the sequel I had anticipated. I'm not sure if it even is a sequel in the traditional sense.
BTW, all comments and criticism are welcome. I'm still not sure if this story is done.
The Disclaimer: Paramount is the Q of the Star TrekTM Universe. They control it all.
This story rated S for sappy and sentimental. No sex, not even any physical contact is involved. Suitable to small children and Sunday school teachers.
The old woman stood on the beach, painting, a solitary figure in the late afternoon light. She had always been a small woman and the passage of years had seen her grow tauter and more compact. No hint of frailty touched her, not in her posture nor in the sure movement of her hands across the canvas. An ocean breeze riffled the hem of her dress around her calves and tugged at the wide brimmed straw hat she wore to protect her face from the sun. Her hair hung down the center of her back in a long, neat gray braid and the sleeves of her light cotton sweater had been pushed up to her elbows in a vain attempt to spare them from her oil paints. She was painting a seascape, a portrait of the land and sea that lay in front of her. She paused in painting and tapped the end of the brush against her teeth. She frowned in concentration. Something wasn't quite right, though she couldn't put a finger to it. She lifted her chin to study the scene before her. Something had changed. A man walked on the beach now, paced by a large, black dog. She studied the man with a painter's practiced eye. He walked on the wet sand and wore a blue shirt and cement- colored pants rolled to the knee. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with white hair thinning at the crown, his thick body gone slack and bit paunchy with age. He stopped and lifted a stick from the litter at the tide line. He whistled for the dog and waved the stick above his head before throwing it into the sea. The dog bounded joyfully into the surf, swimming strongly, his head bobbing above the waves, until he retrieved the stick and swan back to shore. The dog did not return the stick to man, but dropped it on the sand and galloped off the scatter seagulls farther along the beach. The woman smiled to herself and reached into her paint case for a rag and began to clean her brushes. She looked up again to see the man and dog repeat their actions. She shook her head in amusement and returned to her study of the painting. Too late she heard the pounding feet of the dog, felt the stick drop at her feet. She threw her arms up to cover her face against the sand and sea water the dog shook all over her. The man she had seen earlier with the dog loped up.
"Sorry," he said mildly, in apology.
She turned and glared at him, a fist planted on each hip. "I swear you taught him to do that."
He lifted his hands in a small vague gesture of helplessness. "He's your dog.I can't get him to do anything," he answered with an amused ingenuousness.
"Did he ruin your painting?" he asked, stepping around her to stand in front of the easel.
She shook her head. "Tell me what you think," she asked carefully, neutrally.
"Hmmm." He pursed his lips in concentration, crinkling the fans of wrinkles at the corner of each eye. He pointed a thick, callused finger at a patch of painted ocean. "Here," he said decisively, "I think you've got the lighting wrong."
She peered around his shoulder to study the place his finger hovered over. Perhaps. Just perhaps......She could do worse than to listen to his advice. The times she had come closest to failing were those times she had hadn't heeded him.
She walked behind him to sit down upon a rock. She reached into the satchel there and removed a coffee thermos. She poured herself a cup.
"You drink too much of that." He crossed his arms and frowned faintly in disapproval.
She lifted her brows and sipped at her cup. "If you think that, then why do you pack it for me in the morning?"
He chuckled softly. "Because I know what you're like when you haven't had your coffee." He crossed to sit opposite her.
"What did you do today?" she asked conversationally, wrapping her hands around her cup.
"I walked to the village. It was Farmer's Market today. The first tomatoes of the season are in and Luisa had a fresh batch of artichokes. You'll be having both for supper."
The dog had gone missing while they talked. She stood and took two steps forward before cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling, "Admiral. Admiral. Get back here!"
Behind her the man burst into guffaws, his hands slapping against his knees. His laughter had an open, easy sound, the sound of a man at peace. "I still can't believe you named the dog that," he gasped out between the bursts of laughter, " though I think I know why you did it." His laughter bubbled up again. "I will never forget the first time you yelled, 'Admiral, get off my couch!' and six of the Admiralty's finest leapt to attention." He looked up to meet her eyes. "Kathryn, you have a wicked sense of humor."
Her eyes held his and she let her smile grow to match the one on her husband's face. "Considering what *you* did at Necheyev's retirement party, Chakotay, I'd say that was the pot calling the kettle black."
The moment hung between them, wreathed with a lifetime of memories.
"Are you going to paint some more?" he asked.
She turn and examined the sea and sky with a critical eye. "No," she said slowly, "I've lost the light." She turned back to the man again and extended her hand. "Walk with me on the beach?"
He lifted his hand to hers. "Always."
FINIS