Another Door Opens
Chapter 1
Richard Castle wasn't a man particularly accustomed to failure. Whether through luck, intervention, or, on occasion, actual hard work, he'd managed to achieve an admirable amount of success in his life for someone of his relatively young age, and he enjoyed flaunting it. But much like a blind man at the wheel of a speeding car, when he did go astray, when he did stumble, he always seemed to do so in the extreme.
Rick was most certainly on a roll in the stumble department of late, dominoes falling hard and fast in both professional and personal arenas of his life. Over the past six months, his second marriage (incidentally the more functional of the two) had imploded, his newly-teenage daughter, Alexis, had moved clear across the country to live with her mother, and his publishing house, Black Pawn, had opted not to renew his contract due to lackluster sales of his most recent mystery novel. In point of fact, aside from an enviable bank account balance and a penthouse loft most SoHo-philes would give their right arms for, there wasn't much left in his life for him to lose, and as a man approaching 40 years, he wasn't at all sure how he was supposed to feel about that- or, for that matter, how the hell he was supposed to go about changing it.
On this particularly sobering morning, after another night of clock-watching as opposed to sleeping, Rick sat opposite his wife's three attorneys at an absurdly gaudy conference table in the law offices of Newman, Goldsmith & Shore, their pretentiously monogramed pen in his grip as he prepared to sign his John Hancock to his life's second set of official divorce papers. And while he felt a modicum of relief after months, perhaps years, of discontent, it was quickly thrust aside by a surge of melancholy and regret followed closely by an unrelenting voice in his head shouting: So, now what?
His marriage was gone: domino number one. Alexis was gone: domino number two. Black Pawn Publishing was gone: domino number three.
Three strikes and Richard Castle was out.
But he did keep the pen.
xxxx
Rick's longtime attorney offered him a ride back to the loft after the still-stinging slap in the face of the morning meeting, but he politely declined, electing instead to walk, despite the bitter cold of the late-January Friday. It couldn't hurt him at that point, he said. His wife's- his ex-wife's grin at that garish mahogany table moments ago had already successfully accomplished that.
He pushed forward along the crowded city streets, a man alone amongst hundreds of like-travelers. His eyes watered relentlessly, but his tall, solid body pressed on, despite its irregular, involuntary angle, the unforgiving wind a more stalwart adversary than he anticipated when he agreed to go it on foot.
He came to an abrupt stop behind a crowd of bundled strangers awaiting a clear path to cross the street, and he seized the opportunity to finally look around and get his bearings. He had no idea how long he'd been walking or how far he'd gone. Honestly, he didn't much care. He didn't have anywhere to be. He didn't have anything to do. No one was waiting.
The throng around him eventually dissipated and moved on, leaving him alone on the corner looking every bit a lost and lonely tourist. His wandering eyes landed on a nearby store window, a bookstore window, as it so happened, and he stepped slowly toward the frost-coated glass, nearly colliding along the way with several people striding along the sidewalk with purpose. They all had somewhere to be. That wasn't Rick's world. He hadn't even seen them.
He couldn't feel his nose anymore. The day was that cold. He had it nearly pressed against the glass of the very grand and immensely popular bookstore, the warmth of his breath mixed with the frigid air causing the window to drift in and out of fog. And there they sat, as part of an elaborate display for anyone passing by to see. For the world to see. For him to see. Four Derrick Storm novels were arranged amongst other books that'd apparently outgrown their welcome- above them a sign marked Clearance.
Within the physical manifestation of a final and exaggerated exhale of disappointment, he drew an 'X' with his finger and walked away.
xxxx
Minutes later, hours later, Rick wasn't certain which, when he'd lost virtually all discernible feeling in his bare fingers, he ducked into a small, out-of-the-way coffee shop, one he'd never heard of or noticed before. It was quiet, perhaps a result of the hour, whatever that was, and free of the buzz of activity that permeated the popular establishment he usually frequented.
A friendly, young girl with striking red hair and an apron welcomed him robustly from behind a distant counter, and it both surprised and warmed him. He hadn't experienced much in the way of kindness on this Friday. Today it would be the little things that he'd have to hold tight to.
He approached her with a modest grin- all he could seem to put together in earnest- and placed an order for a black coffee and a slice of homemade pound cake, the latter displayed elegantly on the counter practically begging for his money. The girl seemed proud of his selection somehow, and a bit envious, which he found charming, and she invited him to make himself comfortable in any of the oversized chairs sprinkled about the shop while she prepared his edibles.
He chose the tall, blue chair in the corner. It was the most masculine of the bunch, he thought, though it really didn't much matter, and the one with the best view of the near-empty sidewalk beyond the glass of the front window. He watched and waited, but no one passed by. It was an odd feeling, millions of people in the city and not one of them walking past.
Rick loved to watch people, especially when they weren't aware of his prying eyes. It was a fundamental part of his craft- observation. He wondered where they'd all gone. If they, too, were hiding from the day's unforgiving winter chill in out-of-the-way coffee shops. If they, too, had nowhere better to be.
His phone vibrated in his pocket as a child and her father finally wandered by, hand in hand. He had no proof of their relation, of course, but he thought instantly of a young Alexis, remembering his walks with her to the park to go ice skating on days much like this one. "Hello, Mother," he answered, as he watched the pair continue down the sidewalk, imagining their smiles of pure joy that he couldn't actually see, but that he nonetheless projected onto them with a pang of bitterness and envy.
"You were supposed to call me when you were through, Richard," she scolded, without any greeting whatsoever. "It's been hours. How are you feeling, darling?"
Honesty wasn't always the best policy with Martha Rodgers. Sometimes, especially today, he just didn't have it in him.
"I feel fine, Mother. I'm just glad it's over with." Though he still wasn't sure whether or not he was glad or if he should be. "If I never have to deal with another lawyer again for the rest of my life, it'll be too soon."
"Bloodsuckers, all," she concurred, empathetic from too much personal experience. "Let's not give them another moment of our time, shall we? Where are you now? Will I see you here later for dinner?"
He had no idea where he was now, though he understood his mother's question wasn't posed metaphorically, but rather literally. "I'm just grabbing a coffee. I didn't have time this morning and I've been paying for it. And, yes, I should be home later. I'll pick up something or we can order in."
No wife. No daughter. No job. Dinner at home with his mother on a Friday night. Again.
He glanced around the shop with its colorful décor, its bookshelves, its paintings and knickknacks and homemade pound cake. Maybe they'd let him move in- a fresh start. He could ask the lovely redhead, maybe. "My coffee's ready, Mother. I'll see you in a bit."
"So long, darling. Look both ways before you cross the street."
He adored her. Truly.
"Here you are, sir." The pleasantness in her voice soothed him, yet again, as she presented him with his coffee and cake. "If you need anything else, just let me know. I'll be right over there." She was flirting, and not so subtly at that. He was flattered, of course. And old enough to be her father.
"Thanks very much…" He looked around her apron but she wasn't wearing a name tag.
"Oh," she sputtered, realizing what he was searching for. "Jenna. My name's Jenna."
"Well, thanks very much, Jenna. You have the kindest voice I've heard all day."
She thanked him demurely and returned to her post. He knew she'd be back.
xxxx
The coffee arrived in a large ceramic mug, not hidden within impersonal white cardboard, and Rick wrapped his hands around its shape gratefully, the cold still clinging to his fingers as if it had nowhere else to go. The front door pushed opened sporadically, and he found amusement in it each time, the few who came through it sighing thankfully for the refuge from the elements.
He pulled a random book from the shelf behind him, the shop, as a sign nearby told him, working on a system of trade: Take a book. Leave a book. He delighted in the idea, and he found himself imagining where the book in his hand might've lived before it found itself a home on shelf number four inside The Exchange. That was the coffee shop's name- it all made sense now. He contemplated getting up and wandering around to see if anyone had left his boy, Derrick Storm, amongst the other orphans to gather dust, but he decided he was afraid of what he might find.
He peeked at his watch after Jenna's second trip over to his table for a mug refill. He suspected her generosity wasn't usual company policy, but he was perfectly happy with the reason to stay- endless caffeine pushed by a smitten barista worked just fine in that capacity.
It was late afternoon and he had no idea exactly how long he'd been sitting in the masculine blue chair, but he'd managed to read over 100 pages of the Michael Connolly novel he'd plucked from the shelf earlier. He pondered calling his poker buddy, Connolly, and giving him shit about his story's clichéd plot and contrived characters, but then he remembered he no longer had a publisher for his own clichéd and contrived stories, so he abandoned the idea, humbled, in short order.
The bell attached to the front door chimed again then as he shook his head with chagrin, and he looked up as he'd done each time it happened- more distracted than interested. He caught sight of the heels first, as red as a fire engine, head-in-the-clouds high, and wildly impractical given the current condition of the city's sidewalks and streets. They were attached to a pair of legs that, from what he could see, didn't seem to require their services, and yet, at the same time, they appeared crafted just for them.
His attention jerked upward, pulled from its initial journey, as the woman snapped a "No! You can't!" into her cell phone and ended the call with an emphatic tap of her thumb. She dropped the device into the pocket of her charcoal grey wool coat and pulled the matching hat from her head. Loose waves of chestnut hair settled across her upper back as she moved toward a waiting Jenna at the counter, who smiled despite the likelihood it might very well go unreciprocated.
What couldn't the person on the other end of the line do or have or be?
Rick loved observing people. It's who he was. And now he wanted desperately to see the red-heeled, chestnut-haired woman's face, to imagine her story, to thread together a narrative that suited only her.
No, this push of the door was different. This wasn't distracted. This was interested.