Rick remembered everything about his first conversation with Kate, however brief it was, and he'd found himself calling on those moments as a pick-me-up during the days since. He was a man who'd found his way into a professional world that brought with it powerful rewards, often in the form of introductions that proved later to be of some benefit, and though he'd met countless memorable people-many of them women-he couldn't recall one that'd left him in such an intoxicated state.

When Kate finally got around to listener call number three, his call-or Steven's, as it were-Rick felt a stir. Sure, he'd just spent hours listening to her voice; he'd been doing the same all week. But something instantly happened inside of him knowing that her attention was again his, and he realized, even after just a week since their meeting, he'd missed that.

"Hello, Steven, this is Kate. I appreciate you listening, tonight, and I understand you have a question about the characters in the novel."

It was almost comical how wrong she was, almost as comical as how idiotic he'd sounded offering up that character nonsense as an excuse to get to her, but there was nothing more he could do at that point except dive in.

"Actually, I called in for another reason." And this was where the leap of it all was. Rick had no possible way of knowing whether or not he'd made any sort of impression on her at the bookshop that day, so he was about to feel either incredibly foolish or incredibly relieved. "Since books are your area of expertise, I wondered if you might be able to recommend a few to a man who's looking to try to be funnier."

Then came a notable pause-a too long period of silence one wasn't accustomed to hearing on live air without imagining some level of panic on the part of those in charge on the other end-and Rick waited in it and hoped for the best.

"Well, Steven, that's sort of an odd question for me to be answering on this show," Kate began, and he knew right away. "I would, um, I'd recommend that you maybe give the Self-Improvement section at your local bookstore a visit."

He knew by the inflection of her voice, by the tiny but nevertheless audible grin in her words, that she was right back there in that shop with him.

"Makes sense, I'll try that. Thanks for taking my call. Oh, hang on, just one more quick question. Now that you actually know what my name is would you go out with me?"

Just as the week before, there was no hesitation.

"Still no," Kate said, and Rick heard an oddly satisfying click.

xxxx

They used to go to the stadium together for games all the time, Kate and her father, his love of baseball and, more specifically, of the Yankees proudly passed down to her when she was quite young. Her mother never quite understood the draw to the game, theirs or anyone else's, quite frankly, its pace far too slow for her more restless nature's taste, so the hours there were shared by the two alone, and they remained some of Kate's most treasured memories.

Sundays were welcome days of freedom for Kate, the one day each week when the bookstore was closed, and she relished their stillness. Jim hadn't been in the best of spirits of late-an unfortunate reality more frequent than not-and she'd decided to surprise him with tickets to that Sunday's afternoon game out at the stadium, an easy hour or so drive from the house. It'd been a few years since they'd made that trip south, and she couldn't recall having looked so forward to something in a long time.

That morning was no different than any other, Kate's visit to Smith's for coffee first and foremost on the agenda. At that early hour, the place was filled with mainly regulars, most of who seemed to know her and vice versa. Oh, she loved the city, to be sure, its bigness and its bustle, but there was, too, she thought, much to be said about the comfort of familiarity that accompanied life in a smaller town, even if it meant enduring the ribbing she still found herself subjected to two days out from Rick's phone call into the radio station.

"Hey, Kate," shouted an older gentleman perched on a swivel seat towards the end of the diner's counter.

She angled back some to locate the voice. "Morning, Stanley," she replied with a wave, and what sounded like something of a cheer ensued.

"Hear that, fellas?" Stanley beamed to his buddies around him. "She knows my name! Hey, will you go out with me now, Kate?"

Dot, stationed behind the counter, as always, shot him one of her famous looks, one most often reserved for her husband. "Don't listen to 'em, sunshine," she told Kate. "These turkeys just have nothing better to do. I still thought it was sweet, though the name thing is still sort of weird."

She'd prodded Kate for details the previous morning and discovered the voice on the phone after the show belonged to the man who'd asked about her over lunch, and his name definitely wasn't Steven. Dot always remembered.

And that'd definitely been sitting with Kate, too, the name, especially since Rick's intention with the invitation would naturally have been to try and get to know her better. "Yeah, well, I guess we'll never know," she said to tinge of something inside.

"I'll tell you this, sweetie. I wouldn't have said no to that man. That's for damn sure. And not just because of his big tip."

Dot's age never failed to amaze Kate when she heard some of the things that came out of her mouth.

"You're just an old flirt, Dot," she teased. "Better not let that hubby of yours, back there, hear you."

With a peek over her shoulder, she turned back. "He'd never do better than this old flirt, sunshine. Not a chance." She covered Kate's coffee cup with a lid and passed it over. "Now, you go have some fun with your dad, and tell him to get his rear in here to see us, okay?"

"I'll do that," Kate said knowing it would be much easier said than done.

xxxx

Rick stumbled his way to the kitchen with all the grace of a toddler learning to walk, having been up until the wee hours finishing what was left of Kate's available radio shows on his laptop. He was drawn out of bed too early that morning by the sound of drawers and cabinets being opened and shut, with seemingly little care for them or for the loft's sleeping inhabitant, and he was more than ready to wring Martha's neck for it.

"Mother, it is Sunday morning. Please tell me why it is the construction couldn't wait until a more decent hour." And it might as well have been construction for all the noise.

"We've paid you a lot of money, Richard. Maybe you could try buying some boxers without holes in them."

That was not his mother's voice. And he loved those boxers. They'd always been lucky.

Rick forced his eyelids wide, did his best to focus through his confusion. "Gina?" He stopped walking and watched as she continued to rummage through his kitchen. "God, please tell me this is just some kind of awful nightmare," he thought aloud.

"The only nightmare here is your lack of skill in the art of kitchen organization." How funny, she said it as though she didn't live there for years, herself, and not all that long ago. "You have the Christofle in these drawers with junk from Ikea."

"Well, then it's a good thing you don't live here anymore, Gina. You'll never have to be subjected to the horror of my flatware faux pas ever again." He finally gathered himself enough to press on, stepping up to the breakfast bar. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

She pointed at her purse, her keys resting on top. "I just came for my Tiffany serving tray-which she'd already found and had sitting on the counter-and my Laguiole, Richard. Where is it? I'm having a dinner party this week."

"If I had any idea what the hell that was, Gina, I might be able to help you." He plopped down onto one of the stools. "I'm not saying I would, but."

She couldn't have been more frustrated, and he couldn't have been more amused by it. There were so many days he'd wondered why it was he married her, not that she was entirely devoid of allure, but aside from the shared desire to see his novels succeed, she being his prickly publisher, upon reflection, he found little in common actually existed between them.

"You're almost as funny as some of your recent reviews, Richard." She continued to bang about in search of her prized wine opener. "Speaking of which, Peter wants to talk about your contract."

That woke Rick up some. "What about my contract? I still have one more book."

Gina's demeanor mellowed when she finally located the last of what she came for. "Take it easy. All I said was talk, and I don't have any idea. He mentioned it to me as I was walking out of the office on Friday night. Call him tomorrow and find out."

"I will. Now can I please have my Sunday morning back? And my key?"

"Happily," she said and tossed the key ring in his direction. "And, really, if you ever hope to find a third ex-Mrs. Richard Castle, invest in some new underwear."

With that she made her exit, but the damage was done. For the next twenty-four hours, worrisome thoughts about his future with the publishing house would, no doubt, plague him, and here all he'd wanted to do was to sleep in.

xxxx

Jim finally emerged from his room, but it was later than Kate hoped, giving them a much smaller travel window with which to make the start of the baseball game. Traffic was always a nightmare around the stadium, and kicking the trip off with the added pressure seemed discouragingly typical of how most of her efforts to enjoy time with her father went these days, but she hadn't dared wake him. From past attempts, she knew how well that usually went over, and this was supposed to be a good day for them.

His mood had only modestly improved from the night before. His leg bothered him constantly, or so he always said, never having healed entirely from the ferocity of the bullet wounds he suffered years ago, and he used that in place of Kate's mother's death as his excuse now for most things he did or didn't do, including the booze. He'd never turned to pills, just bottles-of the vodka variety, mostly-not that a liquid ally was any better, and though he'd tried before to quell his reliance upon it, he found himself, once again, firmly in its grip.

"Game's at 1PM, Dad. We need to get going if we want to make first pitch. It's a giveaway day, so it'll be a packed house. Everyone always shows up for those games."

"Yeah," Jim mumbled as he wandered past her and towards the kitchen. "I just need a sec, okay?"

He sounded irritated, already, and Kate knew exactly what he needed. "Do you want to wear your jersey, too, Dad?" She was already clad in her own, the one he'd bought for her in high school, an official-the best kind. The tink of glass was all she heard. "I can pull it out for you," she said in second effort.

"That's fine, Katie," he answered finally as he came back through the living room, and despite his withered tone, whenever he called her that, it always relit the spark of hope in her. He was still the only one that did, as unbelievable as it seemed, and hearing it helped her to believe the father she longed to have back was still in there, somewhere, beyond all the pain.

They set off within the hour, Kate in the driver's seat on that day, and ventured south towards the city. She succeeded in finding his jersey, so they, too, looked like teammates, the Beckett name stitched proudly on their backs.

"So, what's the final score for today, Dad?" He hadn't said much, but it was a thing they always did-a little game before the game, a bet for bragging rights rather than dollars. "I'm going with seven to four, Yanks." She glanced quickly to her right when she could and found him staring out the window. "Dad, are you okay?"

"This is the way I always drove to the precinct," he said apropos of nothing, yet with palpable nostalgia.

"I know it is. I'm sorry it was taken from you."

Yes, she'd left college when he was injured, and that'd been difficult for her-not the decision to come home to help him, but the reality of what the departure might mean for her future-but he'd been thrust out of a world that fulfilled him, a career he'd been wholly devoted to, and that was a type of ache Kate couldn't understand. All she could do was continue to try to make him see her, see that she was and would always be there for him.

"I'll take five to two. " He still hadn't pulled his gaze from the window. "Whoever's closest by the end of the seventh doesn't have to buy the ice cream. Deal?"

Kate smiled a small smile. "It's a deal, Dad."

xxxx

They ended up missing most of the first inning, after all, mainly because of what a chore it was to find a parking spot and then walk as far as they had to with Jim's leg as it was. The afternoon was summer hot, but neither they nor anyone in the stands around them seemed to mind. Father and daughter had been too long gone from that place they loved, and the lion's share of that sentiment had little to do with the actual building they were in.

Jim was working on his second beer from their seats along the first base line. Kate never drank around him, ever. That was a decision she'd made long ago and one she never wavered from. She sipped from a large bottle of water, periodically flicking its condensation at his cheek with a giggle, like a kid at the ballgame with her dad might do. He was quiet, absorbed, really, and she let him have that. It was rare, now, for him to be out with the world in that way, and having him by her side was all that mattered to her.

"It's looking pretty good for me, here, Katie," he said noting the score as their bet deadline loomed. "I can't decide if I feel like having sprinkles on top of my ice cream or not."

"Yeah, well, don't celebrate too soon there, Beckett. We still have two on."

"And two outs," Jim cooed.

"Are you really rooting against us scoring right now, just so you don't have to pay for an ice cream cone?" Kate groaned over the chatter of the crowd. "Who is this man sitting next to me?"

The Yankee in the batter's box grounded out to the shortstop and the inning came to an end with a small triumph for Jim. Their fellow fans shifted and stirred, as usually happened with a break in the action, and the two found themselves up together for a stretch. Without a word, Jim pulled Kate in and held her tight. Her rhetorical question was one born of humor, yet it landed hard, and in that moment he wanted her to know, because of the game and the day and all that she was.

"I love you, Katie," he told her.

Of course she knew, but the words she didn't hear often enough, anymore.

xxxx

As if he didn't already have enough reasons to be pissed off at Gina, Rick could now add barely any sleep to that list, since she'd mentioned a requested chat with Black Pawn about his still very active contract. He called Peter first thing that Monday morning and was told to drop by that afternoon, whenever he had a few minutes to spare. The boss man's words, actually, were 'It won't take long,' and under most circumstances, Rick would be tickled by such a promise. But that was before the new book and all of its many shortcomings.

"Good to see you, Ricky," Peter said, and gave him one of those half-hugs men were so fond of. They'd known each other since college, though they were far closer then, and he was the one that finally green-lighted Rick's first book all those years ago. After all the initial rejections, it was Peter who saw what so many others couldn't, and for that faith, Rick owed him a tremendous debt.

"You, too, Pete," Rick replied with hope the sentiment would hold.

"Why does it seem like you only come around when we have a large check to hand over?" Peter teased as he circled back behind his desk. "How's that fabulous kid of yours?"

Rick chose one of the two chairs opposite him and sat. "She'd probably have your head if she heard you call her that, first of all. My mother referred to her as a woman, recently, and I almost had hers. But, thanks for asking, Alexis is great. She's off at camp for the summer-counselor."

"Good for her, good for her. Listen, Ricky, thanks again for coming in. I wanted to just do a check-in after the release, now that things have settled a bit. Obviously, and I'm sure it's not a surprise to you, the book isn't doing as well as we'd hoped. Have you thought at all about the next one?"

He hadn't, nor did he have a good reason why.

"This has been tough, yeah," Rick replied. "I know we all talked about it and we knew it wouldn't be what Storm was, but I really didn't expect this kind of a reaction."

"Well, you have one. You know kids don't like it when you take away their candy, Ricky. Like you said, there was going to be an inevitable hit. Of course, we wish the hit wasn't this hard, but. Look, I don't know, maybe it was all staged, somehow-a faked death. I mean, you're the writer. Storm easily had people that could've helped pull that off."

It was clear what was being suggested, and it was never going to happen. "Pete, Derrick Storm is dead. There were no people. There was no fake anything. I'm done with that. I told you."

And that's when the tone changed. "Then you need to come up with something good, Ricky. Everybody's going to need to hear something really good if you want to move forward with us."

"I've made this firm a shitload of money, Pete. How often does that happen? How many other clients have had this kind of success for you?" Rick knew how foolish he sounded, how feeble his argument was, and he knew what was coming as a result.

"And then this book happened. You know damn well how it works, Rick. This is the one everyone remembers." The ironic thing was that's what Rick had wanted, for this book to be remembered, but certainly not like this. "Maybe go somewhere and clear your head. You always liked the islands. Go sit on some beach somewhere while you're kid's away and come up with some ideas. When you get back, call me."

If only it was all as easy as a beach.