Richard Edgar Castle, 2003 (part two of two)

The line extended out the door and onto the next block, and Richard, so full of himself and what had been accomplished, signed and talked and laughed and teased and flirted with every single person who approached his table. (It was mainly women). They'd had to set up his table on the stage, because they were so crowded, and Richard was given a steady supply of hot coffee and cinnamon cookies that kept him fueled for the event.

His phone vibrated in his pocket a few times, but always while he was in the act of carefully signing his signature or addressing a book to a new fan, and he forgot to check it when he had the moment's breath between readers to take care of business. (He had no breath to take care of business, really, and he was beginning to see that doing this alone, even in New York, was a problem.)

It was only when Lucille leaned in and patted his shoulder and said, You are being overly generous with your time, (she meant, don't spend so long with each person; they got places to be) that the word 'time' kickstarted a firestorm in his brain.

First was a gripping horror, and second a frenzy of scheming as he shoved a hand deep into his jeans pocket and yanked out his phone. Alexis.

The horror froze solid, something like revelation, something like the seed of impossible hope, and he stood from the table.

But there was a line. It had diminished, and he could see the end of it, but each of them held books in their arms and expectancy on their faces, and after what had transpired here, he couldn't leave now.

He did some mental math. He sank back to the chair. Turned blindly to Lucille. "My daughter. She has a ballet performance in Central Park at seven. I can't… I can't miss it."

"Yes, I know."

He stared up at her.

She patted his arm. "You'll make it. Just... get cracking."

His toes were chilled, going numb, as he tried to process logistics. "I can do this," he told her, nodding. "Like you said though, not so long with each person. Will that hurt the store?"

"Nothing can hurt this store," she scoffed.

He called the next woman forward.

In a flurry of rushing, Richard yanked on his coat and flung his scarf around his neck. Lucille was pressing a to-go coffee into his hand (he had gone to the bathroom only once during the signing but he had no time) as she ushered him out the employee door. Her store was locking up for the evening as well, as darkness had fallen hours ago, and she gave him a blessing as he left.

An actual blessing, and he stood awkwardly in the threshold, poised to fly, as she spoke a word over him, for peace in his soul and peace he could leave with others, and finally she pushed a packet of cinnamon cookies into his coat pocket and shooed him out the door.

He careened out of the Foxes back entrance and ran straight into a woman.

So hard was their collision that he bounced back, grabbed for something, spilled the coffee as the cup was crushed in his hand and the lid popped off, and yet she was the one who somehow kept him on his feet. Her grip was steel.

"Sorry, sorry," he was breathlessly saying as he tried to detach. "I'm late for—"

"Richard Castle?"

He groaned inwardly, turned back, just his head, not his body, a turn of his head to let this woman know he did not have the time.

Her coat was stained with his coffee. "Oh no," he said, and shifted on his feet, called back by politeness. "Your coat."

She shook her head, lifted a well-loved hardback from her side. "My book," she said. Her hair was up in a bun far more messy than his daughter's on her way to ballet, but it somehow seemed reminiscent. She could be a ballerina. Except those pants were black and uniform, far too stocky. "I was hoping I could get it signed. But I was at work. I missed the event."

He flinched, but his hand automatically reached inside his coat, searching for his pen. He always had a pen on him, and this one was blue, and not the black marker he preferred, but he held it up with a grimace. "This will have to do, right?"

She stepped forward, holding the book out. He grabbed it quickly, flipped it open, barely looked as he signed his name with that flourish he'd perfected over the last few hours.

He handed it back, a nod between them. She gestured to the avenue. "Go. You said you were late."

He winced, scraped a hand through his hair. "I am. I am late. My daughter's recital."

"Thank you then," she said, a lift of the book. He was faintly ashamed to note the ripple at the edge where his coffee had stained it. Was warping the pages. "Go on. I've taken enough of your time."

He turned on his heel and hurried away, faintly pricked by the knowledge he hadn't asked to whom he was signing the book. He always asked for the name.

No time, there was no time. He had to get to Central Park.

Richard, after a few texts with Beau (who knew he'd be so grateful for Beau's relative youth and ability to answer texts his mother could not bring herself to learn how to check let alone read and respond?), found the two under the tent at temporary seating to the left of the stage, middle of the audience, and a chair saved for him. Despite having to crawl over winter coats and numerous grumbles of annoyance, he made the seat just in time for the second dance of the toys around the Christmas tree—and Alexis's shining moment, front and center.

He let out a long breath of relief, fixed his eyes on the stage as the various third and fourth graders performed their routine. It was clear which dancers belonged to which troupes, as they'd had limited chances to rehearse together, and the studios seemed to clump together on the stage.

Alexis was neither brilliant nor awful, and he was so relieved to have the chance to watch her perform to the best of her ability, not without its flaws but clearly perfect for her, that he almost couldn't breathe.

When her scene was over, and in fact she would not return to the stage until the finale, his mother leaned in and gave him hell for almost missing it.

"I know Mother, I know," he hissed in return. "There was a very long line. My adoring public. Honestly, I didn't expect so many people to be there."

"Darling, this is what you have publicists for," she huffed. "You are a man of letters now, a bestseller, and you need not only an agent who fights for you, as Gina did, but also someone who can manage both you and these events and your image."

He sighed, but his mother had never steered him wrong when it came to the craft. Whether that was acting and singing or some other creative endeavor, he had to admit that his mother knew the score.

He settled in to The Nutcracker and slowly turned the day over in his mind, processing not only the event itself, but the poor way he'd handled it, the prejudice he'd had going in, and the unlooked for gifts coming out.

Yeah, for Christmas this year, he was going to give himself the gift of a publicist.

After the finale dance, Martha tried to duck out early and beat the crowds, but it was Beau who disapproved and kept her in her seat. Richard's estimation of the man was growing by leaps and bounds (not enough to invite him to horn in on Christmas Eve dinner, but you know.)

It took some time for the three of them to make it backstage where the parents could collect their respective dancers, and in the end, Martha and Beau opted to wait just beyond the Nutcracker ice sculptures near the Shakespeare in the Park while Castle fought the crush of caregivers and children. He had to sign a clipboard at the Broome Street Soho Dance table, then Alexis was gathered by one of her instructors and delivered into his care.

She came flying out of a temporary tent in her stage make-up and that tight bun, wearing the sweatpants and puffy coat he'd sent her off in. (Shockingly. Whenever she came back from Mother's, or for that matter, a jaunt with Meredith, she never had the same clothes she'd been wearing.)

"Dad!" Alexis smashed into him with such force he oofed and dropped, wrapping her in a tight embrace for all the relief that had been in her voice.

"Hey, pumpkin, what a wonderful job you did. That finale choreography looked hard, but you nailed every turn."

She gripped his coat and pushed back, her eyes wide and set as if bracing herself. "You missed the opening act?"

"No!" He swept her up in his arms even though she was nine years old. "I didn't miss it. What makes you say that?"

"You said... the finale." She wound an arm around his neck as he squeezed. "But you really made it?"

"I just thought the finale was so difficult, it impressed me how well you managed it, pumpkin." She looked faintly suspicious, so he placed a mock weepy look on his face and boo-hooed into her hair. "You're growing up so fast."

She squirmed to get down, too old for that, clearly. "Okay, Dad. Put me down. You're getting maudlin."

"That is a very excellent word." Richard set her on her feet and took the bag from her shoulder. "And you're right. You looked so grown-up that I got maudlin." He guided her out of the throng of Soho Dance parents, moving her towards the side entrance where they could escape. "Grams and her Beau are out this way."

"Grams stayed?"

"She also said your toe work in the finale was impressive," he answered, ignoring that remark. "And Alexis, look, honey." He squeezed her shoulder as they cleared the costume trailers. "How I handled it, this last event, I'm sorry for that."

"What do you mean?" Alexis asked guardedly.

"It should never have happened." Richard made her pause to let workmen carrying reindeer move past them. "I shouldn't be handling book tours around Christmas, especially when you have important and once-in-a-lifetime events happening."

"You didn't know I would be!" Alexis reached out and took his hand, so encouraging and earnest. "You signed a contract, Dad. In January. I understand. Adult stuff happens."

He sighed softly, spotted his mother and Beau about twenty yards away, sipping coffee they must have gotten from a food vendor. And yeah, sure enough, here came out the flask to spike it. Great. One of those kinds of nights. "Adult stuff happens, yes. But your kid stuff is also happening, and I don't want to miss a moment. I don't want to be rushing out of a bookstore at night and hoping the gods of the New York Transit system are on my side."

She giggled.

He grinned and swung her hand with his between them. "You're more important to me than selling some books, Alexis."

She was quiet, and he wondered how much his mother had talked this afternoon. She finally came up with, "What about the fans, Dad? Don't you have a responsibility to them?"

"You're more important than legions of fans."

She giggled again.

"A plethora of fans couldn't stand in the way of me getting to see you dance in The Nutcracker. Or any ole cracker."

"Da-ad," she groaned.

"You understand me, pumpkin?" He reached across to tug on the pom of her hat. She was still child enough to wear a knit cap with a pom on the top, no matter how precocious her language, how adult her mannerisms. He wouldn't forget that. "I won't make this mistake again. Next dance recital, next poetry slam—"

"I don't do poetry slam!"

"—next band concert—"

"Or band! That's middle schoolers!"

"—next debate team national championship, I'm there. For the whole thing. Count on it."

She cast him a sideways look, shaking her head like he was the child. "All right, Skippy. Calm down."

He laughed, startled enough to be caught off guard with his own amusement. "Well. I've been told." Had one of the beaus said that to her? Had his mother?

Had Meredith?

Richard was determined. By this time next year, they would have some real people in their lives, people they could count on, people who loved his daughter, people who could be relied upon for things like transportation and attendance, but also things like acceptance and companionship.

Without requiring a flask.

Maybe he needed a wife, not just a publicist.

"There's my prima ballerina!" Mother came rushing to Alexis with her classic brand of effusiveness, her cheeks reddened with the cold (alcohol) and her eyes bright and merry. She might be happier than usual, but she definitely always knew how to put on a show. And Alexis beamed and straightened her spine and simply blossomed under all the attention and praise.

Better not yet count his mother out.

"Merry Christmas, Beau. Thanks for coming to my show," Alexis said sweetly. "Did Grams invite you to Christmas Eve dinner?" She looked up at her father with a beatific smile, and how could he say no?

"Beau," he said, not even with a grimace. "Would you like to spend Christmas Eve with us?"

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