Chapter 14: A Good Man
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Frank Farmer was no stranger to the feeling of frustration. But Rachel Marron had somehow managed to elevate the sensation to previously unattainable heights.
He had never experienced a panic attack before. Anxiety, certainly—but never true panic. He was accustomed to life or death situations, having served figureheads at the level of national security, but nothing could've prepared him for the day Rachel had dared to enter Fox Hills Mall unannounced, and the atrocity which had followed.
It was his first public outing with her, and he'd had some idea of what to expect, having seen footage of other celebrities marching through public places with paparazzi and fans on their heels. He figured she would remain confined to one store, maintain distance from strangers, and have her stylists fetch her items of clothing and bring them to her fitting room. But that was not her plan.
Mall security was perhaps the most useless institution in existence. Half of the employees didn't even know the location of their emergency exits, and the other half were preoccupied with their takeout containers of Panda Express. The twenty-something-year-old guards had stared at Frank in gaping bewilderment when he'd lifted his sports coat to chart approval for his weapons upon entry.
Rachel's entourage had blasted through the center aisle of Sears department store with an air of confident disregard for any and all onlookers, presenting their precious celebrity in her cerulean jumpsuit and turquoise jewelry to the hungry mouth of chain retail.
Frank's paranoia was throttled by the pushy cosmetics saleswomen in their mountainous shoulder pads, and the meticulously placed army of mannequins hovering around every corner they passed. He hated shopping malls to begin with, but the added threat of having to protect his new client in such a risky setting made it all the more insufferable.
He had been uncharacteristically intimidated by the Orange Julius induced mob of teenage girls with their fluffy bangs and teased hair and their oversized sweatshirts and too-tight leggings. From the second Rachel's strut hit the newly waxed epoxy tile, they swarmed in from all directions, tears streaming down their faces which had yet to be rid of all their baby fat. It had been quite easy—even satisfying—for Frank to shove off overeager young men from approaching his principal, but the idea of having to use brute force with this tear-stained horde of high school girls was daunting to the point that he'd almost quit on the spot.
This was not a problem he'd ever encountered while guarding presidents and diplomats.
Tony didn't seem to feel the same level of threat from the crowd. He made silly small talk with their audience, and stood by with his arms outstretched, his heavy wingspan the only deterrent he seemed to need. Meanwhile, Frank frantically elbowed the obsessed fans out of Rachel's personal space, all the while making mental maps of each of their faces, engulfed by the sickly scents of hairspray and sugared soft pretzels.
Rachel's bewitching smile never faded once through the chaos. She seemed to become a carefree and quirky teenager herself again in the presence of her youthful fanbase. It was the first time Frank had taken notice of her unique mannerisms—the way her voice cracked slightly when she giggled, the way she widened her eyes then squinted quickly when she saw someone she recognized, the way she wiggled her fingers when proffering her hand out for a pen to sign her autograph.
Teenagers had no regard for civility in a circumstance where their idol was mere inches away from them. As a result, Frank had been accosted by dozens of clawing young hands with neon colored nails and too many bracelets. Tony had found the scene all too amusing, but Frank felt like he was trying to contain a herd of wild animals from converging on a piece of meat.
Their shrill cries never seemed to let up, drowning out the distant lilt of Amy Grant on the overhead speakers all throughout the main breezeway. Rachel's name echoed from all around, announced in various voices and volumes and accents, their pouty pink mouths looking like chomping piranhas in his mind's eye. He had become aware of the camera flashes from the upper level balcony, and the young man who had boldly decided to slide down between both escalators to bypass the crowd in an effort to get closer to Rachel.
Frank's blood pressure rose steadily with every enamored screech, every unwarranted tug on his jacket, every flailing arm that crossed the invisible circumference he had privately drawn around his principal. Finally, he snapped.
"Don't touch her!"
If his throat hadn't been so sore following the outburst, he would've hardly believed the guttural roar had come from his own mouth.
The young girls who were closest to Rachel became hushed, their glossy eyes wide and petrified as they stared up at her bodyguard in terror. Rachel turned to look at him, stunned by his reaction, her smile faltering for only a moment before she poked him in the chest with a magenta gel pen and resumed signing the girls' books.
After the incident, Frank had felt his lungs were no longer able to consume oxygen to full capacity, but he was not sure why.
When they finally left the mall, his arms were sore from pushing off the crowd, and his ears were ringing from all their screams. He moved ahead of the group, grasping his ear as he ordered Henry to park the car between the annex building and JCPenney where they could be more discreet.
He held open the limousine door for Rachel as she came charging toward him, looking dangerously beautiful as the wind whipped her hair into her eyes, and her wide, bright blue pants fluttered around her slender legs.
"What the fuck is your problem?" she demanded, the inherently smoky tone of her voice somehow softening her harsh words.
"There's paparazzi parked in the front lot," he defended, "It's safer back here."
"I don't give a damn about the limo, Farmer. I'm talkin' about what happened back in there!" She jabbed the air over her shoulder with her thumb, shaking her head in agonized confusion.
"Someone had to put those girls in their place before they scratched your eyes out," he said nonchalantly.
Her humorless laugh hit all the right notes. "Scratch my eyes out? They're thirteen!"
He didn't bother hiding his irritation this time as he raised his voice, "I don't see anyone else trying to protect you in there."
Tony overheard Frank and shot him a lethal glare from the other side of the car. "Go fuck yourself, Farmer."
Frank ignored him, pinned in place by Rachel's dark eyes.
"You are such a killjoy, you know that?" Her hostility was tempered briefly by forlorn frustration. "I mean, these are my fans. We have to play to the crowd, create a buzz… keep them wanting more."
Something soft and electric passed between them on her last words, and Frank fought against it outright, overcome by anger.
"You know, I don't see the point in why you even dragged us all here in the first place." He gestured violently to her empty hands. "You didn't even buy anything."
"I didn't come here to buy. I came to sell," she jabbed. "And I just sold about a hundred thousand dollars worth of albums just by showing my face for fifteen minutes in there."
Frank breathed roughly, unbothered by her sudden invasion of his personal space. Her explanation was crystal clear, but his pride kept him from wanting to understand it.
"At the expense of your safety and sanity," he finished, eyes never departing from hers.
He was very aware that the others were all intently watching their heated exchange, still waiting for Rachel to enter the back seat.
"I have you to help me keep those in tact, now, don't I?" she retorted. She brushed against him while stepping inside the car.
He could smell her perfume on his jacket for the rest of the day.
}0{
Rachel stirred in bed, awakened by the faint click of her door opening and then the added weight of someone on the mattress beside her.
"It's 9:30," Frank said, his tone laced with humor.
"I don't get out of bed until the clock is in the double digits," Rachel said groggily.
"Fletcher made cinnamon rolls for you."
She reluctantly rolled over to peek up at him. "You mean you baked cinnamon rolls, and Fletcher watched."
"No," Frank said with a laugh, "your son has taken complete control of my kitchen."
"Just make sure you keep the fire extinguisher on hand," Rachel said, her voice muffled by the pillow. She curled back up under the quilt, and he tugged it back teasingly.
"Come on, Rachel. It's Christmas morning."
She gave in with a groan. "Alright, I'll be down. Give me ten minutes."
When she finally made it downstairs, she was entranced by the beautiful sight of the Christmas tree, the roaring fireplace, and the backdrop of snow outside the windows. Christmas was not the same in Los Angeles, she had to admit. Being out here awakened a kind of sweet nostalgia in her to recall the snowy Decembers she'd spent in Pittsburgh as a child. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a white Christmas.
Frank appeared at the other end of the room, wearing a red flannel over a black T-shirt and jeans. The red and black combo made him look oddly sinister, she thought with a smirk. She watched as he dusted off an old record player and set a vinyl on it.
"You still play records?" Rachel asked, intrigued as she walked over to him. The old scratchy Christmas music of Perry Como filled her with joy.
Frank smiled. "This was my dad's. He collected records."
"I collect records, too," Rachel said, inspecting the worn record sleeve with careful fingers.
"I know," Frank said. She stared at him in confusion. He explained in a soft voice, "I stumbled upon your collection once when I was working for you."
Her eyes searched his face, wondering how he'd managed to keep this from her for so long. "You were snooping, weren't you, Farmer?"
He grinned. "Hardly. I was just doing my job."
She was about to tease him further on the subject when Fletcher called her from the kitchen. "Come on, Mom, they're gonna get cold!"
Frank tipped his head in the direction of her son's voice, gesturing for her to go to him.
Fletcher's grin was bright as she walked into the kitchen, and he set down a plate of two large cinnamon rolls in front of her.
"Baby, you're killing me. First the steak and potatoes last night, now this? Don't you care that I have a figure to preserve?"
"It's the holidays, Ma! You're supposed to cheat around the holidays."
Rachel shook her head and bit into the cinnamon roll. Pastries were indeed her weakness when it came to food. "Oh, fuck."
"Mom!" Fletcher laughed.
"Sorry," Rachel covered her mouth. "That's really good, Fletcher."
Fletcher tossed a kitchen towel over his shoulder and smiled over at Frank as he entered the room. "Thanks."
Rachel eyed them suspiciously. "So, what have you two been up to all morning?"
"Baking," Fletcher said. "Playing cards and chess."
"No outdoor activities today?" Rachel asked.
"Out of respect to you, we decided to stay inside today," Frank said, filling a glass with orange juice. "We know you're not a fan of the cold."
She gave him an appraising eye where he leaned against the counter.
"Well, that was thoughtful of you," Rachel said.
"After you finish your breakfast, I want to give you two your gifts," Frank said.
Rachel almost choked on her coffee. "Gifts? Frank, you didn't."
"Of course I did, it's Christmas."
Despite Fletcher's obvious excitement, Rachel suddenly felt sick with guilt. Frank didn't make eye contact with her as he washed his empty glass in the sink, then casually left the kitchen.
When they all had gathered in the living room, Rachel's heart sank as she watched Frank hand Fletcher his gift first. Inside a shiny mahogany case was an impressive red swiss army knife. Fletcher thanked Frank for the gift as he admired it with curious fingers.
"Figures you'd get him a weapon," Rachel teased, trying not to get sentimental.
"Will you teach me how to use it?" Fletcher asked eagerly.
Frank nodded. "Of course."
He moved across the room to bring Rachel a red gift bag. Filled with curiosity, she reached into the white tissue paper and pulled out two vintage records. Tony Bennett Snowfall, 1968 and The Carpenters Christmas, 1969.
"How did you know I didn't have these?" she asked in awe.
"I told you, I saw your record collection."
The thought that he could have remembered such a detail actually frightened her. She looked up at him, fighting back tears with everything in her. "Thank you, Frank. This means a lot to me."
"You're welcome." He smiled tightly, his eyes never leaving hers.
For the first time during their stay, Rachel was quite aware of her son observing their interaction. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she looked down, busying herself with studying the album covers.
"So, Fletcher, do you want to pick up our game from this morning?" Frank asked, gesturing to the chessboard in the center of the room.
Thankful for the distraction, Rachel watched in relief as Fletcher nodded and sat himself at the board. She watched them play contentedly for a long while, still puzzled as to why they found such a seemingly dull game so enthralling. Rachel didn't have the patience for such a cerebral game herself, but she enjoyed observing their battle of wits all the same.
After an hour or so of playing, Fletcher had claimed checkmate. With a satisfied smile, he rubbed his stomach. "I'm about ready for lunch," he announced, getting up to head for the kitchen. "Any requests?"
Rachel smiled to herself. "I'd be fine with just a salad."
Fletcher scrunched up his nose. "Well, I'm gonna make sandwiches. We can have salad on the side. Does that sound good?"
"Whatever you make is good with me," Frank said with a laugh.
As soon as Fletcher disappeared into the kitchen, Rachel went over to Frank. "If I'd known you were going to give us gifts, I would have gotten you something too," she murmured guiltily.
"Just having you and Fletcher here is enough for me, Rachel," he practically whispered back to her. She had no reason to question his sincerity.
Her intention was to kiss him quickly enough that there was no risk of Fletcher catching them. But what started as a quick kiss on the cheek had dissolved into a passionate fit of open-mouthed kisses in front of the fireplace. She found herself on his lap, clutching his shoulders as he supported her head in his hand, his tongue dancing with hers.
"You want the bread toasted?" Fletcher called from the kitchen. They broke apart briefly just to respond with noncommittal words of acknowledgement – a "sure" and a "sounds good" – before succumbing to another risky round of kisses.
By the time Fletcher had announced that lunch was ready, Rachel found that her appetite was much greater for something other than food.
After lunch, Rachel gave in to another several hours of watching Frank and Fletcher fawn over their precious chessboard. At least this time they included her in conversation, so the time passed rather quickly. By sunset Fletcher had won two more rounds, and Rachel grew suspicious.
Fletcher stretched as he rose from his chair and told them, "I'm making Cacio e Pepe for dinner!"
Frank and Rachel simultaneously replied with a "huh?" as the boy disappeared again into his favorite room of the house.
Rachel narrowed her eyes at Frank as he began clearing the chessboard. In a low voice she chided him, "You know, Frank, you don't have to let him win every time. He's eighteen now."
"I'm not letting him win," Frank said defensively. "He's just that good!"
Rachel looked at him doubtfully. He didn't acknowledge her expression, instead choosing to turn away from her so he could rekindle the fire. She followed him to where he knelt on one knee by the hearth and slipped her hands around his waist from behind. She had just started to kiss the back of his neck when he protested in an amused whisper, "Rachel, don't. We can't keep doing this."
She ignored his warning and held him tighter, moving her lips to his ear. He gasped in response, which she took as further encouragement. "Please, Rachel. You're torturing me."
She had mercy on him, burying her smile in his shoulder. With one final squeeze of his arms, she stood up and backed away. "Alright," she whispered. "I'll behave."
He turned from the fire to stare at her knowingly. Not for long.
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When he first saw her walking through the door to his hospital room, he thought he had died. It was the first time he'd seen her in a pure white dress, and she looked angelic. She lifted her shades, a customary accessory for avoiding recognition in a public setting, and smiled her signature charming smile at him. He felt delirious, both from her presence and from the pain meds.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, her brow furrowed with sympathy as she surveyed the maze of wires hooked up to every one of his limbs.
He closed his eyes, not knowing if he could talk yet. He hadn't really tried since being released from the ICU. "Shitty," he muttered. His voice was hoarse and his throat was dry.
She shook her head and clicked her tongue in disapproval as she moved toward the window. "No wonder. You got the blinds closed in here." She twisted them open, and pale sunlight filtered into the room. She seated herself at his bedside so that she was blocking the sun, and it created a soft halo of light around her hair. Her eyes drifted down to his arm, wrapped in layers of thick white gauze, then back at his face. "You're still kinda pale."
He swallowed and closed his eyes again, not knowing what to say.
Being on a constant waterfall of medication from the IV drip, Frank did not feel much. But he did feel it when she took his hand in hers.
She glanced up at the door then whispered urgently, "I want you to know, no matter what it takes for you to get better, I'm gonna make it happen. If there's some illegal miracle drug that's not allowed in the U.S., I'll pay double to have it smuggled in here for you."
Her gentle humor was the only thing that had managed to make him smile since waking up from surgery. He barely found the strength to clasp his fingers appreciatively around her hand.
She suddenly looked about to cry. "I still can't believe you did that for me," she marveled softly.
"I'm your bodyguard," he whispered.
She shook her head and kissed his temple, "No, you're my hero."
The door to the room swung open and Bill arrived, looking gravely at the sight before him. Rachel strategically backed away and smoothed out her dress, attempting to look casual in front of her manager. "Did you bring food?" she asked him.
"Of course I did," Bill said, holding up a white paper bag. He placed it on the bedside tray, along with a packet of plastic utensils.
"I can't eat," Frank shook his head.
"Nonsense, you have to eat to get your strength back," Bill warned. "Besides, I'm not leaving this place until you have at least five bites. Come on, sit up."
Rachel stood up from her chair to reach into the bag and pulled out a small carton of Minute Maid orange juice. "Look, I have your favorite."
Frank felt a bit like a belligerent toddler at mealtime. He put his forehead in his hand. Rachel giggled.
"I'm going to run to the restroom, I'll be back in a bit," she announced before leaving the room. Frank watched her until she was out of sight.
Bill leaned forward and said in a low voice, "The Academy is being sued."
"I heard," Frank murmured as he unwrapped a sandwich from the bag. "They never shut the damn TV off in this place."
"It's gonna be a big issue next year."
Frank winced as he shifted his arm. "Yeah."
"She canceled everything she had on the books for the next month and a half," Bill sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "She's trying not to let it get to her, but she was really shaken by it."
Frank looked out the window, feeling hopeless even in the light of the sun. "We're all going to need a lot of time to heal."
"She wants you to stay on," Bill said. "She told me she'd wait for you."
He knew why. But the pain and the fear were both too great for him to ignore. She didn't need him, as much as they may have thought so. He could find someone else for her, someone with a solid track record, someone he knew and trusted. Someone, preferably, with whom she would not fall in love.
"I can't," he whispered, but Bill had heard him.
"I'll wait as long as I can to tell her," Bill consented.
Frank didn't care how long it took, as long as he didn't have to be the one to tell Rachel himself.
}0{
"Fletcher, you've really outdone yourself this time," Rachel complimented her son around an unladylike mouthful of spaghetti.
"I hoped you'd like it!" Fletcher said proudly, passing the plate of bread across the table. "I've been reading some of Frank's dad's cookbooks. There's a whole stack of them under the counter over there."
Rachel glanced apologetically at Frank, but she was surprised to see he looked rather happy about it.
"I didn't even know he had cookbooks in there," Frank said as he refilled Rachel's wine glass. He noticed Fletcher eyeing the wine bottle and asked if he wanted to try some too.
Fletcher looked hesitantly at his mother. "I'm technically underage."
"Oh, Fletcher, don't be such a goody-two-shoes," Rachel said with a flippant wave of her hand. "Go on and try some, it's just us."
"Okay," Fletcher agreed with a smile. Frank poured him a glass. Rachel and Frank both laughed at his sour face when he tasted it.
"Too strong?" Frank asked.
"It's alright," Fletcher shrugged, forcing down another sip.
"You don't have to drink it, baby," Rachel said, still breathless from laughter.
They continued laughing through the rest of dinner. It seemed impossible to think they could be this carefree and happy, just the three of them. Every day she spent out here seemed to give Rachel another reason to give up on her career. She realized how rare it was that she got to savor moments like this with her son – at least, when they were in L.A. it seemed to never happen unless she made intentional time for him. Here in the middle of nowhere, with no cable and no crowds, it was easy to find time. Too easy.
Before they went to bed that night, she spent some time in Fletcher's room.
"You're enjoying yourself out here?" she asked her son, already knowing his answer.
"Yeah," Fletcher smiled, adjusting the pillow behind his head. "You?"
She nodded. "It's nice to not have any obligations."
"You know, Mom, you're not obligated to go do interviews or sing for shows."
Her expression turned serious as she met her son's eyes. "I know that, honey."
"Do you ever think about . . . retiring?"
He asked the question she had dreaded hearing. It was only a matter of time. She sighed.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I stopped."
"You don't have to stop singing. Just stop trying to be something you're not."
His words hit her hard.
"What am I trying to be, Fletcher?"
"Who you used to be," he said softly. "I like you better now."
"You think I've changed?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Especially in the last couple years. You still have your moments, don't get me wrong. But I think you're more patient and understanding now than you used to be." He closed his eyes.
Rachel held her breath, waiting to see if he would continue revealing more secrets about herself that she didn't recognize yet. But he was quiet.
She had no idea what possessed her to utter the question. "You like Frank a lot, don't you, baby?"
Eyes still closed, he murmured, "If it weren't for him, you wouldn't be here, Mom. Of course I like him."
She swallowed hard and blinked a few times, fighting that sentimentality which seemed to threaten her every other minute. She was surprised when Fletcher opened his eyes halfway to peer up at her. Quietly, he threw the question back at her. "Do you like him?"
She didn't know how to answer it appropriately. So, in a shy whisper, she said, "He's a good man."
That seemed enough of an answer for Fletcher, who closed his eyes again and settled back against his pillow. "Goodnight, Mom."
"Goodnight, sweetheart." She kissed his forehead and left the room.
}0{
"I've killed people before. It's always been in self-defense, or in the defense of my principal, but I have killed people . . ."
"Most of the people I see are convicts, so I have certainly spoken to people who have the blood of others on their hands. You're not a heartless killer, Frank. You've killed out of necessity, but you still took lives. It's a human thing to feel conflicted over that."
"I didn't feel conflicted about it this time."
"Why do you think that is?"
Frank stared thoughtfully at his counselor, taking in the man's graying hair, wrinkled eyes, and stern jaw. His face was so familiar now, he seemed more like an uncle or an older brother.
"I cared for her more deeply than I ever cared for any other client," Frank admitted, his words hanging poignantly in the quiet, carpeted room.
"How so? As a sister? A friend . . . ?"
". . . A lover."
The man leaned forward in his chair, his concentration intensified by the revelation. "Did you have a romantic relationship with Rachel Marron?"
Frank's heart leapt. "Yes."
"If given the chance, would you pursue that relationship now?"
Frank steeled himself and replied, "No."
"Why not?"
"I would be too afraid." Frank wrung his hands in his lap.
His counselor tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of failing her."
The man's eyes glinted in sympathy. "So . . . you wanted to leave on a high note."
"No," Frank shook his head, staring up at the carved wooden crucifix on the wall before him. "I left because my job was done."