Chapter 4. Martha Meddles

Martha was hoping that no one would notice that she had left the gathering on the deck and returned to the kitchen. She knew that her son had fallen in love with Detective Beckett some months ago, but the relationship was not only stalled, she was now aware that all 4 wheels were stuck in the sand. She was getting more and more worried. Her son and her future next-daughter-in-law had been together for almost two years, and Kate still couldn't recognize Rick's physique without his shirt on? Whatever happened to free love? Whatever happened to the sexual revolution? Why did the 60's have to come to an end? Martha was getting desperate. What was she to do? Her son deserved to be madly in love with the woman of his dreams: what was he doing in this stalled, stale relationship?

She needed a drink. Any kind, any color, any size. Glass optional. Maybe it would free up her mind. She had, what, two minutes to liberate and consume all of the alcohol in the pantry? She was up for a challenge, right?

For her part, Kate had found herself unable to move from the deck as her eyes watched Richard Castle's barely clad body walking up the path from the ocean to where she was standing on the edge of the back yard deck. What was worse, she was aware that Castle knew this fact, in so far as his intense blue eyes were boring into her. His posture was absolutely straight, his walk (no more sauntering) was deliberate and confident as he advanced his firm thighs, and Beckett knew: She was toast. She also knew that he was enjoying her discomfort. Immensely. To add to her torture, he even grabbed one end of the towel that he had thrown around his shoulders with his free hand and let the piece of cloth drop to his side, and then to the sand, giving her an interrupted view of his fully developed upper torso.

And, he kept approaching, the smirk on his lips became more and more apparent as he was now less than fifty feet away. He slightly slowed down the speed of his advancement, allowing Beckett's eyes to feast over the vision of male sculpture that was Richard Castle.

Kate was realizing that she wasn't even winning an internal dialogue with her own psyche. "Common, Kate," she told herself, "you've spent hours sitting next to this man. You sat knee to knee at your desk in the station. You've sat next to each other in the interrogation room. The two of you have commuted for miles and miles sitting in close proximity in the front seat of your own car. Why didn't you realize what was under that baggy navy blue jacket months ago? Just look at those biceps, at those thighs. Not to mention what appears to be compacted as a notable bulge in the front of those trunks. It's only Castle. It's your friend, Richard. Rick. Ricky. Oh, why the hell didn't I realize what I was really sitting next to was an Adonis. His body is perfection. This is proof: I'm an absolute idiot. I'm too stupid to live."

He was now standing less than ten feet from her, and had come to a momentary halt. Kate's brain was on overdrive. She tried to relocate her concentration downwards from his shaggy mop of brown hair to his blue eyes, to his sinewy neck and shoulders, and downwards from there, but this internal voice was offering her an inane running commentary about what was directly in her view ("Kate, you've always been an admirer of broad shoulders; let Atlas know that you've found his replacement." "That doesn't even make sense, but if humanity still believed in the Greek pantheon of gods, it would probably be relevant."). She then tried to concentrate on his bare chest and well developed pecs ("Oh, that was a bad idea, Kate, although we now know that the slight amount of chest hair he has is kind of a dark blonde!" "Hey, do you know that even when compared to Castle, you're still really, really flat?").

And then, her eyes dropped down below his waste, to the tight light brown spandex trunks that clung tightly to his body from just below his navel to almost his mid-thigh. ("Don't do it, Beckett, don't do it. Oh, damn, you looked! Bad, bad, bad girl. But you like what you see, right? Are you going to simply jump him right here? Put yourself out of your misery, okay? He'll only remind you about this moment for the next fifty-five or so years, probably. Sixty, sixty-five, okay, seventy years, at the max.")

Castle took another step forward, and shook his head in a last attempt to rid his hair of the last of the salt water. The result was that his bangs spread across his entire forehead, giving him the appearance of bed hair. A tall, nearly nude, dominant male in his prime, standing less than five feet in front of her.

Kate heard a squeak. Unfortunately, she realized all too late that it had come from her. And, the worse of it was, Castle had also heard it, as his raised eyebrow indicated. With an attitude of complete nonchalance, he took those final three steps to position himself directly in front of her. With the slight elevation of the wooden deck above the sand where Kate was standing, they were exactly eye to eye.

It was a good thing that Alexis had taken Kate's coffee mug from her when she saw her Dad's dramatic flourish with the dropping of the towel from his shoulders to the sand, and she had quickly retreated to the kitchen. After all, even though this posturing involved sex, this was her father and the woman that Alexis had become very fond of.

There was her Grams, standing at the kitchen table, and she was drinking cooking sherry directly out of the bottle. What could she do in the next few hours to cement a deal between the couple?

"Gram. Think of something," begged Alexis.

"I'm trying. I'm trying!"

"What do you have, Gram?"

"Nothing. Nothing!"

"Gram! You're not helping!"

Castle stood eye to eye with Beckett. Despite the squeak that had emanated from the tall female, Rick knew that he almost finally had her just where he had wanted her to be for the past 18 months. This is it, he thought. At this time, her entire world comprises of Richard Castle, just as my entire world for these past months has consisted of Detective Kate Beckett. The final score has been determined, and there shall be no rematch: Castle-3; Demming-0. Three strikes and Demming is out. Yes, Tom Demming is about to a mere footnote in the past romantic history of Detective Kate Beckett.

Castle realized that he had to say something. Out loud.

"Beckett."

"Castle."

So far, so good. Unfortunately, that was the extent of the script that he had written. She was, at this point, supposed to have thrown her arms around him, crushing her lips to his lips as their tongues entwined with one another, and pressing her chest against his, and he was to have carried her dramatically into the house, effortlessly up the stairs, and then down the hall to the right, tossing her on his bed and ravishing her for at least the next fifteen hours.

Unfortunately, for some reason, he had failed to come up with a Plan "B" in case she had not instantly wrapped herself around him with complete abandon.

"Beckett, anything new?" Their mouths were less than three inches apart.

"Not really, Castle." They continued to stare at one another's eyes.

"Well, keep me posted if anything develops."

"Okay, I will."

After a brief two second pause, he turned to the right, automatically walking toward the outside shower, to wash the salt from his body, just like he had been doing after every swim for the past eighteen or so years.

As soon as he had turned out of her line of vision, Beckett made a hasty retreat toward the ocean. At full speed. Down the same path that the man had just advanced.

And the moment was lost.

Martha had looked out the window. There was no other way to say it: Her son was pathetic. And, his intended bride wasn't exactly saving the day, either. She watched helplessly as Rick walked to the outside shower, and as Kate started to run toward the ocean.

Martha suddenly had a thought, and she ran into the kitchen, opening up drawers, removing the dish towels and dish cloths, and throwing them into the cold oven and shutting the oven door. "Alexis, go sit at the kitchen counter. With your back to the door." She saw the questions in her granddaughter's eyes. No time to explain. "Just do it."

Alexis had a look of uncertainty, but she followed her grandmother's directions, and sat on one of the high bar stools, with her back to the outside door. "Now what?"

"Now we wait."

It took about three minutes for Richard Castle to complete his shower. As Martha had expected, her son was on autopilot, and after he had showered, he was heading into the great room. As he always had. Without his trunks. And, as usual, without his towel.

Martha channeled every spec of her acting ability to the forefront. This was exactly what she had depended upon, that her son would resort to his past behavior in an attempt to refuse to recognize the failure of his immediate situation. He had done it so often in the past. Maybe he would continue the pattern now. And, yes, he did exactly as she had expected him to act.

"Mother. . ."

Martha pretended to be shocked at the sight of her son, naked, in the great room, still dripping from the outside shower that had removed the ocean's salt from his skin.

"Alexis, don't turn around. Your father has apparently, once again, misplaced his towel."

Martha looked at Alexis. She had her eyes tightly closed, and was now resting her head in the fold of her arms on the counter. She wasn't going to see anything she didn't want to, and no teenage girl wanted to see her father standing naked in their kitchen.

"Honestly, Richard, what are you thinking?" At least Rick managed to place himself directly behind the bottle of sherry that she had positioned on the kitchen picnic table.

"Mother, just throw me a towel," he instructed. She calmly and slowly opened one, and then two of the kitchen drawers.

"I'm sorry, Richard, there doesn't appear to be any at the ready."

"What? We have thousands of kitchen towels. I just need one."

"Richard, the drawer is empty."

"Then give me two wash clothes, and I can tie them together. Alexis, keep your eyes closed."

"Don't worry, Dad."

Martha made a point of opening yet another drawer, and she pulled out a ladle, two spacholas, and a corkscrew. "Richard, you are out of luck. Where is Kate?"

I don't know. Things didn't go too good."

"What do you mean? 'Things didn't go too good'? All you had to do is admit to her that you love her. You do, don't you? You love her?"

"Of course I love her."

"Did you tell her that?"

"Not exactly. . ." He shook his head. "I'm a fool. I don't even know where she is now. How can I tell her that I love her? That I've loved her ever since I first saw her?"

Martha looked at her son, and then past him. "Well, considering she is standing directly behind you, Richard, this might be a good time."

There was a silent pause. He didn't even bother to turn around. "Beckett?"

"Castle."

Beckett's voice came from the doorway leading out to the deck. She had stopped running as soon as her feet had reached the ocean. Where was she to go? She knew that she might be hearing about what she intended to declare to Rick for the next sixty-five or seventy years, but she had decided that it was time to take a risk, to admit that what her heart wanted was what she wanted, and maybe it was time to risk it all. And, having finally made up her mind to admit to Rick Castle that she was in love with him, she had turned around and walked slowly back to the house.

Arriving at the open back door, all Beckett knew was that not only had she heard him declare his love for her, but from her present vantage point, she had the perfect view of Rick's naked rounded butt.

"Here, Bubble Butt, I brought you something," she added, walking behind him, and then wrapping the towel that he had dropped around his waist. "We need to talk. I love you, too." And she gently placed her hand on his back end and gave it a loving pat.

Martha smiled. "Alexis, you can open your eyes now. I think we need to go upstairs. We'll leave the two of you down here to plan your future. Alexis . . .?"

Without so much as a glance in the direction of the couple now embracing one another in the great room, the two redheads quickly climbed the stairs and retreated to Alexis' room, where they shut the door.

The couple remaining in the kitchen slowly began to explore one another. It could take hours, and they were no longer in any rush. New York City could wait until they had completed their discussion of their future together.