Chapter 2: Salutations

Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.

He sped through the remainder of the meal preparations, struggling to focus on measurements and proper ingredient selection as his thoughts continued to gravitate to K. Beckett. After putting the pasta on to boil, he added butter, whole milk, all purpose flour, and a couple generous scoops of dried mustard to a saucepan and mindlessly whisked the concoction until it thickened into a creamy roux. In went a raw egg and handfuls of pungent cheeses, more whisking, more speculation about K. Beckett. Pursuit of truth, the inscription had read. So...a law student? Criminal Justice? Medicine? It seemed likelier that a future attorney or law enforcement officer would so meticulously annotate a mystery novel, and he doubted if anyone in a rigorous pre-med program such as Stanford's would allow themselves the self-indulgence of reading for pleasure. Much less take the time to take notes on his writing style.

So, law or CJ were his frontrunners. But...even so. As he added finely milled black pepper to the cheese sauce, he puzzled over why a Stanford student in either discipline would so thoroughly scour A Rose for Everafter, because despite being entertainingly campy-murdered virgins and investigative nuns severely stretched the boundaries of reality—Shakespeare it was not. What could K. Beckett have possibly hoped to gain from her study? It just...intrigued him. She intrigued him. In a way little did at this point in his life.

God, that sounded melodramatic.

It's just...well, historically he was known for childlike displays of enthusiasm and had always taken inordinate joy in the little things. Reveled in silliness and the possibility of magic. Marveled at the night sky, dreamed of traveling and thrilling adventures and finding love. Lately however, he felt blunted, as though colors had faded ever so slightly. As though he was doing nothing more than mechanically going through the motions. The night sky, the constellations, had always held a fascination for him, but he couldn't remember the last time he had star gazed for the sheer joy of doing so. And he hated that. He couldn't pinpoint when or why the shift had occurred, but it had. So he was chalking up his apathy to sheer exhaustion, and maybe that's truly where it originated. Juggling the responsibilities of full time fatherhood and a burgeoning literary career was leeching all of the energy from him, and with every superficial promotional party filled with superficial socialites, he felt himself grow just a little more jaded. A little more monochrome.

Seeing that his work—no matter how far-fetched or macabre—was meaningful to someone, that it had taken emotional purchase in their life, moved him. And yeah, it inspired him. Much like Orion's Belt in the not so distant past. K. Beckett was a breath of fresh air he hadn't realized he needed, and he wanted to know more. Like, why a book containing so many hours of analysis and scripted thoughts had ended up in a used bookstore? And why his work was subjected to scrutiny, as opposed to Patterson or Connelly's?

Heaving a sigh, he shelved his thoughts for later and worked quickly to finish his world famous—Alexis insisted it was unparalleled—Macaroni du jour.

Some time later, he slid the gruyere-topped casserole dish into the searing heat of his double-wide oven and felt a smile break over his face unbidden. Because now it began. Mission "Find K. Beckett" was underway.

He popped outside to check on Alexis, hastily prepared a much needed cappuccino, and then settled at the kitchen table with his laptop and phone. Where did he even start? Was there a student directory he could access? And even if one was available for public perusal, he doubted if it would contain any personal information beyond names. Barring a directory, he had few options. The university was unlikely to willingly disclose the intimate details of their students lives, even if he could provide a justification for the release of information. Privacy policies were such a nuisance.

Sighing, he drew a hand across his face and pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. Think, Rick. Who would have access to student records?
His eyes fluttered open on a little smile as he realized...the registrar's office. It was possible—although highly unlikely—that a staff member would help him, but it would require a perfect storm of circumstances to glean any helpful information. Prior to today and the bookshop and the discovery of K. Beckett, the concept of serendipity and fate had taken on a hackneyed and illusory shape for him. But now...well, he trusted the universe to work this one out, to figuratively pave his way. Talking to K. Beckett, contacting her...it had grown from an impulse to a necessity, an obsession. He needed, inexplicably, to know her, and he was choosing to trust that compulsion, to yield to it.

It wasn't difficult to locate the contact information on Stanford's website, and after a nervous preparatory breath, he punched in the listed number with stiff fingers. A canned voice instructed him to wait on the line, and after a few moments spent listening to nondescript jazz, a click issued in his ear followed by a warm alto voice.

"Good Afternoon, you've reached the registrar's office at Stanford University. This is Sherri Traeger speaking, how may I help you?"

Praise all the saints, he got a woman.

"Hi, Sherri," he began, projecting a calm steadiness he was far from feeling, "I'm actually calling in regards to...well, that is..." How did he even begin to explain his predicament to this poor woman? "I have what I'm fairly certain is a bizarre request for you. I'm really—I'm not sure how else to say it."

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence on Sherri's end before she replied with a succinct and rather wary, "Continue."

"My name is Rick Castle," he hurried to explain, and was gratified to hear Sherri's indrawn gasp of surprise. He stifled a triumphant grin as she sputtered out, "Rick—Rick Castle? Not—as in Richard Castle? As in...the—the mystery novelist?"

"Oh, well...yes, actually," he admitted, infusing his response with a blend of sheepishness and surprise he knew would endear him to the older woman.

There was something about phone conversations with persons unknown that Rick relished. Strange as it sounded, he really enjoyed the anonymity of phone calls, the faceless exchanges providing fodder for his hungry imagination. A few words, a name, the timbre of their voice, and he could construct a fictionalized portrayal of his dialogue partner.

Sherri—her voice was warm, and she was warm. African-American with dark, burnished skin, full lips and a slow smile that belied her fierce intellect. She'd had rough beginnings, but climbed her way out academically, rung by rung. Attended college and flourished. Excelled at her job. Was the sort of woman who felt out of place in anything other than Ann Taylor pencil skirts and cardigans. Prided herself on her near-obsessive organization, but rationalized that without such extreme measures, the office would fall to pieces. Despite being a perpetual worrier, she hid it well, always maintaining a preternatural level of calm collectedness that soothed agitated parents and anal-retentive honors students.

Yeah, it was weird, he knew. But for him, crafting a backstory—regardless of authenticity—was key in drawing people out, in connecting with them, understanding them. It was part of his trademark charm. People felt truly known by him. And more often than not, his wild speculations in regards to personal history were largely accurate. A quirk, and nothing more. But useful all the same.

"Of course, I should have recognized you from your voice—I saw you on Letterman a couple of months ago. And I love your novels," Sherri continued, voice a little breathy, "I've been a fan since In a Hail of Bullets was released."

"Thank you for telling me," he said, now feeling genuinely sheepish for leveraging his identity and manipulating what was so obviously a sweetheart of a woman. "It's—well, it's so kind of you to say so."

Sherri laughed nervously in response, and he forged ahead with his explanation.

"The reason I'm calling is...I'm calling because I want to believe in serendipity again. In fate," it was an unforgivably sappy statement, but it would appeal to Sherri, he thought. And from her little wistful sigh, he felt his assumptions were vindicated.

"This morning, I stopped at a used bookstore and found a copy of one of my novels that's currently out-of-print. As I flipped through the pages, I found something rather fascinating notes in the margins, written by...well, I'm assuming by a young woman. An insightful young woman who happens to attend Stanford, as a matter of fact. And I'm feeling..." he trailed off a bit, frowning at the tabletop as he searched for a way to articulate his thoughts.

"I'm feeling revived. Which I know sounds hyperbolic and silly because I don't even know this girl, but if you could read the way she writes, you would understand why I have to find her and at the very least offer her the return of the book. I...the life of a writer sounds glamorous—or so I've been told—but at its foundation, it's a series of literary deadlines and financial wagers and long nights and parties with terrible finger foods and even worse people. All of them hollow and monetarily motivated. Finding her comments was-was something-something I didn't even know that I needed. To feel—to feel understood by someone who has never met me, to feel appreciated for my work and nothing else, it-it signifies a great deal. To me, it means that, as a writer, I'm achieving what I set out to do—infusing my work with pieces of myself. For this girl to recognize my intentions, to see me between the lines and not just a series of two-dimensional characters...I just—I have to meet this girl, Sherri..." he trailed off, a little surprised at how tightly he clutched his phone, at how his breath sounds and heart rate had picked up. And at his own vehemency.

There was a beat of silence on the other line, then a pensive hum from Sherri before she replied, "Well then, we'd better find her, Mr. Castle!" He shot out of his chair, shocked and elated, because honestly, he'd harbored major doubts about actually making it this far.

"Are you—you're serious? You'll help me?"

"Honey," she crooned, "this is a meet-cute for the ages. Destiny choreographed with a poignancy to rival Swan Lake! Of course I'm going to help you!"

He laughed at that, relieved and amused and a little touched that she even cared, "I can't—I just-saying 'thank you' seems so paltry, but...thank you. Really."

"Happy to help. Now, what was that name again?"

He told her and listened between the noisy thud of his pulse to her fingers clicking against keys. Searching for K. Beckett. "Okay, so it looks like we have three possible female K. Becketts enrolled at present, two K. Becketts who graduated from Stanford within the last two years, and two K. Becketts who have since matriculated to other universities. That leaves you with seven prospective woman, which certainly narrows it down. But...here's the only catch. To give you their personal contact information would be an egregious breach of protocol and privacy on the part of our university. I can't tell you anything beyond this," she informed him, and he felt his stomach tighten, disappointment settling on him like a wet blanket.

"However," she qualified, and just like that, he felt his hopefulness renew itself, felt a smile widening his mouth because everything was so perfectly falling in place. Like it was fate. It had to be. "If you send me seven copies of a letter, I can forward the information to each girl. Even those who are no longer at the university left us forwarding addresses in the event we needed to contact them. So...does that sound feasible to you, Mr. Castle?"

"Sherri, I could kiss you," he declared, grinning, and was rewarded with more sputtering and nervous laughter.

"You're an unforgivable flirt, Mr. Castle," she managed to reply, "and I...I'm just glad I could help you out. And be a part of..whatever this is. Kismet. Destiny. What have you."

"Me too," he told her warmly. "I'll send those letters to you posthaste, pun intended, and—and I could keep you updated as I learn more if you'd like. Let you know if or when I find her..."

"When you find her," she emphasized, "I would love to know. Expedite those letters and let's get this ball rolling!"

He selected a sheet of creamy vellum stationary, no letterhead or watermark save for a small embossed fleur de lis. A black fountain pen, another cappuccino, and then he was writing, and the words poured out of him smooth and strong and bright as always.

K. Beckett,

It's my fervent hope that this missive finds you well, and that you're not thoroughly creeped out that a complete stranger is contacting you. A connection of mine at Stanford was kind enough to forward my letter, so rest assured that your identity, location, and all other intimate details remain in obscurity.

I'm writing you because, unintentionally, you managed to captivate me. Via the written word. Quite by accident, I stumbled upon a Rick Castle mystery, A Rose for Everafter, with a slew of annotations in the margins that formerly belonged to a K. Beckett at Stanford University. As I read through what I can only assume to be your notes, I was struck by the depth of your perception and the vibrancy of your thoughts. I hope it's not too forward to mention that I like your mind. It sounds top notch.

But more than that, I can't help but believe you didn't willingly relinquish this book. Not with such a meaningful, personal message inscribed in the cover, and not after all the time you spent making notes and analyzing the text. If it was indeed mistakenly relegated to the shelves of a secondhand shop, I would like to restore it to you! Books are roadmaps in life, reminders of where we've been and the trajectory in which we are headed, and to lose one so important as this could prove to be disastrous.
If you are eager for its return, simply include an address—yours or a friend's or a PO box—and I'll be happy to send it your way.

I have to ask-because my curiosity is insatiable—about the "pursuit of truth" your parents referred to in the personal note. Are you a law student? A CJ major? Those seemed to be the most plausible career options for such an avid fan of mystery novels. And if so, why is Rick Castle your author of choice was opposed to one of the many other talented crime novelists? Patterson, Connelly, and Cannell come to mind.

Also, if you don't mind the inquiry, what is your name?

Call me a fool if you will, but it strikes me as serendipitous that of all the bookstores in all the cities in all the world I walked into that one and happened to find your novel. I refuse to laugh in the face of fate, and so I'm taking a leap of faith and reaching out. I hope this letter finds the K. Beckett in question, and that I hear back from you soon!

All the best,

R. Rodgers

He didn't know what possessed him to conceal his public identity, but it felt right. To address himself as Rick Rodgers—father, son, average man—as opposed to Rick Castle—writer extraordinaire and reputed playboy. So he just went with it, continued trusting his instincts. They hadn't led him astray yet, not in this venture. He scrawled out six more copies, sealed them in envelopes bearing only the appellation K. Beckett, and bundled them in a large manilla package addressed to Sherri Traeger at the registrar's office.

Bless that woman.

Feeling guilty for disrupting her fun, he bundled a dripping Alexis into a faded beach towel and drove them to the post office, managing to make it in just before closing, and then rushed back to the house to save their macaroni from the oven.

He knew he had been conspicuously absent for much of the day, and spent the remainder of the evening doting on Alexis, practically smothering her with affection. They devoured bowls of rich macaroni for dinner and enjoyed a dessert of soft snickerdoodles and glasses of milk on the patio, watching the brilliant sunset fade into a velvet black sky studded with stars. Which really was astonishing, he decided. Yeah, he was awestruck. Starstruck, rather. With Alexis curled against his side on the porch swing, he pointed out constellations and notable stars—Cygnus, Lyra, Vega, Delphinus and Sagitta, and the ever-popular dippers, both big and small. Inspired by the names and stories contained in the night sky, he asked Alexis to fetch the anthology of Greek myths she had picked up at the bookstore. In a low, soft voice, with the crash of waves in the distance, he read aloud of Perseus and Andromeda, of Hercules and Poseidon, and felt when, lulled by the sound of his voice, Alexis gave in to fatigue.

He remained that way for a good hour, staring out at the water, at the way the moon gilded the waves and seemed to illuminate the sand from within, content to simply hold his daughter and revel in the anticipation of all the future might hold.

The rest of the week passed with a startling speed that seemed unique to summer, their days spent constructing sand castles and card houses, reading together and building blanket forts, and slowly but surely repairing the hurt Meredith had so blithely inflicted. Alexis departed a different child than the one that arrived a week ago. She still looked tired, but it was the pleasant, heavy-limbed exhaustion of days spent in the sun and late nights roasting marshmallows as opposed to the sleep-deprived fatigue born of rejection and insecurity. Which...god, he was so thankful she'd improved.

Meredith's selfishness had always impacted Alexis. It was no secret that Meredith...chose Meredith. Consistently. She predictably put herself, her desires first, and always provided a sound defense for her actions. But the magnitude of this choice, the depth of the hurt inflicted on Alexis, was greater this time around. And he knew, happy as she was now, it had left a scar.

He couldn't believe she was his. The sun had streaked her russet hair with ribbons of gold and scattered freckles across her nose. Watching her peaceful expression in the rear view mirror, his heart grew a little lighter as they headed back to the city, lifting and lightening further as he basked in her happy chatter and sweet laughter. He teased her affectionately, called her "pumpkin", and she smiled at him in the mirror so brightly he felt certain his heart would float, balloon-like, right out of his chest.

Another week sped by, spent with Alexis at museums and parks, arranging play dates that allowed him time to write, doing laundry and packing suitcases for Alexis' trip with Martha to Boston. Thoughts of K. Beckett resurfaced at odd times, catching him off-guard-when he was scrubbing dishes after dinner, a paragraph into the newest Derek Storm chapter, and every single time he unlocked his damn mailbox only to find bills and credit card offers. Just...thoughts of her.

Would she or wouldn't she respond.

Waiting for a theoretical letter was surprisingly agonizing. He hadn't expected this level of anticipation or distraction. Hell, he hadn't expected to care quite so deeply about someone ignorant to his existence, someone he'd never even met. But he did.

Saturday morning, the day of Alexis' departure to the Walking City, ushered in a thick cover of charcoal clouds and steady rain, which meant the drive to his mother's Upper East Side studio was going to be a nightmare. Alexis munched on a strawberry poptart and looked on with bleary eyes as he double- and triple-checked her suitcase and backpack for the necessities—toothbrush, underwear, her favorite sweater, and of course, Monkey Bunkey—before loading up the car. They managed to make it there in one piece, albeit thirty minutes later than intended, and he unhurriedly transferred Alexis' luggage to the waiting cab, without regard to the torrential rain. He was going to be soaked, he chose not to fight it.

After handing Alexis into the cab, he gingerly gave her a parting kiss on the forehead through the window, trying not to drip water on her face but failing if her scrunched expression was any indication of success. Martha promised to call him in the evening, and then they were pulling away from the curb, and he was heading home, a soggy mess, already missing his girl.

An empty loft meant near total silence, which he generally loathed, but had come to appreciate when it came to hammering out multiple chapters at a time and meeting looming deadlines. Immersed in his work, rain beating soothingly against his office windows, the hours slipped away unnoticed, unacknowledged until a hunger pang startled him from his trance-like state.

Sweet Jesus, he grimaced. He was starving. It was nearly dinner and he hadn't had anything today except a few bites of Alexis' poptart. As his awareness returned, he felt the stiff discomfort of remaining stationary for so long and rolled his shoulders, wincing. He really needed to take better care of himself, he mused ruefully, stretching his arms over his head as he stood.

He ordered a pizza and then realized with a little frisson of excitement that he hadn't checked the mail. Palming his keys, he made his way downstairs, unaccountably anxious, because it had been nearly two weeks since he'd sent the letter. More than enough time for someone to receive his correspondence and write back. But his mailbox had remained conspicuously devoid of any responses. It could be that his letters failed to reach the proper K. Beckett, or that she had received his letter and simply had no interest in responding. But he wouldn't resign himself to that possibility. Not yet. There was still hope. Too much had gone right for this pursuit to end in futility. Fate simply wouldn't allow it.

Chase Bank junk mail, a Black Pawn newsletter, financial statement, bills, bills, bills, a sales sheet, and...oh, God.

A letter.

His hands actually trembled a little as he drank in the elegant slope of the sender's handwriting, the way she formed her last name with the B tilted ever so slightly to the right.

K. Beckett, read the return address, and she was located right here in NYC! It shouldn't have shocked him, but it did. That he could have encountered her, spoken with her, even seen her in passing was a thought as strange as it was exciting. Granted, in a city of more than 8 million people, it was doubtful they had ever met, but still. That return address made this whole exchange...less impersonal. It made it real.

It seemed an eternity before he was back upstairs, ensconced in the warm, leather curve of his office chair, struggling for calm as he broke the envelope's seal with a silver letter opener.

He swallowed hard, tamping down the anticipation that welled up in him, ratcheted his pulse, clogged his throat.

Why the hell did this matter so much?

Unfolding the crisp white paper, he began to read by the dove-gray light filtering in through the window panes.

Dear R. Rodgers,

Fate has never been particularly kind to me—in fact I don't put any stock in the concept—but whatever led you to my book, I'm unaccountably grateful.

Approximately a year ago, I took a semester abroad and asked a family member to ship me a box of personal items. Through some negligence on his part, the box never made it to the post office. It was forgotten on a bus and, presumably, picked over and pieced out. How the book ended up at a secondhand shop, much less in your hands, is a point of some astonishment to me. Of all the bookshops in all the cities...yes, it is an incredible coincidence.

I'm...surprised that you would take the time to seek me out, and don't want to assign any stalkerish motives to your altruism, though I can't help but wonder. Needless to say, I've got a wary eye on you, Mr. Rodgers.

So in short, no. I did not relinquish possession of the book voluntarily. It was lost to me through a series of unfortunate circumstances that were beyond my control, and I'm eager to have it back.

Why Rick Castle's books? Why A Rose for Everafter? It's not something I particularly want to elaborate on. But suffice to say, Castle was the favorite author of someone I lost, someone dear to me. And this book was their favorite of all his novels, though they never told me why. In reading his books, I feel a sense of connectedness, of closeness that vanished when they passed on. In dissecting his text, I come closer to understanding why they so appreciated this book in particular. I see traces of them in phrases, see what appealed to their sense of humor and personality. It's a very small, very personal way to remember them, to honor their memory.

You're right in your assumptions about my educational aspirations, but I'm not going to narrow it down! Continue to speculate!

And as to my name, I think we should maintain our anonymity.

There's a lovely sense of freedom in conversing with a nameless, faceless stranger that appellations will ruin.

I can't thank you enough for seeking me out and returning my book! Please let me know what the cost of shipping runs and I'll be sure to reimburse you. It was nice to hear from you, and despite myself, I'm pleased to hear you like my mind. I'm rather fond of it as well.

Sincerely,

K. Beckett

He stared at the letter, her dainty text swimming in his field of vision, and expelled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Because...he liked her.

He really liked her. Someone he didn't even know. And he wanted to know her, which was problematic. She wouldn't even volunteer her name. There was a tragic quality to her words that was just so attractive. A softness that was almost incongruous with her hyper-rationalism, with the blasè way she dismissed fate, chalked it all up to "coincidence".

She was enigmatic and brilliant and wordy and complex and...oh.

Damnit, Rick.

His stream of thought trailed off and he regarded the letter with a long-suffering sigh, suddenly wishing for a drink.

He was already in way over his head, wasn't he?

A/N:

Guys, thank you so much for your response to the first chapter! I was pretty blown away by the number of follows, favorites, and reviews it received in such a limited amount of time! I appreciate those who took the time to leave feedback and look forward to hearing your thoughts on this latest installation!

Also, I apologize for the formatting problems in the first chapter and I think I've resolved the issues brought to my attention!

Up next...Rick and K. Beckett strike up a pen pal relationship.