Chapter 3: What's in a Name?

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

Oh, he was so in over his head, he lamented, adjusting his noose-like bowtie and itchy collar with a sweeping glare. Everyone here looked so at ease despite the formality of the occasion. Women toddled about on spindly heels, vacuum-sealed in designer gowns, with extravagant hair styles and makeup that looked as though it would survive a hurricane.

Thank god for suits. Cummerbunds were inarguably atrocious, and uncomfortable to boot, but he didn't mind the stifling wool and over-starched cotton in comparison with what these women had to endure for the sake of social conventionalities and male appreciation.

No wonder they hated men.

Frankly, this whole evening was shredding his last nerve.

Alexis had returned following almost two weeks spent with his mother only the night before, and as she was regaling him with technicolor stories-he was impressed with his mother's ability to cram so many experiences into one trip-relating their visits to observatories, the New England Aquarium, countless museums, historical landmarks, Frog Pond, she halted her story abruptly, dropped her half-eaten grilled cheese, and promptly vomited all over the floor.

And the night only deteriorated from there. He split his time emptying out a bowl now destined for the trash, and soothing Alexis with cool cloths and warm blankets as she chose to suffer through those miserable hours in valiant silence. Her fever had finally broken around 9:00 the next morning, and she slipped immediately into a coma-like sleep, clothes and hair still clammy from sweat.

There was nothing quite so terrifying, he decided, as a sick child. Despite all evidence to the contrary, and ample prior experience, some insidiously niggling fear always made him question his choices, filled him with anxiety that what appeared to be a simple stomach bug was in fact viral meningitis or West Nile or the plague. And there it was-the dark side of his imagination coming out to play.

Oh, and WebMD. He kind of wanted to rabbit punch whoever'd had the bright idea to create that site.

He'd been so thoroughly exhausted, utterly wrung out, that he couldn't even sleep. So he contented himself with mindlessly watching reruns of Temptation Lane, sprawling bonelessly on the sofa, and trying not to worry as he stroked Alexis' sticky hair.

And then, with a sickening jolt, he'd remembered.

The Black Pawn gala.

He'd actually groaned aloud at the thought, his chin wearily dropping to his chest. There was no way Paula would allow him to back out, either. Not with so many influential players in attendance. It's all she'd spoken of for months, an unsettling predatory gleam in her eye as she fired off lists of names, who to talk up, who to avoid, who to flirt with, who to charm. Because if he managed to secure affluent acquaintances, it could pave the way for additional financial backing, better book tours, more advantageous promotional deals. All of which added up to a more substantial commission for Paula. What a vulture.

He'd tried anyways, filled her in on the gory details of his evening, and she'd gone off on him, informing him in great detail of the cavernous depths and limitless boundaries to his selfishness, railing until he finally just set the phone to the side and stared dully at the flickering TV screen. It was pointless to fight it. Paula was as overwhelming a force as the virus that had leveled Alexis. He was going to the gala. End of story.

So here he was, looking like a penguin, out-of-place, stranger to all but Paula in attendance. Oh, and his mother. Who was looking sensational in crimson. She had made it out, eager to rub shoulders and network with the New York celebutantes, especially those that fell into the "male, upper class, over 60" crowd.

The truth was, he'd already endured this tired song-and-dance more times than he wanted to-obsequiously scraped and bowed to men with fat wallets and fatter heads, with tiny brains and tinier hearts. When his first best-seller had topped lists, he'd been dazzled by the beautiful veneer of refinement, but with maturation and the passing years came discernment. It was all a facade. All a glamour to disguise the damaged, scarred underbelly. Everyone had problems, everyone was a wreck. Elie Tahari dresses and Armani suits only hid it well.

Standing awkwardly to the side of the refreshment table, he could see his mother's vivid head bobbing, arms gesticulating wildly as she carried on a conversation with a tall blonde. A very attractive tall blonde, but who was looking? Not him, he reminded himself sternly. He had enough on his plate as it was, and although he loved fatherhood and all of the lispingly innocent discussions that came with it, he did long for profound, Mariana-Trench-deep conversation with an adult from time to time. So...maybe he was looking a little.

A faint, knowing smile curved his mouth as his thoughts flickered from the melee of the ballroom to the quiet intensity of K. Beckett's last letter. She was astonishing, he had decided, sight-unseen. Genius wasn't required to deduce she was the walking equivalent of aged, single-malt scotch-rich, rare, and addicting. He hadn't mentioned the letters to anyone, and didn't plan on doing so in the foreseeable future. Having this secret, this thing that was his and his alone, was...revitalizing.

As soon as he finished her letter, he read through it a second time, savoring certain words, speculating on the sound of her voice, the curve of her smile, wistfully wishing he could meet her. Almost compulsively, he lurched for his favorite fountain pen and sheet of cream vellum and began to pour out a response he was certain was entirely too familiar, too friendly. But he couldn't reign it in-K. Beckett's words and the ambiguity of letter-writing had swept away the little reserve he possessed.

K. Beckett,

On behalf of Fate, I apologize, and I hope that in the return of your long-lost book you find some semblance of reassurance. That sometimes the universe conspires for good, and not for ill. I would offer my condolences, but saying "sorry" for the loss of a loved one has always seemed abrasive and in poor taste to me. Rather, if I dared to presume, I would ask how you were coping. I would ask if receiving A Rose for Everafter will assuage or exacerbate your pain. I would ask if you had a network of friends who helped to carry you through the darkness. But I won't ask for responses to what I know are probing questions, because I don't know you, do I? Although, I'll admit in what I'm sure is an off-putting level of sincerity and oversharing, I feel as though I do know you.

Presumptuous? Yeah, it is. My apologies.

So, I won't ask. But I hope you're doing well. I hope the book will help. And I hope you have people that are there to catch you.

Speculate? It's what I do best! Don't tempt me to speculate, K. Beckett! I'll speculate wildly, and unapologetically! My gut instinct-and the fact that you're an intelligent, ambitious women with enough financial support to attend Stanford-is informing me that you studied law. But that's where my quasi-certainty ends. You're...unexpected. Unconventional. Or at the very least, that's what your letter reflected. Stanford, your verbal eloquence, and your stunning intellect would make you a formidable lawyer, but to be honest, I'm at a loss as to what you chose to do with your degree! You're back in NYC-which, on an off-note, is another astonishing coincidence-and I can see you kicking ass and taking names as...a defense attorney, a prosecutor, a politician, law enforcement. You're a difficult case, K. Beckett. Hard to pin down.

And speaking of speculation-Kelly, Kari, Kimberly, Kasey?

I'll guess it eventually, I'm sure. In the meantime, if you're choosing the evasive high ground, allow me to be the transparent one in this strange communication! I'm a male, 30-years-old, in the business of books, and am the single parent of an extraordinarily precocious daughter.

He paused, wanting to give her his name, to potentially inspire a greater degree of trust between them, but Rick or Richard seemed...too obvious. He was probably overthinking this, as he was generally wont to do, but he decided to play it safe. Because she was right to an extent-the anonymity was nice. He could be who he wanted within reason, and he wanted to not be Rick Castle in this thing. To leave behind the playboy persona and fame if only for a moment.

I go by my middle name-I've always considered my given name to be a bit too pretentious-which is Alexander, but those who know me well address me simply as Alex. I apologize if I've somehow ruined the magic of this for you by eliminating the obscurity, at least on my part. But it felt strange, knowing you didn't know my name. So use it, lose it, leave it, up to you.

Kayla, Kristin, Kathleen, Kathryn?

I hope you enjoy the book, and don't concern yourself with reimbursement! The cost was trivial and the knowledge that I've restored it to you is compensation enough.

I know this started up strangely-receiving a letter from a total stranger, the appearance of a prodigal novel, your life so voyeuristically interrupted-but, I'll take it a step farther, up the ante and make an even more bizarre request...

Would you consider writing back?

Keeping up this odd pen pal correspondence?

If not, I'll take radio silence as your response, but I really do hope to hear from you again! You're rather like a mental breath of fresh air, and I've enjoyed this more than I ever expected.

In the meantime, take care of yourself, Kara Beckett? Kathy Beckett? Karli Beckett?

All the best,

Alex Rodgers

Was that okay? It looked okay, but the marvelous K. Beckett would be reading this, and the natural confidence he typically had in his writing abilities was suspiciously absent at this moment. He waited a beat, double-checked his grammar and word choices, and gave a mental shrug. That was going to have to do.

He grabbed the book with the intention of packaging it, but paused, stroked the cover, flipped it open and scanned K. Beckett's notes fondly. It's just...he'd read through the annotations, enjoyed every word, even laughed aloud a few times. And selfish as it sounded, he didn't want to give them up. Didn't want to forget the nuances and subtleties of her analyses. After a moment's thought, his eyes flickered in triumph, and he reached for the digital camera he kept in his desk drawer. He couldn't keep the book, much as he would like to, but pictures were the next best thing.

After grabbing his rain slicker, and a high wind umbrella for good measure, he forged back out into the sideways rain, fighting his way to the nearest blue postal box and depositing the letter with a little prayer to a higher power. That the letter found its way to her when she was in an especially receptive frame of mind. That his words drew her in, touched something in her. And most of all, that they prompted a response.

With Alexis away, the remainder of his week was spent accomplishing tasks that were all too often relegated to the bottom of his priority list-parenting, writing, sleeping, eating, and then housekeeping. He made a long overdue dental appointment, sorted and donated a trash bag full of threadbare t-shirts and sweaters, went grocery shopping in peace, made and froze casseroles and soups. And, of course, wrote until he was certain his fingertips would bruise. It was a good week, albeit slow and lonely-God, he needed some friends-and he made certain to keep up with Alexis and Martha's goings-on via evening phone conversations.

It was a little over a week following his mad-dash through the rain, on his way back from writing and people watching at Common Grounds, that it happened. He collected his mail and took the stairs up, carding through the envelopes and surprising himself with an involuntary yelp of elation because...she had responded.

Containing his excitement until he had returned to the loft was a struggle-he almost killed himself racing up the stairs in a flurry of limbs-but then he was through the front door, and sliding onto his couch and tearing impatiently into the envelope.

It felt like freaking Christmas. Better maybe.

Dear Alex,

"Refreshing" is the word that came to mind after reading your variation on what are all too often tired, platitudinous condolences. You're right-apologies don't help. After all, what do they have to be sorry for? They didn't contribute to my loss. And really, are they truly sorry? Do they feel a cavernous ache in their chest, a brutal sting behind their eyes, the agony of grief tearing at them with every mention of their dead relative? Sorry is offensive. Sorry is shallow and empty. I hate sorry.

Sorry. About that. I just...you're right. And I didn't realize how angry it made me, that everyone is telling me sorry like they actually are and then just moving on with their lives. While I'm still...here. Stuck. Hurting. Alone. The one that's truly sorry.

And the book does help, thank you. Really. It's helping more than I anticipated, to have back something of theirs I thought was gone forever.

People, though. Well...I'm not exactly what you would call an open book. I don't even have a synopsis on my dustcover. I'm almost certain my coworkers think I'm an elitist bitch, with how closed off and utterly to myself I am. And it's not that I don't care, it's that if I allow myself to care at all, with everything weighing on me right now, I think I would fly apart into a million irretrievable pieces. So, yeah...I mean, this letter is a pretty clear testament to why I generally choose not to talk to people about anything going on in my life. Because it's just too damn much.

Now I'm really sorry. I've just emotionally vomited all over you, and I'm tempted to chuck this copy and start afresh, but...frankly, I'm tired of redacting my life. This anonymity is permission to be the rawest version of myself. If you want to peace out after reading my angsty ramblings, I'll more than understand. And if not, well, you're a stronger man than I anticipated.

I take it you're persistent, hmm? Excellent guesses, many of them. I'm loving the enthusiasm, keep up the good work! But really? It should be clear based on my vocabulary alone that I couldn't possibly be a Kari or a Karli. It's almost insulting, actually. Oh, Alex. And I thought you were perceptive!

Don't be so dramatic. Your given name couldn't possibly be that terrible. And it begins with an R, if I'm remembering correctly? Don't tell me. Rasputin? Rachmaninov? Reginald? Roderick? If it's any of those, I can understand the name change. My condolences on your misfortune! Playgrounds must have been horrifying places for you. Children can be so cruel.

But you have one, Randal, so I guess you know! What is she like, this precocious daughter?

Surprisingly, despite my general avoidance of close relationships and intimate heart-to-hearts, I've...enjoyed this, too. So no, I don't mind writing. And thank you again for the book. Having it back in my possession means more than I can say.

'Til next time, Rufus!

Sincerely,

K. 'Not Karli' Beckett

He laughed once, a little desperately, and raked a hand through his hair as he lowered the letter to his lap.

Oh, god. He was in so deep.

He'd started a reply, but got a call from Paula that had sidetracked him, and then inspiration for his next chapter had struck. Before he knew it, the day was gone, it was 3:00 in the morning, and Alexis was coming home the next day. And then, of course, Alexis' apocalyptic illness hit and he was emotionally blackmailed into attending this hellish gala, and now he was standing in a corner, sweaty, itchy, cranky, and wishing he was at home with his kid, who, thank god was on the rebound.

Wishing he was writing a letter instead of working to maintain this cheesy semblance of a smile.

Tugging irritably at his collar, he turned to the buffet table, popped a whole tart in his mouth, pirouetted on his heel, and came face to face with, oh god, the hot blonde.

"Hello," she smiled coolly up at him, extending a hand expectantly, "your mother pointed you out to me-Martha Rodgers? I'm Gina Cowell, and I was wondering if I could have a word with you, Mr. Castle. I'd love to talk about your novels and a partnership that may prove mutually beneficial."

It was well past midnight by the time Rick made it back to the loft, voice hoarse, head pounding from the raucous laughter and shrill conversation. Rina was curled cat-like on his couch, her petite frame swathed in blankets, intently watching some Law & Order spinoff type show, and greeted him with a soft hello and sleepy smile. She quietly told him about her evening with Alexis, shyly accepted the generous bundle of bills he offered her, and slipped out the door to her father's waiting car.

This evening had been...interesting. To say the very least. Gina Cowell's persistence was admirable, and she had this delicate, icy beauty that he could appreciate aesthetically, but...for all her outward charms, she didn't particularly appeal to him. For whatever reason. Maybe it was her flat affect, her artificial smile, the fish-like quality to her eyes. He wasn't certain.

She'd made it more than clear she was interested-pressed her business card into his hand meaningfully, gave him a pointed look, followed it up with a breathy "feel free to call me"-but his interest was solely contained to her professional abilities. And nothing more. He had the feeling that Gina was all about appearances, that maybe the perfect front she took such obvious pains to maintain was the extent of her substance. And that perfection made her beautiful, but untouchable. Not his type.

He was more interested in deeply wounded, surprisingly sarcastic, intensely mysterious Stanford graduates with a penchant for campy Rick Castle novels.

Speaking of which...

He wandered into the haven of his office, his tension dissipating as he waded into the silence and the dim orange light cast by his banker's lamp. K. Beckett's letters lay beneath a spherical paperweight on his desk, his fountain pen and stationary in a neat pile beside that. A smile brightened his features and he settled into his chair with a contented sigh.

He had a letter to write.

A/N:

Wow, you guys are really blowing me away with your response to this fic! This idea is proving to be such a joy to explore and write, and I hope I'm doing the concept and characters justice. My schedule is rather free at the moment, which has allowed for a lot of literary productivity, but I expect life to pick up pretty drastically in the next few weeks. Enjoy the frequent updates while you can, and please bear with me when the wait is more substantial! I'm humbled that you're still reading and look forward to hearing your thoughts on this latest chapter.

Up next...we finally hear from K. Beckett firsthand.