Chapter 5: I Will Wait

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

It was day six of what was proving to be a near interminable wait, and he was doing what he could to distract himself. Six days since that scraggly Eminem-wannabe had confirmed the successful delivery of Renoir's bouquet to Kate—who was, purportedly, a real "dime piece"—and despite his letter, despite the not-so-subtle inclusion of his personal number, she hadn't replied. Which...wasn't necessarily indicative of anything negative in relation to the two of them. Right now, her world was comprised of work, sleep, and damage control. He understood that perfectly, and what's more, he respected her for sacrificing so much of herself on the altar of family.

No, it wasn't that he begrudged Kate her recent absence or prioritization of time, it's that he was harboring the insidious fear that he'd royally screwed himself over. Or rather, jeopardized this slowly blossoming relationship.

Every letter received, every insight gained into Kate's complicated inner-workings, had only served to validate what he had predicted from the very start—she was a fawn. Or maybe a colt? No, she just seemed like a fawn to him. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Point being, she was skittish. To earn her trust meant exhibiting an undue amount of delicacy and caution, traits he did not historically embody, although for her sake, he was willing to put in the work.

Honestly, he thought he'd done remarkably well at maintaining appropriate boundaries, patiently allowing the passage of time and the power of words to work their combined magic, waiting for her to warm to the idea of something more than a pen-and-paper relationship. Yeah, he could do that. He could find contentment in their mysterious exchange, and what's more, the method of communication profoundly appealed to his writer's side. This was good. It was enough, he had decided.

That is, until her last letter arrived.

Maybe it was because he was a father—knew what it was to want to shield Alexis from every potential for pain, knew without a doubt that he would stop at nothing to protect her—that Kate's wounded words, her obvious heartbreak cut him so deeply. His first impulse had been to throw caution to the wind, to hail a cab and just show up at her apartment unannounced, uninvited. But his rational side—however small—assured him his intrusion would be far from welcome. She was grieving, struggling just to make it through the day in all likelihood, and the presence of a relative stranger would only serve to complicate things for her. The idea was as tempting as it was stupid. But he could wait, could bide his time, avoid spooking her unduly.

Put in the work, Rick.

So, barring a face-to-face visit, his options were…what exactly? He knew where she lived, but little else beyond that in regards to contact information. No phone number, no email address, no clue where she worked. He wanted to alleviate her suffering, to intercede, if only for a moment, between Kate and the overwhelming pressures of self-assumed duty. Why he felt so compelled, he had no real explanation. But he did, inexplicably, and he decided to follow that intuition to its natural end. Wherever it took him.

In the immediate sense, it took him to his local florist. White-haired Vance was a very kind, very gay octogenarian, well-versed in botany and romance, and Rick trusted his judgment implicitly.

A visit to Vance had yielded amazingly creative results, but only after an exhaustive conversation on the merits of one Kate Beckett—her personality, her tastes, the sparing details to which he was privy. It actually depressed him a bit, how little he knew of her. It was almost as though they had done this whole thing in reverse, divulging intimacies and closely held grievances first, and saving the trivialities for later. What, he wondered, was her favorite color? Flavor of ice cream? Did she even like ice cream? Did she favor passion or practicality? Prefer cats or dogs? Or was she a fish person? What bands did she follow? What were her musical tastes? Did she play an instrument? A sport? He knew she read, knew her late relative's novel and genre of choice, but nothing of her literary tastes. And it was just…well, it was unconventional. Somehow, unaccountably, it worked for them. But he was looking forward to unearthing more of her foibles. Exploring her strata.

In the end, Vance had encouraged him to play to his strengths—romance, mystery, and wit. Drawing on the stories Rick had related, Vance crafted a beautiful bouquet modeled after a stunning Renoir still-life—Flowers on a Marble Table or something along those very literal lines—promising the inside joke would make her laugh, the kind gesture would touch her, and the clever combination of the two would prove to be, in a word, enchanting.

Okay, calm down, Vance. He wasn't trying to underhandedly charm his way into her life, he was just…trying to make her smile. Based on what she had written of herself, he felt sure she didn't do that enough.

After shelling out an uncomfortable sum of money for the arrangement—and a substantial additional fee for what he was assured would be a persistent delivery boy—he proceeded to make a purchase from an extortionate chocolatier, traveled from there to his apartment, obtained his hastily scrawled letter, and finally returned to Vance's shop, entrusting the chocolate and the missive to his care.

And after that…well, it was a waiting game. Crossing his fingers, saying a prayer, engaging his mind and filling his time to keep himself from obsessing. She…well, she was worth waiting for. And surprisingly, the edge of suspense was producing some pretty fantastic written work. Or so said Gina, who he appreciated professionally if not personally.

He was actually on his way back from a lunch meeting with the ice queen herself—from discussing timelines and due dates; from hashing over the information she'd gleaned from the design team, compositors, production crew, and marketing personnel in regards to his prospective Derek Storm installment. The promotional materials Black Pawn had released were creating quite a stir. Fans were buzzing, urging them to move up the publication date. Itching for their next Rick Castle fix.

"The outlook", she'd crowed, raising her Bloody Mary in a mock salute, looking formidable in a glaring, white sheath dress, "is brilliant! People are saying you're the next Patterson—but with sex appeal and better hair. This'll top all the lists, just you watch, Rick. Paula already has TV and radio spots lined up, a half dozen book tours in major cities…you're on the fast track for real success!"

He'd bristled a bit at that. "Having already made the Times Bestseller list—on numerous occasions, I might add—I think it's safe to say I've achieved at least a modicum of success." But she'd waved off his irritation, laughed flippantly, and launched into her grand vision for him and the Storm franchise, droning on tirelessly as he ate an entire basket of bread to stave off boredom. And also to keep himself from making snarky comments. Bread was great for that.

And now? Now he was making his way down Broome Street, subdued from his conversation with Gina, glad to be nearly home. It wasn't that he disliked the idea of a meteoric rise to literary distinction—in fact, it had been one of his long-standing, seemingly improbable fantasies for…well, as long as he'd been writing. Surrounded by glamorous women, his name a household fixture, tantalizing anatomy proffered for autographs, money to burn. It all sounded luxurious, like everything he thought he'd ever wanted.

But to reach that pinnacle, were the sacrifices really worth it?

For starters, his relationship with Alexis was bound to suffer. Leaving her alone for weeks at a time, entrusted to the care of others, missing out on pivotal milestones and quiet moments no one would remember or treasure but him…the idea alone had his stomach in knots. He'd done national book tours before, of course, but Alexis had been young enough to come along. Once he'd enrolled her in kindergarten, he'd insisted on keeping his book tours and signings confined to New York and its bordering states. He was performing well enough that Black Pawn had grudgingly agreed, but that was all pre-Gina.

If that wasn't enough, there was the increased pressure to perform, further diminished protection of privacy, and of course, the pleasure of always second-guessing the motives of everyone around him. Was it his money prompting their flattery, their attention? Did they see him at all? Or were they enticed by the promise of glamour, the exotic lifestyle he represented? Unanswerable questions, he knew. But if there was one thing he missed from his starving artist days, it was that—incontrovertibly genuine friendships.

Home at last, he shook off his maudlin thoughts and went upstairs to relieve his mother, who had graciously agreed to watch Alexis for the afternoon. The loft was abnormally quiet as he entered, doffing his blazer and flipping the lock behind him. Were they in Alexis' room? He announced his arrival and was a little surprised to see Martha emerge from the interior of his office. She leaned against the doorway, her expression inscrutable, and then wordlessly held out his bundle of Kate's letters.

Oh. Well, this should be interesting.

"Richard," she arched a copper eyebrow imposingly, "Who is K. Beckett?"

"Snooping again, Mother?" He sniped defensively, which, judging by the indignant light in Martha's eyes, may not have been his wisest approach.

"I was searching for batteries, which you apparently neglect to keep on hand, at least anywhere predictable. Alexis has some electronic book—toy—"

"Her Leap Pad," he provided helpfully.

"Don't interrupt me, Richard," she reproved, "but yes, I suppose it was her Leap Pad. And she said she didn't know where they might be, and you didn't have batteries in any of the kitchen drawers or in the table in the entryway, so I assumed you must keep them in your office. But instead of double A's, I found these. And now I'm curious, because…well, K. Beckett sounds like quite the mystery."

"Does she?" Rick hedged, settling warily on the edge of his couch. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't this—frank interest and suppressed anticipation. Maybe even the beginnings of a smile.

"Subtlety has never been your byword, darling. You have a surfeit of marvelous traits—creativity, fierce intellect, lovely eyes, a scintillating wit…you're also quite adept at jumping to conclusions," she simpered pointedly, and he felt about two inches tall, "—but not secrecy. Never secrecy. Until, that is," she held up the envelopes meaningfully, "K. Beckett. Why haven't you mentioned this? Your correspondence? And don't fret, I haven't read beyond the return address."

There was no condemnation in her inquiry or expression, simply curiosity. And maybe that was why he decided to tell her about Kate, felt like his mother might be an invaluable co-conspirator in this mission, in helping him navigate foreign waters. It was one thing to draw on the expertise of Vance, to petition Sherri Traeger for help—who, he winced inwardly, deserved a bouquet herself—but it was another thing entirely to have a real life confidante. His hesitation in telling her, or anyone, had been born of selfishness, primarily—the idea of covert missives vastly appealed to the romantic in him—but it was also a bid for…success? Was that the right sentiment?

It's just…the more interference he received, the greater probability something would go awry. If it's not broke, don't fix it, right? Not that he'd run a formal risk analysis, or knew his assumption to bear any validity, it was simply a…gut reaction. An unfounded presupposition. Kate was private, she clearly valued confidentiality, and he doubted if she would appreciate him sharing the details of her life with others. Divulging the details of her letters felt like a betrayal to him.

Well…and part of him was fearful of the criticism he might suffer. Because it did sound outlandish—reaching out to a total stranger, volleying emotionally charged letters back and forth, sending his pen pal extravagant floral arrangements—he was aware. It was wildly unconventional. But it seemingly worked for them, and he wanted it to keep working.

"Well," he hummed, "a variety of reasons, really. Mostly because by keeping this quiet, it preserved the mystery. Because she is. Like you said. Quite—quite the mystery."

Martha nodded sagely, glided from the doorway to a seat opposite him, and folded her hands expectantly. Talk, her pose demanded, so he did.

"It just…happened. On that trip to the Hamptons. Maybe a month ago? Meredith had cancelled their Disney trip," he told her lowly, "and I was doing everything I could think of to cheer her up."

"That woman is an inspiration…" Martha muttered scathingly, "for a fictitious victim in a future novel. Murder-for-hire never looked so appealing."

"I should probably be scandalized, but I'm inclined to agree with you. I pulled out all the stops that week, starting with a preparatory trip to that little used book store off of I-495—Second Time Around. I thought…I don't know. She loves reading, kind of loses herself in the stories, same as me, and I thought it might be—"

"A panacea of sorts," Martha sighed.

"Exactly. And while she was busy browsing I—and yes, I know this sounds pathologically narcissistic, so please reserve your judgments for the end—started flipping through a battered copy of A Rose for Everafter. Which, I saw, was previously owned by a K. Beckett who had apparently been in attendance at Stanford. And the further I looked through the book, the more I saw—dozens of annotations, underlined passages, insightful comments in the margins."

"In A Rose for Everafter?" Asked Martha incredulously, because, after all, she'd read the book.

"Yeah," he barked out a laugh, "yeah, I know. Of all the books, right? Campy, sensationalized, horrifically melodramatic…apparently it belonged to someone close to her, someone she lost. And in analyzing the text, in dissecting the lines of what was supposedly their favorite book, she was paying homage to their memory."

"And has K. Beckett explained how such a seemingly precious memento ended its days on a dusty shelf?"

"Mistakenly, as a matter of fact," he rushed to explain, unduly feeling the need to defend Kate in absentia. "Lost due to the carelessness of someone else. Granted, I didn't know whether or not she was even interested in getting it back until after I'd contacted her, but…suffice to say, she was elated. Said having it back was…that it helped. Assuage the pain of her loss."

His mother was oddly introspective—a woman of many words choosing taciturnity. After a beat of comfortable silence, she tilted her head, gave him an inscrutable look. "And this K. Beckett is…well, what are they to you?"

"A friend," he said simply.

Liar.

Martha seemed to think so, too, judging by her disbelieving expression.

"A female friend?"

"Well…yes," he admitted grudgingly, and met Martha's searching gaze boldly, daring her to push back.

"Whom you've never before met?" She forged ahead.

"No, mother, I've never met her. Never spoken to her, either. At least, not face-to-face." He conveniently left out the fact that he'd given her his phone number. "Letters are…well, they're our thing. And it's been refreshing, talking to someone without the imposition of…other factors—no awkward icebreakers, no labels, no physicality to distract from emotional growth, and no playboy reputation to discount."

"Wait," she said sharply, her blue eyes piercing, "Richard, are you telling me K. Beckett doesn't know she's writing to you? To the author of the book she loved and lost and regained?"

"Umm…that would…be correct."

Oh, she looked pretty pissed.

"What on earth would possess you to deceive that poor girl?"

"I didn't do it maliciously!" He snapped, marginally stung, "I just…I wanted a little normalcy, mother. I wanted something that started on equal footing! How pretentious would it have sounded, receiving a letter from Rick Castle—'I found your copy of my book in a secondhand store, and I know you couldn't possibly have meant to discard such a literary treasure, so here, allow me to graciously restore it to your possession'?"

"But that is what you did, isn't it?" She threw up her hands, eyebrows reaching for her hairline.

"Well, yes…but my intention wasn't…it wasn't self-serving. In returning the book. Or at least, not entirely. I just…mother, there were hours of annotations in that book. And it just…felt like a mistake. That it was there. Everything she wrote was so personal, so unfiltered. And then when I was writing to her, I wanted that for myself, too. Selfishly. I wanted her to see me for me. Not the reputed skirt-chaser, not the idiot who stole a police horse in the nude, not the guy who manages to botch every serious relationship, not the wealthy, immature asshat persona the tabloids love to exploit, just…me. Before all the glamour and fame."

His mother's ire was gone, something gentler taking its place. Her eyes were soft and suspiciously glossy, and he swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable beneath her scrutiny. "Well, then. Okay," she murmured pensively.

"Okay?" He repeated, a little disbelieving. Was that all?

"Okay. I understand. And I do hope you'll be careful, refrain from hurling yourself headlong into this. I would hate to see you heartbroken. But…I respect your decisions, trust that you know what you're doing in this—despite being clueless in everything else," she teased lightly.

He laughed then, mirthlessly, twisting his mouth grimly, "I appreciate the note of confidence, but I'm not so sure. I think…I may have jumped the gun." At her questioning glance, he continued. "A week ago, she shared with me that her father had ended up in the hospital. A result of—what can only be described—as heartbreaking circumstances. And I…was my usual, gung-ho self. Sent her flowers from Vance, a pricey bar of chocolate, an encouraging note. And my phone number. Which, I think, is where I went wrong. Too much too soon."

"You do tend to overwhelm people, dear," she conceded with a shrug.

"Yes, well…now I'm at a loss. Do I send a note and apologize for being so…overzealous? Or does that seem too high-maintenance? Like I'm hovering, anticipating a quick response when she's dealing with an all-consuming crisis? Do I just wait and let her make the next move? I'm just…I don't—I don't want to mess this up."

Martha regarded him solemnly, heaved a sigh, and rose fluidly to her feet. She came to stand before him and gently placed her hands against his jaw, bracketing his face. It melted something in him, this tenderness, this show of physical affection she so rarely exhibited.

"Either way," she told him quietly, "I think the best approach is an apology. You may not know where you misstepped, if you misstepped, but acknowledging the fact that you have a propensity to jump first and think later may go a long way toward explaining your motives. That you meant to help, not to hurt. That your intention was to offer, and not to pressure.

"Ever since I can remember—starting from your playground days, really—you've taken on the role of protector, willingly volunteered—or forced—your services as a white knight, especially in matters of the heart. But not every woman wants a man to solve her problems for her, to intercede on her behalf. Many times, we prefer someone who is willing to listen patiently, to comfort us if need be, and trust that we are capable of effectively managing our own lives."

She paused, taking just a beat to collect her thoughts, then continued warmly. "So I want to commend you, darling. Because that's what you've done here. You…offered your support, recognized that she was hurting, and then gracefully backed away. Perhaps the phone number was a bit much, but I don't see that scaring her off. At least not permanently. Just…promise to keep that in mind, moving forward. To not be the white knight. Be her friend instead. A faithful presence. Her champion. And she will thank you for it."

My God, he thought, throat tight with emotion as she folded him into her embrace. He really did love his mother.

In the end, he decided to send an update. Something to let her know he was thinking of her, and to, yes, selfishly remind her of his existence. Gentle persistence was key, he reasoned, in gaining the trust of his fawn-like friend.

Just keep showing up, Rick.

So, that's what he did, dashing off another letter. One he hoped would mollify any anxieties that had issued from his previous note.

Dear Kate,

Ever since I gave my letter to that douchey delivery boy, I've been swimming in regret. Regret because I'm fearful I managed to scare you off in the space of what was intended to be a consolatory note. If you ever have need of me, feel free to use my phone number. But please—please—don't feel like I'm placing any expectations on you. If you would prefer letter writing to the exclusion of all other forms of communication, consider me amenable! Acquiescent. In the vernacular, I'm down for whatever you want or need. So don't worry you'll offend me or chase me off—I'm here to stay.

How is your father recovering? And what of yourself? I would be remiss if I didn't ask, but please don't feel as though I require a detailed response. So long as I know you're doing okay, I'll be content. You say you're closed off, a bit of an isolationist, and so I hope you've reached out to someone you actually know. Not through letters, but out in the big, wide, bustling real world. You're strong and capable, and I have no doubt you're equal to the task of healing in your own strength. But, it helps. Having someone to listen to you, suffer with you. Regardless of how much you tell them relating to your current circumstances—whether it's the surface details alone, or the painful marrow of the situation—the support is healthy. It's good. And I hope you have that in someone.

On my end? Well…where to start?

The professional: I recall mentioning that I deal with books in my line of work—although I'll omit the particulars for the sake of continued anonymity. Today I met with a business associate, and we discussed what has the potential to be an incredibly lucrative opportunity. Highly beneficial from multiple perspectives, this development should thrill me. But I'm less than enthused. Primarily because of how I see it impacting my daughter. In order to secure this deal, I would be forced to spend weeks at a time away from her, and it's…a depressing thought to say the least. Ironically, she's the reason I do what I do—to give her the best, brightest, most dependable life I can. And now, the nature of my job could prevent me from being with her. Go ahead, accuse me of being histrionic, a "helicopter dad", clingy. But I think it's so critical…being there for her. I'm working on an alternative, because right now, that eventuality is simply unacceptable. I may work with books, but I am a dad, and I'll choose my daughter every time.

The personal: Please don't freak out, but my mother found your stash of letters. She didn't read the contents, but she did see your name on the return address and proceeded to subject me to a thoroughly grueling interrogation. I was pretty tight-lipped in regards to details, but I did share enough to pacify her—how long we'd been corresponding, that you were going through a difficult time, the state of affairs that gave rise to our reciprocal communication, our tentative friendship (?), but little more than that. I sincerely hope this isn't a point of concern for you, and if it is, allow me to preemptively apologize! The last thing I want to do is betray your trust, especially when I know it's so stintingly given.

Beyond those events, nothing else to report! At least nothing pivotal in nature.

Also—given the circumstances surrounding my last missive, the chaos of your life and the massive stress you were under, I didn't bring up your name. But…Kate. It suits you. Short for Katherine, I presume? Don't tell me. It's irrelevant. You're Kate, and reading your name…it was like something settled into place. I should have know you would be a Kate—strong but feminine, direct but lyrical, classy but undeniably cool. Thank you for entrusting me with it, your name.

So, at long, long last, I'm elated to finally say…it's a pleasure to meet you, Kate Beckett.

You're in my thoughts.

Alex

He scanned it for errors, folded it into an envelope, and dropped it in the post box. Hopeful for the first time in days.

He really was too precipitate, he thought, annoyed with himself. The mail had arrived this afternoon, the very next day, in fact—hot on the heels of his apologetic, explanatory message—and lo and freaking behold, what did he find? A letter. From Kate.

He was an idiot. A panicky fool. But that's what she did to him. Panicked him. Flustered him and enthralled him and consumed his thoughts. He loved it. He hated it.

As soon as he made it back upstairs, he positioned himself on a barstool, propped his elbows on the kitchen island, and hungrily devoured her words.

Alex,

Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about you—didn't I promise faithfulness in the closing of my last letter?—I've just been inundated with work. Trying to make up the hours I lost over the course of this past, chaotic week entailed all-nighters, missed meals, and excessive amounts of dry shampoo, which left no time for letter-writing. Until now.

At the moment, I'm comfortably ensconced in my favorite easy chair, a Miles Davis' vinyl crackling away, a steaming French press of espresso and a chipped mug in front of me—prime composition conditions. My goal is to write you a response as meaningful and memorable as your previous reply, which was, in a word, moving. And it did help, hearing from you. Knowing somewhere, someone cares, regardless of distance or convenience or the corporeality of the relationship—it helps. So, thank you.

And speaking to the nature of our relationship, would you be unduly hurt if we kept our communication to only letters for now? I think I need simplicity and honesty, both, and the letters…well, they provide that in spades.

In writing, I have the ability to tap into emotions that prove inaccessible otherwise, emotions that would be too painful, too raw to express verbally. There's an inherent safety in the written word. Spoken words…there's no editing them, no altering what's been uttered. But writing? There's this beautiful dichotomous quality to writing—I can articulate my feelings fully while still having the freedom and safety to adjust, to eliminate, to polish words and phrases. It appeals to the perfectionist in me. And perhaps I'm cowardly, choosing not to call you. But it's not 'no' in perpetuity, it's only a no for now. I promise. I just need a little more…time. To adjust? To commit? I don't know what word applies, don't know how to label…this thing we have. But I like it. Like you. Don't go anywhere, please. Bear with me for just a little longer? And I'll continue writing, continue healing, continue…adjusting.

Despite his injuries and issues—which are manifold—my dad is slowly, steadily making improvements. I helped him find a local AA group and set up an appointment with a counselor specializing in substance abuse. And then I backed away. I distanced myself. Because the rest is up to him, and before I put myself out there, make myself vulnerable yet again, I need some sort of…proof of life, so to speak. Which makes it sound as though I'm holding my affections ransom. And maybe I am. Is there anything wrong with that? There have been so many false starts to his recovery and so many consequent relapses, I can no longer trust his claims to sobriety. So I'm…waiting. For him to prove himself, to make good on his promises. To see results. And then maybe, maybe, we can commence rebuilding this thing he shattered. Time will tell.

Also, can I just say how impressed I was by the bouquet and chocolate? Historically, I've never been a fan of flowers—primarily because they die, and I find it depressing to throw away something given in love—but yours? It hit all the right notes. Couched in private humor, appealing to my artistic sensibilities, and featuring the most sumptuous peonies I've ever seen. It made me smile, and the chocolate provided a much-needed boost of endorphins. Thank you. For seeking to comfort me remotely.

You mentioned a while back that you deal in the book business—which sounds exotic and appealing. What drew you to the industry? Does your profession fulfill you personally the way, I'm certain, you hoped it would? From my earliest memories, I was a self-proclaimed literary enthusiast, and my love of words has only grown with time. Which is why I'm so intrigued by your work! I'm interested to know more, depending on what you feel comfortable sharing. And in return, I'll willingly divulge the particulars of my own profession. Quid pro quo, Rameses.

I like this thing we have—labels or no—and I'm grateful to you, for taking a risk where others would not and contacting a total stranger. You're a rarity, you and your letters, in a world of sameness. A bright spot. And I'm grateful.

Sincerely,

Kate

P.S

I'm not married. Why would you think I was married? Do I sound married?

A smile—the genuine, kind that showed teeth and crinkled his eyes—broke over his face as he restored her letter to its envelope. He couldn't seem to stop, in fact. The happiness just spilled out of him, pushing through his seams. Uncontainable. She was, he decided, extraordinary. And phone call or no, she considered him a rarity, a bright spot, and that was enough to sustain him for now. For her, he could wait.

He would wait.

A/N:

Another long one, not as much action as I would have like, and I'm honestly not entirely sure how I feel about it. But here it is, nonetheless.
Guys, this story is destroying my life—I've never been particularly social to begin with, but this fic has rendered the little that did exist entirely defunct. There is only More Than Words. MTW. Emteedubs. And coffee. So much coffee. Also, apparently someone mentioned MTW on Twitter? That's...very legit. Thank you guys for all the reviews, favorites, and follows, and for supporting this story by continuing to read! I hope you enjoy this update!

For those interested, the actual title of the Renoir painting I referenced is "Bouquet of Flowers in a Green Vase".

Up next...Kate confides in a real world friend and continues her correspondence with Alex.