Chapter 7: Revelation

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

Following his confession, Rick had made a resolution. To write her faithfully every day, each letter by it's inherent nature a reminder of his existence, his perseverance, his trustworthiness. Well, that last trait was, he knew, decidedly specious. He also knew he should have come clean on all counts—should have revealed not only his deception, but his legal name as well. Though selfishly, he was glad that to a limited extent he refrained, opted to break it to her by degrees. Judging from the glacial silence on her side, telling her collectively would have been an even more significant misstep than the one he'd already made.

Every morning, he pulled himself from the alluring cocoon of his down comforter a full thirty minutes early, time he allocated to crafting Kate's letters. They followed a pattern with invariable predictability—a compendious apology followed by a lengthy personal discourse detailing a secret. A dark memory he'd, until now, relegated to the back of his mind. If she felt betrayed, as he surmised she did, he wanted to try and level the playing field. Recalibrate the relational dynamics so they were on equal footing. And if fixing what was broken between them meant disclosing private affairs he thought would never see the light of day, he was willing. More than prepared to do that for her. To peel back layers of himself for her inspection. If like inspired like, he hoped his honesty would draw out her own show of faith—would prompt her to reinitiate contact.

Because not hearing from her, not knowing the extent of the damage he'd inflicted? It was killing him. Whatever it took to reaffirm his constancy, his honesty to her? He would do it. No questions asked. All he wanted was to reel back the weeks, days, hours to their time in the Hamptons and that initial letter and his moment of misguided self-preservation. But he couldn't. So in lieu of changing the course of history, he wrote. Letters upon letters upon letters. If he wrecked this with his words, he would fix it with his words as well. He was nothing if not resourceful.

Seven days had passed since he anxiously dropped his revelatory letter in the post. Preempting her reaction to his news, he wrote another the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Letters ad nauseum. They weren't overlong—minus the repetition of his apology, that is. Most didn't even exceed a page. But they all contained something closely held, something rare and principally unvoiced, even if not all intrinsically profound in nature.

Six secrets, so far. Six chances to remedy this. Time would tell.

July 10, 2003

Kate,

Honestly, after the receipt of my last letter, I harbor doubts you'll even open this one much less read it. But as evidenced by my—what I fear you will perceive as—malicious deception, my judgment could clearly use some work. So here's hoping you prove me wrong. You've been surprising me since your first letter, extraordinary woman that you are, and I expect no less from you moving forward.

If you're as hurt by my confession as I'm anticipating, I need to make it right, need to mend the brokenness I inflicted, and I find my reparative options to be…limited at best. I damaged this relationship through secrecy, and if you'll allow it, I'd like to restore it through honesty. Through raw divulgences. If you've found it in you to read this far, thank you. And please, please soldier on a little longer. Let me try to fix this. Fix us the best way I know how—with a story.

One…

Her name was…well, for the sake of her anonymity, I'll prune it down to initials only—her name was K.B. and I met her my sophomore year at NYU in the reference section of the library. She was wearing Chanel No. 5, pearl earrings, and an air of self-certainty that drew me in magnetically—she was everything I wanted to be, the physical manifestation of my aspirations for success, and…infinitely more. Witty, passionate, glamorous, brilliant, and challenging…falling for her was simple, natural. Our days were spent holed up in drafty cafes and musty bookstores, discussing fine literature and foreign culture; picnicking on egg sandwiches and cheap wine in the foliage of Washington Square Park; nights spent nominally studying and drinking massive quantities of hot cocoa. Trying, and mostly succeeding, to integrate the inclinations and abilities of people from two very different worlds. If she was Cinderella, I was certainly the stable boy. But despite the glaring differences between us, things were playing out beautifully. In the equalizing environs of college life, it was easy to disregard her familial affluence, that she came from something very like American nobility while I was as meritocratic as they came and penniless to boot.

That is, until the night we met her parents at La Grenouille, an opulent French venue for which I had carefully set aside funds. At more than a hundred dollars a plate, a simple entree on my student budget—sans wine, mind you—would restrict my meals to ramen and eggs for the week to come. A sacrifice willingly given, but which my pride dictated I conceal from her. There was more cutlery, flatware, and hollowware than I had ever conceived existed, much less knew how to wield; my knowledge of table manners was limited to placing the fine linen napkin in my lap and chewing with my mouth closed; and I boasted a far greater fluency in Klingon than French. In short, the night was destined to be an unmitigated disaster.

Uncomfortable and leagues out of my depth, I pulled out all the stops, engaged every personal coping mechanism in my arsenal, and came off as pretentious. Arrogant. An ass of the first water. Retrospectively I think that night marked the beginning of the end for our previously effortless relationship. K.B. was furious, humiliated, and based on the events of the night, her parents despised me. Rightfully so, though of the two, her mother's reasons bore more substance. She felt my character to be lacking while Mr. B's primary concern was my destitute financial state. We tried to make a go of it, despite their obvious disapproval, did what we could to meet in the middle, to assimilate worlds. But we only succeeded in slowly growing farther apart, developing more resentments. Our differences were too significant at the time, it felt—magnified by her parents' constant condemnation—and we were too young to know how to fix it.

When she told me she was leaving, moving to England, needed her space, it was oddly relieving. Freeing. So much so, I felt guilty. She left for the airport in the middle of a rainstorm, and there was a moment when everything in me surged forward, urging me to chase down the town car, to go after her despite our problems and her parents' antagonism. To pursue her. But I didn't. Was I seeing it—our fractured relationship—through realistic eyes, or was I simply too fearful, too apathetic to try? There's a part of me that wonders even now, late at night when sleep eludes me, if I missed out on the great love of my life. To talk about her, to think of those final moments, is to resurrect deep regret, unremitting disquiet, and this soft, deep pain from…missing her still. Or at the very least, the lovely idea of her.

I never talk about K.B. Not even to my mother, with whom I discuss everything. But I feel as though this is…pertinent. You should know about it. About her. And how it changed me.

Also—though maybe I shouldn't draw attention to such an inconsequential aberration—I find it rather mystifyingly auspicious…your name, her name. Both of you, K.B. Both remarkable. Both wounded at my hand. I made the wrong choice, not following K.B. to England, not pursuing her, mending her. I severely miscalculated, I know that now. But with you, Kate, I refuse to replicate past events. You, this, us—it's come to mean too much for me to mutely bow out. To go quietly into the night. In this, I'm electing to do what I should have done nine years ago—vowing to unfailingly, unflaggingly show up.

He had signed off using his alter ego, wincing a little as he did. Wondering if she would take offense at the false name, if it would compound her irascibility. But that's who he was to her, and he just…didn't feel ready to be Castle yet. If she sought an answer, asked him right out who he was, he'd resolved to tell her, of course. But volunteer it? Not yet. Not now.

One secret at a time.

As with his prior missive, he launched into an apology that bled slowly into a story. A secret to tempt dispensation and contact from Kate.

July 11, 2003

Two…

Getting over K.B.—or limping around her, rather—involved a substantial number of parties, many bottles of tequila, horrifically squandered funds, and a succession of warm bodies to fill the void. It's not a time on which I care to dwell or regard with any nostalgia. I was struggling to find my footing again in the wake of K.B.'s absence and the despondency of shattered first love, and my coping skills were fledgling at best. So I self-medicated, hoping to find something approaching solace, but acquiring instead only more regrets.

It was in this vulnerable state that I made the acquaintance of a vivacious, flighty redhead who would, unbeknownst to me utterly alter the misguided course of my existence. M.H.—again, for privacy's sake, I'm opting for the exclusive use of initials—swept me off my feet with all the destructive force of a category five hurricane. Literally and figuratively. When I first encountered her at some vampy, rave-like party, on the cusp of an epileptic fit from the liberal use of strobe lighting, I was off-balance from K.B.'s unpleasant departure and an excessive number of shots. M.H. was all ebullience and flirtation, a bewitching distraction from my regrets, and when she drunkenly collided with me at that soiree it set into motion a rapid cascade of events, all culminating in an impetuous, shotgun-style wedding. Five months later, I held my daughter for the first time. And serenaded by her warbling cries, unconfidently cradling her featherlight weight, I felt my fragmented pieces slip neatly into place. In the space of a moment, I fell passionately, irrevocably, profoundly in love; realized for the first time home was a person, not a location. Everything had changed. I was a father, and that designation gave new meaning to my life.

My career afforded me the freedom to act as her primary caretaker, a role which was as cherished as it was requisite. M.H., for all her outward charms, was about as maternal as a cactus, more focused on her professional pursuits than the trivialities of motherhood. Feedings, diapers, colic, sleepless nights—all facets of childcare she firmly, wordlessly conferred to me. "They just aren't my thing" she inarguably rationalized when pressed, seemingly confounded by my anger. Perhaps flippant is the best way to describe her approach to parenting. She didn't intend to be negligent, wasn't willfully cruel, she was simply exceptionally selfish. And I would be lying if I said it didn't wear on me, that I didn't grow resentful toward her, passively inattentive as a husband in response to her absences and thoughtlessness. As the months wore on, what began as a passionate union devolved into a marriage in name alone, mutually bound only by our child and our reciprocal avoidance of one another.

I shouldn't have been surprised by what followed. Though, in what is a compelling testimony to my egotism, I was. Unexpectedly, my daughter and I returned from what I had intended to be a daylong outing, but a vomiting child dampens even the most enjoyable of trips. Shocking, I know. Covered in my daughter's breakfast, I made for my bedroom to change, bewildered by the trail of clothing that preceded me. Stupidly, I assumed M.H. was in the midst of doing laundry, although that would have been an extraordinary first for her. At the time, laundry was the only rationale my mind could conjure up, and when I stumbled into our master suite, all I could do was dumbly look on as my wife and her hard-bodied colleague writhed, moaned, twisted on our California King. Naked. I consider myself a fairly pacifistic man, generally not given to fits of anger or surges of temper, but after witnessing that…it was arguably the closest to real violence I've ever come. I was bellowing, my wife couldn't stop sobbing, and my daughter wailed piteously from the room beyond, trussed up in her costly stroller. Once she was capable of forming intelligible words, she quietly informed me she was leaving, wanted to go to Malibu to pursue her dreams, that this marriage had been a mistake. The next day, she was on a plane, and I was acclimatizing to a new normal—life as a truly single parent.

Infidelity is insidious. Having been on the receiving end of unfaithfulness, I can say with confidence that it has colored every relationship since. That once burned twice shy adage isn't merely a hackneyed aphorism, it's an accurate prediction of the fallout from betrayal. Entrusting myself, my heart wholly to others has proven problematic at best. Relationship-ending at worst. I've found it far easier to invest in superficial romances maintained through costly gifts and lavish outings, which fill the time, patch the wound, but don't come close to touching my closeted loneliness.

I understand betrayal, I do. And being well-acquainted with the consequent pain, I hope you know how sorry I am for my unintentional disloyalty.

Be well, Kate.

His next divulgence was brief, almost to the point of abruptness, his earnest sentiments requiring no further adornment

July 12, 2003

Three…

My greatest fear is failing my greatest gift—my daughter. If my career foundered, if my accounts ran dry, if my assets were seized, if my prominence withered, I would survive it. Survive the loss, survive the defeat. But my daughter? Inadequacy is unthinkable. As a single father, I've been forced to feel my way, and despite my best intentions, I feel laughably incompetent. inferior. Fraudulent, even. Especially in comparison to other, unabridged nuclear families with conventional fathers. Often, I feel this. Attending a prestigious academic institution, enrolled in a miscellany of private lessons, given all the advantages my money can afford, I like to think I've provided well for my daughter—but what the hell do I know? My upbringing was scattered, turbulent, far from ideal. Even grown and employed, I'm little more than carefully organized chaos. I'm a mess. And I'm raising a child. And I feel…unfit. Like she deserves more than what I'm capable of giving. More than I know what to give or how to give. And the doubt is constant. This quietly obtrusive thought, a prickling fear that dwells in every decision—what if you fail her?

July 13, 2003

Four…

Growing up, I always envied my classmates the predictability of their lives. The casual references they made to family outings, homemade dinners, and routine chores held an exotic appeal for me, but nothing beguiled quite so completely as the concept of fathers. Vague, mysterious, capable of amazing feats such as fixing leaky pipes and inoperative vehicles—I filled many boyhood hours fantasizing sensational scenarios in which I, at long last, met my absent father. Most of them involving espionage, the CIA, and spectacular gunfights, of course. But from what my mother has divulged—and granted, it's not much—he's likely none of the things I anticipated or craved as a child.

Over the years, I came to terms with my ignorance on the subject, and now…now I think I prefer that he remain in obscurity. My life is settled in a way that might not allow for such a principal familial addition. And at this point, I think it might be more painful, knowing the truth. If I allow myself to dwell on the matter, I can't help but speculate wildly. Does he know I even exist? And if he does, why hasn't he initiated contact? Does he have a family of his own? Perhaps he has no desire to meet me. Knowing the man, seeing the life he led apart from me, potentially meeting half-siblings with memories and privileges that should have also been mine, should have been shared…it doesn't seem pleasant. Isn't something I want. There are fleeting moments of curiosity that overtake me, but not enough to trigger an active search. Not enough to rattle the quasi-stability of our lives as they are at present. And does that hesitation, I wonder, make me self-reliant? Or merely a coward?

These. These are the reflections that plague me. Questions to which I incongruously both seek and fear answers—which admittedly makes them little more than stagnant thoughts, I know. I want to know my father. I fear who he is. I dread how the knowledge might change me.

What do I want? Honestly, I'm not certain.

July 14, 2003

Five…

An absent, nameless father wasn't the only peculiarity I encountered in my childhood. The nature of my mother's profession—in addition to single-parenthood—required a nanny. Or in my case. a long string of tipsy, inattentive women more interested in finding a soft spot to sleep than monitoring a small child. I'm not quite certain about the details of my mother's vetting process, have never asked for elaboration in fact. But if I had to hazard a guess I would speculate they met at a bar over martinis and any resulting camaraderie was seen as proof enough of their competence for childcare. Which…I realize sounds harsh, bitter. Being a single parent, I know personally how overwhelmingly involved, frighteningly difficult it is to raise a child alone. Having said that, I was also the neglected charge, and the idea of history repeating itself, the idea of entrusting my daughter's well-being to an individual that might or might not be good, might or might not do their job well…I refused. Because I know firsthand. That's not to say my nannies were malicious, they were merely careless, but I don't want that for my daughter.

My first nanny was named Tilda. She was British, originally from Shropshire, and given to a steady diet of gin and tonic. Despite all that, she was kind, fairly affable, and tolerant of my hyperactivity. She slept quite a bit, occasionally suffered from crying jags, but I don't remember much beyond that. When I was five, she left to become a secretary, or so I'm told, and Kim took her place. Beautiful Kim attended art school, gravitating toward works requiring bizarre additions such as babydoll heads, sharp objects, and broken glass. What began as a trip to the zoo or museum often reorganized itself to allow for impromptu dumpster diving. Mostly Kim performed the dirty work, although if the dumpster was deemed too high or too small, I was a defensible substitute. When I mentioned the adventurous new pastime to my mother, Kim was whisked away and Gloria arrived a few short days later. Gloria was arguably my favorite nanny, though the bar was never high to begin with. She didn't drink, or at least not to my knowledge, enjoyed knitting me ghastly excuses for sweaters, and most of all, loved taking me to the public library where I was free to explore while she snored quietly in a club chair. Books, I learned quickly, were a thrilling, sweeping escape. Physically bound to a single room, hemmed in by shelves and walls and ceilings and controlling nannies, I could slip into another world unreproved, could be anyone I wanted, go where I pleased. It was a liberating discovery, and the library soon became my oasis of choice. A child who was incapable of remaining still for anything else, my mother always expressed disbelief at my focus, my ability to read for hours without pause, even electively disregarding meals for something I saw as more substantive.

I've been on dates before where the question arose—"What's your favorite place in the world?"

And I've never given an honest response. Not once. Because I predicted confusion on their part at the very least, or worse yet, dismissal. But I think you understand the inherent value of books, the unearthly otherness ingrained in some words, characters, stories. How they transport you somewhere better than you presently are—mentally, physically, emotionally. They distract, but they also instruct, teaching hard truths, revealing facets of humanity integral to maturity, breaking your heart and then restoring it. So, I'll give you an honest reply. Even though you haven't asked.

The New York City Public Library. That's my favorite place.

July 15, 2003

Six…

After Gloria left things shifted—I was a newly-minted, fully-fledged teenager, what need had I of nannies? But despite the thrill of reaching the zenith of childhood—I don't think you grasp how utterly lucky I was to have survived to the tender age of thirteen—I hadn't fully appreciated Gloria until she was gone, until I was packed away to my first boarding school. The remainder of my adolescence was comprised of a succession of institutions that struggled to tolerate my general misconduct, but most significantly, my proclivity for fighting. So prolific were my issues that I attained a sort of infamy among the more elite boarding schools. Officials and professors roundly contemned me, though to be fair…I wouldn't have liked me either. I was a hellion. Blasé, rakish, with an utter abhorrence for authority that landed me in hot water more times than I care to recall. Despite my outward bravado, however, I privately craved acceptance. But with every look or word of disapproval, I contrarily, inexplicably increased in insolence. Fought more, mouthed off constantly, upping the ante—if they thought I was so bad, I would live up to those expectations.

Everyone viewed me as a lost cause, destined for prison or rehab or a non-AMA sanctioned biker gang, and I likely would have met those dismal predictions if not for an unanticipated, much-needed intervention. Mired in loneliness, feeling the sting of rejection, I fell back on what I knew, what was familiar—words. Writing my pain helped, pouring feelings onto paper proved cathartic, and on a whim, I sent my exposition to the school's literary magazine. Honestly, I didn't expect for it to come to anything, but there was a power in knowing I could share my thoughts, my feelings with others, no matter how small the audience. Damien, then-editor of the paper, requested a meeting the day following my submission much to my surprise and apprehension. But he…gave me what I needed. More than I could ever have projected. His words, his encouragement, his publication of my piece proved the spark that ignited a resultant fervency in me for literature, for words. It jettisoned me, that turn of events. Proved pivotal in the course of my life. In the brief space of a year, I developed from a hot-headed miscreant into a passionate, capable wordsmith, writing out what I felt as opposed to fighting it out.

Words saved me as a boy. Have proved a solace since. And I'm hoping they'll come to my aid yet again. Hoping they'll make right what's broken between you and I.

Swathed in a belted Burberry trench, running late as per usual, Rick dropped his sixth "secret letter" into the post as he swept out the door to the awaiting town car. They arrived at The White Horse Tavern more expediently than he'd anticipated, pulling him from his pensive thoughts.

Wending his way through the stuffy crush of bodies, he spied Robert Weldon ensconced in a booth, his fingers stroking a frosty stein of dark ale, smiling in welcome as Rick stepped into view.

"You," Weldon groused as Rick settled across from the mayor, "are late. I've had to fend off four pushy admirers who approached me with political inquiries, and two attempts at drunken photo ops. Next round's on you."

"Fair enough," Rick conceded solemnly, "although to be fair, you know me well enough by now to plan for my inevitable tardiness."

"You're saying it's my fault I was all but accosted?"

"Eh, heavily implying it, perhaps. And you know, the victim mentality looks great on you," Rick drawled, and Bob snorted, his dark eyes lightening in amusement.

"Ribbing aside, Rick, it's good to see you. Life picks up and before you know it, friends, good friends, are left in the proverbial dust. Collateral damage of a demanding career."

"I can relate to that sentiment. And it's good to see you, too. I've been…lonely sounds so maudlin. But, yeah. Lonely."

"Life as a single dad not the rousing adventure you expected?"

"No," he interjected hastily, trying to clarify his muddled thoughts, "being a father, raising Alexis, that's…it's my top priority. And she's great, you know—"

"You're lucky, she's a fantastic kid," he affirmed.

"Thanks. But despite tea parties, cookie decorating, Disney marathons, and incalculable outings to museums, it's…lonely. Draining. Sometimes I go for days without talking, really talking to another adult, and so this," he waved a hand between him and the attentive man opposite, "it's…refreshing."

Bob hummed perceptively, flagged down a waiter, requested twin lagers, and then turned his assessing back on Rick. "So nothing on the romance front, I take it."

"Unless you count the one-sided infatuation of several languishing fans, that's a resounding no. You?"

"Being mayor has its perks," he mused with a leer and Rick barked out a laugh.

"Certainly a step up from city councilman, I'm certain. And I'll venture a guess you're seeing significantly more action both politically and personally."

"Well, you're not wrong," he hedged warily.

"Plausible deniability, I get it," Rick rushed to assure him. "You're the mayor now, the big cheese. 'Sexploits' are generally frowned upon."

"God, Rick," Weldon scoffed, "sexploits?"

They shared a quiet laugh, and spent the consequent hour discussing the political intricacies of Bob's current term, Rick's latest Storm novel, Alexis' academic strides, and—lulled into a warm, beer-induced complacency—Kate.

"Wait," Bob leaned across the table, frowning in confusion, "I thought you said you weren't seeing anyone?"

"Well, I'm not. Really. Seeing her…" he stumbled over his words, trying to explain the dynamics, but a bit too inebriated to do it justice. "We've been sending letters. Back and forth. Opening up to one another sight-unseen has been…kind of magical, you know? There's nothing to distract or detract from our conversation—which is always good, never superficial or extraneous. Or, at least, it was good…" He trailed off, suddenly dismal, his countenance darkening.

"What happened?" Bob asked, his voice coaxing.

"I fucked up, man," he muttered, draining his glass, "wasn't honest initially, then came clean, and now…I don't know what she's gonna do, frankly. She was already pretty emotionally friable when I first reached out, hurting from what seems to be a significant loss, her father struggling with alcoholism. And because I kept the truth of my identity from her, addressed her using my given name rather than my nom de plume, she feels betrayed. Which is understandable. I mean, I get it, I just…I'm kicking myself. Trying so damn hard to fix this shit storm, because if I don't, I have a sneaking suspicion I'll carry the disappointment, all the could have beens, should have beens, might have beens…carry them for I don't know how long."

"Jesus, Rick."

"Yeah, I know. I'm an idiot."

"Well, that. And you're falling for her. Fell, rather. Past tense. A girl you've never even met."

"What?" He was genuinely shocked at Bob's assessment, at the steady certainty of the other man's gaze, and it sobered him rapidly. A wave of heat swamped him, jacking his pulse, and his breath caught imperceptibly, because goddamn. The mayor was right.

"You didn't know," Weldon stated quietly, looking smug and amused and understanding.

"Idiot, remember?" He murmured self-deprecatingly, and they lapsed into companionate reflection, allowing the revelation to sink in, watching the world pass in a haze of tipsy laughter and flirtation.

"Dylan Thomas loved this place, you know," Bob stated, breaking the conversational silence. At Rick's look of bemusement, he chuckled tolerantly, forged ahead wryly. "Do not go gentle into that good night…Thomas prescribed the advice, and it's wisdom I think you should apply to your own set of circumstances—be persistent, a reckoning force, wear down her feelings of betrayal with consistency and contrition. To quote another philosophical giant, 'Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.' "

"Lennon is the real life Yoda," Rick acknowledged, a faint smile curving his mouth. "I've been sending her more letters. Consistently. One a day. Hoping my honestly—late though it may be—will trigger a response."

"You may always be late, Rick—to bars, to maturity, to honesty—but when you arrive, it's always good, and if she's paying any sort of attention she'll see that." He paused, pushed his empty mug away from him, smiled broadly, "In the interim, we need to cheer you up. Distract you. Four days from now—the evening of the nineteenth—the New York City Police Foundation is hosting its annual fundraising gala. I'm going to be in attendance and you should…come along. It'll get you out of the house and it may even provide some relevant fodder for your next Storm novel."

The last gala he'd attended had yielded no romantic conquests—only a stilted introduction to his current publisher, and a rash from his over-starched collar. Not a ringing endorsement for galas by and large. But Bob was regarding him with this pleased, triumphant expression, like he'd found a way to heroically rescue Rick from utter despondency, and he just…couldn't refuse. Couldn't rebuff his kindness.

"Alright, then. Yeah, I'll come. Are you…going stag?"

Bob huffed, "That's…debatable. I have a few options, but nothing's definitive yet. Yourself?"

He was in the throes of unrequited infatuation with a woman he'd never met. Of course he was going stag.

"I'm riding solo for this one," he asserted, exchanged a look of commiseration with Bob, and summarily ordered another round.

In the days preceding the gala, Rick composed four more letters, four additional secrets, hoping his transparency would wear her down. Elicit…something. Forgiveness? Understanding? Anything was preferable to this unremittingly oppressive silence. He'd even take unfiltered fury over this, because at least then he'd have some answers. His imagination wreaked havoc on his calm, weaving a multitude of potentials that ultimately culminated in the eventuality he most feared—permanent severance of all communication. Kate lost to him, leaving only regrets, a handful of letters, and unfulfilled possibilities in the wake of her subtle departure.

The nineteenth arrived quietly, a day of placid sunshine and gentle breezes Rick willingly exploited, taking Alexis first to the zoo then over to Eddie's Sweet Shop for extravagant sundaes. The tranquil pace of the morning soothed his frayed nerves, Alexis' chatter and easy laughter a balm, and by the time the evening rolled around he felt more himself than he had in the past ten days. The guilt was still present, the worry still alive in the back of his mind, but it was subdued, and he was grateful. Martha arrived to watch Alexis, effusively announcing their impending trip to an indoor ice rink, and Rick departed to a chorus of cheerful planning.

He had the driver drop him at the corner of Park and 49th and walked the short distance in introspective silence, basking in the muted glow of the periwinkle twilight.

The Waldorf Astoria was exceptionally dazzling tonight, vigorously bustling with resplendent guests, bursting with floral arrangements and heavily laden buffet tables, and thrumming with an undercurrent of excitement. He spotted Weldon across the room, chatting with a group of lovely—presumably single—women who were fawning over the handsome man to the point of servility. Gross, he grimaced, proceeding to load down a plate with hors d'oeuvres and selections from a well-stocked antipasto platter before making the rounds.

Judge Markaway cornered him, and they talked golf and Storm for the better part of a half hour before Mrs. Markaway bustled over, eager for her husband to meet someone notable, her interruption allowing Rick to make a hasty exit. He drifted over to where Bob was stationed, quietly joining the circle of imperious politicians and government officials, appreciative when Weldon made the necessary introductions and drew Rick into conversation with them. The night was…pleasant. Not fun, not exciting, but not uninteresting either. Beautiful women draped themselves over the arms of men more wealthy, more notable than him, luxuriant in elaborate dresses and large-stoned gems he knew must cost the earth. Members of law enforcement—old and young alike—milled around the room, smartly turned out in regulation uniforms, some bearing regalia of distinction. Servers in white tuxes flitted lightly from guest to guest, freely doling out appetizers and flutes of shimmering champagne. Bob had been right, he mused. It was good, tonight. Excellent material to work into a future novel, Storm or other.

Suddenly restless, he excused himself from Weldon's formidable collection of friends and made a beeline for the open bar, wanting something richer, stronger than champagne. And as he crossed the marble floor of the ballroom, his Ferragamo's clicking rhythmically against the slick expanse, his thoughts fixated on a tumbler of scotch, he saw her. And forgot to breathe.

She was encased in some sleek, crimson, off-the-shoulder number. The tight sheath embraced every dip and curve of her body, sensuously following the long line of her legs, and dramatically terminated in a silky pool at her feet. It was a stunning effect against the creamy expanse of her chest, her sloping shoulders, and when she turned to speak to another guest beside her…dear god, the designer had a eschewed a back, and the narrow column of her spine, all that skin…it enticed. Begged to be touched. From the way she was positioned, from the deeply parted sweep of her chestnut hair, it was proving difficult to see her face, but finally, finally, she rotated to face the opposite wall, and suddenly he had to breathe because he was gasping. Stunning.

Dissimilar to the other female guests, she wore little in the way of jewelry save for a pair of simple drop earrings. But she didn't need it. Not with a face like that—faintly Slavic, entirely angelic. The tilt of her eyes was almost feline in nature, and though the color was inscrutable from this distance, they appeared dark. Mysterious. Sultry. Her lipstick matched the saturated hue of her dress, a wine-red slash, but the rest of her makeup was minimal, understated. Overwhelmingly classy. She reminded him of Hollywood starlets from the 40s and 50s, all delicate carnal appeal; effortlessly, collectively embodying both innocence and sin in a way that brought men to their knees.

Despite his open gawking, she seemed unaware of his notice, idly tilting her champagne flute from one side to the other, staring out with unfocused eyes. A hand on her elbow snapped her from whatever musings had held her in thrall, and she turned to face—a man. Of course. His heart sank a little, because of course a woman as beautiful as she wouldn't have come alone. He was handsome, this other man, and tall. Looked at her like she was the sun or some exquisite work of priceless art, and why wouldn't he? Everything about her beguiled, awakened passion.

After a moment, she nodded, spoke to her companion, and he merged with the crush of bodies, presumably to bring her a refreshment. And he decided, drinking her in—all strawberries and cream and mystique—that escort or no, he had to talk to her. At the very least, say hello, pay her a sincere compliment, learn her name. Summoning up the courage to do exactly that, he started making his way across the room, desperately trying to cobble together a meaningful opening line, something pithy and memorable but simultaneously unaffected when…his phone rang.

Groaning, he pulled it from his coat pocket, frowned when he saw it was his mother calling, answered a bit reluctantly, and then startled at her words.

"Oh, god. Slow down. Wait…which hospital?"

By the time they returned to the loft from the ER, it was late, and his mother stayed only long enough to bid them both goodnight, press a lingering kiss to Alexis' forehead. When he'd arrived in a flustered rush, his mother had recounted the story, soothing him with reassurances before answering his harried questions. Apparently, the ice had been busy today—teeming with families and packs of rowdy adolescent boys, who, according to Martha, were the culprits in their tale of woe. Some beefy teen showboater had careened into Alexis from behind, sending her sprawling on the hard ice, splitting open the underside of her jaw. She'd been extraordinarily brave, his mother crowed, eyes gleaming proudly. No hyperbolized weeping or whining, not Alexis. She'd composedly, albeit a bit tearfully, answered the questions posed by one of the rink staff, counting fingers and stating her name before slowly making her way off the ice.

Now, to ameliorate the pain and embarrassment, they were reclining on the supple leather sofa, feet propped on the coffee table, indulging in another sundae.

"Two helpings in one day, huh?" Rick grinned, and she smiled back wanly.

"Yeah, 's nice," she supplied, popping another spoonful of mint chip into her waiting mouth, "ice cream always makes it better."

"That's my brilliant girl. Knows the emotional as well as physical value of ice cream—and the cold will help keep down the swelling," he added, eyeing the swath of snowy gauze. Beneath it were six neat stitches, a line of tiny ants he'd nervously watched the attending knit into her tender skin. God, he hated that she'd gotten hurt. Felt guilty despite it being accidental, despite the absolute unpredictability of the situation.

Another tired smile from Alexis, another helping of ice cream, and then a quizzical look directed at him. A meaningful pause. "Dad, are you okay?"

What? Why would you ask that?—he intended to say, but all that emerged was a croaky, uncouth, "Huh?"

"You've just seemed…like something was wrong. For a while now. And I thought maybe it was writer's block—that's usually what bums you out—but you've been doing a lot of writing, so I don't think it's that. And I'm just…worried. About you. The way you smile right now, the look in your eyes…it's like you're sad or something."

Precocity equals perception, Rick. He'd forgotten. And she was blinking at him expectantly, looking disheveled and sleepy and wise and understanding. And based on his recent experiences with concealment or omission of truth, he decided to simply…level with her.

"Yeah, I'm sad," he admitted evenly, and watched a frown pull at her face.

"Why?"

"Do you remember when we stopped at that little bookstore on the way to the Hamptons? And you mentioned how odd it was for me to purchase my own novel?" At her nod of confirmation, he continued. "I bought it because…someone had written notes in it. And I thought that was peculiar and interesting. After reading through the notes, I found the name of the person who had owned the novel, and I contacted her. Asked if she wanted me to return her book, if she had purposely donated it, or if it ending up in a secondhand store was an accident. Turns out, she lost it some time ago, and was very excited to receive it. We started sending letters back and forth, talking to one another, sharing little pieces of our lives. Building a friendship. But I…I really messed up, and she hasn't contacted me since…well, in a while."

She hummed, stirred the soupy concoction in her bowl, and then regarded him thoughtfully. "How did you mess up?"

"I lied," he said simply, and she opened her mouth in a wordless oh of comprehension.

"I would be angry, too," she finally said, "it feels bad when someone lies to you. But that doesn't mean she'll be angry forever. Friends…they forgive each other eventually, if they're really friends. It's just what they do."

He wanted to squeeze her against him, smother her in a hug for her attempts at comfort, but he contented himself with tousling her hair. "Here's hoping you're right, kiddo. You done?"

Nodding, she passed him her bowl and he set about tidying up in the kitchen, returning toppings to the refrigerator doors, placing dishes in the sink—too tired, too distracted to finish the job tonight. When he returned to the living room, Alexis was sprawled on the cushions, deep in a Codeine-induced sleep, and rather than move her Rick simply covered her with a heavy throw blanket, slipped a pillow beneath her. Poor baby, he mused, brushing a shock of limp hair from her forehead.

After doing what he could to satisfactorily tuck her in, he ambled into his office, flicking off lights as he went. Nearly to his master suite—and much to his consternation—he felt the tell-tale vibrations of his phone, wondering peevishly who would call so late.

12:42 in the freaking morning, people?

He very nearly didn't answer it, exhaustion luring him to his bed, willing him to ignore the call. But despite his hesitation, he grudgingly answered with a brusque, "Talk to me."

A beat of silence, an indrawn breath, and then a hesitant voice—sonorous, warm, velvet on his ears, and oh, impossibly familiar.

"Hey, it's me. It's…Kate."

A/N:

Wow, this one was long. But there you go! Angst resolved! A big thank you to those that provided feedback on Chapter 6, and I'd like to take a moment to clarify why I wrote Kate's reaction the way I did as well as why there are some angsty chapters interspersed throughout what is labelled a Romance/Friendship story!

Speaking to Kate's response—itwas over the top, it was disproportionate, but I think it's in character for the Kate in this story. The Kate we knew was stronger, more mature, likely a bit more mellow and a sight more understanding. But at 23, raw from her mother's murder, contending with an alcoholic father, and working a traumatizing case, I see that Rick's deception would have proved a final straw of sorts for our young, volatile, and defensive detective. Honestly, it was a tossup deciding what the fallout would look like, but...there you have it.

Speaking to the angst—I promise I'll keep the angst to a minimum, guys! But despite that, I also want the story to have authenticity. Kate's career is inherently angst-ridden, and so there will be some darker chapters by dint of necessity. Beyond that, however, I also think that hardships and struggles are points of proof for friendship. Without enduring difficulties, without facing obstacles, and especially without moving beyond those issues, friendship loses its meaning. It's a surface-based relationship. And in crafting this story and Kate and Rick's subsequent bond, I foresaw something strong and authentic. So yeah, they may go through a little fire, but they'll come out on the other side more refined than before. And stronger for it. But I promise not to unnecessarily torture my characters—that's not good writing, it's just sensationalism.

And I really want them to have their happy ending. So hold on to that, even through chapters that may be choppier than you prefer!

Thanks for sticking with me this far—both in regards to the fic and this expansive author's note—and I hope you enjoyed this latest installment!

Up next...Kate and Rick have their first phone conversation, Will presses his suit, a conversation with Lanie takes place, and the case moves forward.