Chapter 11: Long Ride
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Leah Christensen was quite shy when it came to dating.
Having recently lived in the shadow of Rachel Marron, Frank had been far more familiar with a woman who was forward and confident. It had intrigued him again to be with a woman who was quite the opposite.
When he had first met Leah, she had drawn him in with her soft brown eyes, her wispy voice, her caring nature. She was the daughter of a small town mayor, and as such she had been bred for winning over the public's good opinion. She was by no means stunning, but Frank had thought her beauty was understated. She was petite in frame, with small facial features, and curly brown hair that reminded him of those children's dolls with the perfect ringlets. As he'd gotten to know her better, he had found himself intrigued by the many nuances that made up her personality. She loved musical theater, and 1920's culture, and horseback riding, and baking. She worked in small business advertising, and seemed to have very little excitement in her life. And so, he'd thought, he would have very little to compete with. Leah was a respectable individual in her circles, and her tie to politics, though small, had given Frank a familiar kind of comfort in pursuing her.
Still, it took two painful months before he had gotten to second base.
She had invited him back to her apartment after dinner, and he had stayed later than intended. She talked to him for a long time, legs crossed on the sofa, a stemless glass of rosé nestled between her delicate hands. She was wearing panty hose without shoes, which incidentally happened to be one of Frank's greatest weaknesses. He blamed that more than the wine for his advances.
It had been so long since he'd felt anything remotely close to attraction for a woman, he had wanted to act on it before it disappeared. Leah was submissive but not easy. She received kisses as if they were pleasant little gifts, each simple sigh seeming to say "oh, how thoughtful." She did not make any advances towards him, but he had taken the relentless sound of her heart beating as encouragement.
His fingers had gotten stumped by the lavallière on her dove gray blouse, which she used as an excuse to stay clothed so that she could unbutton his dress shirt instead. He had been absurdly excited just to have a woman's fingers on his bare skin again – but despite the wait, he had felt almost nothing when she touched him. She had pushed his sleeves back from his shoulders, her doe-like eyes unreadable as she viewed him bare-chested for the first time, and then she saw his scar.
"Oh, my God." Her voice was quiet, hollow. She pulled her hands away and looked at his face in horror.
"I told you I was a bodyguard," he murmured by way of explanation.
She furrowed her brow and glanced down at his left forearm, shaking slightly as she asked, "Were you stabbed or . . . ?"
"Shot."
Her eyes centered on his in shock, as if he'd just used a foul word in front of a child. He could see the fear in her eyes as she looked at him, halfway torn between dark reverence and intimidation. He had worried then that his lifestyle was far too heavy for her, a woman so simple and timid. But she had surprised him instead by undoing the complicated bow on the collar of her blouse.
She never asked him how he had gotten shot. He had avoided telling her for another whole month.
It was after a long day following her around town. She had wanted to buy a new dress for a party they were attending, and she had dragged him along for his opinions on every one she tried on. He found himself standing irritably in the middle of Von Maur at Lindale Mall, when the overhead speakers started playing one of her songs.
He had already been miserable enough. Now he had to listen to Rachel Marron's voice cut through his chest like a katana blade. And the worst part was he couldn't tell anyone. Everyone around him was oblivious to his struggle. They either barely listened to the background music with an air of blissful ignorance, or they mildly hummed along as they sifted through clearance racks of formalwear. Two teenage girls by the fitting rooms were vamping in front of the mirrors, singing along with the lyrics.
"I get so emotional, baby. Every time I think of you . . ."
He felt utterly dead inside.
When Leah stepped out of the fitting room in a backless dark blue cocktail dress, he nodded his approval, and she finally made the purchase.
He brought it up that very night.
"Have you ever heard of Rachel Marron?"
At the peak of her career, such a question was a bit like asking if someone knew who George Washington was. Leah had looked at him with an air of confused indifference as she wiped down the countertop in her kitchen. "She's that actress who got shot at during the Academy Awards a couple years back, right?"
He could feel his throat closing up. She tossed her dishcloth into the sink and began to run the water. Her eyes were sharp when she looked up at him. "What about her?"
"I was her bodyguard."
She paused, the water still running in the sink, her face impassive at first before the implication arose.
"When?" she asked.
He did not answer.
She shut the faucet off.
There were very few things Frank felt he couldn't communicate with his eyes alone. He had relied on his eyes to save him from having to say words his entire life. But Leah did not like it when he let his eyes do the talking.
She looked like she was going to be sick. "That was you."
He nodded once.
She couldn't bring herself to talk to him for the rest of the night.
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Fletcher had insisted on leaving for his trip before seven o'clock in the morning. "If I want to pick up my friends before the reserve opens, I have to go early," he'd said.
Rachel was hoping he'd wait longer just so he could see Frank when he came to pick her up.
"Oakdale is only four hours, honey."
"We're heading up to Stanislaus," he reminded her. "It's an extra hour to get there from town."
Rachel sighed. "All right then, tell your friends not to play too rowdy out there."
Fletcher rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Sure, Mom."
She watched him get into his car, a sky blue Volkswagon Jetta she had bought him for his sixteenth birthday. If it hadn't been for Pettigrew teaching Fletcher to drive, she would have never had to say goodbye to the boy so often. But she knew he wanted his freedom, just like she did.
She leaned through the open window to kiss his forehead. "Drive safe, baby, okay? And let me know if you can still make it to Tahoe for New Year's?"
"Will do, Ma. Have fun." She wondered why he had grinned as he said it.
About forty-five minutes after Fletcher had left, another vehicle was admitted through her gates by security.
As soon as she approved the entry, she raced to the front doors just in time to watch a forest green F-150 pull up and park beside the fountain in the center of her driveway. The large truck looked so out of place here, she almost had to giggle. She leaned against the open doorway and watched as Farmer slowly got out of the car, taking in his surroundings.
It was so strange seeing him back on her property again. It was almost like being transported back in time, but he didn't look quite the same as he did on his first day meeting her. For one, he wasn't wearing a suit. Rachel would have described the clothes he now wore as rugged: dark denim shirt, muted green khakis, a honey-colored hunting jacket, and brown work boots. But it wasn't just his outfit that made him look so different. She ventured to guess that he had not had his hair cut once in the two weeks since she'd last seen him. Even the way he carried himself was more relaxed than she'd ever seen him before.
He turned to see her staring at him from the doorway, and gave her an easy smile as he approached, taking off his sunglasses to tuck them into the collar of his shirt.
"You know the motion sensor is broken on the camera outside your gate," he said.
Her smile faded as she glared at him from behind her shades. "Don't you dare start with that shit, Farmer."
He laughed. "I'll let Pettigrew know."
His eyes widened ever so slightly as he noticed her three large suitcases and two handbags by the door. "Is that all you're bringing?" he teased.
She made a face at him. "My rule is two suitcases and one handbag per week of travel. Since I'm going to be gone for almost two weeks, I need three suitcases and two handbags," she reasoned.
"That's some complex math," Frank grunted as he lifted her luggage one item at a time into the bed of the truck. Now that he was up close, she noticed the stubble on his face. It was a nice look for him, she thought.
"So Fletcher couldn't come?" he asked her.
"He and his friends are going hiking up near Stanislaus River today. If it weren't for the fact that he'd already committed to the plans with them, I'm sure he would have preferred to come along with us."
"We're just a couple of boring adults, Rachel. Let him have his fun."
"He said he'd let me know if he can make it up next week," she told him as he finished loading her luggage.
"Yeah, he called me a couple days ago and told me that."
Rachel was caught off guard at the casual way Frank had said this. Almost as if they'd had multiple conversations without her knowing. Not that she needed to know. Fletcher was a grown man and could call Frank at any time, for any reason. She feigned nonchalance and opened the passenger door to enter the truck.
It was awkward enough trying to climb inside the monstrous vehicle with flat shoes on; she couldn't imagine how hard a time she'd have had if she had worn her usual three-inch heels. She gave a small yelp of surprise when she felt a firm hand on her bottom, and with a single push she was lifted into the passenger seat. She turned just in time to catch Frank chuckling to himself as he closed the door behind her.
He hopped into the driver's seat and buckled his seatbelt, staring expectantly over at her.
She folded her hands innocently in her lap. "What?"
"This isn't the backseat of a limo," he said hotly.
She just pouted at him.
"You don't think I'm going to start driving if you're not wearing a seatbelt, do you?"
With a groan that would rival a belligerent teenager, Rachel clicked her seatbelt into the buckle. "Happy?"
He reached across to grab the top part of her seatbelt, which she had conveniently left behind her back, and moved it forward so that it snapped across her chest.
"Jesus, Farmer!"
With a satisfied expression, he put on his sunglasses and put the truck into drive.
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Rachel jolted awake to the shuddering vibration of rumble strips beneath truck tires. She blinked around for a few moments, piecing together the scene before her. Highway ahead, highway behind, and her former bodyguard was driving. Though she was certain she was now awake, it still looked like a dream.
He rolled down the window at the toll booth, inviting a blast of cold air inside the car. Rachel huddled behind her cardigan and watched the boom gate rise to let them through.
With a yawn, she cuddled back against the leather seat and peeked over at her driver.
Farmer was one of the few people she knew whose eyes seemed to laugh more than his throat.
"I can't help it," she whined, still a bit dazed. "The movement, it just puts me straight to sleep."
"I don't remember you sleeping on the airplane," he said.
She knew he was referencing Miami, as it was the only round trip they'd ever done together.
"There was nowhere for me to rest my head on that trip," she pointed out. "You were the one who insisted I take the middle seat."
He grinned to himself.
She added, "You know, sometimes I think you did that shit just to get a rise outta me."
He gave an ironic laugh. "I tried to get a rise out of you?"
Rachel just stared at him. He took his eyes off the road momentarily to give her a look.
"You were vicious on that trip, Rachel–"
"–Oh, come on."
"Vicious," he repeated the word, his expression still one of easy humor despite the strength of his voice.
"You're exaggerating," she laughed, shaking her head.
"You remember how many times you went to the bathroom?"
"I have a small bladder."
"Or how many times you conveniently ran right into gaggles of fans?"
"'Gaggles?' Who actually uses the word 'gaggles' in a sentence?"
"And you remember what happened in the security line, don't you?"
Rachel squinted out the window, trying to recall.
"You don't remember?" he pressed, his voice turning softer when he added, "The jewelry?"
Her heart did a somersault when the memory came flooding back to her.
She remembered the way she'd forced every piece of jewelry she'd been wearing into his hand while trying to get through the metal detector. More vividly, though, she recalled the way he had looked at her during her little tantrum. How unintentionally visceral his blue eyes had been, a striking contrast to his black suit and the cold white metal-and-glass maze of airport security behind him.
"You just wanted them to strip search me, Farmer," she said lazily, trying to cover for her little bout of nostalgia.
He laughed again, his eyes far away as he revisited the memory. "I wish they had. It would have been a humbling experience for you."
"Sounds like you're still bitter about it," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.
He pushed his fingers through his hair, still laughing casually to himself with one hand on the steering wheel. She was lost while looking at him then, taken aback by just how familiar everything about him now felt to her. Every line on his face, every miniscule shift in expression; the way the light hit his eyes from certain angles, the peculiar way he held his mouth while he was in deep thought. She couldn't really put a timestamp on when she'd become this smitten with him. Unlike most epic events in her life, it had happened so gradually. She couldn't even imagine that it would be possible to create a line graph for their relationship – only that there would be perhaps a jagged peak where he had rescued her at the Mayan, another peak on the night she'd went to bed with him, and then it would rocket off the charts at the Oscars. Then, she thought sadly, the line would drop down steadily over time – straight and flat – contentedly parallel with the x-axis.
Until Pittsburgh.
She had to shake her head at the thought. Dreary, sorry old Pittsburgh. Who would have ever guessed she'd run into him again there? And in what wild fantasy did he dare to look this incredible, after all these years? Rachel could have sat there in appreciation for his face the entire drive if she hadn't already slept away half of it. There was a rugged sort of grace to his handsome features that had only enhanced with age. He was only in his mid-forties, she thought offhandedly. For a man, that could still be considered his prime. She envied him a little for that.
Amidst all of the subtle changes, his eyes had remained the same. She felt the same rush of excitement when he looked directly at her. There was nothing quite like when his eyes were so absurdly concentrated on her that she had nowhere to hide.
"You're disturbingly quiet," he said after a few minutes of her staring.
"Just plotting my assassination attempt," she deadpanned. His eyes flickered with anxiety when he looked over at her. "It was a joke, Farmer."
He smiled tightly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Don't tell me you still haven't gotten over the Reagan thing?"
He stared straight ahead at the road for about ten seconds, gathering his thoughts before he asked, "How do you know about the Reagan thing?"
"Your dad mentioned it to me," she admitted. She thought she saw his jaw twitch. His eyes flitted about in a hundred miniscule directions, although he maintained a steady gaze through the windshield. She didn't like to see him looking this perturbed. "Both presidents you protected are still alive, Frank," she reminded him gently.
He was quiet again, then finally he whispered, "I know."
Her imagination teased her with stately images of a twenty-something Frank Farmer, dressed in a black suit and black shades, wearing an earpiece, trailing alongside the president of the United States. She imagined him standing outside the oval office, inspecting the perimeter of the Lincoln suite, scoping out tourists by the White House lawn. Was he as fiercely protective with the president as he had been with her? She had to wonder.
Rachel shook her head, still staring at him in awe. "I wish I knew what went on in that head of yours."
The man who met her gaze now was not a stoic secret service agent. He wasn't the strapping youth she'd seen photographed in a West Virginia football jersey. He wasn't even the calculating bodyguard whose thoughts worked faster than the bullets he dodged. In this moment he looked more like a devil-may-care cowboy than anything else. The many facets he had were perplexing.
"Be careful what you wish for," he murmured.
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"When is the next rest stop?" Rachel asked casually as she watched another exit sign zoom past her window.
He glanced at her suspiciously. "You have to go again?"
"It's been two hours!"
"Exactly!"
She gave him her best death stare, and he reluctantly flipped his right turn signal on to get into the next exit lane. She was sure any place out here would at least be a step up from the last rest stop they had stopped at. As a celebrity, Rachel wasn't accustomed to using public restrooms. She could have done without it, but it was either that or go on the side of the road, as Frank had so gallantly reminded her.
It was so interesting watching the way he observed the people around him at all times. She was surprised he didn't get dizzy with how often his eyes were flitting from one stranger to the next, always so calculating. He walked with her all the way to the back hall where the restrooms were. Rachel ducked her head when entering, hiding her face from the other women who were standing at the mirrors. She was getting better at this.
When she came out into the hallway, she could not help but admire the way he looked, leaning casually against the wall. There was a significance in his eyes that she could not quite place as he stared at her. "Aren't you going to go, too?" she asked him.
"I already did. At the last stop. Which was only two hours ago."
She rolled her eyes. "Okay, you don't have to rub it in."
He kept almost uncomfortably close to her as they walked out of the building. The number of cars in the parking strip seemed to have doubled in the brief time they'd spent inside. Off to the left, Rachel noticed a small group of young men who were talking robustly amongst themselves. The group seemed to fall silent at once as one of the men pointed in her direction. Rachel attempted to duck her head again, but it was too late. They had already recognized her.
Two of the men broke off from the group and boldly began their approach, but Frank had already seen. He quickly switched sides with her so that he could block them, one arm outstretched to prevent them from approaching, and his other hand instinctively linked with hers.
He spoke sternly to the two young men, "Can you stay back please? She doesn't want to draw attention to herself."
They seemed offended, but Frank had already opened the door to the truck to push Rachel inside. She pressed the lock on her door as she watched the two men exchange glances several feet away. Still on edge from the interaction, she jumped slightly as her former bodyguard got into the driver's seat and yanked his seatbelt across his chest. Her hand still tingled from where he had held it.
They looked at each other significantly as he put the truck in reverse and backed out of the lot.
"You just say the word and I'll write that check for you."
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"What do you mean you've never heard of the Backstreet Boys?" Rachel asked in outrage, gesturing to Frank's car radio as the boy band blasted over the speakers. "You been living under a rock?"
Frank laughed defensively. "You know I don't listen to this kind of music."
"Yeah, you only listen to Redneck Radio," Rachel muttered. She ignored his glare as she belted out along to the refrain of "I Want it That Way."
"It's so weird hearing you sing a song that's not one of yours," Frank said.
"Listen, I had my time. Some of these newer artists aren't all bad," she said with a shrug. "What about Christina Aguilera? 'Come on Over?' You've heard that one, right?"
Frank just stared ahead at the road with a blank look on his face.
"Farmer, you're killin' me!" Rachel squealed, laughing in spite of his ignorance. "What about Britney Spears?"
He shook his head.
"Shakira?"
"Her, I've heard of."
"Oh, figures," Rachel groaned bitterly, causing Frank to smile.
"I think I saw her dancing in a music video recently," he teased.
"Okay, that's enough."
He chuckled at her expense then tuned in the radio to the country station.
"Excuse me? I was listening to that."
"The song was over. We have to take turns."
Rachel scoffed. "That's not fair. You got to listen to your silly country music the whole time I was asleep."
"Well, that was your fault for falling asleep in the truck."
Rachel slumped back against the seat, momentarily content to listen to a man sing about tractors and cornfields in a southern twang.
"At least I know we won't hear one of my songs on this station," she reasoned. "That would be awkward."
Frank's expression changed to one of enlightened mischief. "Come to think of it, we don't even need the radio. I should just have you sing for me the entire drive."
"I don't do private concerts," she said with a glare.
"Not even for me?" He gave her a panty-dropping smile.
"Especially not for you," she said forcefully. "You got four months' worth of free concerts when you were working for me."
"But I couldn't enjoy it because I was working," he pouted.
Rachel crossed her arms. "If you wanna hear me sing, turn the Backstreet Boys back on."
He didn't press the issue further.