Chapter 33: Queen of the Castle

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It was nearly three in the morning by the time they were admitted past the gates of the impressive, French-inspired mansion in Thousand Oaks. The home of Julie Pentecost was what anyone might expect from a prolific actress of a past generation. It was comfortably seated upon an acre of immaculately manicured land, surrounded by perfectly sculpted trees, and entrenched by a wide, stone governor's driveway.

Frank had never heard of the woman before, though Rachel had hinted that she had quite an interesting resume of films under her belt. He had little idea of what to expect from their hostess, and even less of what to expect of her thirty-year-old daughter. Rachel hadn't seemed opposed to staying with them, and he considered that a good enough sign that she'd had no unfavorable interactions with either woman in the past.

"Think of it like Switzerland," Pettigrew had tactfully told him as they made their way into the house. Soon after the butler had helped with unloading their luggage, they were greeted by Liam Fitzgerald himself.

The man had aged well since Washington; like so many others in his field he had managed to keep a trim figure and healthy physique. Fitzgerald had to have been in his fifties by now, but his sharply angled face and salt-and-pepper goatee suited him well.

He approached Frank with a hearty handshake, and Frank found a sliver of comfort being in familiar company.

"And they think what we do is hard," he said pityingly to Frank as he guided their group up the grand staircase. "It's a lot worse when you're the target."

Frank hadn't heard truer words in his life.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Liam," Frank murmured, out of earshot from the rest.

"Don't apologize, Frank. Scott told me to be prepared. Can't say it was ideal timing, with the lady of the house being out of town and all, but–"

"Ms. Pentecost is away?"

"She'll be back tomorrow evening with her daughter. They're in Vegas."

"You don't travel with them?" Frank asked suspiciously.

Fitzgerald shrugged. "Not always. They like to have their privacy, too."

Frank hadn't considered the thought before. "Do they know we're here right now?"

Fitzgerald smirked at him, pausing at the top of the steps. "I'll make a convincing case tomorrow morning."

Frank bit his tongue.

"I hope you'll be able to get some much needed rest in here," the man said as he guided them into the guest suite.

"This is lovely," Rachel said, setting her belongings down on the plush white carpet.

"And of course your son will have his own space, too," Fitzgerald said with a smile as he gestured for Fletcher to follow him down the hall.

Frank closed the door quietly behind him, turning to watch as Rachel discarded her cardigan on the chaise by the floor-length window. He thought he saw her shiver slightly as she stared out at the night, self-consciously rubbing her arms. After everything she had been through this week, she still managed to remain graceful and collected. Frank could not say the same for himself.

He moved across the room to stand behind her. He watched their faint reflection in the window as he wrapped his arms around her and placed his chin on her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" He realized belatedly that he had failed to ask her the question once since the incident at her doctor's office yesterday.

She nodded slowly, her hands stroking his forearms where he held her. "I just want to sleep," she whispered.

His eyes met hers in the reflected glass, sharing a longing moment of intimacy before he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She looked up at him with all the wonder and adoration of a woman whose heart was in danger of overflowing. How he wished he could carry her to the ends of earth, where no one could ever find them again.

She raised one hand to trace her fingers lovingly across his bearded cheek. "You know how you said you could never get tired of hearing me sing?" she asked softly. He nodded. "I'll never get tired of you carrying me like that."

}0{

All of them slept in just as long as Rachel did the following morning. After an exhausting night, they were grateful to have an in-house chef preparing brunch for them. Fletcher settled next to Frank at the long dining room table, his plate piled high, a boyish grin on his face. Opposite him sat Rachel, still yawning, chopping up tiny pieces of honeydew melon with her fork. It was a far cry from the voracious appetite she'd been sporting of late.

"How do you feel?" Frank asked her carefully.

"A little nauseous," she admitted.

His own stomach twisted at her words. His body had continually betrayed him with uncontrollable, sympathetic responses to everything Rachel seemed to feel. Being in love was so strange.

Frank nudged Fletcher, who then politely slowed down the pace of his eating.

"The kitchen is open 24/7," Fitzgerald said jovially. Fletcher's eyes lit up.

Fitzgerald settled his hand on Frank's shoulder as he walked behind his chair. "And I've just had a chat with Ms. Pentecost. She knows to expect you when she returns from her trip."

Frank felt his nerves flare.

He looked up to watch as Rachel quietly excused herself from the table.

Not twenty minutes after breakfast, he ventured back upstairs into their suite to find her sitting on the side of the elaborate marble bathtub, staring down at the floor.

"Did you get sick?" he asked gently, his voice echoing in the large bathroom.

"Not yet," she said shakily, tracing the white tile with her toe.

He furrowed his brow in pity and moved to sit beside her. "What can I be doing to help you?"

She did not answer, but instead leaned against him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. He stayed with her that way in silent turmoil, attempting to soothe her by rubbing her back with his hand. It was agonizing to see her suffer, even more so in this stranger's home where he felt oddly like a prisoner. Yet he was overcome with devotion to remain as strong as he could for her. His mind could only seem to replay the same moment in time, where he first reached out to shake her hand all those years ago. Now he sat beside her, with the tiny life they had created tucked safely away in her belly, reduced to a provocative headline on every tabloid. And all he wanted was to make her his wife . . .

Where the hell did that come from?

He could not afford to entertain such thoughts at a time like this. They had been repeatedly irresponsible in their lovemaking, but despite the circumstances they had clearly both wanted this – especially after the loss. It still hurt him to think about it. He wondered if that made him weak.

But the thought of making her his wife, that did not come about often. Frank had only dared to mention the word 'marriage' in the privacy of his therapy sessions, and even then it had been done with a tightness in his chest and doubt in his gut.

Could he really commit to this insanity for the rest of his life?

If he dared to even glance at her when he asked himself that question, his answer would always be 'yes.'

He couldn't abandon her. Not again. Not ever. But then he wasn't the only one capable of abandoning.

"Can you bring me some water?" she asked him, her voice hoarse.

He nodded and reluctantly let her go so that he could leave the room.

On his way out the door, he heard the sound of her vomiting.

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"I guess it was silly of me to think I could escape it this time," Rachel mumbled miserably against Frank's chest, lying in bed with the curtains all drawn in the large room. "This happened when I was pregnant with Fletcher."

He was quiet as usual as he listened to her recount the symptoms of her past pregnancy, stroking her back with the same tender pressure she had requested before.

"I wish there was more I could do," he murmured. "I have no idea about any of these things."

He could hear the smirk in her voice as she said, "About time you weren't an expert on something."

The corner of his mouth barely twitched upward.

Within minutes she was fast asleep.

Refusing to leave her in bed alone, Frank resorted to calling Scott on his cell phone although he was under the same roof.

"How is she?" Scott asked.

"A little better, I think," Frank said. "She was pretty sick earlier."

"Fletcher was concerned."

"Tell him she's fine."

Scott paused. "Her phone is blowing up down here."

Frank swallowed hard. "They want her to talk."

"The more we evade them, the more they'll want to know." Scott's words of warning struck a nerve with Frank.

"What if we were to disappear off the face of the earth?" Frank asked.

"It'd be nice, wouldn't it?"

"What about leaving the country for a while?"

Scott's voice grew dark. "After what happened on 9/11? You really want to risk that?"

Frank sighed, knowing his points were all valid.

"Frank, you have to stop thinking of how to escape this, and instead figure out how to work with it."

"What are you suggesting?"

"We have a thing in Hollywood we call a 'staged appearance,'" Scott explained quietly, "You make yourself public, but in doing so, you control the narrative. If you're seen with Rachel in a public place, unafraid to face the press, it could stop them from trying to follow you everywhere… at least for some time."

"Throw them a bone, you mean," Frank said grimly.

"Exactly."

It wasn't the worst idea, Frank had to admit. But it would mean being seen. Owning up to his past. Revealing his true identity. Losing his privacy. Standing stark naked in the spotlight.

And that was one of Frank Farmer's worst fears.

}0{

Rachel's resilience never failed to astound him. Though the morning had been rough, a long nap seemed to help her regain her usual liveliness. After he'd told her about his talk with Pettigrew, her energy had increased to another octave. She now stood beside him at the bathroom mirror, preparing to propose their next course of action.

"If we're gonna be seen in public together, you can't be lookin' like an outlaw."

Frank self-consciously palmed his jawline. "I thought you liked the beard."

"I love you no matter what, but as it stands right now, the public has it in their mind that 'scruff equals bad guy,' so using that logic, 'no scruff equals good guy.'"

He looked at her in doubt.

"You gotta trust me, Farmer. Don't you think fifteen plus years in Hollywood makes me an expert?"

As it turned out, she had already called in her stylist.

Oxana Spencer was a caricature of the quintessential Hollywood couturier. With her cartoonish curves, her long glossy brown hair, and her severe features, Frank thought she looked something like a real-life Carmen Sandiego.

With a closer look at her face, his photographic memory determined that he had in fact seen her before. His mind tossed forth hazy images from the day of the Fox Hills Mall fiasco, where she'd accompanied Rachel on her impromptu outing. She'd been sporting a pixie cut back then, but her face had mostly remained the same.

She came bustling in, all business and star kisses, cases of clothes and hair products in tow. Her rough hands had forced him to sit at the vanity as she circled him like a vulture and critiqued every detail of his appearance openly – from his scruff to his posture – consulting with Rachel as if he were a prize pig being prepped for debut at the county fair.

She pinched the buttons of his plaid shirt with her witch-like fingernails, pursing her lips in disapproval. As her fingers tapped along the side of his beard, she announced in a grating Russian accent, "It has to go. All of it."

Frank almost broke down in tears.

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Rachel could not have anticipated the turn of events upon arriving at Pentecost Manor. With the owners of the house still gone, she savored the feeling of being queen of the castle again for a time. The change of scene had seemed to temporarily calm Frank, whose sanity seemed to be hanging on by a thread with every second they stayed out in Leona Valley. She knew living out in the country was bad for his health.

And yes, perhaps subjecting him to the wicked ways of her stylist was just as bad for his health, but Rachel was convinced it was not too late to change the public's impression of her boyfriend. He would thank her later.

It was early evening by the time Oxana had called Rachel back in, declaring that her work was finished at last. She led Rachel into the suite's wardrobe room where Frank was seated facing away from the mirror, and she stated proudly, "This is the look."

Rachel was stunned. Gone was her devil-may-care cowboy. But he still did not look quite the same as the bodyguard who had served her ten years ago. Though Oxana had done her duty in shaving his beard completely, she had left the length of his hair untouched, instead styling it to frame his face with a manufactured naturalness. He no longer wore the clothes he had arrived in, having exchanged them for form-fitting tan chinos, and an ice blue spread-collar shirt.

He looked about thirty years old.

As he inspected Rachel's gaping expression, a look of deep concern crossed his brow.

Oxana at last turned the chair so that Frank could see his own reflection, and his knee-jerk response was anything but favorable.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he muttered, inspecting his hair where it had been styled into a slightly-too-perfect wave in the front. In a panic, he began frantically buttoning the slightly-too-open collar of his pale blue button down shirt

"What the fuck is wrong with him, huh?" Oxana shouted in her aggressive accent. "You look gorgeous!"

Face bright red, Frank hid his eyes conveniently behind his hand.

"Could you excuse us for a couple minutes?" Rachel whispered to her stylist.

Once they were alone in the room together, Frank reluctantly set his hand down and met her gaze through the mirror.

Rachel bit her lip.

"I look ridiculous," he stated with a resolute scowl.

Rachel burst into a gasping fit of irreverent laughter.

He promptly stood from the chair and moved to the other side of the small room, hand carelessly mussing up the back of his hair as he searched for his old clothes in the pile Oxana had left on the floor.

"Frank," Rachel wheezed, coming up behind him. "Frank, come on." He only made one attempt to shake her off his back before giving in to the insistent tug of her hands.

He grudgingly turned around to face her, and the churlish expression on his freshly shaved face made her imagine what he would have looked like as a hot-tempered twenty-something in the secret service. She didn't have any hope of preventing the second onslaught of girlish giggles that escaped her lips at the sight.

"What?" he demanded. She could tell he was trying to remain unmoved by her laughter.

"You don't look ridiculous, you look . . ." She paused to catch her breath under the fierce frost of his striking blue eyes. ". . . devastating."

He just stared at her, conflicted, while she raised one gentle hand to tame the ends of his hair that he had ruffled out of place.

"Just trust me?" she begged quietly, her words twice as intimate in the confined room.

He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. "On top of all this, you're gonna give me an identity crisis."

"It's just temporary," she assured him.

"Then can I go back into hiding?" His eyes were pleading.

"We're gonna make it so we no longer need to hide," she said calmly. Her fingers lovingly tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "Besides, it'd be a shame to hide you. You're more handsome than half of Hollywood's leading men."

He softened at her compliment, and Rachel found herself falling for him all over again.

"Rachel–"

She interrupted him with a patient yet passionate kiss, enjoying the familiar sensation of his smooth skin against her chin.

"You're scared, aren't you?" she whispered into the kiss. She felt him nod slowly, face still pressed to hers. She lingered longingly, with her fingers poised between his open collar, allowing her cheek to slide against his. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."

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Fitzgerald, bless his soul, was trained well in the art of hiding emotions, just as Frank had considered himself to be. Frank could tell from the look on his old counterpart's face that he was containing amusement at Oxana's restyling attempt. It was all Frank could do to keep from punching a hole in the well-crafted, wainscoted walls of this God-forsaken mansion.

"Are you familiar with Julie Pentecost, Frank?" Fitzgerald asked him as they headed through the hall toward the woman's personal study.

"Can't say I'd ever heard of the woman before yesterday," Frank admitted tersely. Fitzgerald didn't look surprised.

"I'd say she hit her stride in the 60's and 70's. She's a pistol. Bit like Marron."

The vague descriptor was not quite enough to prepare Frank for the woman he was about to meet.

"Ah, shit!" Fitzgerald muttered to himself as they stopped right outside the slightly open doors to her study. "I gotta take this," he gestured to his buzzing cell phone. "Go ahead in without me," he said, waving Frank on. "She's expecting you."

Frank opened his mouth to protest, but the man was out of sight before he could get the words out.

He paused in front of the door, uncharacteristically nervous to head in by himself. He would have preferred to have brought Rachel with him to help break the ice, but she was currently curled up in bed with another bout of nausea.

Reluctantly, Frank steeled himself and discreetly entered the room.

The woman stood behind her solid cherry wood desk, deep in conversation as she clutched a vintage white rotary phone in her heavily ringed hand. She was clearly of more mature age, but had an indefinable, stubborn elegance about her that reeked of barely expired star power.

"Remember, Megan, it's not your responsibility to provide a 'solution' for a man's erection. It's his body part, it's his problem…"

Frank stopped with his back to the door as it clicked shut behind him, his chest tight as he seriously considered running back outside. He awkwardly cleared his throat. The woman on the phone looked up with a sternly raised eyebrow, her face hinting at many years of former beauty masked by many procedures of cosmetic enhancement.

"Oh, I have to call you back, someone's here . . . Some guy who looks like he stepped out of a Hallmark Christmas movie." Her deep, lazy voice penetrated his confidence as he stepped hesitantly forward. She hung up the phone and addressed him with booming words, "How can I help you?"

"My name is Frank Farmer, I'm here with–"

"Oh! Oh, yes! Yes, come in." She moved around her desk as he walked towards the center of the room, somewhat relieved that Fitzgerald had done his job in informing her of their intrusion. "You'll have to forgive me, honey." She lowered her voice, "I was expecting to see a big black linebacker."

Frank nearly choked at her forward description.

"Don't look so shocked," she said with an amused smile. "I'm sure you're just as familiar with Miss Marron's sexual history as I am."

Frank's mouth dropped open. He looked to the side in an attempt to recover before clearing his throat again. "You mean you haven't seen me in the tabloids?" he asked dubiously.

"Oh, God, no!" she bellowed. "I don't look at that shit anymore. After forty-five years in Hollywood I have to allow myself a moment's peace at some point in my life, don't I?"

As abrasive and unfiltered as this woman was, Frank couldn't help but like her.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, "I'm so used to people knowing who I am that I never seem to remember to introduce myself," she laughed as she extended her hand. "Julie Pentecost."

"Nice to meet you."

"So, you like the house?" she asked, shrugging her padded shoulder to gesture at the surrounding room.

"I can't thank you enough for accommodating us on such short notice like this."

"You don't answer straight, do you, Frank Farmer?"

This woman was reading him like a highlighter on an open book. He didn't reply.

Her eyes were oddly warm as he felt her inspecting his face. "So… you're gonna be a daddy?"

Frank gave a tight smile.

"Unplanned?" She grinned.

His lips twisted with the effort to think of an appropriate response, but she saved him from having to speak.

"I've been there." She chuckled darkly and moved to the wet bar to pour herself a glass of Cognac. "Drink?"

He shook his head. "No, thanks."

Her excessive rings sparkled madly on her hand as she turned to face him again, lifting the crystal glass to her mouth. "So, how many millimeters you got under there?"

Frank stared at her like a deer in the headlights.

She smirked wryly at him. "Not your cock, your Glock."

His hand automatically covered the site beneath his jacket where his pistol rested on his hip.

"You don't need to wear that thing around my house," she said with a casual sip of her brandy. "Although, I get it. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard."

Frank let out a soft sort of laugh, relaxing his stance. "How long has Fitzgerald worked for you?"

"Fitz has been here about four years now. He doesn't work for me as much as he does for my daughter." She gave a short sniff of amusement.

"Your daughter is an actress, too?" Frank asked, his roving gaze taking note of the many framed headshots of the attractive young blonde that were scattered throughout the room.

Julie looked up in surprise. "My daughter, Laura? She can't act for shit," she said stoutly. "Oh, bless her heart, she tries, but she'll never make it big like your Rachel did, and she knows it."

For a stolen moment of quiet pleasure, Frank savored the woman's chosen words.

Your Rachel.

His Rachel.

Julie raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you met my daughter yet?"

Frank shook his head.

She looked him up and down with a razor-sharp gaze. "You might want to wear a tarp when you do."

Frank narrowed his eyes in apprehension just before Scott came knocking at the door.

"Oh, there you are, Frank." His eyebrows shot up when he saw his face. "What happened to your beard?"

"The Russians took it," Frank deadpanned.

Scott's eyes flicked to the side in confusion before he quietly said, "Rachel's asking for you."

Frank looked back at Julie, who waved him off with a knowing smile. "Go cuddle your sweetheart. I have work to do anyway."

"It was nice meeting you," Frank said.

Her amused eyes seemed to mock his formality. "I'm sure we'll get on just fine, Farmer."

Fitzgerald was right. She was like Rachel.