Chapter 39: Still in Business
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"There really haven't been many times in my life where I've thought to myself 'I can't do this,'" Frank said quietly. His eyes met those of his counselor sitting across from him. "But I've thought about it recently. A lot."
Dr. Evers sat back in his chair. "What specifically do you feel you can't do?"
"Put up with it all."
"You mean the media attention?"
Frank nodded, staring down at the floor.
"You feel overwhelmed?"
"Completely."
"Frank, you've lost basically all your family, and you've had to go through most of your life alone. You've recently gone through a divorce, and now that you've found love again, the one person you want to be with comes at the expense of you having to give up your privacy, which until this point has been arguably your most valued possession." Dr. Evers gave him a small smile of sympathy. "I'd be concerned if you weren't feeling overwhelmed."
Frank tried to find comfort in the man's words, but a tiny sliver of doubt still lingered.
Dr. Evers tilted his chin in the direction of the door. "I noticed you had a bodyguard accompanying you outside."
A cold, weak sensation took over Frank's hands as he wrung them in his lap. "Yeah."
Dr. Evers raised his eyebrows. "That can't be easy for you."
If only he knew. Frank shook his head.
"How does it make you feel?"
Frank's jaw was so tight he could barely get the word out. "Incompetent."
Dr. Evers seemed to ignore his body language in favor of moving on.
"How are things going with you and Rachel?" he probed. Frank noticed that his counselor's tone was gentler whenever he mentioned Rachel. It made him oddly nervous.
"Fine."
Dr. Evers laughed lightly at him. "I know that generally your voice doesn't allow for much excitement. But reassure me, Frank."
Frank sheepishly smiled at the carpet. "We're doing well," he assured. "I'm actually . . . thinking about proposing."
Dr. Evers looked surprised. "That's a big step."
Frank nodded, retreating into himself again.
"Could that be contributing to why you feel overwhelmed?"
"Probably."
Dr. Evers scribbled something down on his notebook before looking up at his patient again. "Talk to me about the pregnancy."
Frank tensed up, as if the word indicated some perpetual ailment she had been subjected to against her will.
"She's entering the second trimester," he said stiffly. "Things seem to be improving for her."
Dr. Evers was the only man Frank knew who could make a smirk look kind and understanding. "I mean talk to me about how you're handling it."
Frank shifted. "I guess I sometimes worry about her stress levels having an impact on the baby." He stared down at his hands again.
"What about your stress levels?"
His eyes shot up.
"Have you thought about how your stress levels might impact those of Rachel, which could also impact the baby?"
Frank shook his head slowly.
"How do you feel about becoming a parent?"
The questions were getting heavier. Frank took a deep breath and admitted, "I have mixed feelings."
"How so?"
"I'm happy but . . . I worry about the world we're bringing this child into."
"You mean 'Rachel's world?'"
Frank felt a thunderclap of frustration disrupt his heartbeat. "I love Rachel, but I despise Rachel's world," he said darkly.
"You haven't kept that much of a secret, Frank." Dr. Evers shook his head before continuing diplomatically, "Instead of thinking of it like you fighting against Rachel's world, think of it like both of you fighting against the world together."
"That's easier said than done," Frank murmured as he stared out the window.
"Putting anything into practice isn't easy at first. But with time, I think you'll handle it just as well as you've handled everything else you've gone through."
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"We just need to find out as much as we can about the day you brought that scarf in," Scott said to Rachel as they moved briskly down the sidewalk. "Who was there that day, who was working on it, who might have overheard you, everything we can get."
Rachel nodded, tucking her purse under her arm as she pointed at the shop sign ahead. "That's it. Modern Bloom Alterations." She stopped by the door. "I'm shocked they're still in business. Their customer service sucked."
"Their clientele probably sucked, too," Scott said archly. Rachel gave him an exaggerated glare as he followed her inside.
Rachel carefully removed her shades and approached the desk. "Hello."
The young woman who looked up at her must not have been a day over twenty.
"How can I help you today, ma'am?"
"This is going to sound a bit strange, but I was wondering if I could talk to the owner about a very private matter that has nothing to do with alterations."
The young woman looked over her shoulder nervously. "You mean Miss Carla?"
"Yes," Rachel said, relieved that the woman still ran the business. "Is she available?"
"Wait right here," the girl said before disappearing into the back room.
Twenty minutes later, Rachel and Scott both found themselves seated in the tiny back office with the shop manager, having explained their situation as cryptically and carefully as possible.
"Video surveillance footage? We didn't even have cameras in this place in the 90's!" Carla told Scott with a cackle. "There's no way I could know who was in this shop on that specific day!"
"What about a shift schedule?" Rachel asked, desperate. "Do you keep any records of who was on the clock at that time?"
Carla glared at her. "No."
"What about using proof of purchase?" Scott supplied. "Rachel has the receipt here with the date and time that she brought the item in for alterations, and another receipt confirming that the transaction was complete."
"I told you, we don't have any way to know who was in the shop on that day," Carla insisted. "We were very busy in the early 90's. We had just started taking our advertising more seriously. We had anywhere from fifty to seventy-five clients in our store every day around that time!"
Scott and Rachel exchanged glances.
"You presumably have a database of all your clients, then?" Scott asked.
Carla's thin eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"
"How much do you want me to pay for a list of your clients' names and contact information?" Scott offered.
Carla laughed in his face. "That's private information! I'm not giving that to you!"
Scott whipped out his wallet to try and tempt the woman, but much to Rachel's surprise, Carla resisted. "You can put that thing away, sir." She stood up from her desk with a forced smile on her weathered face. "Good day to you both."
Rachel followed her bodyguard out of the shop, feeling defeated. Scott motioned for Ricky to pull the car up on the sidewalk and they both hopped inside.
"She seems shifty, doesn't she?" Scott asked.
Rachel laughed. "Carla? She's always been like that."
"Hm."
"I guess we're back to square one now," Rachel sighed.
"Not necessarily."
She looked over at him, curious.
"All of these businesses keep their client records in a database of some kind. And those databases are usually encrypted in an online storage server, accessible only to the staff."
"What are you doing?" Rachel inquired, watching as he dialed on his cell phone.
"Finding a hacker," Scott replied.
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"What is this, a bed and breakfast?" Julie Pentecost barked at them. "I'm not allowing any old stranger off the street into my house! Isn't it enough that I'm already accommodating your entire team here for an undefined period of time?"
Scott nobly continued to make his case. "I just need one room and one computer. I'll manage the guy myself, and I'll make sure he doesn't get into anything else while he's here."
Julie pursed her lips and stared between Rachel and Scott for a long while.
"Please, Ms. Pentecost," Scott said earnestly, "My principal is with child, and she now has concerns that she might be being targeted."
"Sob stories don't work on this old lady," Julie said with a chuckle. "I've heard 'em all."
In her most gracious voice, Rachel approached the woman. "Ms. Pentecost, there's nothing I want more than to let you live your day to day life in peace. I know we've been an intrusion on you, but the closer we get to figuring out who might be targeting us, the closer we get to being able to leave you and your daughter alone."
Julie looked over at Rachel consideringly.
"Please?"
With a 'thwack' of her arms against her sides, Julie gave in. "Fine! I like a good caper as much as the next gal, so just do me one favor…" She leaned closer, her eyes full of warning, "Make sure this 'hacker' friend of yours signs an NDA."
Scott put his hands together in a gesture of thanks, nodding fervently.
Rachel grinned. "Anything you say."
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Frank leaned against the stone balustrade, overlooking the elaborate fountains in the back gardens of Pentecost Manor under a starlit sky. He had his reservations about Pettigrew's tactics in finding more information about their supposed threat. Even if they managed to narrow down the seamstress's clients to a handful of people who were there on the very same day that Rachel had been, he doubted that it would lead them anywhere. He had no better suggestions to make, though, and so he'd gone along with it.
He glanced across to the opposite wing of the house, where the dim lights of the library were still on, and Pettigrew was observing their hired hacker in his efforts to break into the client database. Frank could only hope that by morning they might have made some headway.
"I want to apologize on behalf of my daughter," the unignorable voice of Julie Pentecost came from behind him. "My silly, desperate, jealous daughter."
As he slowly turned around, Frank feigned indifference, uncertain whether he was being baited into revealing something.
"You don't have to play all aloof with me," Julie said with a smile, coming to stand beside him at the balcony. "I know what she did."
Frank looked at the woman, confused.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she answered his unspoken question. "I have my ways."
"I rarely find myself cornered like that," he admitted in a low voice. "I've been a little . . . careless lately."
"You've got a lot on your mind," she said in understanding. "This is a lot to deal with." She gestured to the glittering, mansion-spotted hills of Thousand Oaks around them. "I've had five husbands, and none of them lasted as long as you have so far."
Frank glanced dubiously at the woman, trying to contain his amusement.
"I heard what Rachel did the other evening when she found out about Laura's… advances," Julie said, a strange kind of reverence in her tone. "She's a spitfire."
Frank couldn't help but smirk.
"You've got a lot of stamina to put up with her."
"She keeps me active."
Julie gave a hardy laugh. "You're gonna have one feisty toddler on your hands in a few years' time."
The mere suggestion of such a future was enough to steal the breath from Frank's lungs. He never allowed himself to think about those sorts of things. If he dared to invest his energy into imagining his future, he would have none left for the present day.
"You'll make a good father, Farmer."
He furrowed his brow as he met her eyes. "How do you know that?"
Even through the stiffness of her altered features, he could see pure sincerity written on her face. "Because I've seen enough bad fathers in my life to know what makes a good one."
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Frank paced across the floor of the dim library, listening to the irritating orchestra of dial-up sounds from the computer. The hacker that Pettigrew had hired was a young man, probably not a day over twenty-four years old, Indian-American, with a faint accent, short hair, and large glasses. Once the page had fully loaded, he directed Frank's attention to the screen and showed off his progress in accessing the seamstress's database. Over the course of the night, he had managed to narrow it down from 1600 clients, to 700, then finally to 229 individuals who had visited on the week that Rachel had gone in to get her scarf mended. The overwhelming amount of information had made it nearly impossible for them to sit and read it on the computer screen, so Frank had requested the data be transferred to a floppy disk so that they could print it out.
He went back upstairs to the bedroom just before seven A.M., and continued his pacing there with the small disk in hand. He felt a dull sense of dread in the pit of his stomach that what they would discover might prove more harrowing than what they'd anticipated. As he moved about the bedroom, twisting the disk between his fingers, he accidentally dropped it and heard it go sliding across the floor and under the bed. He circled the bed several times, attempting to locate it without having to turn on the lights and wake Rachel, but as it happened she'd sensed him nosing around and woke up anyway.
"Doing your fucking perimeter checks around our bed now?"
He made a face at her as he finally snatched up the floppy disk and rose to his feet. "No," he said, showing her the small object. "Pettigrew's friend got into Carla's client database. Now we just have to print out the names."
Rachel sighed. "The more I think about this, the more I wonder what the point is. Whoever did that to my dressing room didn't actually hurt anyone." She almost looked apologetic. "It's a lot of work for us to probably come to another dead end anyway."
Frank tucked the floppy disk into his pocket. "Well, I'll have the data printed out and you can take a look at it and see if anything jumps out at you. It doesn't hurt to be safe."
After breakfast, Pettigrew and Fletcher accompanied Frank on a long trip to the other side of town to kill two birds with one stone. While Pettigrew took the floppy disk to Kinkos to print out the database, Fletcher joined Frank at a small local jewelry shop next door to look at rings.
Looking around at the sparkling selection of diamonds and gold plated wedding bands, Frank had never felt more intimidated. It wasn't at all like when he had proposed to Leah. She had been specific about the type of ring that she had always dreamed about, and she had made sure to drop hints to him in the months leading up to their engagement about exactly what her ring should look like. Rachel, however, had more jewelry in her wardrobe than any one person he'd ever met. She probably knew more about precious stones than any other woman he'd dated. And he knew absolutely nothing.
Fletcher was at as much of a loss as Frank was. He had tried to be helpful by offering insight into what jewelry Rachel typically found attractive, but they were both more confused by the time they'd left than they'd been upon arrival.
"Maybe we need a girl to help with this," Fletcher said tentatively.
Frank looked darkly around the street as they headed back into Kinkos. "Where are we gonna find one of those?"
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When they arrived back at Pentecost Manor, Pettigrew gave Rachel the manuscript-length printout of Carla's database of clients for her to look over. Though it had taken her a good part of the rest of the day to inspect the list, Rachel reported that she didn't recognize any names, save for a few fellow actresses who might not have liked her at the time.
Which, without saying out loud, meant almost every actress in the 90's.
Rachel was already in a bad mood from having to strain her eyes for hours to read the list, so it probably wasn't the best time for her to tell Frank about the next concert she had gotten invited to perform in.
"New York City? On Labor Day weekend?" Frank was incredulous.
"The one in Chicago was such a success, they want me back."
He ran his hands through his hair as he walked over to the window, suddenly looking claustrophobic.
"Why didn't you tell me before you accepted it?" he asked her in a quiet, offended voice.
Rachel crossed her arms to suppress a shudder of rage. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know I needed your permission before I accepted work nowadays."
He glared at her. "You know damn well why you should have told me beforehand, Rachel. We're partners now, you should be including me in these kinds of decisions."
"It's just a little concert, Frank. I'm not even the marquee performer!" she defended. "Although if they keep inviting me to do these things, I'm gonna need to get a secretary to keep track of my calendar," she chuckled to herself.
His voice shook slightly as he said, "I'll keep track of your calendar: it's empty for the next two years."
"Oh, you wanna be my manager now?" she asked hotly.
He gave her a withering look.
"Then stop trying to meddle in my career," she said. "You signed up for this."
His eyes were like daggers when he turned from the window to face her fully. "No, I didn't."
"Popularity fades and rises," she reasoned. "There's no way to control it."
He moved across the room until he was standing before her and said darkly, "Yes there is."
"You want me to fake my death then transplant me to some uncharted island," she accused in a forceful whisper. "You're a psychopath."
"When we started this relationship you told me you were sick of Hollywood," he reminded her, gesturing to the window with an impatient hand.
"I told you I still wanted to write music!" she shouted.
He shook his head, fed up, and turned away from her. "I haven't seen you do that."
"I've been a little busy!"
"Then take a break from these concerts and write those songs you keep talking about!" he shouted back. Just the flash of unbridled frustration in his blue eyes was enough to silence her.
She watched in pain as he walked back to the windows, hand on his jaw, staring out at the cloudy landscape behind the mansion. Though it was still a challenge for Rachel to see his perspective on things, she made every attempt to reel in her anger and speak with the clarity he deserved.
"I've missed being up there on stage, Frank," she admitted quietly. "It's so different when I'm managing myself. I do things that I want to do, not because I'm told to do them. I'm not trying to get more popular. I'm just doing what I love."
He looked down at the floor with a hint of a bitter smile. "You're too damn good at it."
She felt the tension in her body increase with every step she took towards him. "Might I remind you, I'm not the reason everyone is obsessed with me again. You are."
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The next morning, they booked a last minute couples' counseling session with Dr. Evers.
"...and that's why I think he needs to take a step back," Rachel said resolutely, sitting on the other end of the couch with her legs crossed away from Frank, and her arms crossed over her chest.
Dr. Evers turned to look at Frank. "What do you think about that?"
"I want her to be happy with what she's doing, but I'd like to be involved in her decisions about what kind of work she's taking on."
Rachel gave an evasive shrug under Dr. Evers' probing gaze. "I'm singing in concerts, I'm not being deployed overseas."
Though she refused to look in his direction, Rachel could feel the ice of Frank's glare on her face. "After what happened at the theater in Chicago, I don't want you to go out and sing on just any stage."
"Tell her why, Frank," Dr. Evers quietly reminded.
Rachel held her breath as she awaited Frank's gentle words. "I care about you."
She released her breath, softened by his sincerity, but she still did not look at him as he continued speaking. "And I'm sorry if that means I get overprotective sometimes. But I don't want to see you get hurt."
She was convinced no other man could make her feel this way. She was equal parts furious and enamored. It was a frustrating combination that only Frank Farmer seemed to know the code to.
"Rachel, how do you feel about that?"
She skirted the question. "I think that he still worries too much about it."
"About what?" Dr. Evers asked curiously.
Finally, Rachel looked in Frank's direction. "That every time I'm on stage it'll be a repeat of the Oscars."
She could literally feel his tension travel through the sofa cushions between them from where he sat, about a foot away from her. Slowly, Frank turned his head to face her, his eyes flicking in a million directions across that tiny expanse of space that existed between her forehead and the bridge of her nose.
"Is that true, Frank?"
His mouth fell open ever so slightly as he continued to stare at Rachel. "I worry that if something like that did ever happen again, I may not be prepared to prevent it this time."
Their eyes remained locked to each other as Dr. Evers softly interjected, "Rachel, do you ever worry about that yourself?"
"No," she lied.
She lied to the therapist.
She lied to Frank.
She couldn't explain why she did it.
Frank looked at her as if she had just yanked the gun from his hip and shot it at the ceiling.