Chapter 47: Additional Friction
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It was nearly midnight by the time they'd even started to get ready for bed. Rachel was quite the expert at belaboring her point. She was still riled up, and Frank had to continue listening to her harp on his decision to let Fletcher carry a gun, all while going through their nighttime routine. For some reason, her shouting still didn't annoy him. He wasn't quite sure why.
"Don't you think Fletcher should be able to protect you, too?" Frank repeatedly tried to reason with her.
She gestured to herself with one hand emphatically while whipping hangers along the rack of her closet. "I should be protecting Fletcher. He's my son."
"He's a grown man, Rachel," Frank called after her as she buried herself in the closet, pretending not to hear him. "You have to let him feel like one."
She emerged from the closet with her selected sleepwear slung over her shoulder. "That doesn't mean he has to carry a pistol everywhere he goes," she muttered.
"He should be able to defend himself if he has to. We've had just enough scares in the past few months that if something were to happen–"
Rachel interjected, waving at him to stop talking. "I can't think about it."
"He's a public figure now, too," Frank warned.
"Yeah, but so am I, and you don't see me hiding a gun in my bra!" She croaked, her voice weakened by exertion.
Frank softened in response to her temper flare, crossing to her side of the bed to stroke her neck from behind with the backs of his fingers. "You're losing your voice, Rachel."
She pretended to be unaffected by his touch. "It's because I sang tonight."
He smirked behind her. "It's because you're screaming at me."
She was quiet for a moment before she turned around to face him. "I just wish you would have asked me about it first."
He looked down, slightly guilty. "You're right. I didn't because I knew you would say 'no.'"
She squeezed her eyes shut then whispered, "How do you know what I'd say if you never asked me?"
Damn. She had a point.
Frank exhaled deeply. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes fluttered open to stare at him boldly. "Show me how sorry you are."
Frank didn't waste a second before bowing his head to fervently kiss her throat. His hands had been aching to touch her from the second she set foot on stage. Having to restrain himself in public had been agonizing. She had to have known.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders as his tongue laved a gentle path up towards her ear, taking every soft moan she uttered as encouragement to continue. She could barely form sounds for how weak her voice was.
She would be mute by the time he had finished with her tonight.
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"I'm sorry, I just want to make sure I'm understanding this correctly. Frank is working for you again?"
It seemed every time they attended a therapy session, they unintentionally challenged Dr. Theo Evers to maintain his professionalism.
Rachel nodded, staring blankly at the therapist.
Frank shifted and attempted to explain. "I felt it was best for our situation if I could exercise more control in how Rachel's security team operates in public."
"So, this . . . 'arrangement' was your idea, Frank?"
Frank nodded.
Dr. Evers narrowed his eyes. "And this is… an official position of employment, as in… you're being paid?"
Rachel awkwardly crossed her legs in the opposite direction from Frank, but he gave no reply. Frank waited, anticipating some form of disapproval from Dr. Evers, but the man was smart enough not to challenge them on the subject for long.
"Alright, well, how has it been working out so far?"
Frank and Rachel exchanged an uncertain glance. Rachel shrugged one shoulder and murmured, "Fine."
"So, there's been no additional friction in your relationship as a result of this change?"
They looked carefully at each other again, this time with an undertone of humor at the unwarranted innuendo. As usual, Rachel was the first to crack. She giggled her throaty, girlish giggle, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose in attempt to hide her face. "I'm sorry…"
Frank remained focused on Dr. Evers with barely a twitch in his poker face.
"I'll just assume everything is going well," Dr. Evers strategically skirted to a different subject. "Right now I want to ask Rachel if she'd be willing to open up about some of what she and I discussed in her last session."
Rachel's giggles immediately melted away. She looked up, a bit intimidated at the prospect, but she straightened up on the couch and nodded for him to continue.
"There were a few things Rachel mentioned during our last visit that I thought it was appropriate for you to know about, Frank. Have you had the time to share those things with Frank, Rachel?"
Rachel looked guilty being put on the spot. She reluctantly shook her head.
Dr. Evers asked, "Do you feel comfortable sharing today or not?"
"I lied to you before," she blurted, turning to face Frank. "When I said I wasn't scared of being targeted again. I worry about it all the time. I still think about the Academy Awards every time I go on stage, no matter where I am. I still have nightmares about you jumping in front of me. I still hear the gunshots in my sleep. I still–" She paused, only because she realized she had forgotten to breathe while looking at his face. "I still worry that it could happen again, exactly like it did before, and that this time . . . you would die."
The clock ticked several times as Dr. Evers watched Frank carefully, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment.
Frank wasn't sure how to process everything she had just confessed. On the one hand, he was upset that she had tried to downplay her trauma with him, but on the other, it gave him comfort knowing that he wasn't alone in those feelings.
Taking advantage of his silence, Rachel added, "Now your turn."
Frank looked taken aback, as did Dr. Evers. "Excuse me?"
Rachel's expression would brook no refusal. "Tell him what happened, that first night at The Plaza."
Frank's heart thumped roughly in his chest. It was almost as if she'd read his mind.
Dr. Evers looked questioningly at Frank.
"I think…" Frank began hesitantly, "I think I had a… panic attack."
Dr. Evers adjusted his glasses. "Can you describe it to me?"
"I was just walking through the hotel lobby and I kept staring at everyone around me, and my chest got tight and I just… I couldn't breathe."
"Those are pretty classic physical symptoms of anxiety, but can you describe what you were doing at the time that the feeling started? Why were you walking through the lobby? Were you by yourself?"
"No, I was with the bodyguard of one of the women we've been staying with. I was just . . . checking on things. The way I always do when we're out in public."
"He doesn't just do it when we're in public," Rachel murmured tartly.
Dr. Evers raised a gentle hand for her to wait.
"Have you ever felt that way before, Frank?"
"I've felt it before, but not to that degree."
Frank did not like the way Dr. Evers was staring at him. It was the first time while in therapy that Frank felt fully aware of how vulnerable he had become. He was certain it had more to do with Rachel's presence. She had been the one to witness him at his weakest point, and she was here now to witness him relive it again.
Frank's official diagnosis had been Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Although he'd accepted it reluctantly at the time, he'd found some sort of sick justification in the idea that about eighty percent of U.S. veterans shared the diagnosis. At least his masculinity would not have to suffer at the expense of such a title. He could withstand it – romanticize it, even. But he could not allow any additional diagnosis to take place in this office. Certainly not anything with the word 'panic' in the title…
"I want to delve a little deeper into this during our next one-on-one," Dr. Evers said coolly.
Frank felt like a student whose principal had just issued him a detention.
Threatened by the feeling of being weaker than Rachel in that moment, Frank couldn't stop himself. "Why don't we talk about Fletcher's dad?"
Her eyes were like darts. He stared at her unapologetically, expectantly, his mouth set in a firm line, his jaw twitching.
Dr. Evers cleared his throat. "I need you both to be respectful of each other now, please." He looked over to Rachel. "We need to find out if she's comfortable discussing that today."
Rachel looked down at her lap, and suddenly she looked so fragile to Frank – sitting there with her hands wrung beneath her pregnant belly, her lashes resting in demure stillness against her smooth cheeks – he immediately regretted calling her out in such a callous way.
She just shook her head.
Dr. Evers tucked his notebooks under his arm and stood from his chair. "Then I think we're done for today."
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"I'm sorry," were the first words Frank said to Rachel as soon as they got into the back of the car.
She didn't acknowledge him the first time, so he kindly asked Ricky to lift the barrier between the front and back seats. Once he couldn't hear their conversation, Frank repeated. "I'm sorry, Rachel."
"I'm not gonna ask you to show me how sorry you are this time, Farmer," she murmured, dabbing the corner of her eye with a tissue. "So you can stop saying that."
Frank stared intently at her even as she looked away from him, aching for her to understand his regret. Rachel often needed time to cool down from those little betrayals of trust, and he was not foolish enough to think he could bypass that this time.
He settled instead to simply hold her hand.
About ten minutes into the ride home, she said softly, "We can talk about him tonight."
She did keep her promise.
She never said his name.
She said everything else. Everything. The names he'd called her. The things he'd stolen from her. The ways he had gaslit her. The injuries he'd given her. The things he'd forced her to do.
But she never said his name.
Frank noticed that her eyes were closed through most of the conversation. He wasn't sure if it was because they were lying in bed while discussing it, or if she couldn't bear to see his expressions as she described the horrors she'd had to endure.
He was thoroughly disgusted, and honestly shocked that Rachel's trauma wasn't worse than his own considering everything she'd been through. It was one thing to be in the line of fire with international terrorists who didn't even know your name, but to be in a deep, personal relationship with someone for years and have them treat you in such a degrading way, physically and emotionally – he may not have survived such a trial if he'd been in her shoes. The psychological turmoil that she had gone through at such a young age, while becoming a mother for the first time – it was unthinkable.
The fiery rage Frank felt within his chest as he listened was hard to contain. He did not interrupt her once. Didn't say a single word. He was good at listening, but maybe not so good at hiding his feelings from her anymore. It was probably better that she kept her eyes closed.
The prison sentence was something he was very curious about. Conspiracy to murder was not necessarily uncommon, but it was a cause for concern. She hadn't mentioned who his conspiracy had been against, although she'd made it clear it had not been against her. He supposed it was gang violence, but there was no way to know for certain without the man's name. Even a first name could give him somewhere to start.
But he couldn't bring himself to ask her. He didn't really have the right to ask – he really didn't have to know all of these things about her past – but she had offered it. If Dr. Evers hadn't encouraged her, Frank had to wonder if Rachel would have ever allowed herself to be this vulnerable with him.
After hearing her story, Frank felt true physical exhaustion, as if he'd lived it all vicariously through her memories. She fell asleep not long after she'd finished speaking, leaving him alone with his obsessive thoughts in the darkness. He didn't have to tell her what he wanted to do to the man. She obviously would have known. But he very much wanted to tell her. In gruesome detail.
Again, probably unhealthy.
Fuck, he was going to have a lot to unload at his next therapy session.
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The next day, Rachel woke up in a tizzy because she'd slept in and had forgotten she had a prenatal appointment scheduled. She used the mishap as yet another excuse to whine about how much she needed a personal assistant. If it hadn't been a prenatal appointment, Frank probably wouldn't have had much investment in preserving the integrity of Rachel's schedule. He could only hope she would wake up forgetting she had a concert or other celebrity event that evening. But he wasn't that lucky.
He told her he would work on finding someone for the job, but only after he attended to his own personal affairs. He found himself seated at Pettigrew's temporary workspace in the large library, flipping through his address book. Frank had been rather neglectful of tending to the property in Tahoe during the past several months; after all it had been impossible with all the distractions, and he really didn't want to risk traveling there in case someone would be following him. In a move of desperation back in June, he'd made the phone call to Beverly Broadbank with a request for her to keep an eye on the cabin for suspicious activity. She didn't have a key – Frank didn't trust anyone with keys – but she did have a pair of eyes for spying and a pair of legs for walking, which was just enough to babysit a house in the middle of nowhere.
He phoned her house that morning, discovering that she had a very interesting away message.
"Hello! You've reached the Broadbank residence. Leave a message, and remember that God loves you."
She called him back that afternoon, and he found the familiar sound of her sunny voice to be oddly comforting.
"Frank, dear! I'm so glad you called! I've been meaning to congratulate you on . . . well, everything."
He was thoroughly confused until he remembered that Beverly Broadbank was one of the few residents at the lake who did own and watch a television set. He didn't know how to respond, because he'd never had someone discover personal information about him from NBC before.
"I don't know how I didn't recognize Rachel Marron when she was staying with you at Christmas!"
He put his head in his hand. How many neighbors had Beverly told by now? Probably even the entire elk population in Lake Tahoe knew about his relationship at this point.
"Yeah, we were just trying to keep a low profile," he muttered.
"Well, I think it's wonderful. You make a beautiful couple, and I'm just thrilled for you!"
He had to smile a little at her enthusiasm.
"My granddaughter is a huge admirer of Rachel. She hasn't stopped asking me about that night I stopped in for tea!"
"Your… granddaughter?" Frank admittedly didn't recall much about the woman's family, as close as they'd been to his father.
"Yes, Joe's daughter, Crystal!"
"Oh, yeah. How old is she now?"
"She's twenty! Can you believe it?"
Frank casually fiddled with the corner of one payroll document between his fingers. "No, I really can't."
"She's very bright! She just started her third year at the University of Phoenix, and she's taking classes on the internet! Isn't that the strangest thing you've ever heard?"
Frank felt a scheme hatching in his brain. "You don't say."
"I can't believe what has become possible with all of this modern day technology! It's absolutely delightful to see."
Was there anything this woman didn't delight in?
"Beverly," Frank began strategically, "your granddaughter wouldn't happen to need an . . . internship, would she?"
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After the trying day Rachel had, Frank was certain that his discovery would lift her mood. At the mention of Beverly Broadbank, Rachel was already gushing with adoration. Frank had to admit, it was ideal. Beverly's granddaughter was already invested in Rachel Marron's success as a fan, and had been raised by a family he knew and trusted. With Rachel onboard, Pettigrew made the hire official.
Crystal Broadbank was a quiet young woman with shy features, slightly too-long bangs, and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. With her wispy frame, dark hair pulled into a ballerina bun, and delicate glasses, she looked a bit like a librarian in training. Appropriate that they had deemed the Pentecost Manor library as her new primary workplace.
Crystal had not lost her senses in the presence of her childhood idol, either. She had remained impressively articulate and polite upon shaking Rachel Marron's hand, and she took thorough notes in her trusty purple binder as Rachel discussed what she would be needing from her new personal secretary.
Flying by plane to Los Angeles alone, being picked up at the airport in a Rolls Royce, and then being driven to a castle of a house in Thousand Oaks had apparently not rattled this young woman in the slightest. Despite her timid nature, she was professional to a fault. Frank was quite confident in his new hire.
And apparently so was Fletcher.
Frank was perhaps more observant than most men when it came to picking up on subtle interest between strangers of the opposite sex. The second Fletcher laid eyes on Crystal, and Crystal laid eyes on Fletcher, it was painfully obvious.
After being introduced to each other by Rachel, they conversed in their own strange, timorous way – echoing one another's interests in music, and relating on the coincidence that they were both taking online courses now.
Rachel had noticed the sparks immediately, and she smiled her little mischievous smile at Frank from across the room. Once they were alone, Frank begged her not to play matchmaker, but to let things fall into place organically if the couple should choose to pursue something. The last thing he needed was another subplot to the already dizzying soap opera that they were all starring in.
Crystal's first week on the job went swimmingly. With Rachel's schedule back on track and her appointments blocked neatly off to avoid any overlap, things were looking better already. Now, Frank thought, if he could just add to the girl's job duties to assist in sabotaging the tabloids…
It wasn't enough he had to deal with their constant speculation about his brief time serving as Rachel's bodyguard in the 90's, he now had to listen to rumors accusing him of being the controlling mastermind behind Rachel's selective attendance at events and consistent refusals of new film projects. Well, maybe they weren't too far off in their assumptions, but it was because of the media that Frank had to be so controlling in the first place. The media, and the suspicious activities peppered throughout the months that had plagued them since Chicago. But it certainly didn't give them the right to call him a 'modern day Hitler' in the headlines.
For weeks, he had committed himself to keeping calm in the face of the negative media attention, but that day it was the last straw. He'd been on his best behavior all week with the new intern, and it was starting to take its toll on him. If Rachel wasn't going to let him pull a gun on anyone, then she at least had to hear him rant.
On Friday evening, Frank blasted through the doors to their bedroom, violently shedding his jacket and tie before he'd even made it to the armoire. "Rachel, you wouldn't believe what this asshole wrote about me in the National Enquirer–"
"Frank?" Rachel's voice urgently interrupted him, with a forceful clearing of her throat.
He looked casually over his shoulder to find Crystal Broadbank, frozen in place right beside Rachel, her mortified gaze fixed directly on the black pistol at his hip.
"Oh," Frank said glibly. "Hi, Crystal."
Blushing furiously, Crystal gave a quick nod of acknowledgement and quickly skittered out of the room. Frank closed the door behind her.
"What are you doing?" Rachel hissed.
"I didn't know she was in here with you," he defended, matching her low register.
"We were going through my wardrobe for the week," Rachel explained, gesturing to the outfits laid out on the bed.
"I'm sorry, I just needed to vent," he said.
"Vent? You just scared the living daylights outta that poor girl!"
"What should I do?"
"Go talk to her. Explain to her why you're armed!"
Frank paused, searching for any excuse to avoid such a task. "You think she's a little timid for this line of work?"
"She's a secretary, Farmer."
"Alright, alright." He made for the door.
"Frank!" Rachel whisper-shouted at him. He whipped around to catch her pointedly slapping her hand against her hip.
"Oh!" He quickly removed the pistol from his holster and set it down on the dresser before he left the room to find Crystal awkwardly pacing the hallway.
"I, uh… I'm sorry if I startled you in there."
She bit her lip. "It's okay, Mr. Farmer."
He massaged his forehead with his hand. "You don't have to call me that." He dropped his arm against his side, looked in both directions to be sure the coast was clear, then asked her to follow him into the room across the hall.
He probably shouldn't have closed the door behind them, for optics reasons. She was upsettingly trusting of him, despite hardly knowing him. He almost wanted to scold her for it. She looked up at him with those doe-like eyes, so vulnerable—hell, how old had she been the last time he'd seen her? Two, three years old? His memory served him an image of her as a toddler, clinging to Beverly's leg, her hair in pigtails, clutching that worn-down stuffed unicorn she used to carry around with her everywhere.
Jesus, did all little girls grow up this fast?
He cleared his throat for maybe the twelfth time and settled his fidgeting hands on his hips.
"I didn't mention this before," he said gently, "but I am Rachel's bodyguard."
To his surprise, the girl offered a light smile. "Oh, I . . . I know that."
Frank shifted, opting to try a different approach. "Well, a lot of people know that I used to be her bodyguard. But many of them don't know that I was recently, uh, rehired."
Either this young woman was very poor at reading between the lines, or he was doing a very bad job at getting his point across. Likely the latter.
"That's why I… had the…" He gestured to his empty holster, wondering at his sudden inability to use the word 'gun' in her presence.
Looking into the bewildered brown eyes of this tender young girl, Frank realized at once just how terrified he was to have his own daughter.
"You carry a gun because you have to protect her," Crystal said in quiet understanding.
He smiled in tentative relief. "Yes."
"I shouldn't be shocked by it. My brother and my father both hunt." There was a nervous edge to her small voice. "I guess I just find it a bit unnerving that you would be shooting… a person and not an animal."
He stared at her, perhaps looking just as bewildered. The reprehensible number of men he'd killed repeated like a mocking chant in the back of his head.
Having not the slightest clue what to say in response to this, Frank took refuge in the bar to try and relax himself. In an attempt to be gentlemanly, he asked if she wanted a drink while preemptively pouring her a glass of white wine and extending his arm toward her.
"I'm not twenty-one yet," Crystal stammered, staring at the stem proffered between his fingers.
"Oh."
He waited until she had blinked at least three times before he downed the drink himself.
She blinked much faster from that point forward.
Christ, why was this so difficult?
She was just so young. So damn innocent. So undefiled by the world. Just her presence made him feel strangely draconian and ancient in comparison. Frank felt an odd sense of duty to preserve her unassuming purity, but at the same time, he knew it was impossible. This, he supposed, would be the overarching crusade of raising a daughter of his own one day.
In the meantime, though, she could prove a powerful ally in a far different venture.
"Can I ask you for a favor, Crystal?" Frank asked, relying on the fresh surge of alcohol into his system for confidence.
She looked unsure. "Yes, sir."
He lowered his voice discreetly though they were alone in the room. "I need to uh… get a … piece of jewelry for… someone, and I need to enlist a female for… tactful advice."
Crystal's eyes lit up as she slowly raised her hands and folded her fingers over her heart. "You need help picking out an engagement ring for Rachel Marron?"
It was easily the most animated string of words he'd ever heard the girl say.
He nodded just before his hand reclaimed the wine bottle.
"Yeah."