Papa Jack Chapter 63

After a spate of enthusiastic typing, Richard gazes over his screen at Kate. To a stranger, her fatigue would be imperceptible. Still, after their stakeouts, long drives, and more intimate time together, he knows every line of her face, every expression, and every curve of her body. The slump of her shoulders tells him her energy is waning fast. He pastes on a smile. "I think that should do it for today. I need some time to mull over everything we put together and fit a story around it. I can usually do that better if I sleep on all the various components for a while. How about if I make us an early supper so you won't have to bother with the kitchen tonight?"

"About the only thing I had planned to do in my kitchen was look at the delivery menus on my refrigerator," Kate confesses. "But something that doesn't stick to the lid of a box would be nice."

Richard's nose crinkles. "Yeah, I hate it when that happens. So, in full knowledge that I don't have to feed you clear broth and Jello, are there any restrictions I should know about before I whip us up a meal? I researched special diets once for a plotline in one of my stories. I was going to have the killer commit the slow murder of a victim with kidney disease by switching out all their regular salt for the stuff with added potassium. But then a flood of TV shows came out using allergens like peanut oil as murder weapons. That wasn't the same as what I had in mind, but it was too close. So, I went for a more flamboyant murder."

"With what?" Kate inquires.

"A flaming sword."

"That's flamboyant," Kate agrees. "But to answer your question, no restrictions. Just don't try to make me eat pineapple. I always feel like it's eating me."

"Noted. Actually, I was thinking of omelets, with some fruit – not pineapple – on the side."

"Sounds perfect."

"So, are you up for another session tomorrow?" Richard asks as he drives Kate home.

"I have a doctor's appointment in the morning, and my father has already insisted on taking me."

Richard chuckles. "Of course he has."

"But later in the day should be OK. I'll call you."

"I'll look forward to it."

Richard lets himself back into his loft and hangs up his heavy coat. After a quick glance through the day's mail, he flops on his bed, his forearm blocking his eyes from the light. It's wonderful working with Beckett, cooking for her, driving her, and just being with her. It's also hard as hell. She needs to heal and he needs – he needs what it would be impossible or at the least dangerous for her to give right now. The next six weeks, or however long it will take until there's a chance she can be his lover again, will be torture. They'll be sweet torture, but torture nonetheless. He can take some solace in getting a book, maybe two, out of their consultation. But at the moment, that seems hollow consolation.

Stretched on her couch, Kate does her best to lose herself in the episodes of Temptation Lane she recorded while she was gone. If nothing else, the bed-hopping intricacies are usually good for a laugh. But right now, she finds them more sad than funny. The ships can never work out for too long. The audience gets bored, and the writers have to throw a wrench into the works. No TV writer threw a wrench into her budding relationship with Castle. That was Cedric. The fact that he'll probably spend the rest of his life in prison doesn't change that.

Kate can't help wondering if by the time she and Castle can get together again for more than a brainstorming session it will be too late. After a while, attraction fades, doesn't it? It always has for her. And Castle's never been married, so he's never gone long-term either. But she's never felt as strong a tug for anyone as she does for Castle. So could it be different this time? And how about what he feels? Will he lose interest? The music rises as a lead actor shoots a significant glance across the room at a new and very sexy character on the show. Kate turns off the recording. Right now, watching half of her favorite ship start to stray is the last thing she needs.

As the next day's afternoon wears on, Richard paces the floor of his loft until his phone finally rings. "Kate?"

"Mmm, whoever Kate is, I'd like to meet her," a husky alto comes through the receiver, "but it's Martha Rodgers. I wanted to thank you for talking to Stephen Cannell. He just officially signed on to the fundraiser. But I'm not sure whether he'll be doing his reading for the benefit of actors or writers since he's both. And he's a producer, even more than a writer or actor. What do you think?"

Richard absently rubs a shoulder that had been sore for a week after his workout with the man in question. "Did he agree to read something from one of his novels or something from one of his shows? Hmm. Maybe it doesn't matter. The production logo for his shows always had him at a typewriter. So how about a writer who has written for actors? That ties everything up in a neat bow. Oh, and he also wanted some time to mention his support for dyslexia research."

"Yes, he told me his whole story of growing up undiagnosed. Quite heartwrenching. Logo or not, he dictates his books," Martha relates. "His story would make a good play. I suggested it."

"He told you all that?" Castle marvels. "I had no idea."

"Men will often tell a woman what they won't tell a man," Martha says. "But using Cannell as a connection between actors and writers is a good idea, Richard. We can go with that."

"OK," Richard agrees. "Um, Martha, I'm expecting another call."

"Yes, Kate," Martha acknowledges. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of - whatever. Good luck, Richard."

"Thanks, Martha."

Hanging up, Richard considers what his mother said. A man will tell a woman what they won't tell a man. There's certainly a lot he'd love to tell Kate. That is if he can get up the nerve.

The jangle of another incoming call pulls Richard from his musings. "Castle," Kate says, "change of plans."

A chill creeps over Richard's skin. "Are you all right? Did something happen at the doctor's office?"

"I'm fine, Castle. This is about a case the boys are working. They're here, and they think you might know the victim."

Richard can't help the rush of relief about Kate, even if someone else he might know is dead. "Who's the victim?"

"Eric Donnelly."

"Eric Donnelly, the writer?"

"Yeah, do you know him?"

"We're not bosom buddies, but he's part of my writers' poker crew. What happened?"

"That's what the boys are hoping you can help them figure out. Can you come to my apartment?"

"No problem. See you and the boys in about ten minutes."

See you then."

Richard hangs up the phone with unnecessary force. "Damn!" He wanted to see Kate, but not with an entourage. Still, it sounds like it could be an interesting case. And if he can help solve Donnelly's death, he owes it to a poker pal to try.

A/N If you are an artist trying to pick up some work from me, please don't waste both of our time sending me a PM. I already use the art of a friend and also get professionally produced covers for my books from my publisher. If I need something else, I'll put out the word. Thanks.