Chapter 210: 210. Words of wisdom
Beckett sits stock-still. “Your mother?” she says, without inflection.
“Yeah.”
“She wants to talk.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah.” Castle is as inflectionless as Beckett. “She wants to make it better. I think she finally realises that she was completely wrong.”
“Mm.” Castle observes with some surprise that Beckett is chewing over a thought. More surprisingly, she hasn’t simply said no.
“I spoke to my dad last night. He thought I should listen to her.”
“Uh? Um… what do you think?” He’s flabbergasted. He’d more than half expected an outright no, and certainly he’d never expected Beckett to have been considering for herself whether to talk to his mother. Not after everything that had happened. Beckett is not notable for giving up her grudges.
“I don’t know what I think,” Beckett answers crossly, and bites through an innocent fry with a snap. “I think I’m going to talk over it with Burke, tomorrow.” Another fry is decapitated. “When were you thinking about?”
“Um… Wednesday. Mother said she could miss the evening performance” – Beckett gapes at him – “and I thought the three of us could go get dinner somewhere quiet and discreet.”
“No Alexis?”
“No. She’s still really upset with Mother. She was really rude to her over dinner last night.”
“Oh.” Beckett appears to be mulling over that thought. “Mm. Okay. Why don’t you make a reservation and then I’ll decide after I’ve seen Burke.”
“You’ll think about it?” Castle gulps, rather unflatteringly obviously surprised. “I thought you’d outright refuse.”
Beckett lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t you think I can deal with your mother?”
“I don’t think my mother’s had any luck dealing with you.”
She puts a hand round his where it’s cradling his coffee cup. “I’m pretty confident it’s not me who’ll come off worst.” That is not at all reassuring for Castle. He doesn’t want to be picking up any more pieces, of anyone. “If I come, I won’t start a fight.” She smiles gently. “I’ll even try not to finish one.”
Castle manages a rueful grin in return. “Okay.” He drops his hand from his cup, turns it up on the table and recaptures hers, folding fingers over her slim span. “I’ll make sure we get a table in a quiet place.” He holds her gaze. “Thanks.” She colours fractionally, but her fingers fold round his in turn.
By late afternoon Tuesday, all the paperwork is completed, and Beckett departs for Dr Burke’s office without any other matter nagging at her mind.
“Good evening, Detective Beckett,” he says pleasantly.
“Hey.”
“Is there anything in particular you would like to discuss? We have only needed to discuss relatively minor matters in the last two weeks, and I had thought that we were approaching the point where any appointments could be more ad hoc.”
“We are,” Detective Beckett says very quickly, her gaze dancing around the room, stopping occasionally for a second. Really, Dr Burke would have considered that Detective Beckett was only too pleased to complete treatment. “I want to talk to you about Martha.”
“Mrs Rodgers? What has occurred this time?”
“I’m not sure. We all went to the housewarming, and she kept trying to talk to me. It wasn’t the time or place, and I wasn’t going to be made to look the bad guy when she got upset. So I kept away from her.”
“Undoubtedly a wise course of action.”
“So I talked to Dad about what to do” – ah, excellent, thinks Dr Burke. Detective Beckett has truly forgiven her father, and they have re-established a good relationship. How very gratifying – “and he said he thought I should listen to her. But he agreed the party hadn’t been the place.”
“Mm,” Dr Burke hums non-committally, and steeples his fingers. Detective Beckett continues to outline the three directions which she sees that any discussion with Mrs Rodgers might take.
“I see,” Dr Burke says. “What do you think would be best to do, and what do you want to do?”
“Best would be to have some kind of a civil relationship, which means hearing her out. Or letting her have enough rope to hang herself,” Detective Beckett adds bleakly. It appears that she is unconvinced of Mrs Rodgers’ bona fides. “I want not to do this. I don’t want to see her and I don’t want to listen to her.”
Dr Burke is about to speak when Detective Beckett begins again.
“But. If I don’t hear her out, then it’ll poison everything. Just like it would have done if Castle hadn’t let her talk to him. So I have to hear her out, or we’ll be screwed from the get-go,” Detective Beckett says, more vulgarly than Dr Burke remembers. However, she is essentially correct.
“I agree with that analysis.”
Detective Beckett does not appear to appreciate the reassurance. Presumably she had had some small hope that Dr Burke would advise her not to listen to Mrs Rodgers.
“Ugh,” Detective Beckett says gloomily. “I don’t like this at all.”
“It would be extremely unusual if you did,” Dr Burke says dryly. Detective Beckett smiles swiftly. “However, you are taking a sensible approach.” He sits back in his chair. “Would you like to consider how best to respond to each possible line of conversation which Mrs Rodgers might introduce?”
“I guess so.”
“Then let us begin. What is the least desirable discussion?”
“She keeps trying to be a mother.” Detective Beckett has no hesitation about that statement.
“Indeed. Do you think that it is likely that Mrs Rodgers will pursue that tack?”
Detective Beckett ponders for a moment or two, her brow furrowed. “Not if she has any sense,” she says bluntly. “Trying that has got her thrown out of Castle’s loft.”
Dr Burke reflects that it has also exposed Mrs Rodgers to Detective Beckett’s wrath, which may well also be extremely unpleasant.
“How, then would you respond in the unlikely event that this route is taken?”
“Close it down and leave.”
“Mm. Yes. That would indeed be the best course of action.” Dr Burke assumes a soothing expression. “Now, what would be the second least desirable discussion?”
“Guilt tripping me because Castle’s angry with her, and she thinks it’s my fault he won’t talk to her.”
“Yes. That is quite possible, though I do not surmise it to be the most likely conversational topic. What will you respond in that situation?”
“Castle’s a big boy. It’s up to him how and when he talks to his mother.” Detective Beckett shrugs. “I’d never stop him. He would never stop me talking to Dad.”
“Mm. Also an acceptable response. One should not interfere between parent and child without excellent reasons.”
Detective Beckett raises an exceedingly sceptical eyebrow.
“I am a psychiatrist, Detective. It is my job to interfere.”
Detective Beckett laughs wryly. “Guess so,” she admits. Dr Burke smiles sardonically back at her.
“And finally, the most desirable” – Dr Burke observes Detective Beckett’s expression – “or least undesirable, option.”
“She acts like a normal adult, explains what she wants to explain, and everyone’s civil. Everyone feels better and there’s no baggage hanging around to mess us up.”
It is perfectly plain that the us in that statement refers only to Detective Beckett and Mr Castle. “Your strategy?”
“Listen. Like she’s a witness. Maybe ask a question. Nothing much else. She explains, I listen, all done.”
“Mm,” Dr Burke says thoughtfully. “Tell me, what do you mean by all done?”
“She’ll have said her piece. I can decide what I think about it. We can move on from there.” Detective Beckett appears to notice Dr Burke’s inquiring visage. “In whatever direction we think we need to.”
“Indeed. I infer that you intend to stay calm whatever occurs?”
“Yes. Unless she starts on Castle again.”
“I see.” Dr Burke approves. Mr Castle requires a defender at times, as well. Detective Beckett has proved her worth in that regard.
“That all seems most reasonable, Detective. For when is the meeting planned?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Very well. Should you require to discuss any matter, I will leave your previous session time on Friday available.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Otherwise, I think that, should no issues arise from your discussion with Mrs Rodgers, we may reduce your schedule to one formal session per month, though you may make ad hoc appointments if you require them.”
Detective Beckett is as pleased by that as she was when the sessions were first reduced.
“Great!” she says happily, and pauses. “Er… thank you. We’d never have got here without you.”
“You are most welcome, Detective.”
Detective Beckett departs, and Dr Burke congratulates himself on a job well done. On returning to his desk, however, he notices, to his decided dissatisfaction, that he had left Mr Castle’s book partially visible within his slightly opened briefcase. However, Detective Beckett cannot have noticed it. She would never have resisted the temptation to comment.
Castle has booked a very quiet, private table for seven p.m. on Wednesday at a very discreet, quiet Italian restaurant, together with a trusted twenty-something to have a sleepover with Alexis. That done, he ensures that Alexis has dinner, defers any discussion of how she feels about her Grams until after he has heard his mother’s story tomorrow, and bounces off to Beckett’s apartment to wait until she returns from therapy. For almost the first time, he lets himself in, and occupies his time with firstly a book and secondly ordering dinner.
Beckett arrives before dinner does.
“Hey,” she says, surprised. “You came in?”
“Yeah. You’ve been waltzing in and out of my apartment so I thought I’d try it too. See how it felt.”
“And?” Beckett husks, shedding her light jacket and shoes and slinking towards him. “How did it feel?”
“Not as good as it would if you had been here,” Castle rasps, catching her into his arms and kissing her deeply.
A few moments later, they’re interrupted by the arrival of dinner. It’s fair to say that the interruption is in the nick of time. It’s also fair to say that it isn’t appreciated. On the other hand, during the pause in proceedings which the arrival and consumption of dinner had produced, Beckett has pinned down the nagging feeling that she had noticed an anomaly in Dr Burke’s soothingly professional office.
“You’ll never guess what Dr Burke had,” she enthuses. “Never.”
“Uh?”
“Dr Burke. I knew there was something odd but it took me till now to pin it down.”
“What was it?” Castle asks with interest. Beckett doesn’t often play guessing games.
“No, you have to guess. You’ll never get it, though.”
She’d said that before, and he’d totally failed to guess that Dr Burke was their witness. He thinks, though Beckett snuggled into him and stealing bits of his remaining dinner with the fastest set of chopsticks in Manhattan doesn’t help him.
“He had a collection of stuffed toys out.”
“No. Besides which, if he did it would only mean that he’d been seeing a child or doing play therapy.”
Castle huffs, and thinks some more. “Can’t be sports gear. We know he plays tennis. A board game – I know, his own Sorry set!”
“Nope. Though that would be funny.”
“Um – hey, stop stealing all the cashew nuts! Mine!” He swats at her chopsticks, and misses. Beckett munches the cashew nut triumphantly. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
“You’ve got one more guess.”
Castle cradles his remaining cashew nut chicken protectively while he ponders. What could be so surprising that Beckett would make him guess? His brow creases. What is the most unlikely thing that Beckett could see in Burke’s office… No. Surely not? Oh well. It’s worth a try.
“One of my books?”
Her face falls. “You guessed.” She pouts. It’s adorable, not least because he out-guessed her. “How did you know?” she huffs.
“Really? One of my books? Which one? How did you know anyway?” His delighted astonishment floods out of him. “My book? That’s amazing!” Suddenly he grins evilly. “Beckett,” he says slowly, “I think that Dr Burke might deserve a present, when all this is over.”
Beckett grins back equally wickedly. “I think he might. A signed set of your books – all your books, right back to that rubbish you wrote in the beginning. What was it?”
“In a Hail of Bullets,” Castle mutters grumpily. “It wasn’t rubbish. Merely… um… gauche.”
“Hm, that’s one way to describe it,” Beckett snickers.
“Stop it. You’re mean to me.”
“Are you five? Anyway, a present for Dr Burke?”
“Oh, yes. Presented in person, I think.”
They exchange very satisfied smirks. At least, they do until Castle realises that Beckett is stealing the cashew nuts again, when his satisfied smirk drains away.
“They were mine!”
“You weren’t eating them.”
Castle puts down his now entirely cashew-nut-free dinner, safely out the way, wraps his arm round Beckett very firmly, leans down – and clamps her in to remove her chopsticks and encircle her wrists until he’s trapped her giggling self, removed her plate, and leaned down to whisper ominously in her ear.
“Theft is a felony, Beckett.”
“Misdemeanour. Three cashew nuts” –
“Three? You ate more than that.”
“Three,” she says firmly, though her eyes are sparkling – “don’t amount to a felony.”
“It was theft. You stole them.” His lips are a breath away from her ear. “You deprived me of them.” A whisper closer, and warmth on her neck. It might have been a flick of tongue, a brush of mouth. “You can’t give them back.” The words swirl between his lips, against her skin. “What’ll you give me instead?”
She turns into his avid grip, his greedy kiss, his hard, hot hands, and everything else is forgotten as he sweeps her up into him and takes her to the bedroom.
One button at a time, followed by small, teasing kisses; one more button, then a zip, still followed by mobile, sensitive, wicked lips. A soft slither of fabric to the floor, a step to freedom from the spreading material; a fall of cotton and a click of buttons against wood, repeated; the whisper of breaths and slide of hands through hair; the heat of skin on skin; the rustle of smooth linens, rumpling under the pressure of slick bodies and rhythmic movements; and then only the soft sounds of breathing, slowing and calming; of satiety, and of farewell, and finally of solitary, but never, now, lonely, sleep.
On Wednesday evening, Beckett and Castle vacate the bullpen swathed in tangible tension which prevents anyone asking any questions, despite the fact that it’s only just after six. Neither of them can sit still any longer. Without actually mentioning it, they meander to Tompkins Square Park, which is pleasant enough in the June evening: though the New York summer is beginning to swelter longer into the day, there’s still a slight cooling after six. On any other day, they might have sauntered, promenaded: today they walk, an indefinable heaviness in their steps. The threat of unhappiness looms ahead.
Their paces lag more obviously as their unwatched watches approach six-thirty; as they turn together for the exit; as they step out onto the street and flag down a cab. Again without speaking, they had agreed that neither of them would drive. Not tonight. Too many imponderables.
The traffic is as slow and tangled as their unspoken thoughts. They arrive barely before seven, to find Martha already there. In front of her is only a tall glass of sparkling water: no wine, no cocktail. They seat themselves: Martha across the table from them: eyes dull, face haggard under her make-up. Castle thinks very privately that the old expression hag-ridden is entirely accurate. She looks, once more, as if she hasn’t rested since Sunday, or if she has, it’s been plagued by nightmares.
“I guess I need to explain,” she says, none of her previous ebullience or confidence present. Nobody speaks, though Beckett produces a sharp nod. Castle simply watches. His hands are knotted under the table, but one of Beckett’s is over them.
“I…I need to go back to the beginning.” She grimaces. “Long before you arrived, Richard.” She hesitates. “Back to my parents.” Another, more uncomfortable, hesitation. “They were very normal. Straitlaced.” Her mouth pinches. “Moral.” More tightly pinched. “I lied to you. They never had a mind-reading act. Never went near a stage in all their lives. But it was a better past. Far better than the reality.”
Beckett can sense taut tendons in Castle’s twisted fingers. Suddenly, he’s gone on alert. Beckett thinks that he’s searching down the path of his mother’s story, scouting in advance of her words. She can see at least part of the shape of the tale, already.
“They thought I’d be just like them. Grow up, marry the boy next door, settle down to their boring, humdrum life. Wither away in nondescript tedium.” She grimaces, again. Old, bitter argument is written in the lines of her face. “It was another time, another place. Mid-America.” She stops that line of thought. “Anyway. I had dreams – big dreams – and I had talent, and I wasn’t going to be stopped by mere convention. I was worth more than their narrow little lives.”
She stops, and sips her water.
“They weren’t supportive.”
For the first time ever in their acquaintance, Beckett thinks that Martha is considerably understating the case. She thinks that war had broken out in the Rodgers household. If it even was Rodgers. She realises that she has no idea what Martha’s original name might have been, and wonders if Castle does.
“But they didn’t stop me.”
Okay, that wasn’t quite what Beckett expected.
“In fact, they told me if I was going to act I wasn’t going to be welcome. I could leave right there and then. They made it pretty clear, though, that they thought I would fail, and would come crawling back. They said they’d take me back if that happened. In those days… that wasn’t a small offer. There would have been strings, though. There were always strings, with my parents.” She sips again. Castle takes a gulp of his coffee. “Life was like that, then. The Sixties weren’t very swinging in middle America. Girls didn’t up and leave home to follow their dreams.”
“But you did, Mother,” Castle says, with soft admiration.
“Yes. I did. And for a while I was living my dream. I got parts – not big ones, but I knew I had to work for it, and I did. I crossed the continent, and I never had to rest for long. The world was my oyster, and I loved it. Being on stage was everything I needed and wanted. They don’t lie when they talk about the smell of the greasepaint under the lights.”
From the expression on Castle’s face, he’s never heard his mother talk about this, nor is he used to this almost-normal, serious tone. He waves the server away, not wishing anything to interrupt this story.
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