354Author's Note: Hi everyone! It's been nearly three years since I wrote a Castle fic, but the idea for this one popped in my head one day and I just couldn't let it go. This all started because I watched one of those cable Christmas movies (ironically not one from Hallmark) and thought it'd be fun to put Castle and Beckett in one. When I decided on the town name (Evergreen), I had no idea there is a series of Hallmark movies set in a fictional town (Evergreen) with the same name and in the same state (Vermont). That is entirely a coincidence and no copyright infringement is intended. Setting the story in Vermont, as well as the use of a bed and breakfast named The Columbia Inn, is meant as a tribute to 'White Christmas.' It's my favorite Christmas movie. :)
The fic's title was inspired by Kelly Clarkson's duet with Chris Stapleton. It's on her latest holiday album, When Christmas Comes Around.
As far as the timeline goes, assume everyone is roughly five to 10 years younger than they are in the show. This is set modern day (though without a global pandemic). I also tried to be careful so that months/years lined up in the timeline, but any mistakes you notice are mine and I apologize in advance.
"Richard, are you listening to me?"
The honest answer is no. He's been staring at the steady fall of snow outside his office window for the past ten minutes, daydreaming of bikini-clad supermodels on a secluded tropical beach and himself the only man for miles.
But Gina's sharp tone brings him back to below freezing temperatures and gray skies, of the seemingly endless teleconference where Black Pawn Publishing has spent considerable time discussing the latest in a string of disappointing sales figures for his books and questioning him about why his latest manuscript is late.
"I, uh, yes," Rick stammers, all too aware of how unconvincing he sounds. He's grateful they chose to forgo a video conference and instead connected the old-fashioned way, but even so, he's scrambling. "You were explaining that sales of When It Comes To Slaughter are well below expectations and badge-uh, asking me when I would be delivering the next Derrick Storm book."
His hurried explanation is met with silence, and it doesn't take much imagination to picture the death glare he knows paints Gina Cowell's face on the other end of the line. He has seen it all too often these past ten months as his latest book failed to stir much interest and received middling reviews from critics, and that was before the writer's block set in.
"That was…..several minutes ago, Ricky," his agent Paula says, her thick Queens accent practically dripping with disappointment.
Rick doesn't reply, though his shoulders slump in resignation. Paula is usually his most fervent cheerleader, defending him against Gina's biggest attacks and demands, but in the face of a fourth-straight letdown, even she has flagged in recent weeks.
"Let's cut to the chase here," Gina says, her voice lashing out like a whip. "We've danced around this for months, Rick. You've had a long-standing relationship with Black Pawn and you've been one of our best-selling authors, but that was years ago. You haven't written a bonafide hit in years, and I've been told by certain sources that you haven't written a word in weeks. So it's like this — you either deliver a sure-fire manuscript on my desk in six weeks, or Black Pawn will demand the return of your advance for this book and sue you for breach of contract."
Gina disconnects from the call without another word, though he knows he'll shortly receive a strongly-worded email that further expands what she just said.
"Maybe that will light a fire under you," Paula sighs from the other end of the line. "Cause I'll tell you, Ricky, if Black Pawn sues you, we're gonna have a hell of a time finding you another book publisher."
"Paula, I….."
"Don't apologize," she says quickly. "You've had a hell of a year. Several years, actually. What your ex-wife put you through is enough to mess anyone up, but you've got to get out of this funk and start writing. Your career depends on it."
Rick doesn't linger on the call after that, though he promises Paula that he'll keep her updated on the idea he swears is brewing in his head. It's a complete lie, there's been nothing in his head for weeks that would lend itself toward a novel, but it does the trick nonetheless.
It's a matter of form that he opens up a new document on his laptop, but just like so many other days, the screen is a vast expanse of white minus the steady blink of the cursor. He's sure that black mark is mocking his lack of words by the time his mother and Alexis return, laden down with bags of Christmas presents and other items that caught their respective eyes. To his credit, Rick has only left the chair to pour three fingers of scotch into a rock glass, occasionally bringing it to his lips for a drink.
He can't stop thinking about Gina's words, Paula's warning, and the lack of progress in his writing. Invariably, his writer's block leads to thoughts of why, which leads to Meredith, their divorce, and all the vitriol of the past three years.
"Drinking scotch at 3 p.m.?" His mother calls from the doorway, her red hair and vibrant pink coat the equivalent of an exclamation mark amid the moody browns, blues, and greys he favored when it came time to decorate his loft. Martha's heels tap against the wood floor when she crosses into the room, only pausing once she's reached Rick's desk and surveyed him with a sweep of the blue eyes he and Alexis both inherited. "I'm guessing your meeting with Gina did not go well."
Rick responds by finishing off what remains in his glass, placing it back onto his desk with a heavy sigh. "Did you talk to her about my writing?" His mother isn't the only one aware of his ongoing struggles, but it wouldn't be the first time that she's let something he'd prefer to keep to himself slip in conversation.
He can tell by the way Martha's eyes brighten with surprise at the accusation that it wasn't her, providing a small measure of relief. The last thing Rick wants is more conflict and drama but if it wasn't his mother, it means Paula or any combination of the three editors he's been saddled with in the past months have reported back to Gina.
"Of course not, Richard," Martha sighs at him, "I don't approve of Gina hassling you after the year you've had. I wouldn't give her more information with which to do it."
He nods at that, briefly turning his gaze to the world outside his office. As is ever the case in Manhattan, there's the distant sound of car horns and sirens, and the snow seems hell-bent on defying the weather forecast by growing thicker versus tapering off. Just as well, with ten days till Christmas, a proper blizzard might stir up some holiday spirit from him.
"Gina threatened to sue for breach of contract," he finally tells Martha, unconsciously deciding to lift some of the weight that's settled on his chest since the conference call ended. Usually, he feels better once he's said it out loud, but the stone is still there, pulling him towards some vaguely defined disaster. "I've got six weeks to deliver a finished manuscript that she thinks will be a bestseller."
Like Paula, his mother is one of his biggest cheerleaders in life, though her support is often delivered with a healthy dose of criticism in what he's accepted as an effort to keep him grounded. This time he watches her face falter for a moment, the consummate mask that Martha Rodgers has honed over years as an actress falling away to reveal the acute concern she has about his ability to meet that goal.
But a moment later she's smiling, seemingly shrugging off the idea that writing an entire book in six weeks is ludicrous. "Well, you can do that! You've done it before. You just need an idea."
"Which I don't have," Rick sighs, running both hands through his dark hair, and tugging lightly in an effort to vent some frustration. "If I had an idea, none of this would matter, but everything I think of is so….." uninspiring, embarrassing, cliche, pedantic - he can think of a dozen words with which to critique himself.
"Darling, don't be so hard on yourself," Martha replies, walking to the other side of his desk to place a hand on his shoulder. "A lot has happened this year, and I don't think either you or Alexis have felt at home in New York since you moved back. Maybe if you leave the city for the holidays. Go on a trip somewhere, get a change of scenery?"
She kneels then, forcing Rick to meet her gaze. "I have an extra room at the cottage in Vermont. Alexis will be finished with school Friday and I know she's not looking forward to being in the city this year, either. She can stay with me, and you can take the other room and we will all just enjoy the holiday as best we can. Why don't you let her finish school and then drive up and join me on Saturday?"
Sheer stubbornness pushes him to say no, to insist that it will be fine if he and his teenage daughter just hunker down in the city and get through the holiday. But he thinks of Alexis and her usual joy about Christmas, how the bright light that is his daughter has grown dimmer in the months since they moved from California. Even if his career does end up in flames, he owes it to Alexis to try and make something of it.
"If Alexis wants to do it, we will be there Saturday afternoon," he concedes, giving Martha a small smile when she leans in and pecks him on the cheek.
As the final box gets added to the pile, Kate accepts the inevitable — her dining room looks like a wrapping paper bomb went off. Remnants of varying sizes litter the scuffed wooden table and the floor, curls of ribbon and parts of bows jumbled together with tissue paper and unused gift tags.
It's a mess, and it'll take the better part of an hour to clean up, but she shrugs that off. Between the combined efforts of herself, Lanie, and Jenny, all the presents that remained between them are now wrapped and ready to be placed under their Christmas trees.
"Are you sure you don't want any wine?" Jenny interrupts her thoughts with the question, pointing to her overfilled glass. "I'll go back and get you one."
She gives a shake of her head in response, flipping her wrist to check the oversized watch that she's rarely without. It's not yet 2 p.m., which gives her several hours of the workday left. No matter how much she might want some wine, she won't indulge and risk being called out to a scene.
Evergreen might not operate at the fast pace of New York City, the worst she sees these days are typically tourists who drive too fast around the sharp bends and curves of the town's roads and find themselves with dented bumpers and busted windshields, but it doesn't mean Kate will compromise her rules.
"Suit yourself," the petite blonde says in response, settling back into her chair and taking a long sip. The stack of presents on Jenny's end of the table pales in comparison to her own, though having two small children and a husband means triple the presents. Lanie's is the smallest pile, with just three medium-sized boxes and a fourth tiny one, all earmarked for her husband.
Judging by the lopsided grin on her friend's face as she stands at the kitchen island with her phone pressed to her ear, said husband is on the other end of the line. She has to grin at the picture the doctor makes, besotted in a way that she has never seen in the years they've known one another.
"How's Javi?" Kate asks with a grin once Lanie returns to the table carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, one which she hands over.
"Mad that you stuck him with paperwork while you are off having fun," she retorts between a sip from her cup. "He's planning to leave you all the state police bulletins to wade through and answer as punishment," Lanie adds with a wicked grin.
It's only because she's got a mouthful of coffee that Kate doesn't groan outright. Esposito knows she hates navigating through the pages of notices from the state police; items that range from legitimate ongoing investigations to nonsensical memos that apply only to specific areas. There's no way to filter the results, meaning endless clicking through what isn't important to respond and acknowledge those that are.
Once she swallows the hot liquid, Kate shrugs her shoulders. "I could get him to do it anyway," she says in reply, her smile sharpening at the corners. "I am his boss, you know."
"Don't you dare, Kate Beckett," Lanie exclaims, pointing one finger tipped with a cherry-red nail in her direction. "Javier Esposito and I have plans this evening, and you aren't going to mess that up."
Jenny snorts at that, her finger gathering the condensation from the glass in her hand, "You mean you have plans," she says with a knowing smile.
"Same thing," Lanie dismisses with a wave of her hand. "Javi does what I tell him. Most of the time at least."
Jenny's responding laugh is bright and immediately fills the room, her cheeks a little pink. "Spoken like a newlywed," she says fondly. "That'll wear off in time, but that isn't always a bad thing, is it, Kate?"
The question surprises her, and Kate is happy that there's a coffee mug to use to play for time. Usually, when they talk about relationships, no one readily acknowledges that between them she's the one with the longest marriage. Perhaps because it's painful to remember how those eight years ended.
The joyful mood in the room dims once Jenny and Lanie catch the way her fingers clench around her cup, and she can read their body language enough to know that they're both afraid they overstepped. Eager to put them at ease, she swallows her coffee and nods her head to answer the question, "Somewhere around the first-year mark, the rosiness gets knocked off your glasses. Those little habits that annoyed you when you were dating and forgot about in the newlywed haze — they come back," Kate says with a smile. "And you'll fight about it, or maybe some other trivial thing, think that the world is going to end because of that fight, and then realize that you're being stupid."
There's the slightest heaviness in her chest as she talks, the memory of an argument just before their first anniversary. He was upset about her shoes being left in the middle of the hall after a long workday and Kate fired back about his inability to put a towel in the hamper. Things escalated until she stormed out and went for a run. By the time Kate hit mile four, she turned back for home and walked in to find Tom brooding with a highball glass in his hand, the whiskey inside it halfway gone.
The pain of remembering isn't as sharp as it used to be, and for that she's grateful. For a long time, Kate kept everything related to her husband packed away, any photo or memento just too painful to look at. But, as everyone told her, time eased the worst of it, and she slowly worked the memory of Tom Demming back into the house — hanging photos of their family back on the walls, his prized baseball signed by the 1996 Yankees on the shelf in her office beside their joint commendations of service from the NYPD. It was all back now, placed throughout the house.
Neither of her friends ever met Tom; her marriage and her life in New York were part of what she referred to as 'before.' Before Evergreen, before the idea of living in a small town didn't fill Kate with dread and surety that she would be bored out of her mind within the first month. New York was before and Evergreen after. The absence of a person center to her universe is rooted in one and nothing more than faded photos and memories in another.
Kate feels herself tipping into the undertow that is her grief. While she's learned to manage it, to build a life that isn't engulfed by what she's lost and what could have been, the surge still pulses under the surface, always ready to pull her in if she steps in too far. This time she pushes away from it, giving the most genuine smile she can and quickly changing the subject.
"Jenny, have the kids been to see Santa yet?" It's a safe topic, one that steers them away from the quagmire of her past and onto happier things like men in red suits and fake beards, or the toy that Sarah Grace is dying to have but that Jenny has had no luck in finding despite hours of searching online.
Lanie's lamenting the stress of juggling her parents' impending visit and how to fit Javi's large family into their small home for Christmas dinner when Kate's phone rings. One glance tells her that it's trouble of some sort — the county dispatcher rarely calls for anything else.
With a quick apology for interrupting Lanie, Kate gets to her feet, sliding her finger across the phone screen. "This is Beckett," she says, listening to the dispatcher on the other end. It requires no more from her than a few one-word answers and to retrieve her coat from the bench by the front door.
"Hey Lane," she calls once she's hung up, fingers flying over the screen to compose the first of two texts that she needs to send before getting behind the wheel. "Dispatch called, there's a wreck between Cayman's Pass Bridge and the town limits. Car is completely off the road, can you-"
Lanie is already on her feet, reaching for her own coat and scarf. "Absolutely," she answers, all too aware that this calls for a doctor or, potentially, the other role she serves for the town — coroner. "Let me get my bag from the car."
"Can you lock up for me, Jenny?" Kate asks, winding her scarf around her neck.
Jenny nods, "should I wait for-?"
"No, I took care of it," she answers, fingers withdrawing keys from her coat pocket. A moment later she's out the door, jogging to the SUV issued to her by the city as part of her job. Before she's backed out of the driveway, Kate's fingering the radio on the dashboard, officially calling in her status, destination, and request for a wrecker crew to be called to the site. She knows the town, and while the steep hill isn't the most treacherous in the area, it will require heavy-duty equipment to wrench a car from wherever it landed.
"And here we go," she says more for Lanie's benefit than her own, orienting the car in the right direction and giving the gas pedal a firm press of her foot.
At times like this, Kate is grateful for the small-town life. While it could take over half an hour to move a few blocks in Manhattan, even with a siren on, she manages to clear Evergreen's town limits in seven minutes flat and pull up to the scene just over 12 minutes from leaving her driveway. With years of practice behind her, she doesn't wait for Lanie, knowing the doctor will need to retrieve her bag and put on gloves before she can approach the car.
Kate has gloves in her pocket should she need them, but her priority is far simpler, to get herself down the hill as quickly as she can without injury and check on the status of whoever is in the car. There's a clear mark where the vehicle left the road, the snow-covered ground a muddy brown where the tires churned up the grass and dirt waiting underneath for spring.
It isn't until she's crossed the road and started down the hill that she gets her first glimpse of the car; a sleek, black Range Rover with a New York license plate. "I'm headed down, Lanie," Kate calls over her shoulder, wishing there was time to wait for a crew to arrive and help guide her with a rope. It's slippery in the snow, the hill steep and icy enough for someone to seriously hurt themselves, but it can't be helped. Her job is to help others, regardless of the risk.
Swallowing her nerves, Kate takes the first step, calling out to whoever is inside the car that help is on the way. By the seventh step, she can see that the front of the car crashed into a small pine tree. On her tenth step, the passenger's side door moves slightly, caught from openly fully by yet another tree.
"Stay there," she says again, worried that the person might risk further injury by moving before being checked by a doctor. "I'm coming to get you."
Whether she isn't heard or just ignored, Kate doesn't know, but she sees a flash of long red hair and a black coat tumble into the snow. "I'm okay," the voice says, but there's a slight note of panic in the words. "But my dad….."
By the time the girl makes it to the back of the car, Kate is steps away from it herself. Giving a cursory glance, she judges that the teenager does seem to be unharmed sans a bruise that's blooming across her right cheekbone. But she's clearly panicked, calling for a father that has yet to answer.
"Please, help my dad," she says, ignoring Kate's questions about if the girl hit her head or is having trouble standing. With Lanie right behind her and Esposito's car siren sounding in the distance, she doesn't let herself feel guilty about leaving the teenager standing in the snow with one hand pressed against the back windshield.
Reaching the driver's side door takes a bit of maneuvering as a third tree has crushed a section of the SUV's back door. To reach the driver, Kate hooks her arm around the tree and slides down, catching herself by stretching her other hand until it touches near where the driver's side mirror should be. She guesses it's lost somewhere in the woods, undoubtedly sliced off by the tree at her back.
"Yo, Beckett!" Esposito's voice is gruff and seems to carry for miles when he calls out from the road, "Wrecker and rescue team are five minutes out."
"Thanks, Espo," she calls, inwardly cursing the dark tinted windows of luxury SUVs. It's impossible to know what state the driver is in, but Kate tugs at the door anyway, swearing to herself when it's reluctant to move. It takes four attempts until it gives way, swinging open with a creaking groan that makes her think the car frame is damaged and the vehicle will certainly be totaled by the insurance company.
"The girl will be fine," Lanie says at her shoulder. "No concussion, just some bumps, and bruises. She said her dad swerved to miss a deer and they must have hit some ice. Skidded off the road and into the trees. You'll have to question her again because it took a lot of back and forth to get that out of her. She's frantic about her dad."
"Well, here's hoping he's okay," Kate replies, bracing her front foot as she wedges herself between the tree and the open door to get her first look at the driver.
His eyes are closed and there's a big gash on his forehead, with both fresh and dried blood staining his skin, but her heart still speeds up.
If her life with Tom was marked as before, she could classify Rick Castle as before-before. A time when her life plan was altogether different and far easier than the one she ultimately chose.
"Rick," Kate whispers his name before her brain realizes what she's doing, and she only dimly registers Lanie's confused question. She's too stunned to see him again to even breathe, let alone speak.
"Rick?"
She hears the question in Lanie's voice, the worry that this is someone close to her and that this situation just became far more complicated, but Kate can't begin to find the words to explain. There's too much to the story to even know where to start.
"Kate, do you know him?"
She nods in reply, tongue darting out to lick her lips before she can form words. "A lifetime ago," she finally says, "He's the writer."
'The writer' is a distinction Lanie knows all too well, and the gasp of recognition she gives is proof enough. "This is the writer you told me about!? The one you almost married-"
"I didn't almost marry him," she corrects quickly. "But we dated, yes."
"How long has it been since you've seen him?"
Despite herself, Kate's eyes track to the redhead standing at the back of the car, anxiously watching as they examine her father. She can see Rick in her now, from the vivid blue eyes to the curl of her mouth, even the way her hands are folded together with concern.
And, if she were guessing, she'd put the teenager at around 15 years old.
"About 16 years," she says softly, tearing her eyes from the girl and gesturing for Lanie to step forward. "Go on, check his vitals. His daughter is frantic. Give me something to update her with."
It's never a comforting sensation to wake up and realize you don't know where you are, but Rick opens his eyes to the glow of a streetlamp filtering in from a window covered with a gauzy, white curtain.
Once his brain registers that the sun has gone down, he shoots up, dimly aware that he's lying on a comfortable mattress with a warm blanket in handsome red and green plaid draped over his legs. It's that blanket that tangles around his feet, almost sending Rick falling to the floor amid his haste.
The bedroom he's in is spacious if perhaps overloaded on Christmas cheer. A tree stuffed with ornaments, garland, and lights is perched in the corner beside a reading chair and small table. A dresser and mirror, both festooned with more garland and twinkling lights, rests beside the wreath-adorned door to what he guesses is the closet.
There's a fireplace with more garland, a figurine Santa with his sleigh and eight reindeer splayed across the mantle and a 42' inch flat screen mounted on the brick above. Two stockings hang from what he swears are hand-carved hangers, each shaped like a miniature Christmas tree.
The effect is eye-popping, even for a guy that at one time went overboard decorating his California mansion for the holiday.
Rick's feet sink into the rug lying in front of the fireplace, the softness, and warmth of the flames leading him to realize without glancing down that he's not wearing shoes. Reaching up to scratch at his scalp, the slight twinge of pain surprises him as does the heavy bandage covering a good portion of his forehead.
The mirror is a godsend when he pulls the white gauze off, getting his first look at what seems to be a rather nasty scrape. His hands are similarly marred, and there's a lingering soreness that he's sure has nothing to do with sleeping in an uncomfortable position, but his mind can't quite put the remaining puzzle pieces together.
Until, like a light bulb igniting at the press of a switch, he remembers it all. The drive to meet his mother in Vermont, teasing Alexis about the boy she has a crush on, swerving to miss a deer that ran into the road and then, horribly, the certain knowledge that the car was sliding out of control, careening on a slick patch of pavement and down a steep hill dotted with massive trees.
"Alexis," Rick says to himself, throwing the bandage down and snagging his shoes from beside another door with a cheerful Christmas wreath. Pulling it open reveals nothing more than a small bathroom with red and green towels stacked on a shelf over the toilet and a family of snowmen taking up real estate on the counter. He snarls at their overly happy smiles, slamming the door in favor of the one a few feet away.
That door, again trimmed with the garland that he swears is multiplying the longer he stays in the room, leads to the hallway, and Rick doesn't bother to stop and put on his shoes before he's walking down it, shaking every doorknob on his side of the hall and calling for Alexis.
The second door he tries opens at his touch, but it's just an additional room; this one with two twin beds and a giant stuffed Santa holding court near a bookshelf. With a sigh of frustration, Rick closes the door with a snap, crossing to the opposite side of the corridor to repeat the process.
He doesn't make it to the first door before another opens, his daughter stepping out with a look of amusement that is at odds with the panic coursing through his blood. "Alexis, are you okay?" he asks, rushing over to wrap her in a hug.
"Dad, I'm fine," she sighs at him, every bit a teenager who is being embarrassed by a parent despite no one else around to notice. "Are you okay? You're the one who took a hit to the head."
"The wreck," Rick replies at one, absently reaching up to brush his fingertips against the cut. It stings a bit, making him wince, but he ignores it. "I don't remember much after we went off the road. I guess I got knocked unconscious, huh?"
"You did," Alexis agrees, her red hair rippling as she nods her head. "I was frantic when you wouldn't wake up, but the police chief and a doctor got to us and they told me you were going to be fine. I believe the cop said your hard head needed a bigger whack than that to really make a dent," she adds with a small laugh and a shrug of her shoulders at the confused glance Rick throws her way. "I don't get it either, but it helped ease the tension at the time."
His head is spinning, and not just because he's suffered a small injury. It's a lot of information already, but only the tip of the iceberg regarding what Rick needs to ask his daughter. "Can we….?" he points towards the door that he presumes leads to where Alexis has been staying, following her into it when she pushes it open.
This room isn't altogether that different from his own. A little smaller, and it lacks a fireplace, but there's a full-sized four-poster bed with a cream bedspread and a tartan plaid blanket for additional warmth. Whereas the tree in his room is traditional red and green, Alexis' is handsome gold, red, and a sprinkling of silver. Instead of reindeer, a painting of a winter scene dominates one wall and a selection of metallic snowflakes hang from the garland-trimmed windows.
There's a vanity, a dresser, and a reading chair and table, all of them decorated with the same color scheme. It's a subtle type of Christmas versus the motif in his room, and he's of half a mind to force his daughter to trade.
Not that any of that helps determine where exactly they are.
"So, what is this place?" He asks Alexis, gesturing to the room at large. "And how did we get here?"
"This is the Columbia Inn. I think the owner said there are 25 rooms. They've got a restaurant on the first floor and horse stables. Apparently, it's the only place in town to stay," she explains, "Once Dr. Parish decided you weren't in any danger, the rescue team loaded you up and we came here. They asked if we wanted one room instead of two, but I didn't think you'd want to share or sleep on a twin-sized mattress so I said two."
"I waited in your room for a long time," Alexis continued, plowing through her story, "But it was getting late and I was hungry, so I left to get dinner, and then I thought I'd get my phone charger and my iPad. That's what I was doing when you woke up, and I didn't mean to scare you or anything, Dad, I just…."
"Alexis, it's okay," Rick says quickly, cutting her off. It's so like his kid to feel guilty for doing something completely normal, not that his reaction helped matters. "I'm not upset with you. Just confused about the situation. Are you saying that these people just left you here alone?"
"Oh no," Alexis exclaims, smiling at him. "Kate, that's the police chief, stayed the whole time. Well, not the whole time, she had to leave to direct traffic while they towed the car, but Dr. Parish stayed while she was gone."
"She's still here if you want to talk to her. In fact," she adds. Apparently satisfied that he's indeed going to be okay, Alexis turns toward her suitcase, digging in search of some yet to be discovered object and knocking nearly everything else inside it onto the bed. "She said she needs to talk to you for the accident report anyway."
His daughter finally comes up with what she's looking for, a small iridescent purple bag that clicks slightly when she shakes it. Once she's unzipped it, Rick spots several bottles of nail polish, all of which Alexis lines up on the vanity beside the bed, intently studying each color as if her life depends on it.
"Okay, then," he eventually drawls, realizing as he takes a seat on his daughter's bed that his shoes are still dangling from his left hand. "I'm going to go down and meet this police chief. Do you want to come with me?" Rick asks.
"Sure, dad," Alexis hums, turning her attention from the internal debate on nail polish to watch him slide his scuffed leather boots back onto his feet.
Rick doesn't argue when his daughter exits the room first, leading him down the hall and to a handsome wooden staircase that to his untrained eye looks about a hundred years old. It's clearly been taken care of in that time, the wood is shining from a recent polish and the red stair runner has a good amount of wear left. Even the banister garland with its swath of white lights, multicolored ornaments, and woodland birds adds to the charm.
His feet have done little more than touch the bottom stair when the blonde working at the check-in desk looks up and gasps. "Oh, Mr. Castle, you're awake!" she exclaims, abandoning the computer to hurry around the desk and flash him a big smile.
"It's good to see you on your feet. I'm Madison Queller," the woman adds, practically bouncing in her high heels when she extends her hand for a quick shake. "I own the Columbia Inn and it's truly a pleasure to have you here."
"Uh, well, thanks," Rick responds, returning the handshake. From the corner of his eye, he can see Alexis trying not to laugh, and it takes effort not to elbow her in the ribs for enjoying the intense effect that a bubbly blonde in a Fair Isle sweater has on him. "But I was actually wondering if-"
Madison doesn't appear to hear the last part, going full tilt into explaining everything he needs to know about the inn. She lists the attributes of the restaurant, that if he wants to go for a ride on horseback all he needs to do is give two hours' notice, and while the dining room serves specific hours for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, a limited menu of items are available for room service on request.
"That all sounds great," he cuts in when she pauses to draw a breath. "But I was just looking for the police chief? My daughter said she's been here for most of the evening since we arrived."
"Oh, sure!" Madison exclaims, leaning past him to get a better view at a seating area with overstuffed couches, a bookshelf, and yet another Christmas tree. Rick turns as well, expecting the woman in question, but comes up empty. "She was over here a few minutes ago," she says with a frown. "Let me go see if she took the back way and went into the kitchen for coffee or something. Stay put, I'll find her!"
Wordlessly, Rick meets Alexis' eyes as Madison hurries away, the grin curling at his mouth despite his attempts to keep a straight face. "This place is…..something," he says with a laugh that's joined by the tinkling of the bell over the inn's front door. He intends to merely glance over his shoulder, but that glimpse is enough for a double-take.
She's certainly older, there's no trace of youthful softness in her cheeks and jawline and just the slightest hint of laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. Her hair is longer than the mental photo he's kept all these years, a tumble of caramel-colored layers starting at her collarbone and ending about a couple of inches above her elbow.
He doesn't know why she's here, but it doesn't matter. Being stunned at her appearance lasts a nanosecond, but it's enough to leave Rick a bit breathless.
Or maybe that's just the effect Kate Beckett has. She's always had a hold on him, and nearly 16 years of distance doesn't seem to have changed that.
Their eyes meet once she's taken three steps into the lobby, an unreadable expression on her face as she looks him over. But then she steps forward again, shoving her hands into the pocket of her red wool coat and sucking in a short breath, "Leave it to you to wreck your car in my town," she says, a small smile finally playing at her lips. "Hell of a way to meet up again, Castle."