In the last hour of the day, at the end of a dark week, Nikki could swear she saw a rainbow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s see if you feel that way when you hear about my new job.”
Points for Rook — he didn’t blink, didn’t falter. “Please,” he said, and took a long pull on his white burgundy, waiting.
“It’s going to mean a lot of long hours, extra responsibility, days and nights apart, broken plans more common than not. It’s going to be a ballbuster.”
“So you you’re on the task force. Congratulations.”
“No, I turned it down.”
“OK, now you’re just fucking with me.”
She laughed. “And you just didn’t, with the ring?”
He lifted his glass to her. “Touché.”
“They offered it to me, that’s why they called me there. I said thank-you, but no, thank-you.”
“But I told you we could weather this, Nikki. I meant what I said about your independence.”
“I didn’t do it for you. How indie is that? I did it because there’s a job that interests me more. A job where I know I am needed. I turned it down once before, but now I am ready.”
“You’re taking over the Twentieth Precinct.”
“Damn it, Rook, do you ever let anyone deliver their own punch line?”
“Apparently not. Continue.”
“They weren’t delighted, that’s safe to say. But they got it. I saw what happened last time when I passed, and they brought in Wally Irons. Then I got a look at that doofus today, and I could see it happening all over again. To my squad.”
“I am with you a hundred percent.”
“Tell me that when we have our fifth canceled dinner in a row.”
“And this would be new?” He thought a moment and said, “Don’t you have to be a captain to command a precinct?”
“I already passed my boards, remember? The Hammer still has my gold bars in his desk drawer from three years ago when I told him to shove them where the sun don’t shine.”
Rook hefted the jewelry case in his palm. “Is that what you’re going to tell me?”
Heat finished her wine, set her glass on the coffee table, then bounced on the couch cushion to face him. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
He slid off the sofa, lowering himself on one knee before her. In that instant all the light in the firmament, the sum total of the heavenly glow of the sun, the moon, the stars, the comets, and the planets conspired to fall on the beaming face of Jameson Rook. Nikki’s skin chilled with excitement and irrepressible glee and she swallowed hard. Keeping his eyes true, caressing hers while she cradled his, he reached out a hand and she took it, thinking, thank God his fingers were trembling, too. His smile filled her heart, and somehow it grew bigger as he finally spoke.
“Well, Captain Heat…”
A sound came out of her, whether a laugh or a cry, it was born of joy, and that’s all that mattered. “…Yes, Mr. Rook?”
“I have loved you from the first day we met. And, as unbelievable as it would have seemed to me then, I love you more now — this day, at this moment — than I ever have.”
Nikki wanted to say I love you to him, and almost did, but didn’t dare interrupt. So she told him with her face.
And he got it.
“Nikki, I believe in destiny. Not only has everything I’ve ever done led me to you, every time we are apart — whether I’m in Paris or a jungle or across town in Tribeca — I measure everything, every minute, every breath, by how soon we can be together again. Which, in a way, means we are never really apart. But here. Now. Together like this. This is what I want forever. To spend the rest of my life with you. And you with me. Rockin’ happiness.”
After working some swagger, he paused before he continued. “I want to be your husband. And I want you to be my wife.” He started to choke up and some water rimmed his eyes. Rook collected himself, held out the ring, and smiled at her — an angel’s smile. “Nikki Heat, will you marry me?”
Acknowledgments
First off, I am not Richard Castle. It seems proper to get that out up front, although certainly you have already discerned that from the absence of his flair in this section. Normally, Mr. Castle would write this part himself, but circumstances I’m not at liberty to discuss have intervened to make him…unavailable by deadline. So it falls to me, this lowly junior editor, to fulfill his wishes by acknowledging those who assisted him with this book. Please bear with me. Searching his office, I found his notes to be less than organized, and anyone I could consult for clarification is too rattled to talk. Here is my best offering gleaned from his work space.
In his Moleskine I came upon a starred page calling Kate Beckett “my muse, my inspiration, and my life.” Underneath that, something that looks like it says, “…in space they can’t hear you scream, but can they hear you say ‘I do?’”
Clearly he wanted to thank the Twelfth Precinct. He lists Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan with “bro” printed beside each. Then Captain Victoria Gates, with a question: “Is it possible for a smiley face to frown?” He drew an arrow from that scrawl to Dr. Lanie Parish, so there must be some smile versus frown connection to her, as well.
There’s no doubt he wanted to highlight his mother, Martha, and his daughter, Alexis — simply because he did that — highlighted them, literally. With a highlighter.
On his desk, under a ten-pound slug of iron from a scuba belt he was using as a paperweight, I found a list of names with the heading “Magical” on top. The list follows: “Nathan, Stana, Seamus, Jon, Molly, Susan, Tamala, and Penny.” Beneath that, a note to “Thank the wizards in the Clinton Building.” One assumes that is not a reference to the presidential library because he had added “Raleigh Studios” to his annotation.
Of all places, spiked to the rotor tips of a motorized toy helicopter (!), were two pieces of scratch paper. The first mentions Terri Edda Miller “for keeping me aloft.” The other name appears to be Jennifer Allen and it’s printed on a sketch of a hot air balloon shaped like a heart.
In a file drawer, almost hidden under a pair of Slinky eyeglasses, I found a map of the Hamptons with some marginalia acknowledging the Southampton Town PD duty officer for “answering my dumb questions,” plus a brochure from the 1770 House in East Hampton with a reminder to thank the manager for the personal tour.
I thought that was that until I noticed the cabinet above his espresso maker was plastered by Post-its. I hope I have the order correct: “My stalwart agent, Sloan Harris; Executive Editor Laura Hopper [my boss]; Ace researcher, Christopher Soloway; Ellen Borakove, for ‘all things OCME’; John Parry, for ‘the Dutchess County GPS 411’; Clyde Phillips, for clearing writing space; Ken Levine, for blog shout outs and support.”
Apparently the author also wishes to acknowledge Lisa Schomas, ABC’s Castle franchise manager, as well as Melanie Braunstein of ABC, who so ably handles book promotion. This is because I found a note stuck in his blotter that reads: “Don’t forget to acknowledge Lisa Schomas, ABC’s Castle franchise manager, as well as Melanie Braunstein of ABC, who so ably handles book promotion.” I’m not a mystery writer, but I do know a clue when I see one.
Although not what one would explicitly consider a note, the screen saver on Mr. Castle’s computer monitor consists of a pair of animated inkwells that drift to and fro. One bottle is branded “Andrew” and has a subscript: “Leader, visionary, creator, friend.” The other says “Tom,” with its ink label reading, “Always half-full.” Not notes per se, but I am including them, just in case the names mean anything.
One can only guess. And hope that one’s admittedly untrained (and perhaps, unwelcome?) search of Mr. Castle’s writing domain has brought forth all the editorial needs for these acknowledgments. If, in the interim, the author himself should — become available — the publisher shall, of course, stop the press run and allow him to revise.