Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first card comes right after they lose the princess.

On the inside was some trite business about remembering the good times with our loved and being in the hands of God.

On the other side: "I know you, Farmer. Stop taking it so hard. We all saw the news reports, and I know you. There’s no way they were following protocol. Not one of yours, anyway. This wasn’t your fault. Stop beating yourself up. Or if you can’t do that, at least go home and let your dad beat you in chess.

And I’m sorry.

Fletcher sends his condolences.
~Rachel"

Her handwriting flowed across the page as if she’d learned with a ruler-wielding nun standing over her: strong, black lines that looped and whirled but was never unclear. If you didn’t know what Rachel meant, it wasn’t because you couldn’t read her handwriting.

Her signature was another story. A large capital R, then smaller still-distinct A flowed into a nearly indecipherable scrawl that boasted only one upright line that should have been the L but could still possibly be the H. Her professional scrawl.

She’d signed his checks R. Marron. She’d signed her angry notes (when she bothered to write them) Ra....l.

She signed her cards Ra...l.

Frank went home after that first card. He let his father beat him at chess. And he healed.

He sent her a postcard from the lake before he left for his next job.

The next card came for his birthday. He was sure she didn’t know it and wondered who had told her.

On the one side was a solemn, rhyming, wish for his health and joy on the anniversary of another year topside.

On the other side: "Smile, Farmer. I know you know how. I’ve seen you do it. There were witnesses.

~Rachel" Or, rather, "Ra...l"

And below that: "Happy Birthday, Frank! Hope you get to have fun!

Sincerely,
Fletcher"

He had smiled. Just as some lucky bastard was walking by with a Polaroid camera. He sent the picture to Rachel and Fletch. On the back, he wrote: "And now there’s proof. ~Farmer"

***

"Mom! Mom! Look what I got!"

Rachel turned away from the lighted vanity, quickly shooing away the makeup people so she could catch her son in a quick hug before he wiggled out of her arms. It seemed like yesterday when he practically wanted to live under her armpit. Now... "What is it, baby?"

"Birthday card from Frank! And his dad, Herb!"

"Yeah? And that’s Mr. Farmer to you."

"Yeah!" Fletcher seemed to thrum with excitement. "Wanna see?"

"Of course! Give’em here."

Fletcher handed them both over then ran out of the dressing room. Rachel’s head shot up. "Fletch! What...? That boy."

She dropped her head to read the two cards. From Frank’s dead: "HappyThirteenth, kid. Keep your skills sharp. You’ll never know when you’ll need them."

Rachel smiled and shook her head, not quite sure what the man-ese meant. It had made Fletcher happy, though, so it couldn’t be all that strange.

From Frank: "Happy Birthday, Fletcher. I know you’re making your mom proud. Keep it up. Stay safe.

~Frank"

Rachel was still smiling down at the cards in her hands—she hadn’t bothered to read the pre-printed stuff—when she heard Fletcher running back, a weird crashing sound coming down the carpeted hallway with him. "Look what Herb—

"Mr. Farmer."

"--gave me!" Half-ignoring her, Fletcher held up a long, dark wood box.

"That’s beautiful, sweetheart. What does it do?"

"Oh!" Fletcher immediately dropped into a crouch, then opened the box. When he stood again, carefully balancing it so that the whole thing sat flat on his arms, she could see that it was a multi-game set. Fletcher had arranged the board so that it could be set up for chess, but she saw the tiles and instructions for other board games in the leaves.

Rachel grinned. Encircling her son’s face in her long-fingered hands, she drew him close enough to kiss is forehead. "Happy Birthday, baby."

"And Frank gave me a guitar."

"He what?!"

Frank was surprised by how quickly he became used to the cards: birthday and holiday cards, postcards when she was on tour, blank cards filled to bursting with her neat penmanship when she had the time...the occasional condolence card when a job went wrong though no one else died.

He nearly died a few times. She always seemed to find the hospital to send him flowers. The note usually read something along the lines of "What the hell do you think you’re doing, Frank? Leave the heroics to the kids. Fletcher & I are glad you’re okay. Be careful. Rachel M." The cards were always typewritten, so he he always got her full name.

He’d been surprised to find out that she also sent out a "condolence" card to his father whenever he nearly get himself killed. Those cards read something along the lines of "I don’t know how you put up with him, Herb, but he’s a good guy and I’m sure he’ll make it okay. He has to. He’s your son. God bless, Ra...l." She always wrote those notes herself. His father had a collection of her scrawl.

He was completely unsurprised, however, when she sent him his first text message. (It was a new phone, so Frank wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten the number although he’d lay bets on his father.) As much as she had protested the changes he’d made to her property for safety purposes, Frank knew that Rachel Marron liked pretty, new things. He knew that she had no problem living more simply than she did, but he also knew how much she liked new toys.

Hey Farmer! Whatcha doin’? Guarding anyone famous? Anyone I would know? You know I won’t blab....you can tell me. :-)

It took him 4 days to answer. Four days filled with increasingly irate, annoyed texts. Her ire quickly overran the character count per text, so that each rant was 2 then 3 then 4 texts long. The last few had even lost their emoticons.

He saw this all as his phone reconnected with the carrier as his client’s private jet rental taxied to their gate.

Tempted to both diffuse Rachel’s anger and take a light jab at her ego, Frank glared at the phone in his hand. He shouldn’t have it with him. It was a distraction. Forcing himself to return the phone to his pocket, he returned fully to the job at hand. He’d just have to deal with Rachel later, when he was off-duty.

That night he called and left a message on her machine at the house, forgetting that she was on tour.

Two weeks later she caught him on the phone. "What was the meaning of that message, Frank?"

"Hello to you, too, Rachel."

"Don’t you ‘hello’ me, Farmer! I asked you a question!"

Smiling, Frank took a seat on the footlocker at end of his bed. "I thought it was pretty straightforward, myself."

Voice dropping to imitate his, she said, " ‘I can’t answer texts while I’m on the job, Rachel. And I can’t talk about the job while I’m working it. We’ll have to do this later.’ What the hell?!"

He scratched the back of his neck. "I thought I said a little more than that."

"I just listened to it, Farmer. That was it."

"Ah. Well..."

"Don’t you scratch your neck at me, Frank!"

Chuckling, he stopped scratching his neck only mildly surprised that she’d guessed what he was doing. He was sure, however, it had less to do with their time together and more with her experience as the mother of a teenaged boy.

Slumping so that his elbows were on his knees, Frank smiled and said sorry.

" ‘Sorry?’ Sorry he says! I have important news for you, that you ignore for a week--"

"It was only four days, Rachel."

"—and all I get is a ‘Sorry’? I can’t believe--"

"So what’s your news?" he quickly interjected in hopes that this time he’d curtail her high-pitched rant. It didn’t seem pertinent to mention that she hadn’t responded to his response message for another two weeks. Somehow it would still be his fault. It seemed that somewhere between becoming her former bodyguard and her long-distance friend, he’d lost all high ground with the mercurial woman.

"Jimmy proposed."

Frank straightened. "And?"

"And? What do you mean ‘and’?"

"And what did you say?" Frank stood and began to pace.

"I said yes, you idiot!"

After a moment of prolonged silence Rachel was calling his name over the phone. "I’m still here," he said.

"Aren’t you happy for me?" she asked softly, as if she hadn’t been railing at him only a few minutes ago.

"You know how I feel about Jimmy."

And now it was his turn to feel like the parent, childless though he was, as Rachel’s tone turned petulant and pleading. "Oh come on, Frank. All that research you did and what did you come up with? Nothing."

"Nothing concrete."

"Exactly! Nothing."

"Rachel..."

"Frank..." she said, answering him in kind. She sighed heavily on the other side, and Frank braced himself for the most dangerous of her moods: Rachel the Adult.

"Frank, we’ve been through this. Jimmy’s a good guy, no matter what the press says. Yes, he’s had some run-ins with the law. So have I. So have you! No, he hasn’t always been the best boyfriend. As fantastic as you are a bodyguard, you don’t exactly have any high ground to stand on either," she said, obliquely referring to his previous marriage, which had failed long before they’d met. "And he doesn’t have any kids running around, which takes me out of the running. Does he have a reputation? Absolutely. Has he been good to me? Absolutely."

He started to point out how she was different when she was with Jimmy but stopped himself. Maybe that was the point. Stopping at a window, Frank asked about Fletcher. "What does he have to say about all this?"

Rachel laughed. "That boy is halfway to being grown man. He and Jimmy aren’t best friends, but they get on fine." Frank could almost see her lick her lips before she said, "He wanted to know what you thought about it."

"You already know what I think about it."

"You know what, Frank, you really are a stubborn bastard."

Click.

Rachel’s eyebrows went up as she caught sight of Frank Farmer and his date, a redhead who got her color out of a cheap bottle, working their way up the receiving line. "Didn’t expect to see him here. Is that what he married? I’m glad I was on tour."

"Mom!" Fletcher muttered beside her, the deep rumble of his adult voice still disconcerting enough to snap her out of herself.

"What did I say?"

"Nothing. Just...just be nice. It’s been years since we’ve seen Frank and Herb--"

"That’s Mr. Farmer to you."

"—Mr. Farmer. Don’t have a fight and ruin it."

Rachel turned wide, innocent eyes on her son. "Fletcher!"

"I’m just saying, Mom--"

There was a jab to her side. "Babe," Jimmy said, breaking up the conversation. "People are waiting."

***

Frank got the email, a big group email to her friends, family and back-up dancers, about Rachel’s impending bundle of joy before he got the baby shower invitation, so he, at least, was prepared for the ostentatiously large card and its gold leaf filigreed edges.

Vanessa wasn’t impressed. (Whether the gaudy invitation had been Rachel’s idea or Jimmy’s, Frank couldn’t begin to guess. Personally, he thought they complimented each other in the worst ways.) But, then, neither had Rachel been when the two women met at the wedding. He’d heard a distinct comment about cheap hair after they’d passed the receiving line.

"Do we have to go?"

Eyebrows raised, Franked turned to her. "We?"

Pointing with a perfectly manicured nail, she said, "It’s co-ed. Guys and gals, hun. God knows I’d never go to anything that woman was doing on my own." Obviously disgusted, she removed her finger and turned away.

"I know what co-ed means," he called out over his shoulder.

But she’d already gone out the back door.

Frank ended up dropping off a gift. He stayed only long enough to congratulate the parents-to-be with a kiss and hearty handshake, and exchange a very masculine hug with the very muscular Fletcher (who was showing his first real interest in his mother’s marriage). Vanessa declined to go with him.

Frank cursed himself for not turning off the wireless phone by his bed. He’d been arguing with Vanessa again and forgot to put it on the charger. There were many little things about Vanessa that became more annoying by the day—and he was sure she’d say the same of him—but it was her ability to effortlessly interfere with his job. He wasn’t even sure why either of them were sticking it out this long. At this point in his previous marriage they’d been sitting across from each other honing the finer points of the divorce.

Reaching blindly, he managed to kill the ringer. It was his personal phone (Vanessa had insisted). If it was his client, they’d have called his work phone which lived on its charger.

Two minutes later, the phone rang again.

Swearing, he turned it off.

Two minutes later, the phone rang again.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"Is this Frank Farmer."

"Yes, and who is this?"

"My name is Officer Lee. I’m with the San Bernardino County police, sir. There’s been an accident and you were listed as a primary contact."

Words like ‘police’ and ‘accident’ were always good ways of getting Frank’s attention. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, disturbing Vanessa beside him in the process. Reaching back, he blindly reassured her as he tried to listen to the officer.

"Who’s been in an accident," Frank asked.

"A Mr. Fletcher Marron and his passenger Miss Aleta Carter."

"Are they alright?"

"They’re being seen to. Can you come to the hospital? As I mentioned, Mr. Marron has you listed as a primary contact."

Frank was already up and moving, further disturbing Vanessa, but he seemed not to notice. "Have you tried to contact either his mother or step-father."

"You’re not the father?"

"Close family friend. Have you tried his parents?" Frank pressed.

"We have. They are unreachable."

Frank tried to remember if Rachel and Jimmy were on tour, either together or one tagging along with the other for moral support. He couldn’t. Clearly he wasn’t quite as awake as he thought. He’d have to call Sy.

"All right. I’m on my way. Give me...half an hour." He began moving around the room, gathering clothing in the dark.

"They’ll be here. You wouldn’t happen to have a contact for Ms. Carter would you?"

"I don’t, but I’ll have one for you by the time I get there. Her family is back East, though. Is she seriously injured?" If she wasn’t, they might be willing to release her and Fletcher to his care—then to Rachel and Jimmy when they came back home. If it was, well...

"We’re still waiting to see."

Frank swore softly. "Thank you, Officer."

"Sir." And then he hung up.

Vanessa wrestled herself out of the sheets and up on her elbows. "Frank, what was that?"

"Fletcher and his girlfriend have been in an accident up in San Bernardino."

"Who?"

"Rachel Marron’s son," he said as he pulled on his clothes. He was dressed in under three minutes. Frank knelt on the bed and kissed Vanessa’s forehead. "I’ll let you know what’s going on when I get there." Then he was out the door.

"God, I hope you really don’t," she muttered to no one, slumping back onto the bed.

The Thank You card came with a personal apology from Fletcher, a copy of the schedule of classes he’d be taking on drunk driving, as well as a beautiful bouquet of flowers. They were all Vanessa’s favorites. Now he knew why Rachel had brought it up. Clearly Frank had been more asleep than he’d realized.

A standard message was printed on the bouquet’s card: “There aren’t enough words to express all that you’ve done for us. Thank you.” Beneath it, in her cramped scrawl: “I can’t thank you enough, Frank. Tell Vanessa my baby and I appreciate the loan of her husband. Hope she’s not too mad. Ra…l”

Vanessa’s lawyer served him with divorce papers a week later. She kept the flowers. He gave her the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Alfonso Carter, and Mr. and Mrs. James Jackson cordially invited Frank Farmer and Guest to the wedding of Aleta Noelle Carter and Fletcher Bradford Marron on…

Frank checked the calendar on the wall in his apartment and did the math. They’d be getting married in about a month and half. Smiling, Frank silently congratulated Fletcher on convincing Leta to move the date back for the wedding. A wedding at the height of a Californian summer could be brutal.

A slip of paper fell out as he turned the card over. Frank recognized Fletcher’s handwriting, half-print/half-script: “You’ll make sure Herb comes, right?”

Penny leaned back to whisper, “Who’s the little girl belong to? She’s adorable.”

“And spoiled rotten,” Frank added, smiling. “That’s Jamila, Rachel and Jimmy’s daughter, but everyone calls her Jamie.”

Penny turned her bright brown eyes on him, distaste clouding her features. “Is she really spoiled rotten?”

Herb, standing in front of her, snorted softly. “Maybe not rotten, but she is the baby and she is spoiled.”

His father had never met the little girl, but it seemed that all the second hand stories from Frank, Rachel and Fletcher had made an impression.

Making a non-committal sound, Penny nodded and turned her attention back to the rest of the wedding party. Herb obligingly angled to one side when she tapped his arm to get a better view of the bridesmaids. Like many women, she was fascinated with everything to do with a wedding. Like Frank, however, she’d known little of the very famous Rachel Marron or her infamous husband Jimmy Jackson. He’d been hesitant to ask her to be his guest, but when her eyebrows had gone up at their names he’d know it would be fine. A high school teacher with aspirations of teaching college students, she had very little time for the pursuits she personally enjoyed, let alone what was happening in the world of pop celebrities.

Frank liked her a lot, and with nearly two years between him and his latest divorce he thought was ready to try the waters again.

“Oh my God! That dress is beautiful!”

Although maybe bringing her to a wedding so early in their relationship (they were still only dating) wasn’t the best idea.

Aleta frowned. “Who’s this from, Mom?” She passed the note to her mother-in-law.

As much as she loved her in-laws, mostly her mother-in-law, their regular shouting matches tried her patience every time she and Fletcher were at the house. She’d hoped that they would put their issues on the backburner for the wedding, and for a while they had. Not long after it was over, however, they were at it again.

Familiar with the signs, Leta had harassed Fletcher into taking his step-father aside as she dragged Rachel and Jamila out of the house. She hadn’t even bothered trying to find out what the argument had been about.

Jamie was dropped off with her grandparents. Stuffed silly from the reception, the little girl hardly kicked up any fuss at all, and Leta was grateful. She didn’t know how she would have handled both her cantankerous mother-in-laws and her spoiled little sister-in-law. Leta loved them all dearly, but sometimes…

Leta drove Rachel to her new home with Fletcher—which they would soon be gladly vacating for their honeymoon.

Luckily, Fletch and Jimmy had already packed the SUV with as many wedding gifts as it could hold. Carrying them into the house, while arduous, helped to break through Rachel’s very vocal ire. The woman did nothing quietly.

Frowning, Rachel scanned the handwritten note Leta had given her, then flipped the card closed. Unlike many of the other cards, it was understated almost to the point of boredom. “If it weren’t for the handwriting, I’d say it came from Frank.”

Leta nodded. She’d seen enough of Frank’s stilted handwriting to know when she wasn’t looking at it.

"Doesn’t sound like him, neither. Here, listen to this:

"Dear Fletcher and Leta—"

"Must be someone we know," Leta interjected. "Strangers usually call me Aleta."

Nodding, Rachel continued: "Marriage is scary business. In the beginning it’s all nerves and butterflies and excitement. In the middle it’s still nerves, usually because of kids, but there isn’t as much in the way of butterflies or excitement, not for a lot of people. And at the end...well that can go a lot of ways. (Trust us, we know.)

"Here to hoping that your end is better than your beginning. I know some people have come down on you both for marrying young, but if you’re sure and you’re mature, and you’re willing to grow together then we’d like to reserve our seats now for your 50^th Anniversary party. Hopefully no one will blow out their bad shoulder doing the electric slide this time.

"Wishing you both all our love (and a strong arm or a tutor if you ever need them), Penny and Frank."

Grinning, Leta caught Rachel’s eyes as she looked up from the card. Who was grinning, too. "So it was from Frank!"

Rachel nodded. "But the girlfriend wrote it." She turned the card over a couple of times in her hands, nodding and humming to herself. "I don’t remember what she said she did. Not another ‘consultant’ like that cheap redhead, was she?"

Leta rolled her eyes. She’d just begun casually dating Fletch when they’d all been introduced to Frank’s then-wife, Vanessa, for the first time. Rachel had despised her on sight. Loudly. "No, Mom. I think Penny said she was an English teacher."

"And what’s ‘Penny’ short for, anyway?"

"Probably ‘Penelope.’"

"Hmm." She reached across the table for one of the blank notepads Fletch always left around the house.

Bending to pick up the gift that the card had been attached to, Leta caught "...keep her..." before her mother-in-law’s other hand covered the words as she braced the page and continued to write.

Penny took a deep breath as if coming up for air while the room around them exploded into applause. Eyes still focused on Rachel, she bent toward her new husband. Frank leaned in so he could hear her over the noise. "I know you told me this before, so blame it on weeks of pre-wedding insanity, but how do you know Rachel again?"

Frank threw his head back, laughing. The sound was swallowed up by the still-wild applause. Eyes drawn to the motion, Rachel caught Penny’s eyes and gave her a questioning look. The other woman shook her head and shrugged, not understanding her husband’s reaction either.

Frank kept laughing.

Fin[ite]