This story is AU - there are no vampires. Families are mixed up, names are altered, and the romance aspects are Bella X Carlisle. I don't own Twilight, or any of Stephenie Meyers' characters, though the plot is my own. This story is rated M for language in this chapter, though it will progress into explicit content later on in the story. I hope you enjoy!
Summary: AU: Isabella Hale and Carlisle Cullen are both grieving for broken relationships when they meet abroad. Bella, wanting to be back in Phoenix working things out with Edward, can't help but feel drawn to the blonde Englishman - and Carlisle, avoiding signing the divorce papers on his desk, can't help falling over his words in the brunette's presence. What are two broken hearts to do?
La bellezza d'Italia soundtrack 01: It's not over {Secondhand Serenade}
La bellezza d'Italia
Chapter one [Verona, Italy]:
Isabella Hale
Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that Rosie has been so tolerant with me. I'm grateful she's paying for our holiday, and I'm grateful for the distraction but a tiny part of me hates where I'm currently sat. I'm over six-thousand miles from home, from Edward, and I'm certain if she'd listened properly, she wouldn't have then brought me to this Italian Paradise Resort. Then again, Rosie is a happy-go-lucky optimist, and despite her various amount of boyfriends, she's never experienced a heartbreak like mine. Not to mention, she's been begging for a "sister holiday" since I graduated High School. This place would have been an ideal place for Edward and me to have come on holiday. He's pasty in complexion, like me – he used to joke it was our one compatible feature; us pale faces grouping together – and he prefers his books over people but he appreciates the beauty in every little thing. He'd have gotten me up at dawn this morning and asked me to take photographs of the pink and orange hues rising from the ocean's horizon. He'd have told me a book this scene reminded him of, and compare us to star-crossed lovers in literature old and new.
'Stop it, Bells,' Rosie says, shattering my day dream. I blink impassively at her, as if I've no idea what she's talking about but she gives me a knowing look to inform me I've failed in my efforts, and blows on her nails some more. 'You're not supposed to be thinking about Edward.' I frown involuntarily, and drape my arms across my stomach as if to calm the churning that starts up whenever we have this conversation. 'He's one guy, Bella,' Rosie continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil, 'and I can assure you there are plenty more out there – bigger muscles; bigger wallets; bigger dicks.' I clench my jaw in order to refrain from telling her I'm not interested in bigger. Edward is perfect for me with his bronze locks and dimpled cheeks. His intelligence surpasses mine and Rosie's put together, and though we never got down to it, I don't doubt he's impressive in that department. 'Now you're thinking about his dick,' Rosie says, humour in her voice.
'I am not,' I reply, albeit a bit too defensively. Rosie laughs as my cheeks burn, and I watch as she stands elegantly, blocking the sun from my eyes.
'I want to go swimming,' she tells me. 'You're going to come with me and we're not going to mention your insane ex at all.' I watch silently as she pads around the deckchair I'm lounging on and goes inside, no doubt to put her bathing suit on. I don't move, hoping my stubbornness can win this one out; Rosie will no doubt have a better day without me. 'Bella, move your ass,' she shouts, and I purse my lips. Why can't I have time alone? Thinking about Edward is inevitable wherever I go. I close my eyes and take some deep breaths, trying to relax and enjoy the warmth on my face – hoping Rosie will come out and see how comfortable I am, and how she shouldn't demand I move when it's clear how happy I am right here. Edward's probably sitting in our apartment right now, a book under his nose as he idly rubs the stubble on his chin. I can just smell his Versace cologne. 'Like hell, get up,' Rosie says, and I open my eyes to see her standing over me in a red vintage swimsuit.
'I don't feel like swimming,' I tell her, and turn onto my side.
'Bella,' she says, her voice full of irritation. Here it comes. 'Moping over that moron is not happening, not here. It's been over a month and you're way too good for him. If that jackass thinks he'll be better without you, he's sadly mistaken but you – you, my gorgeous little sister – are way better without him.' I have to hand it to her, she's bizarrely good at speeches. I whine – yes, childishly - and fall back so I'm staring up at her again.
'Can't we go for a walk instead?' I ask her, and she chews on the inside of her cheek. A walk sounds far more interesting than whatever lazy day she has planned, and seeing more of the island will be a good distraction, right? I know I'm fighting a losing battle as Rosie's silence continues, along with her cheek chewing. It's as if she's purposefully making me wait out her response for dramatic effect. I'm reminded of her life motto, one she used to scream down the stairs at our Mom when she was a teenager: Rosie doesn't do what Rosie doesn't want to do. I wonder if she'll scream it at me if I say no.
'No,' she says lightly, as if answering both my suggestion and my silent question. 'I'm going down to the bar, and if you're not down within ten minutes, I'll personally drag you there.' I watch her go again, and I grimace when our apartment door shuts behind her departure. I don't doubt Rosie is capable of dragging me, many childhood mishaps occurred with her dragging me out past curfew and those never ended well, so I hoist myself up and make my way through the apartment to my bedroom. The room itself is spacious and the pale blue walls are comforting, as comforting as painted walls can be. I haven't unpacked yet, reluctant to make myself at home for the summer in case I spontaneously decide to leave. I had daydreams on the flight here, desiring Edward to turn up and beg for my forgiveness; telling me he was foolish and can't live without me. I sigh dejectedly. It's only day two, he still has time, I suppose.
I step over my open messenger bag and kick open my suitcase, throwing my arms out to balance me in the process. It's in here somewhere. I squat and rummage through reluctantly, and feel the material before I see it. My new black halter cut-out swimsuit. Letting Rosie pick out my swimsuit doesn't seem like such a great idea now that I actually have to wear the thing. I could go along to the market and buy another, though Rosie might object and despite how not-me it is, I wouldn't want to be rude when she's done nothing but spoil me in the past five weeks. It can't hurt to indulge, I suppose. I remove my pyjamas and spend a few minutes working out which part my legs go through before pulling it on. I adjust the fabric on my body as I cross the room to see my reflection in the mirror. It would look better if I was curvier, it would look better if I was tanned, and it would look better if I was pretty but then I'm not here to impress anyone. I grimace at my puny body, and make my way into the kitchen where I know my beige shoulder bag is sitting next to the kettle.
Edward got me this bag. I remember seeing it on our first date – dinner and a movie – we were walking back towards campus when I spotted it in a dimly lit shop window. I took a picture of it so I knew to return to the store at a later date to buy it but then Edward surprised me the next day with the leather beauty I've used every day since. I wish we could go back to those times when he wanted me. I wish I could somehow remind him of how he felt for me, of the way I still feel for him.
Rosie doesn't know about my bag, thankfully, or it would have been thrown out in the first week along with the rest of the things she knew he'd bought me. Rosie believes in those absurd steps she reads about in her Glam Girl magazines, she keeps leaving them around hoping I'll find them useful. The last thing I want to do is read about someone else's sob story when the circumstances are no doubt completely different to mine but more's the point, I don't want to get over Edward.
Rosie grins as I approach her at the bar, her shades on top of her head of thick blonde waves. Her eyes practically look grey in the sunshine, and though she's just as pale as me, she looks like she belongs only here. I should have known Rosie would be the poster girl for the paradise brochure.
'Are you done moping?' She asks, pushing a Margarita towards me as I take the stool next to her. I don't respond to her question, fighting off the irritation. I know she's just looking out for me, and wants me to be happy; she's told me enough times since the break-up. 'I overheard some gorgeous Italian talk about a fireworks display,' she goes on to say, unfazed by my ignorance, 'I asked where it's going to be, he said the lakefront and gave me his number. I love this place.' I can tell she's ecstatic as she mixes her drink with a pink umbrella, her pearly teeth on show.
'So you've said,' I say, surveying the pool. There were fourteen others in total, some lounging in chairs, others swimming lengths. We were the only two at the bar, except for the bar tender himself who was cleaning glasses a few metres away.
'Don't worry,' she says, placing a hand on my arm. 'I told him about you, and he suggested us meeting up later with him and his friend Robert.' I can't help but gape at her and her smile falls into a stone look. 'Don't look at me like that, I'm just trying to help.'
'I don't want to meet up with anyone,' I tell her, pulling my arm away. 'Jesus, Rosalie. What part of Edward breaking up with me makes you think I want anyone else?'
'You need to move on, Bella,' she huffs. 'Edward doesn't want you. What part of that don't you understand?' She stands abruptly and takes her drink, and I glare at my cocktail with tears burning in my eyes as she walks away from me. I don't like upsetting her but she has no right to talk about me to anyone. She no doubt mentioned my recent break-up, and if that doesn't scream "desperate" I don't know what does. The idea of some sleaze getting close to me makes my skin crawl. I blink a few times to rid the tears brimming and see the bar tender shoot me a sympathetic look, having heard everything, great.
I decide to head back to our apartment after my fourth cocktail. Rosie didn't return, she went in the pool and continued to purposefully ignore me while I drank alone. I realised I'd had a bit too much when I started humming along to the radio rather loudly. I see my door come into view and begin searching through my bag for my keys, I frown when I can't see them. You've got to be kidding me. I empty everything out in front of the door and groan in frustration; I definitely don't have them.
I should probably head back down to the pool and ask Rosie for her key but I don't want to. I want her to come to be and apologise first. She shouldn't be meddling, or forcing me to move on when I don't want to. It's not like neither of us are aware we're nothing alike. Physically and intellectually. I shove everything back into my bag and stand up. Our balcony door isn't locked and we share the balcony with next door, it's divided by a fence but I'm sure I can get over. I make my way down the corridor and stop at number 408, it doesn't sound like anyone's in but I knock loudly anyway and fold my arms. Listening intently, I hear footsteps approach.
The door opens and I stare up into blue eyes. The man said eyes belong to is taller than me, and has a medium build. His hair is platinum blonde and combed back with a few wisps astray as if he's pulled glasses from his head, and he's wearing grey slacks and a blue jumper. Definitely not Italian. He smiles when he sees me and I can't help smiling back.
'Hi,' I say awkwardly. 'I locked myself out, and I was wondering if I could jump over the fence on the balcony.' I can't help noticing the way he smiles as if he's grinning without opening his lips but the humour reaches his eyes all the same.
'Certainly,' he says politely, opening the door wider so I can go inside. He's English, and though the accent is as foreign to my ears as the Italians here, and I know nothing about the man before me; the accent seems fitting. I step inside and glance around the apartment, noticing almost everything is identical to mine and Rosie's. His kitchen is stocked full of groceries and I can see books scattered here and there. A clothes basket sits in front of the washing machine, and though everything is spotless, I can tell the apartment is more lived in than ours. I wonder how long he's been here. Is he alone? He closes the door behind me and gestures for me to go through to the balcony. I flush realising he's seen me assessing his apartment with curiosity, and stalk forwards, straight out to the balcony. The fence is silver metal and though isn't tall, I'm not able to simply swing my legs up over it like I originally thought I'd be able to. Why is nothing ever simple? 'Would you like some help?' The Englishman asks.
'I don't want to be any bother,' I tell him. I could jump up and swivel. It'll hurt but it shouldn't take long – or I can run and jump, use my arms to hold me up as I…as if I have the strength. I sigh and rake my hair over my shoulders.
'It'll be no bother at all,' he replies, and I turn to him with a sheepish look. He steps forwards and gestures to pick me up. How is he going to do this? Is he going to pick me up? I hesitate but I let him get closer and he lifts me in a bridal position. Not accustom to having the ground suddenly gone beneath my feet, I grip onto his shirt, and he steps forward towards the fence. He twists sideways so my legs fall down on the other side and lowers me to the ground as if I weight nothing at all.
'Thank you,' I say, and turn back to smile at him, letting go of his jumper in the process.
'No problem,' he replies, and I see his eyes flicker down at my swimsuit. Now I really wish I'd gotten a better bathing suit, I must look like an overgrown bony child in this. One with a calcium deficiency. I don't need to see my cheeks to know I've gone pink, and the burn I feel only confirms it.
'Well,' I mutter, 'see you.' I turn and open the patio doors.
'Yeah,' I hear him say as I go inside. Smooth, Bella. He was nothing but helpful and you couldn't have been anymore rude. Not that I care what he thinks. I don't even know him. I don't care at all. I don't.
Carlisle Cullen
The divorce papers across the room proceed to distract me from Krauss' Great House. The discarded fountain pen next to it. I should fill them out today. Sign on the dotted line. Get it over with. Esme's signature was on almost every page, reminding me of how much she desires our dissolved marriage. A thickness swells at the back of my throat. The thickness that swells every time I think about her, about everything. We were happy, weren't we? I was happy. How ignorant must I have become for me to see she wasn't? Blinded by my ambition, I neglected her. It's no wonder she sought attention elsewhere. I swallow. Things got worse then for a while before they got better. I won't go into it except to say that I didn't go out, and I didn't let anyone come to see me, either. At least I'm faring better than this protagonist seems to be. I didn't lock myself up for days. No, instead I bought a plane ticket to Italy and I've been concealing myself in this flat since. Ignoring emails, phone calls. All except for Esme's. The first time she called, I was thrilled until she asked for my address so she could mail me our divorce papers.
I had been practically willing to sign them after she hung up. For a fleeting moment I was angry. Angry at her for not coming to me, for not telling me she was unhappy; for not making any effort to communicate. I was angry at myself for not telling her all day every day how much she meant to me, how much she still means despite my frail hopes of moving on. I'd sworn to myself I'd never end up this way. Divorce was not an outcome, I'd told many of my friends this so many times yet here I was. Sitting in bed, gazing unseeingly at a novel while moping after a woman who's broken my heart and moved to Washington with her lover – our old neighbour, Jasper. An American Historian with knitted sweaters, and big views on the world. How many times had he spoken with me while he was fucking my wife behind my back?
I close the book I've strained to read various times now, and set it on my bedside table next to my glasses and mobile which was currently turned off as my sister Alice had called eight times yesterday. I miss her, and my Father but I cannot deal with their questions right now. I cannot listen to Alice express to me how much she misses Esme, or listen as she tells me what Esme's been doing. The downsides of marrying your younger sister's best friend.
I need to discontinue this. This entire tedious cycle of thinking corrupts my mood every time I let my mind wander, and I already know that leads to looking through our wedding photos and trying my wedding ring back on just to make sure it still fits. I rub my eyes starkly and push myself up off the bed. I just need some water and some sunshine. If I get out more, then there's less time to think and that was the point, wasn't it? I go to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and take a large swig but then I hesitate before swallowing when I hear voices. It must be the new residents of the flat next door. There's no harm in introducing myself. Making friends here who aren't aware of my current situation might be good for me.
I stride towards my patio door which is currently open, letting in American voices and a soft breeze. I stop just before stepping out onto the balcony.
'Moping over that moron is not happening, not here. It's been over a month and you're way too good for him. If that jackass thinks he'll be better without you, he's sadly mistaken but you – you, my gorgeous little sister – are way better without him.' It seems I'm not the only one going through a heartbreak at the moment, though I'm not envious for whoever this girl is speaking to. It sounds like something Alice would, and no doubt will say to me the next time we speak. I don't want to intrude on the discussion so I recluse away from the door and head back to my room. I fall down into the wooden chair and gulp down some more water, scanning over the words of the papers which continue to blur. An ache behind my eyes pulses and I know it's unlikely they'll be signed today either. I have time. I have time.
I feel apprehensive as I hold the power button down on my iPhone, and see the apple logo light up on the screen. I wonder if Alice continued to call after I turned it off, or if she's as insightful as she always is and figured to leave me alone. I pace, trying not to stare at the screen, pushing down the bubble of hope to see a missed call or a text from Esme. When the lock screen comes up, I slide to open it and type in Esme to unlock it. A picture of Esme and I appears, and the sight of it makes me both happy and miserable simultaneously. Alice took it on our second year anniversary. Esme is grinning up at me while I smile at the camera, my arms wrapped around her waist – not as tightly as they should have been. My phone vibrates a few times, telling me I have three missed calls and two text messages. Two of the missed calls are from Alice, one is from my Father. Both of the text messages are from Alice. The first reads: Answer your phone! Ignoring us isn't going to make everything go away. Esme needs you to sign those papers ASAP x – the other reads: I know this is hard for you but you can't just think about yourself. Esme's just as upset right now, don't you think you owe each other some closure?
I can't help glaring at the screen. As childish as it is to be spiteful towards Alice, I can't help but feel she's choosing her friend over me. How can't she see that though I may have been somewhat absent, Esme is the one who had an affair? She's the one who chose to leave me instead of communicate, she out right refused to see a marriage councillor. I tried my best, for fuck sake. I press the palms of my hands into my eyes and groan in frustration. I just wanted to work things out. If she'd just told me, I'd have changed my ways. Nothing meant more than she did but my adoration for Medicine has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. She told me it was one of the things she loved about me. She was always encouraging me to spend more time studying, to truly dedicate myself. She told me I'd get there one day, that she was proud of me for getting into Oxford. How have we fallen so far in five years?
Water isn't going to cut it, I don't think. Perhaps it's time for something a bit stronger.
A knock at the door confuses me momentarily, and I place the glass of whiskey down on the desk before getting up and sauntering cautiously towards the front – and only other – door. I haven't had any visitors since the second week I was here, I had to call down to reception and ask them to stop sending housekeeping. For one, I'm perfectly capable of keeping the flat clean but also, they seemed to come whenever I was feeling most vulnerable. There's only so many times I can take the sympathetic looks as they roamed around, snooping though my belongings that told them I was staying for a substantial amount of time. I open the door, ready to tell whichever staff member it is, that I don't require their services – but – she isn't staff. I can tell by her bathing suit. I can tell by her large chocolate doe eyes that look almost timid, almost lost. Her skin is pale, and flawless from blemishes or freckles though there seems to be a soft tint to her cheeks. Her lips are dry as she absentmindedly chews her inner cheek, and her chestnut hair is thick with humidity like a mane around her slender shoulders.
'Hi,' she says, discomfort evident in her tone. 'I locked myself out, and I was wondering if I could jump over the fence on the balcony.' She must be the other girl from next door, the one who's recently been broken up with. Whoever her company is, they're completely right – it's almost cruel that someone would break the heart of such a beautiful woman. He certainly is a moron.
'Certainly,' I tell her, aware that I'm probably seeing her a little too hard. I pull the door open wider for her to come inside, and I see how she tightens her grip on her bag as she gazes in before stepping towards me. I can't help grinning to myself at her caution, though she's in her right to be so. We share the unwillingness to trust blindly, whether that's a good thing or not I'm unsure. Wise, perhaps. Though I'd never hurt a soul, especially not one who looks as lovely as she.
I close the door and turn to see how intensely she's looking around my flat, no doubt making her own assumptions. For the first time in weeks, I feel shameful for not keeping it in better order. I gesture towards the patio doors, not wanting to see the pity from her when she pieces it together. I follow slowly, letting her stride forwards and I hesitate while she evaluates the fence she wishes to climb over. It's evident on her face that she's met with a challenge. I watch her rake her hair back in frustration before speaking up again. 'Would you like some help?' I ask, a bit too hopeful. What has come over me? I urgently need to start getting out more if one woman is going to make me fall over myself like a hormonal teenage boy. No doubt the whiskey mixed with social starvation is concocting some foolish emotions to blind me with, then again, it might be my self-preservation finally starting up. After all, a summer fling would be the perfect excuse to busy myself with, to pretend that Esme and her divorce papers don't exist for a few months.
'I don't want to be any bother,' she replies, not looking to me. I can see she wishes to do this on her own. Maybe she doesn't like my presence. Perhaps I should leave her to it so she doesn't feel so pressured with me watching her. I step back quietly and see the frustration on her face. She could hurt herself though, and as much as I'd love – or my hormones would love - a reason to swoop in and mend the damsel in distress – I wouldn't want her to hurt at all.
'It'll be no bother at all,' I reply. She turns to me with a small smile, it's almost bashful and though makes her appear younger; doesn't relent my admiration for her physical features. Would I find her so attractive if I was still with Esme? Would she make me feel this way in one look if I'd been throwing myself at women since I'd gotten here? I can't know for sure. I take a few steps towards her and open my arms, hoping she'll realise how I'm about to pick her up and place her over the fence. She tenses and I swing her arms up over my right arm, while holding her back in my left. She's extremely light, and I feel elevated as she grips my jumper. It feels nice to be needed again, even if it's for something as trivial as helping her get inside their flat. I move closer to the fence with her in my arms, and twist to get her over before putting her down gently.
'Thank you,' she says, and turns back to smile at me, letting go of my jumper. I can't help but feel a little disappointed that the moment has ended so soon but I try my best not to show it.
'No problem,' I tell her sincerely. She looks breath-taking as she stands there, smiling at me like we've just accomplished something together. It's peculiar. This feeling. I almost feel bad for its occurrence around this fine young woman, almost like it's unfair to my love for Esme - but this is different, I'm certain of it. I can acknowledge that despite how in love I was with my wife – my ex-wife – she never made me feel like this. I never…desired her like this. The brunette goddess standing in front of me, in a provocative swimming costume; showing bits of pale flesh here and there; on her chest, her stomach; framing her belly button. She's in every way, different to the woman I married yet reminds me of the girl I fell in love with. I haven't seen Esme look at me with such an expression in a long time, the kind that lets you see how conscious they are of themselves, of you. Esme and I loved each other – if only once upon a time - but the passion died, along with her opinions on my views. I briefly wonder if this is how Jasper makes her feel as I see the woman in front of me flush a deep pink that rises up from her neck.
'Well,' she mutters, 'see you.' I watch, unable to speak as she turns and quickly opens the door before hurrying inside.
'Yeah,' I manage to say, dolefully. I must have been staring. Damn it. The last thing I wanted to do was make her uncomfortable. I didn't even get her name.
Let me know what you think - LF03