The summer he died, Edward had two great, unfulfilled wishes. To serve in the war that had taken over Europe, and to make me his wife.

His mother wasn't so sure about either. He was her only child, and the idea of losing him—and his devoted love—to another woman was almost as frightening to her as losing him to battle.

The Great War raged on several fronts, and Edward couldn't get enough of the news. He poured over newspaper accounts of the battles, seeming to know the players and places as if he had already been there himself. I was frightened by the prospect of him going off to war, but it was the duty of young men of our generation; so I bravely listened as he plotted our future. First, a wedding to make me an honest bride. Then he'd enlist, serve and return home a triumphant husband.

After that, who knew? Perhaps following in his father's footsteps as a lawyer. Or using his prodigious musical talents to thrill audiences far and wide.

As a youngster, Edward had sat down at his aunt's piano and pecked out the melody of the tune playing on the phonograph. His mother, already convinced he was a genius, enrolled him in music lessons the next week. His talents grew, and by his early teens he was an accomplished pianist who was composing pieces and performing in recitals and events.

I loved nothing more than sitting in the Masens' parlor and listening to him play. Although he was talented beyond measure, Edward was often shy to debut new pieces for me. For my 16th birthday, the day he asked my father if he could officially court me, he wrote a lullaby for me. A soft, delicate piece that he said was how my walk would sound if it were set to music. If it were audible to others the way it was to him.

. . . . .

Edward had always been protective of me. Our fathers had met in college and opened a law firm together after graduation, and our families were as close as their friendship. Edward and I were both only children, and we'd grown up together; napping in the same crib as babies, playing together as toddlers, sitting in the same classrooms as children and learning our places in society as burgeoning adults.

And through it all, Edward's presence and protection was the one constant I never questioned. When the boys taunted, teased and pulled my hair, Edward was the one to chase them off. The time I'd fallen off of our horse miles from home and broken my arm, Edward was the one to ride to my rescue and carry me to Dr. Cullen's hospital. And when the first blush of love colored my cheeks, it was because of Edward.

What started as friendly, almost brotherly, gestures became romantic the spring before we turned 16. We both pretended no one else noticed the growing length of our glances or that the comfortable distance between us was ever-comfortably shrinking, but our mutual attraction was hard for others to ignore. And finally, we could no longer ignore it ourselves.

Our classmate Charlotte turned 16 just a few months before us. Her birthday party was a big event, with cake, a live band and a candle-lit garden dance.

It was the night Edward and I stole our first kiss.

I was dancing with Samuel Fisher when Edward cut in. I'd been watching his jealous glances as I danced with one of our friends after another, and was thrilled by the butterflies in my stomach when he finally tapped Samuel on the shoulder and asked to take his place.

His hand on my waist, my hand in his. The soft light. The smell of his neck. My heart thudded so loud I was sure he could hear it over the music.

He asked to walk me home, and I was so nervous I could only nod. He held my hand, but this time was different than the times he'd held it before. We stopped at the corner of my street, and he turned to face me. I was glad for the dim streetlight, sure that my blushing cheeks would give away anything my pounding heart didn't.

"Ella. You look perfect tonight." He smiled in the awkward silence and dipped his perfect face nervously toward mine. His green eyes sparkled. "Would it ruin everything if I kissed you?"

. . . . .