Thanks to Sunflower Fran3759 for beta-ing.

Oh, and before I forget … I still do not own it. Never have. Never will.

Chapter Two

The Cape Codder

"So, um, what's the story on the new tenant?" I casually asked Mrs. Cope the next afternoon as I set up the bar. I had just returned from the bank, where I was told that the loan for the renovation on the kitchen had been pre-approved and would likely go through in a week or so.

Shelly Cope looked up at me from the barstool where she sat perched scrolling through her massive rolodex of recipes and whatnots. I like to tease her unmercifully about the archaic index system she uses to store her hundreds of recipesbut she always laughs it off, saying," Some of these recipes are older than my great Nana, Teddy my boy, it's not likely they'd sit well with her if I used some kind of fancy schmancy, computer programs. Look…here's a recipe for her Mulligatawny Stew that she brought over from Scotland back in 1872. There's even a small brown stain onit! I wouldn't want to jinx it … it's a favorite in the cold weather." I started to rib her again about her old-fashioned system, but she looked up at my question about the tenant with a small frown just under her wire-rimmed nose. I shot up an eyebrow; Shelly Cope rarely frowned.

"Now you listen up Edward Anthony, and you listen good … you put me in charge of dealing with your father's, God rest his soul, old quarters, and I did just as you asked. The poor lamb arrived in the dark, soaking wet, with only a small suitcase and the clothes on her back. She went directly upstairs after she paid me the first and the last month's rent in cash. The only thing she requested was to be left alone in peace. I took the money and had her sign the lease. She also gave me a small list for her groceries. I told her that would be no problem at all for me to do since I do the marketing for you several times a week. She offered to pay me for this service but I told her that I didn't want to take her money, although later on we might work out some kind of a deal if she decided to throw a big party or does any kind of entertainment."

"Oh, okay…It's just that I heard her, well, um, never mind…" I trailed off. For some odd inexplicable reason I didn't want to tell Mrs. C that the tenant was crying; I felt oddly protective about accidently witnessing her emotional breakdown on the rooftop. I shifted my feet a few times and cleared my throat; protective? What the f-? I don't even know this girl and from the sounds of her wailing last night I don't think I want to; she sounds way too intense for a simple guy like me. Besides, if I start getting involved in her personal drama now, she's likely to get up all in MY business and I don't want, need, or desire that in any size, shape, or form. Not that I've got any "business" to get up into…I know I'm a boring guy, but still.

"Look Edward, I know you're curious about her … it's written all over your face. I can't say that I blame you since her apartment is next to yours and all. But I don't think this girl is going to be a problem for you as far as invading your privacy, if that's what you're afraid of. I suspect from the hurried way she brought her belongings inside, that she wants to be left alone."

So that's exactly what I did. Monday faded into Tuesday and by Wednesday it might have been Friday for all I knew. Business had never been better, and now, with the promise of a loan for the new kitchen on the horizon, I became busier than ever trying to develop a design with a local contractor. The contractor, Paul, is the uncle of Emmett McCarty, my old pal from childhood and beyond.

While Paul and I perched on the barstools overlooking his design for the kitchen I casually asked him how Emmet was doing. He looked over at me fiddling with his plans that were spread out in front of us and let out a big sigh. It appeared that he was taking a moment to gather his thoughts because he didn't speak up right away. Instead, he rubbed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. Then he gave me a contemplative look and turned in his stool to address my question.

"Eh…I dunno what to tell ya, Edward. I mean, on the surface the kid looks like he's got the world by its tail. He's got a great practice from what I've heard. The biggest house you've ever seen outside of maybe Chatham. He's a member of some kind of ritzy country club; travels a lot, too. He just got back a couple of weeks ago from a trip to Europe … bought me a big-ass stein from somewhere in Germany. But …" He trailed off rubbing the back of his neck.

"What?" I asked. Paul looked down at his hands and let out a big sigh.

"He's not happy," he finally admitted.

"Why?" I asked simply. I mean, from the sounds of it Emmett had it made in the damn shade. What the hell more does he need? Unless…

"Meh … I probably shouldn't say anything … it's really not my place." He looked at me dead in the eyes as if looking for a reason to give me an answer. I understood it immediately, Emmett and I were no longer friends. Sure we still chatted occasionally if he happened to be in the area, but that wasn't often. Still, Paul must have seen something in them because he stopped playing with the plans and raised his eyebrow.

"What do you know about the wife?"

"Rosalie? Um … she seems alright. I don't really know her all that well; we only met a handful of times. She's beautiful, I guess.

"Yeah she's a real beauty alright. She found out last month that she's in the family way, told Emmett she didn't want a kid and left his ass before the piss was dry on the stick," he said in disgust. "Can you imagine any woman doing something like that? I mean…okay…apparently she had told him before they got married that kids weren't going to be a part of her master plan. But come on … shit happens and you learn to deal with it, right?

"What do you mean, "She took off?"

"Just what it sounds like; the bitch told him that she needed time to think, grabbed up a few bags, stuffed them with her big name clothes, plucked the keys to her Merc and went home to Mama.

"Is she … um, I mean you don't think she's going to …" I trailed off, unsure of how to word my question.

"Get rid of it?" Paul asked with a knowing look. I nodded my head in agreement. If this was the case, then the shit is really gonna hit the fucking fan when Old Lady Souza finds out. I mean the woman is a devout catholic, so the A word isn't even in her radar. What is in her radar is a shrine of Our Lady of the Bleeding Ovaries at her cash register.

Wow.

"Eh…it's hard to say what she'll do. I dunno her all that well and for all I know she's only planning on taking some time to come to terms with everything. I hope for her sake that's what she's doing. Cuz I gotta tell ya kid, if my old lady finds out that she got rid of a Souza, she'll be on her ass like stink on shit. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"So what's Emmett planning to do?"

"Oh Gawd … I dunno. I talked to him last night and he was beside himself. He was talking crazy… saying he never wanted this shitastic life to begin with and that it was all her idea to have that fancy life in Greenwich. Said all he ever wanted was a simple practice right here on the Cape."

Well, in retrospect I guess that was true; I remember when he and I were making plans to go off and study law together; Emmett told me then that he didn't want to stay in a big city for long. In fact, we had a lot of arguments about it. But once we got our acceptance letters he caught my enthusiasm and together we started laying the groundwork for our future, a future that was set in Boston or NYC. But in the back of my mind I knew that Emmett only wanted that life because I did. Looks like neither one of us ended up with what we wanted.

"Teddy, what happened to that bag of Doritos and the package of Ring-Dings I had on the counter? Those aren't yours; I picked them up for the girl." I looked up to see the wrath of Shelly Cope bearing down at me.

Paul got up and folded his plans away carefully and gave me a little wink to signify that the meeting was over. "I'll see ya next week, Kid." I thanked him for his help and turned my attention to Mrs. C who was drumming her fingers impatiently on the bar.

"I brought them upstairs to my place; I thought maybe you were buying me a treat."

"A treat? I've never known you to eat that junk," she said. It's true; after Pop cashed them in so young I am careful about the food I put into my body. Don't get me wrong; I eat plenty. I'm not some kind of fanatic … I even eat meat. But I do watch the fat intake and my cholesterol. And the biggest change I made was giving up smoking, which, if I am to be honest was more difficult than cutting out snacks. But I did it. The fact that both of my parents smoked and both died at a young age had factored in of course. But Carlisle assures me that even though my family medical history suggests that I need to be mindful, my own health is for now, excellent. He does caution me to get away from the bar more often and get some fresh air, which is why I get coverage for the bar on Sundays and hit the gym. I also try to go out for a run on the beach every day in the good weather. And when Tyler was still alive we used to go sailing; something I truly loved, although I admit that I haven't sailed since he died last year. A feeling of unease swept over me as I recalled that his boat, Man Trouble, has been sitting covered and largely ignored by yours truly ever since. Although I feel bad about it, I still don't know if I'm ready to deal with that again. Maybe I should think about selling it. But that thought depressed me, so I put it away with the bar nuts and climbed upstairs to get Mrs. C the bag of goodies for the food junkie, who apparently likes to stuff her face with grease and sugar.

I entered my apartment and headed over to the pantry where I grabbed the snacks. Freaking Ring-Dings …who over the age of twelve eats this crap? I pondered to myself, as I snagged a plum out of the fruit bowl and took a bite. The juice from the fruit ran down my chin and I swiped it away and licked it off my fingers. Those plums were the biggest and juiciest plums I've had in years, and even though they're my favorite fruit, I decided to make some sort of effort to be neighborly, so I plucked the last plum out of the fruit bowl and tossed it in the bag. In an impulsive move, I marched over to the door that separates our apartment from the inside and knocked on it gently. May as well get this shit over with and introduce myself, I figured.

The door rattled a bit when I knocked. Pop had put this door in himself when he moved his personal stuff next door. It isn't very sturdy and probably wouldn't meet code; Pop was no carpenter. It has a fairly long chain lock at the top and when the door is open it's possible to pass a few items through them. I used to love to roll my Hot Wheels into Pop's pad. Occasionally Pop would roll them back. We had a little game going to see how many cars we could shoot through the doorway and clear into our bedrooms, which were directly opposite from each other.

Although I thought I heard a little gasp and then some scuffling, no one came to the door. Just as well, I thought to myself in relief. Shrugging my shoulders, I trekked back out into the hall, dropped the bag off in front of her door, and then went back downstairs. It probably wasn't a good idea to knock on her door from the inside of my apartment anyway; it might have even freaked her out a bit. Maybe when Paul comes to start on the kitchen next week I'll have him take a look at the door and see if he can wall it up. I don't need a door that serves no useful purpose anyway and I am sure as hell the new tenant isn't going to want to play wheelies with me on my down time.

Anyway, that all happened this afternoon. The bars been in full swing for hours now and I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that being closed earlier in the week made the patrons extra thirsty. If business continues to be this good it might not take as long to pay off the loan as I originally thought.

It's a damn, busy night at The Swan Dive but at least there's no real drama to speak of, which is always a good thing in my book. I see a couple of the girls from last week's bachelorette party that went awry and I walk over to them to see how Miss Pukey Pants made out. They laugh their asses off when I ask them if she had a big head the next morning.

"The better question is whether Tripp had a big head after the party, and if she took care of it," jokes the redheaded beanpole. What was her nickname? Bootsie?

"Don't be a pig, Bitsy," laughs the chick with the massive thighs. Bitsy … how the hell could I have forgotten that one? The thigh master lets out another chuckle and I give her a smile. I can't help staring at those legs; tonight they are encased in a pair of pink and green plaid Bermuda shorts. I notice when she laughs the muscles in her calves ripple. I let out a small shudder; the phrase bone crusher comes to mind. I mentally chastise myself for being such a mean asshole … she seems like a nice girl.

I exchange a little more banter with the girls and then speak to Mike for awhile to discuss the changes in our schedule once construction of the new kitchen commences. After a bit, I head into my small office and call Carlisle to let him know about the bank's loan approval. That call lasts close to thirty minutes since Alice answered the phone before Esme got to it and let me tell you, when you get on the horn with Alice it's going to be a while. The kid can chew the ear off of a brass monkey. Which is odd because she doesn't say much of anything when she is with people.

I'm exhausted by the time Carlisle manages to pluck the phone out of her hands. I hear him take the phone away from her and tell her to let go and to take her twirling ass off to bed before he stills her like a spinning top and does it for her. "And Jesus, Alice …please stop yelling. Christ … if you ever lose your voice you'll find it in my ear." I crack up over this because I know for a fact Esme is giving him the stink eye and he'll probably get an earful when he gets off the phone. But this is what I love the most about him; he's a natural father, and even though his kid has autism he treats her like he would any other child who had stepped his last nerve.

I hope if I ever have kids that I can be half the dad that he is. Not that that's ever likely to happen on account of the fact that I'm twenty-nine years old and haven't been on a date with anyone besides Mrs. C in the past two years. Yeah …ya just gotta love that Michael Buble. The things I do for that woman.

I'm so beat by the time I head upstairs that I'm stripping my clothes off as I'm walking through the door. I go into the bathroom and take a shower in the dark because I don't want to let any light inside my head when I'm all sleepy and shit. I've never been what you would call a good sleeper, so I sometimes have to pop an Ambein before I head off to bed. I don't do them too often because I don't really trust that stuff and I have issues about making an ass of myself and winding up on channel Six news. But tonight I decide to risk it, so I take half a pill after I've brushed my teeth.

I trudge into the bedroom and I am about to crawl in bed when my bare foot steps on something round and soft. I let out a small girly scream when I feel something ooze between my toes and then feel the crunch of something hard; what in the fucking hell? I'm almost afraid to turn the lights on … please dear God; do NOT let this be a mouse or anything else that has a pulse … I sit gingerly on the side of the bed and turn on the lamp. I blink twice when I see what appears to be flesh and blood between my toes. Ugh. My stomach churns as I reach for the tissues and begin peeling it off.

What the … I bring it up closer to my face and examine it more clearly. I blink again and stifle a laugh at myself. No way …

It's not a mouse.

It's a plum.

The Cape Codder

3 ounces cranberry juice

2 ounces vodkaLime wedge

Pour over ice serve with a lime. Enjoy!