Girl with a Red Umbrella

by spanglemaker9

Co-Written w/ justaskalice. Paris, 1950. Rosalie Hale went to Paris to study, then vanished without a trace. Her friend Bella has come to find her. Following a trail of clues left behind by Rose's letters, Bella searches for Rose and might find herself.

4. To A Stranger

Hello again for another chapter of Girl with a Red Umbrella. Thanks so much to everyone who's read, reviewed and favorited.

There's a new live journal entry for this chapter with lots of pretty pictures and even some new music, so make sure to turn your speakers up!

And if you want to chat about the story, head over to the thread on Twilighted.

http:/www(dot)twilighted(dot)?f=44&t=6756&sid=

Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. The remainder is our original work. Copyright 2009 by spanglemaker9 and justaskalice. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without our express written authorization.

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A shaft of sunlight, grimy and hazy through the dirty glass of the skylight, stretched across my bed and eventually woke me. I groaned and shifted a little so my face was back in the shadows before I opened my eyes. Bloody hell, a little too much scotch last night. But at least I slept soundly, so it was worth it. I scratched my chest and reached my arm out to the bedside table, groping around until I found my cigarettes and lighter. Lighting one, I lay back on the bed and watched the smoke curl up towards the skylight.

Something about the slightly serpentine shape of the smoke over my head made my mind skip back to last night, to the slim graceful curve of her back as she stood at the railing….I groaned and rubbed my eyes in frustration. I really needed to stop thinking about that bloody girl in the park. I didn't even see her face, for Christ's sake. Certainly her presence triggered the painter in me, inspired me and moved the work forward. But that was all. I was just confusing artistic inspiration for…something else.

It was overcast today, but not raining, so I really needed to head out to the quai and try to sell some paintings. The tourist foot traffic was always down in winter and the sales of my kitchy little views of the Seine and the Notre Dame fell off sharply. Now that the weather was finally turning, I needed to get out there and paint and earn some money. My life here in Paris was cheap, but I still needed to make a little something to keep myself in canvases and cigarettes.

Rolling out of bed, I snuffed out my cigarette in a discarded glass and headed off to the water closet to splash some water on myself. I found a white shirt that was passably clean and tugged my trousers back on, sliding my suspenders up. Thankfully my jacket was dried out after last night, so I grabbed it off the kitchen chair and shrugged into it. I glanced in the spotted, cracked little mirror over the sink and ran my hands through my hair. It was far too long, but I had neither the money nor the inclination to get a haircut. I wet my hands and raked them through it, flattening it a little. Better.

The paints and easel were all still packed up and sitting by the front door from last night, so that was ready to go. After a few minutes of searching, I turned up a few small cheap blank canvases that I threw in with the rest of my supplies. I situated my easel across my back and picked up my bag of supplies. As I opened the garret door that led to the stairs, I spotted the canvas from last night, still leaning against the wall. The figure of the girl was very rough, only hinted at really. I'd have to spend some time working into it. Maybe I could find a few minutes for it today…I glanced over my shoulder at the skylight. Overcast. Maybe it would rain tonight, I thought hopefully. I snatched up the canvas and headed downstairs.

I took the back stairs down to the first floor, coming out in the large sunny kitchen and bending to deposit my gear by the door.

"There you are. I missed you last night. Esme said you slunk off to your room as soon as you got in!"

Carlisle was standing at the stove fussing with the coffee pot. He was still dressed for the outside, wearing his light jacket and a tweed cap over his blonde hair. He must have already gone out to the market this morning. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven. Alright, it was no wonder he was up. I was just too knackered to get out of bed at a reasonable hour.

"Good morning, Carlisle. Yes, I was soaked and frozen when I got in. Not up for socializing."

"But Irina was so disappointed," he said with a smirk, never looking up from the coffee.

"Yeah, Esme told me. But…no. No, thank you."

Now he turned to look at me, cocking one eyebrow at me questioningly. We had a close friendship and he took a great deal of delight in teasing me, but at the end of the day, he was still my uncle and talking to him about women was, frankly, a little odd. So I tried to sound casual and dismissive.

I shrugged, "I don't know, Carlisle, I just didn't want her."

"Fine, fine. Suit yourself. Esme said you've got some new girl anyway."

I snorted in laugher. "Esme's barmy."

Carlisle chuckled, "Yes, well, we all know that."

"She said she saw her in my eyes."

"Is there a girl in your eyes, Edward?" Carlisle asked, only half joking.

"Bloody hell, Carlisle, she's made you barmy, too!"

He laughed and finally let it drop, thank heavens.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Please, although you do make the worst coffee in all of Paris," I said with a smirk. The teasing went both ways.

"Absolutement!" Esme's voice drawled from the door. She was wrapped in a brightly colored floral silk robe, her hair loose around her shoulders, a cigarette gripped lightly in her fingertips. She'd just rolled out of bed, but her red lipstick was already in place, "Really, Carlisle, my love, twenty years in Paris and you still can't make decent coffee!"

"If you would just learn to drink tea, Esme," Carlisle sighed. "After all, I am British. The English make tea."

I snorted and rolled my eyes. I couldn't make a decent cup of tea to save my life.

"Quelle horreur!" Esme gasped. "Tea! Can you imagine, Edward?"

"No," I said, shaking my head, "I can't."

"And you, my boy," Carlisle shook an accusing finger at me in jest, "Turning your back on your fine English heritage!"

"Carlisle, I will take even your wretched coffee over a cup of tea any day." And to prove my point I crossed the kitchen to pour myself a cup of Carlisle's truly vile coffee. Maybe I could pop into a café once I got down to the river for a cup of something decent.

Esme pushed off the doorway and crossed the room to stand next to Carlisle, wrapping her arms around his waist. He curled his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head as she nestled her head under his chin. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, smiling at their affection.

"What are you up to today, Edward?" Carlisle asked.

"Painting by the river. I'll try to sell some pictures. If it rains tonight I'll head back over to Vert Galant to do some work on my other canvas."

"Ah!" Esme cried, "The mystery woman!"

"Esme…there's no mystery woman," I lied, "Just a cold empty park and a river that I'm trying to paint!"

"D'accord. Keep her to yourself then, if that makes you happy."

She left Carlisle's side and came to stand in front of me, placing her hand on my cheek. "As long as something is making you happy, mon cher. You should be happy."

I looked down at Esme and felt an unexpected surge of emotion tightening my throat, seeing the empathy in her face. I hated it when she felt sorry for me, it made me feel so small and broken. Of course that was never Esme's intent, she just wanted to take care of everyone, to make the whole world happy. It was simply that she had her work cut out for her with me.

"I need to get going," I said, my voice gruffer than usual.

"Did you eat?"

I rolled my eyes at her attempts to mother me. As if Esme would ever cook.

"I'll grab something down by the river."

"No, no! Madame Chernot came by yesterday and brought me the most divine cheese! Take some with you! And look, Carlisle brought some baguettes from the market. You're too thin, Edward," Esme began to bustle around the kitchen, cutting a hunk off of the cheese her next door neighbor brought and breaking off half a baguette. She thrust it all at me and all I could do was stuff it in my bag and promise to eat it later.

"Edward." I was almost out the door when Carlisle's low voice stopped me. He slid an envelope across the counter to me. "This came for you today. A letter from your mother."

I stared at the small white envelope for a long moment, "I'll read it later," I said, snatching it off the counter and stuffing it in my back pocket. Carlisle shrugged.

"It's a bit chilly," he said. "You should take a hat."

I grinned broadly at him before diving across the kitchen counter and snagging his cap off his head. "Alright then!" Pulling it down on my head backwards, I sprinted out the door, hearing Carlisle and Esme laughing behind me.

Carlisle was right, it was cool this morning, and I was glad I had stolen his hat as I walked along the Quai Voltaire towards the Eiffel Tower. I thought about heading all the way up to the Tower itself, but I didn't really like painting there, so I settled on the Quai d'Orsay. I'd have a good view of the Tuileries, and I hadn't painted that in a while. These little tourist scenes I did were tedious, and I'd take a break in the monotony any way I could get it.

The Quai d'Orsay turned out to be a good idea. There were only a couple of other vendors set up there today and a pretty decent trickle of tourists ambling by. I waved at Antoine, another painter that I knew a little from these afternoons on the Quai, as I got my easel set up and prepped a small canvas. I propped a handful of small Paris scenes I'd painted on other days along the low wall behind me, all the usual stuff: the Notre Dame, the Pont Neuf, the Eiffel Tower. I swear I could paint them in my sleep.

The afternoon got off to a brilliant start when a mother and daughter stopped to look at my canvases. Americans, from the look of them. The mother was maybe forty, but well-dressed and heavily made up. Her daughter was about twenty, with strawberry blonde hair, light golden skin, and a yellow print dress just tight enough to show off the voluptuous curve of her breasts and her tiny nipped-in waist. She trailed silently behind her mother, white-gloved hands clasped lightly behind her, a chaste pose that only served to thrust her breasts out farther. I was fairly sure that she was well aware of that.

The mother stopped to examine a painting, and then stopped again to examine me surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. As she turned back to the paintings, the daughter paused to look, turning her head slightly to the side and throwing me a wicked little smile. Alright then. I had to figure out how to play this one. Flirt with the mother or flirt with the daughter? The mother was more likely to part with a few francs for a painting, but the daughter…she was luscious.

I stood up from my canvas and came to stand near them.

"See anything you like?" I murmured.

They both turned to examine me, they both looked flushed and flustered by my words.

"You're not French," the daughter spoke first, surprised.

"No," I said, "I'm from England."

Her face fell slightly as she considered this. Clearly she was entertaining some fantasy about an exotic French artist and was disappointed to find me not French. I smiled at her warmly and her face relaxed. I guess she decided that English was close enough.

"I was looking for a painting of the Arc de Triomphe. Do you have one of those?" the mother said, rounding on me. I was a little put out that she sounded like she was ordering out of a catalogue, but I flipped through a stack of canvases I hadn't set up yet and produced one I'd done of the Arc de Triomphe last fall. She took it from me, pretending to examine it closely, although I doubted she knew anything at all about art.

"My, you are talented, aren't you?" she murmured, looking up at me though her heavy, dark eyelashes. She was attractive for her age, there was no doubt about it. I began to calculate how much I could reasonably ask for the painting.

"So I've been told," I replied with a grin. Her answering smile deepened and her eyes traveled down the length of my body rather shamelessly. Her daughter, standing to the side, huffed slightly and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I would like to have something to remember Paris by," she said pensively, making a show of looking back at the canvas.

"Well, that one means a lot to me. You know, I wasn't planning on parting with it. But I would hate to disappoint you. I do so love making beautiful women happy…" I trailed off.

Her dark eyes flashed up to me, "How can I convince you to give it to me?" she cooed.

I smirked at her and moved a half step closer as we began to negotiate the price, heavy with innuendo. Eventually we settled on a sum that made her feel like she was getting a deal on the masterwork of an unknown genius and made me feel like I'd made a small windfall on a cookie cutter piece of trash I'd turned out in an hour. We concluded the transaction and I fished a piece of brown paper out of my bag to wrap her canvas in. Her daughter trailed behind, casting me questioning looks which I tried to ignore.

The mother happily accepted her painting and I happily accepted my francs. She expressed how much she hoped she might see me here again before they left for the states and I returned the sentiment before I settled back down to my canvas to paint.

I glanced up at the river again. They had stopped a few dozen yards ahead, the mother looked out across the Seine, the daughter turned…and looked back at me. She smiled broadly when she caught my eye and I smiled back and waved slightly. Then my gaze was immediately pulled past her to a figure standing behind her, against the railing…a slender girl in a black coat. My heart began to beat slightly faster instantly. Was it her? The dark coat, the long swing of dark hair, looked the same. There was no red umbrella, but then again, it wasn't raining. Her face was turned away from me, but it wouldn't have mattered since I never saw her face.

I was such a twit. It was just a girl with dark hair in a black coat. There must be thousands of them in Paris. But I already felt like I'd know the shape of her anywhere and that sure looked like her. She turned away from me, walking slowly up the quai, her face turned towards the river, as if she was examining the barges tied up below.

Before I was aware of what I was up to, I stood up and started in her direction. The quai was more crowded now and people crossed between us, obscuring her from my sight. I caught another glimpse of her before the crowd engulfed her again. When they parted this time, there was no sign of her. I quickly scanned the railing for her dark shape, but she was gone…again. I cursed softly under my breath. I was losing my mind, surely. What right thinking person goes chasing down some girl he's only seen once, from the back? Barmy, for sure.

"Are you looking for someone?"

I looked down, distracted. The daughter, standing in front of me, smiling up at me. I smiled sheepishly. Of course, it must have looked to her like I was running after her. I smiled, I waved, I shot to my feet like a bloody madman.

"Ah…just…enjoy your stay in Paris," I stammered stupidly. Her face fell in disappointment as I turned on my heel and headed back to my easel.

I had just settled back down to paint when I heard a familiar drawling voice and slow clapping.

"Applause, applause, Edward!"

I turned to see Emmett, leaning on the wall behind me, clapping his hands.

"Shut up, Emmett," I said with a grin.

"What? That was a goddamned brilliant performance! I bow before your genius! The mother and the daughter! I swear, Eddie, that face of yours should be registered as a deadly weapon, at least where the ladies are concerned."

Emmett pushed his huge frame off the wall and came to stand next to my easel. I reached out and shook his hand in friendly greeting. I'd met the burly American a few months back at the jazz club where I played and we'd struck up a friendship. Emmett was straightforward and honest. A friendship with him was easy and uncomplicated. Plus, he had great taste in music and he was always game to come along with me to see the great jazz artists who came to Paris to play.

"Cut it out, Emmett. She had a genuine appreciation for my…talent."

"Well, she was certainly appreciating something," he laughed, then he glanced pointedly at my crotch, "but I don't think it had much to do with your talent. At least not the painting kind!"

"Alright, alright. You've had your fun at my expense. What brings you down here, mate?" I asked.

"I was looking for you. I had a break in my day, thought I'd see if you wanted to get an early dinner. Maybe Café de Flore?"

I rubbed the back of my neck thoughtfully. I'd barely touched the painting of the Tuileries, so I should probably stay and work. On the other hand, I'd just made a tidy sum on that painting of the Arc de Triomphe, so I was feeling flush. And the prospect of a decent meal with Emmett at Café de Flore was appealing.

"Ah, bloody hell, I think I'm fated not to get any real work done today anyway. Why not?"

I stood up and started packing up my stuff. Emmett stood off to the side, watching me put my things away.

"Something bothering you, Eddie?"

"Edward," I corrected reflexively, although I knew Emmett would persist in calling me Eddie in spite of it. "No, why do you ask?"

"I don't know. You just seem a little tense, out of sorts. And when I saw you over there on the quai you looked like you'd just seen a ghost."

"Just…I've just…" I trailed off and thought about what I should say. Should I tell Emmett about her? Emmett had the least artistic, least poetic soul I'd ever encountered, so on the one hand, no, he'd never understand this strange fixation that I'd developed for this mystery girl. But on the other hand, Emmett had spent countless nights at Esme's, surrounded by her motley crowd of artists, poets, musicians, writers and all-around freaks and he'd somehow fit right in. This burly American businessman thoroughly embraced the three ring circus Esme ran at her place, and Esme positively adored him. So maybe he'd understand better than I expected. Maybe he really would get it.

"What?" he prompted, hoisting my easel on his shoulder as I hefted up my bag.

"It's just…" I sighed heavily, needing to unload to someone. "Let's go get some food and wine and I'll tell you. Although I'm sure you'll think I'm mad."

Emmett laughed and clapped his huge hand down on my shoulder, making me wince slightly.

"Eddie, I'm sure it's not that bad!"

*0*0*

"So let me get this straight," Emmett said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "You still haven't seen this girl's face?"

We were settled at a sidewalk table at Café de Flore, the plats du jour in front of us, rapidly making our way through a carafe of wine.

"Right."

"Just her back? All you know about her is that she wears a black coat and carries a red umbrella?"

"And she has long brown hair," I corrected, "Really pretty long brown hair." I flinched internally. I sounded like a complete wanker.

Emmett leaned back in his chair and laughed loudly.

"Holy smokes! You have it bad, kiddo."

I snorted in frustration and picked up the wine, refilling his glass and mine. I slugged back half of mine in one go.

"Thank you, Emmett."

"All I'm saying is that maybe the next time you see her, if there is a next time, you should maybe try and talk to her. Or at least get a look at her face!"

I scowled.

"For all you know she's cross-eyed with buck teeth!" He shrugged absently. "But hey, maybe you like big teeth on a girl."

"Emmett!"

He sighed and tried to look serious.

"Look, I like you artistic types, but I don't always get you. So you're telling me that she's…I don't know…some kind of inspiration, some kind of muse to you? Well, I don't know anything about that, but I do know a little something about men and women. So I'm telling you as a man who's got a thing for a woman, you just need to buck up and talk to her. See what happens."

"And what if I talk to her and she's just…ordinary? Right now she's like the soul of my painting. What if she turns out to be just some girl? Then what? My painting loses its soul."

Emmett chuckled and shook his head. "Guess you'll just have to take your chances. What if she's not ordinary? What if she's extraordinary and all you ever did was stare at her back?"

I huffed and pushed my food around my plate some more.

"Here," he said, topping off my wine, "A little more liquid courage, and then out the door with you!"

I sighed and raised my glass. Emmett was right. Just staring at her was driving me mad. If I saw her again, I really needed to speak. Or at the very least, see her from the front.

*0*0*

It rained that night. Not as hard as it did last night and it wasn't as cold, but at twilight a misting rain started and kept up until well after dark. I hung out at a café until it was dark enough then I headed to the Pont Neuf and the Île de la Cité. I was nervous, casting glances to the right and left the whole time, but there was no sign of her yet.

Jules was happy to see me and tried to chat me up, but I was edgy and distracted. I couldn't say more than a few words before looking around myself expectantly. Even Jules noticed.

"Waiting for someone tonight, eh, Edward?"

"What?"

"You are waiting for someone, non?"

"No. Just painting, Jules," I said, trying to turn my focus back to the canvas.

Jules took a long pensive drag on his cigarette and absently smoothed his long moustache down with his free hand.

"You just seem nervous tonight," he said.

"No, not nervous. I'm fine." It was laughable, really. I could hear in my voice that I sounded anything but fine. I sounded nervous.

"D'accord," Jules said, and turned back to his book, leaving me to fret in silence.

There were too many people here. When she came last night the park was empty. Maybe she wouldn't come if there were people around. Then I mocked myself. Really? I'm getting superstitious about seeing some girl in a park? I settled down to work and did whatever I could to think about anything besides the girl. I worked on the reflections on the water in the painting in an effort to avoid her figure.

Gradually the park emptied out. I hardly realized it until Jules called his goodbye as he closed down for the night. A few scattered people sat on benches close to the entrance, but down here at the point there was only me.

I was turning back to the canvas, paint loaded onto my brush, when a flash of red to my left made my heart nearly stop. I glanced up just in time to catch the smallest glimpse of her profile before she dropped her umbrella to her shoulder, effectively shielding her from my sight.

She was here.

I didn't take my eyes from her as she walked past me towards the railing along the river. Like last night, she simply stood at the river, looking out, but there was no crying tonight. Her shoulders were set and unmoving, her head held high. Occasionally she would glance to the side, but somehow with even less expectation of seeing someone there than she had last night. But every time she turned her head I caught a tantalizing glimpse of her pale cheek and I was desperate for her to turn around so I could see all of her, her eyes, her mouth.

I made a show of working on her figure in the painting, I might have made a few pointless strokes of paint, but really I just stood there and stared, wondering how I had come to be so wholly obsessed by someone I didn't know and hadn't even properly seen. She seemed in no hurry to move on and I was in no hurry for her to leave. She just stood and watched the river. I just stood and watched her. Her still figure, the soft lapping of the Seine against the quai, lulled me into a sort of trance.

When she turned without warning, I fumbled and nearly dropped my brush. As I recovered and glanced back up, there she was, looking straight at me. If I thought I was obsessed with watching her back, then I was doomed now that I had seen her face. She was absolutely lovely. High cheekbones and a delicate little chin, perfect lips and dark eyes that had me positively pinned to my spot. I could hardly believe that she was finally looking at me. And I was standing here staring at her like a bloody idiot. I closed my mouth, which I realized was hanging open, and smiled slightly at her. Her eyes widened a bit and I smiled wider in response. I was positively elated that we had made contact, even if it only amounted to eye contact so far. She was still standing there like a little statue, so I winked as I grinned at her, hoping to break the tension. I was just a second away from taking a step towards her when she turned without a sound and sped towards the exit.

I took just a moment to think, wondering if I should chase her down or let her go. Chase her down and say what? You don't know me but I've been staring at you obsessively for two days and….Yes, that's bloody brilliant. She'll think I'm mad. Because I am. Well, let her think that, I thought as I ditched my palette and sprinted after her. There was no sign of her just outside the park or on the stairs to the Pont Neuf. I raced up the stairs and sighed in disappointment when I reached the bridge. Pedestrians hurried back and forth in both directions, but nowhere was there a hint of the girl with the red umbrella.