With special thanks to my amazing pre-readers, ladylibre at and EmmyDana at Wattpad for their patience and invaluable assistance for cutting and snipping with authority while this professional editor shook in her proverbial boots at the idea of trimming back my monstrous chapters which are more unwieldy than usual due to Camp NaNoWriMo this month. Love you, ladies!
From the end of Chapter Five:
As I straightened to my full height, I caught my reflection in the mirror over the dresser—the dresser that was mine. I noted my height and slim but masculine build, my wild auburn hair that refused to obey any current style, and my eyes that glittered like emeralds in the moonlight.
And as I had every night since the appearance of this angel in my room, I seated myself silently in my rocking chair and prepared to watch over her, guarding and protecting her until the sun rose….
Chapter Six
When I woke to my alarm the next morning, I could recall every detail of my strange yet wondrous dream. Each image seemed burned into my memory which was definitely out of the ordinary, for rarely do I ever remember my dreams.
And once again I felt refreshed and relaxed—exactly how I have awakened every morning since I had moved in five days ago.
Of course, it had been odd to dream as if I were someone else—as if I were the green-eyed stranger who only existed at the edges of my consciousness. Seeing myself through his eyes, feeling his strong emotions toward me—admiration, yearning, protectiveness—so many fleeting emotions had washed through him during my dream…and thus through me as well.
It had been a bizarre sensation, yet so very welcome at the same time.
As I sat up in bed, I couldn't help wondering if I was sleeping so restfully because of the handsome phantom watching over me in my dreams?
And why did he care so much that he was willing to spend each night guarding me as I slept?
For some strange reason, I didn't feel frightened or disturbed by his presence, even knowing that not only had he entered my bedroom, but that he also remained here, a silent sentinel while I slept.
Instead, I felt…comforted by his being in my room. He seemed so courteous and modest, so reluctant to touch me, almost as if he were seeking my permission first.
Who in the world behaved like that, anyway? Most guys touched first and wouldn't even consider apologizing afterward…since they were God's gift to womankind, after all.
Like Mike, for example.
But even while dreaming, I knew I had been safe—protected—in my phantom's arms. Somehow I knew that he would let no harm would come to me. The gentleness in his eyes had drawn me into accepting his mysterious presence.
I automatically and absolutely trusted him.
Even though the memory of his kiss to my forehead warmed my cheeks and quickened my pulse, I did not doubt his motives.
But was he really a phantom? Or was he merely the product of my overactive imagination or my fixation with Jane Austen's oh-so-proper literary heroes?
Perhaps this lovely old house brought forth such dreams, taking me back to a more old-fashioned and mannerly time and place, especially after experiencing such rude behavior from Mike and Jessica recently? I knew which era I preferred—an era in which a handsome stranger protected me from harm.
Perhaps chivalry wasn't dead after all?
Slipping from my covers, I approached the antique rocking chair in the far corner of my room where he had seated himself in my dream. Warily I touched the armrest, causing the chair to rock gently.
But nothing strange happened.
Turning, I stared at the dresser mirror—his dresser mirror—but I saw only my reflection: pale face, rumpled hair, sleep-swollen eyes, wrinkled navy blue-and-white plaid flannel pajama bottoms and solid navy tank top.
Just plain old me.
Not him—as I had half-hoped to see.
Shaking my head in wistful confusion, I opened my door and crossed the hallway to the bathroom to start getting ready for class. As I brushed my hair in front of the oval mirror, I felt a strange compulsion.
Hairbrush still in hand, I padded upstairs, barefoot still, and glanced around the attic, not sure what I had been expecting to see.
But everything was as it should be. The autumn sunshine streamed in through the eastern windows, and all was as neat as the proverbial pin with windows closed and latched, all the boxes and furniture positioned exactly the way I remembered.
I had expected to see something different than before—anything at all. Something just ever so slightly out of place.
But obviously I had been wrong.
"Huh," I grunted, walking absently downstairs and finishing my preparations for my Thursday classes.
As I came downstairs, I noticed that only Alice was seated downstairs at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and nibbling delicately on a pastry. But instead of being dressed as the poster child for the young professional as usual, today Alice wore faded skinny jeans and a giant University of Chicago sweatshirt that obviously belonged to Jasper; it completely engulfed her tiny form. In fact, I wasn't sure which was in control of her movements: Alice or the sweatshirt.
Heavy-eyed, she glanced up briefly as I entered the kitchen to put on the kettle. As I measured the shriveled tea leaves from the canister and dumped them into the teapot, I heard her sigh.
Grabbing a small plate, a paring knife, and a pear from the fruit bowl on the counter, I plopped down beside her, using the knife to slice the pear into four quarters, carefully trimming out the core.
"Hey, Bella," Alice greeted me quietly, refusing to meet my eyes.
Okay, this had gone on long enough. It was time to make her come clean.
"So are you going to tell me what's going on around here?" I asked evenly, setting the knife on the edge of my plate and focusing my complete attention on her.
Shyly she peered at me through her incredibly long eyelashes. "I'm afraid to," she whispered, her hand trembling as she put down her cheese Danish.
Alice "afraid"? Alice has always seemed to be the antithesis of "afraid"; she was bold and brave, a take-no-prisoners pixie in four-inch stilettos.
Whatever was going on here was perhaps more involved than I had first thought, and I couldn't suppress the shiver that went up my spine at her words and manner.
This was not the Alice I had come to know—not in the least.
Placing a hand on her arm, I leaned toward her, trying to smile. "Why is that?" I asked quietly. "I promise—I don't bite…much."
Alice didn't respond to my weak attempt at a joke as she toyed with a piece of her pastry.
"Oh, come on, Alice. You can tell me," I cajoled, elbowing her gently, but my attempt at a lighter, more persuasive tone fell rather flat.
"I don't want you to decide that it's all too much. I don't want you to leave," she murmured, her tone sad but resigned.
Deciding to lay it all out, I asked her, "Alice, does this have to do with a young man who has the most extraordinary green eyes?"
Her eyes became round with shock, and her mouth popped into an "O" shape. "H-h-how do you know about Edward?"
"Edward? Who's that?" I demanded, dropping the piece of pear I had just lifted to my mouth.
Her face fell, disappointment filling her eyes as tears welled up. "So you don't know who he is?"
My appetite waning, I pushed away my plate and focused my complete attention on Alice, asking in confusion, "Whom are you talking about?"
"You know," she remarked with a roll of her eyes, "the more upset you get, the more correct your grammar becomes. And who the heck uses 'whom" anymore?" The much more Alice-like quirk of her eyebrows quieted a bit of my rising anxiety.
"I do," I replied brusquely, not allowing her to derail this most interesting conversation. "Please answer my question. Who is 'he'?"
Alice sighed. "The guy with the green eyes."
"Oh—that guy," I said. Now we were getting somewhere. "How do you know his name?"
"Well, I'm just guessing, but I found some things in the attic over the summer," she said. Glancing at her watch, she exclaimed, "Oh, no—I need to leave right now if I'm going to get to my drafting class on time."
As I began to object, Alice leaned over, looked me straight in the eye for the first time this morning, and placed one of her hands atop mine. "I promise we'll talk tonight, okay?" she offered, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. I could tell that she was still nervous, but the fearful, trembling Alice from a few minutes ago was gone.
"Sure—that sounds nice," I reassured her, smiling.
Jumping to her feet, Alice stooped to kiss my forehead. "I think everything will work out okay now," she said softly. "I can't be sure, but I think it's time for you to know. Before Halloween, at least."
"Okayyyy," I replied, somewhat confused about the reference to her huge party coming up next week. "Thanks. See you tonight," I waved at her as she rushed out the front door.
Fortunately, my Tuesday/Thursday classes were mellow, and I was able to skate through Theatre Arts without incident, enjoying a couple of presentations on the history of theater by my fellow students. After that, Creative Writing, taught by Dr. Alec Nelson, who seemed somehow to think I had a little talent, involved the writing of flash fiction—telling a whole story (beginning, middle, and ending) in only a few hundred words.
We were asked to start writing the flash fiction story in class, and an image of the young man with green eyes immediately entered my mind. I picked up my pen and started writing, words tumbling from my mind almost without conscious thought….
From across the room, those green eyes looked at me with such gentleness. They could pierce, those eyes, all too easily, but they did not contain the impatience or annoyance that were his usual reaction to the young ladies of my age, their various machinations directed at him behind an innocuous smile or a too-innocent flutter of long lashes.
Instead, those eyes seemed familiar to me. As if I knew him…as if he had known me—forever. He approached me, striding across the dance floor, his expression at once nervous yet determined. He offered his gloved hand, and as I placed my gloved palm against his, he grasped my fingers warmly as he bowed his auburn head, the usually riotous locks controlled by pomade. In return, I sank into a somewhat uncertain curtsy, my free hand holding my midnight-blue satin skirt.
Gently he pulled me out to the dance floor as the strains of an unfamiliar song echoed from small band playing in the corner of the ballroom. He maintained the required distance between us that propriety dictated for a waltz, his eyes blazing triumphantly as he led me through the intricate steps as if we were floating.
But of course, I couldn't manage to dance without incident. On a particularly complicated turn, my heel caught for a moment in the black lace on the hem of my dress, and as I tried to regain my footing, I stumbled awkwardly against his hard chest. Immediately his firm hand on my waist tightened, holding me against his body as we continued twirling around the room as if my clumsy moment had never occurred.
Bending slightly, he sought my eyes as if seeking permission for his continued intimate hold, his concerned expression breaking into a glorious smile as I nodded in answer to his unasked question, my cheeks warm as I blushed deeply. While my eyes drowned in the depths of his emerald gaze, he maneuvered us easily among the other dancing couples.
"I don't believe that I am familiar with this song?" I stated a little shakily, unnerved by my clumsiness and his intensity.
"It's new—a war song, of course—called 'Till We Meet Again,'" he replied. Leaning closer to me so that his lips were at my ear, he whisper-sang the lyrics to me:
Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu,
When the clouds roll by I'll come to you,
Then the skies will see more blue,
Down in lovers' lane my dearie,
Wedding bells will ring so merrily,
Every tear will be a memory,
So wait and pray each night for me,
Till we meet again.
"It's such a sad song," I murmured. Glancing up at him, I saw a pained expression cross his handsome features as he averted his gaze away from mine for the first time since we started dancing. The Great War was ravaging Europe, and thousands of our young men were "over there," fighting courageously in the trenches and in the air. And so many brave lads would never return home as they made the ultimate sacrifice for right and country. Quietly I asked, "Will you be leaving soon, too?"
"The moment I turn eighteen," he almost growled in my ear. He pulled back slightly to regain my gaze. "I had nothing keeping me here in Chicago except my parents…until now." His warm eyes brought another blush to my cheeks as I glanced down.
"Oh no, you don't," he chided lightly, and I raised my eyes to his again. "That's better," he smiled, obviously preferring me to look at him. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Your eyes are so lovely, Miss Swan."
Wisdom flickered, gathered, pooling through his green eyes as if he knew secrets, strange and wonderful secrets that he promised to reveal to me some day. Although I didn't know him well as of yet, I knew he was a safe haven…my safe haven…my Edward….
Without thinking, I underlined "my" four times.
And then the rush of words failed me. I tried to lasso them back, tried to see the tall young man of my dream last night who had so tenderly carried me back to my room, tried to recall the melody and words of the song we were discussing, tried to lose myself in his green eyes once again….
The clatter of my pen striking the tile floor of the classroom jerked me out of my memories as the professor's amused voice startled me.
"Ms. Swan, are you planning to actually write something this class period, or would you rather daydream?"
Trying to ignore the sarcastic tittering of the students around me, I felt my cheeks warm with the heat of my blush. Reaching down, I picked up my pen from the floor where it had slipped from my limp fingers when my imagination had swept me away.
But nothing else came to me—nothing but those green eyes that, according to Alice, belonged to someone named Edward. Someone I had imagined in a ballroom—the clothes that we wore seeming to be early 20th century.
And how in the world had I known the lyrics to a song from World War I?
The questions filling my mind were confusing—too confusing. In order to appear busy in class, I continued writing for appearance's sake, scribbling as much as the Gettysburg Address as I could remember from high school American history onto a separate sheet of paper.
I was unspeakably grateful that we were going to be allowed to finish drafting and editing our stories before submitting it next Tuesday. I had about five hundred words of my story written, and I would have to decide if I wanted to (or was able to) write more of this story or just edit what I had already written.
Writing about anything else but those green eyes was simply impossible right now, yet although I could see Edward in my mind's eye, no further words describing our interaction came to me.
As soon as Dr. Nelson dismissed us, I rocketed out of my seat and out the door, finding a seat at a stone table in a courtyard. I pulled my laptop out and connected with the university's wifi. Accessing Google quickly, I typed in the name of the song that I had written about in my fan fiction.
"Till We Meet Again" came up on Wikipedia, and sure enough, there were the same lyrics that Edward had whispered in my ear in my daydream. Written about a soldier parting from his sweetheart to go to war, the song had come out in 1918 and was the most popular song of 1919. As I re-read the poignant words and remembered how many boys did not return to their sweethearts after the First World War, tears welled up in my eyes.
Frustrated with myself, I dashed away the tears and determinedly crossed the campus to my car and drove home.
When I arrived, the front door was locked. For the first time since moving in, I was coming home to a totally empty house. Using my brass key for the first time, I twisted it in the lock, and the bolt slid back easily. Still carrying my school things, I entered the kitchen, stopping in front of the fridge where everyone had posted their weekly schedules. Studying Alice's Excel spreadsheet, I could see that on Thursdays I would be home alone for almost three hours before anyone else was due home.
It seemed like a good time to get some cleaning done before studying, so after changing in grungy jeans and an ancient t-shirt, I popped in my earbuds, turned my iPod to the Lumineers, and got to work. At least everyone was responsible for keeping their own rooms clean, so I had little to do upstairs besides my own room, the hallway, and the bathrooms on the second floor which I tackled first so that the others could study in peace when they came home. Then I moved downstairs with the vacuum to continue cleaning.
I was just finishing dusting the downstairs furniture when a sudden tap on my shoulder startled me. Spinning around on my heel, I screamed bloody murder—only to see Emmett's grinning face cracking up at my overly-dramatic reaction.
He collapsed onto the sofa, holding his belly as his loud guffaws echoed throughout the house. Yanking out my earbuds, I stomped over to where the oaf was still laughing at me, and slapped ineffectively at his arms and head in frustration.
"Whoa, there, chica!" he shouted, warding off my open-handed blows which did little more than make flapping noises against his hard muscles and even harder head. "What's the deal?"
Not slowing down my useless slaps, I yelled, each word punctuated by an accompanying blow, "Don't. Sneak. Up. On. Me. You. Idiot!"
Effortlessly grabbing both of my wrists in one of his huge hands, Emmett pulled me down onto the sofa to sit beside him. He took a good look at my face which was undoubtedly red from exertion as well as embarrassment…and he apparently saw what I was trying to hide.
Abject fear.
"Hey, hey, little girl," Emmett said softly. "Seriously, what's going on? I didn't mean anything, you know—just wanted to surprise you a bit and let you know I was home."
His concern and gentleness brought a burning sensation behind my eyes which I tried to suppress. But even Emmett, not the most observant of mortals, noticed my emotional state and threw a comforting arm around my shoulders.
"What's going on, Bells? You can tell me, you know."
I shook my head. "I can't," I choked out. With great effort, I swallowed back my tears, thankfully keeping them from spilling down my face.
I was quite the emotional mess today, I grumbled to myself.
"Will it make you feel better knowing that I am planning to talk to Alice about it tonight?" I asked him.
Emmett gave me a long, searching look, and nodded. "Okay. Girl stuff, huh?" he inquired, winking dramatically.
"Something like that," I mumbled, getting up and grabbing the Swiffer to finish dusting.
Emmett remained seated on the couch, arms folded across his huge chest as he watched me work through narrowed eyes. "You're not unhappy here, are you?" he asked.
"Nope, nothing like that," I answered with false glibness, glad my back was to him while I finished my task since I was sure that my expression wouldn't have been convincing.
"Okay then. I'm heading up to Rosie's room to hit the books; we have another exam tomorrow," Emmett stated as he hauled his considerable bulk to his feet and stretched lazily.
"You pre-med majors always have an exam," I observed as I gathered my housecleaning things into the plastic caddy.
"Yup—see ya at dinner!" he waved cheerfully over his shoulder as he took the stairs two at a time.
As I put away the cleaning caddy and went upstairs for a quick shower before fixing dinner, I wondered about my extreme reaction to Emmett's presence, plus my tears—the second time I had started crying today. I was definitely stressed right now, and Miss Alice had better be ready to give me some solid answers—and soon.
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I cooked a simple meal tonight—Sloppy Joes on toasted potato rolls with oven-baked sweet potato wedges. Emmett ate four of the hot sandwiches, followed closely by Jasper who consumed three, and there wasn't a single wedge left on the tray. Fortunately, I had made enough filling for a dozen sandwiches, planning to save the leftovers for lunches over the weekend, but there was hardly any filling remaining in the pan after the boys finished dinner.
As I placed the last of the dirty dishes in the sink to wash, Rosalie entered the kitchen. "So are you adjusting to feeding two growing boys?" she teased as I filled the sink with hot, soapy water and pulled on my rubber dishwashing gloves.
I laughed. "Well, I had plans for leftovers, but the guys didn't leave much left…over."
"No, they sure didn't," Rosalie grinned before turning serious. "Did you have enough grocery money this week?" she asked. Everyone contributed a certain amount per week for me to food shop with, plus they left a list of items they wanted to add to the grocery list on a small whiteboard in the kitchen.
"Yep, no problem," I stated cheerily as I started washing the silverware. "Is the menu okay?" I asked worriedly. "I'm happy making whatever you all want—"
"It's fine, Bella," Rosalie interrupted. "We're all enjoying your meals. And I wanted to thank you for cleaning today—the house looks great."
I was glad my back was to her so that she couldn't see my blush. "Thanks," I murmured as I washed the frying pan.
"I think this arrangement is working out really well so far," Rosalie stated softly. "Thanks for all you're doing, Bella—the house hasn't been this clean and we haven't been this well-fed in a long time. When we tried dividing up the chores before you came, everyone forgot when it was their turn despite Alice's lists, and we ate takeout most of the time. Plus the house wasn't fit for company unless Alice had a party planned, and then she worked us like dogs. So having you helping out is much less stressful for us all."
"Thanks," I repeated, feeling my face warm up as my blush deepened.
"I'm heading upstairs to study," she said. "Thanks again for all you're doing, Bella."
"You're welcome, Rosalie," I replied.
"It's Rose, if you like," she said over her shoulder as she walked toward the stairs. I grinned to myself, glad that Rose had lowered another barrier. She was a bit distant at times, but I could tell that she was a softie underneath her cool beauty and standoffish attitude.
After Rosalie left and I finished washing and drying the dishes and then wiping down the kitchen work surfaces, I poured a half glass of Riesling and took it out onto the back patio. Stealing one of the padded chairs from the table, I dragged it out onto the lawn and sank into the soft cushions.
Wineglass in hand, I leaned my head back and gazed up at the sky. The sun had set about half an hour previously; night had nearly fallen. The sky was midnight blue, paler toward the horizon, and any hint of moonlight was absent tonight despite the clarity of the skies.
Even in the middle of a city the size of Chicago, the back garden seemed a private place, quiet and peaceful. I gloried in the tranquility as I sipped the sweet wine, relaxing and not really thinking of anything as I closed my eyes, my body weary after all the work I had done this afternoon and tonight.
After enjoying the peacefulness for a few moments longer, I reluctantly opened my eyes and pulled myself to my feet. It was time to start tackling the massive pile of homework awaiting me, especially since I had spent the afternoon hours cleaning rather than studying. As I grasped the stem of my empty wineglass and turned to go into the house, my glance passed over on the third-story window above me.
Light from spilled from the attic window where I had studied earlier in the week, and the window….
The window was completely open.
Then the sudden change above me caused my jaw to drop open, and the wineglass in my hand fell to the grass at my feet as I dropped it in shock.
Where only a lit window had been in my sight a moment ago, now a tall, unmoving masculine figure was silhouetted against the light streaming from the window. Although I couldn't see his eyes, from the angle of his chin I was fairly certain that he was staring at me—just as my eyes were fixed on him.
As I watched the immobile form and he seemed to watch me, the attic light flicked off, leaving the third story windows awash in darkness.
The loss of the light that had so perfectly outlined the figure jolted me into action. Fortunately, the wineglass had safely landed on the lawn, so I scooped it up in one hand while grabbing the chair with the other. Moving quickly toward the house, I returned the chair to the patio table and rushed inside, bolting up the stairs, then rounding the turn in the hallway and mounting the attic stairs at a run.
Once I entered the utter darkness of the attic space, I skidded to an awkward stop, cursing myself for not grabbing a flashlight on my way upstairs. Blindly stumbling forward a few steps, I grasped madly for the pull chain to the ceiling light. It took me several tries, but finally my fingers encountered the chain, and I yanked on it impatiently.
The attic was bathed in the soft glow of the single bulb, just as it had been on previous nights. As soon as light illumined the third-story room, I spun to face the window where I had studied.
The window was now closed and latched, and the armchair and table were exactly as I had left them when I studied here two days ago.
Before I had time to puzzle over any of the mysterious circumstances of the past few moments, I froze in fear as several events occurred at once.
A cool sensation spread outward from the middle of my forehead, followed by a glancing feeling of cold that traveled from just below my left ear, along my jaw, to my chin…and stopped just as the clatter of pounding footsteps rapidly ascended the attic stairs.
With my left hand, I covered my mouth, trying to stifle the scream rising in my throat as the eerie echo of quick footfalls approached ever closer….
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Thanks for your patience in awaiting this chapter. Two weeks ago we had a forest fire scare near our mountain town. The mountain above our town (where my parents have had a small cabin for the last 17 years) was on fire, and the fire burned nearly 200 structures and over 7000 acres. The evacuation zone was a mere mile from our house, and the fire approached within six miles of our town. With the erratic winds and temperatures over 105 degrees, our town and several others were put on alert and told to prepare to evacuate. My husband was away from home that day and night, so the four kids and I had to pack up what we needed to take with us in case the fire came any closer.
Fortunately, we were able to follow the firefighters' scanners online and could track the fire fairly accurately. Late that afternoon, the winds shifted significantly, turning north rather than south, and overnight the firefighters were able to get a handle on the blaze and keep it on top of the mountain and from dropping down into the valley where we live. My parents' cabin weathered the firestorm just fine. But I was exhausted by packing and then unpacking in the heat, plus the stress took its toll as well, so I spent several days quite ill. So apologies for missing posting last week and this week, too, but I hope that you will enjoy the new chapter!
Thanks for reading and reviewing—I always love hearing from you all! Your kind comments brighten my days considerably, and I think I responded to everyone who left a review. You guys are the *best*!
However, I've had to disable anonymous reviews as some snide people have been leaving nasty notes about my stories as "guest," and I'm simply not willing to allow them the liberty to leave nasty comments when I can't respond to them. My apologies if disabling anonymous reviews inconveniences any of you. I'm always willing to read and seriously consider constructive criticism, but leaving nasty reviews with no accountability is terribly uncool. I hope you'll understand.
I'm writing Chapter Seven as we speak, and I hope to get it up fairly soon, preferably by the end of the weekend. My online fan fiction class is submitting their first stories today, so I have a lot of reading and commenting ahead of me this weekend, but I still hope to work on Chapter Seven. :)
xxxooo,
Cassandra :)
