Thank you to my PTB beta, Thir13eenth!

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Disclaimer – All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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The author of the poem Bella sends Edward is Mary Elizabeth Frye.

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WOOHOO! I'm so excited! Several months ago one of my lovely readers, Cared, was kind enough to review and recommend I remain, Yours on Rob Attack, and I thank her very much for that! Now, as we are at the end of another year, they are having a poll to vote for your favorite fic reviewed and recommended during 2012, and IrY is in the running for Best WIP of the Year! Now, since I am very definitely not above begging for votes, I am doing just that-so please, PLEASE, PLEASE, vote for I remain, Yours for Best WIP of the Year on Rob Attack! I do have a link, but FFn won't allow links-they delete them automatically-and I'm afraid to try to post it removing the dot com's and risking pissing of the FFn Gods and getting my story pulled. If you google Rob Attack Best of 2012, it'll take you to the site and you can scroll down to the right link, or check out Twilighted or The Writer's Coffee Shop for the link if you have trouble finding it.

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Please vote for I remain, Yours!

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Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ugh, where is that stupid beeping noise coming from? Oh. Right. Groaning as she buried her head under her pillow, Bella reached out blindly for the snooze button. I'd like mornings much better if they didn't start so early. Forget diamonds, the snooze button is this girl's best friend.

Twenty minutes and several snooze buttons later, Bella forced herself to get out of bed and walked with her eyes half shut to her bathroom, "Ow!" and stubbed her pinky toe on the corner of her desk. Ow, ow, ow, ow! Perfect. Happy Freaking Monday. Holding onto the desk, she hopped to her chair to take a look at her foot. Hmm, no blood, not broken. Just hurts like hell. She stood up and took few tentative steps around her room. Hurts, but I've had worse.

Sitting back down, Bella looked around her room. She couldn't remember it, but she thought she must've had a bad dream last night because she had an anxious, sick feeling, like something terrible had happened. Shrugging it off as her imagination, Bella looked down at her desk and ran her fingers over the green leather as she thought about Edward. It hasn't been that long since I wrote to him. He might not even have read it yet, let alone written back. She decided she might as well check, or she'd be wondering about it all day. When she looked, she was happy to see that something was there, but was surprised that it was only two small scraps of paper. She picked them both up and laughed as she read the first one.

Chicago? Honestly, Bella. The capitol of Illinois is Springfield.

Cocky, Edward, very cocky. Where are your Victorian manners? Isn't it rude to tease a girl? Hmm, I wonder if he'd believe me if I wrote back and said they changed it, and it's Chicago now? Still smiling, she read the second one and felt her stomach drop to her feet as her smile was erased from her face and tears immediately sprang to her eyes.

My father died.

Oh, God. Oh, Edward. Oh, God, Edward, I'm so sorry. Heartbroken for him, Bella wanted to write back right away, but she didn't know what she could possibly say to help and sat there for a few minutes wiping the tears from her eyes feeling completely useless. What could she possible say to help him? She'd never lost anyone so close to her, and she couldn't imagine what he was going through. She'd lost her grandparents, but that was different. Not that she didn't love them–she did–but it wasn't like she thought losing a parent would be.

And it must've been very sudden. He never mentioned that his father was sick, and in his first letter to his cousin, he'd said he and his father went to a baseball game together, that was only a month ago.

She tried to remember back to her grandparents' funerals, trying to think of something, anything, that someone had said that at least didn't sound lame. There was that poem... What was it again? She couldn't remember much of it, but she hoped what little she remembered would be enough to search it online.

As she went to the living room to use the computer, she wished again she could have one in her room. Her mother was already up and reading the paper in the kitchen. "Bella? Haven't you gotten in the shower yet?"

Distracted, Bella tapped her fingers on the small computer desk, impatiently waiting for it to turn on. "I will in a sec. I just need to check something real quick first." Hopefully, her mother wouldn't ask any more questions; she needed to find this and write to Edward as soon as she could. Once finally online, she found the poem she was looking for and quickly copied it down. "Got it." She looked up at the clock. Crap. She had hit the snooze button one or two–okay, four–too many times, and she really was running late, but this couldn't wait. If she was late, so be it; this was more important. "I'll just take a real quick shower. In and out."

Back in her room, sore toe completely forgotten, Bella wrote a short note to Edward telling him how sorry she was on the other side of the poem.

After showering and dressing as quickly as she could without risking serious bodily injury, and with her still wet hair pulled back into a ponytail, Bella grabbed a pop tart on her way out the door, yelled good-bye to her mother, and made it to the bus stop just in time.

Thinking about Edward and his father led her to thinking about her own father. She was glad she had decided to just stay in Forks when she visited him. By this time, she knew, he'd already be at work, and even though he'd told her it didn't matter–he was the boss after all–she didn't like to call him at work. I know I just called on Saturday, but I really do want to talk to him. Maybe just for a minute. There was plenty of time before homeroom, and she found a relatively quiet spot to call.

"Forks Police Department, may I help you?"

She didn't recognize the voice, but whoever it was sounded very young. She remembered her dad mentioning the police department had been approved for a state grant and had hired a new part-time officer. This must be him. "This is Bella Swan, Charlie's daughter. Is my dad around?"

"Oh, hey, Bella. It's nice to put a voice to the name. Your dad talks about you all the time. Hang on, lemme get him."

She only had to wait a few seconds before her dad picked up. "Bells? What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong, Dad. I just wanted to say good morning."

"Good morning. Now what's wrong?"

She laughed a little thinking she really needed to loosen up a bit if she was so set in a pattern that breaking it automatically made people assume something must be wrong. "Really, Dad, nothing's wrong. I just wanted to say hi."

"You're sure? You never call in the morning and you never call me at work."

"Yeah, Dad, really. I'm sure. I just wanted to say good morning."

"I didn't think you thought there was any such thing as a good morning. Didn't you say it was contradiction in terms?"

That was one way she was more like her mom than her dad. Her dad was a morning person. She very definitely was not. "Oh, ha ha. This from the man who says I have no future as a comedian. Good thing the police thing worked out."

They both laughed for a few seconds. "I gotta go, Dad. I have to get to homeroom. I just wanted to say have a good day." As an afterthought she added, "And be careful."

"Always am. You have a good day and be careful, too. Don't fall down any stairs or, you know, get hit by any falling meteors or anything."

"Oh, ha ha, you're on a roll today. I already had my daily accident, got it over and done with three steps out of bed. Stubbed my toe."

Both laughing, they said good bye, and she walked to homeroom still thinking about her dad.

I know it's only Forks, but still... he is a cop. If anything happened to him, I don't know what I'd do.

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..ooOoo..

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Edward lie in his bed, listening to the rain pounding against his window. The sun that had made a brief appearance yesterday was gone again. I'm glad it's raining. It should not be sunny today. He knew he had to get up, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

It was still relatively early, and he hadn't heard anyone else moving around yet. He hoped his mother would sleep late. Yesterday and last night had been horrible, and today would be nearly as bad. There was no need for her to start it any earlier than necessary.

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Edward thought about what was to come today.

He was the man of the house now, and there were things he was going to have to do today that he was dreading. His uncles would need to be telephoned first thing. He would need to telephone Mr. Carrington, hopefully he could take care of anything work related. His father's attorney would need to be telephoned, and… and... the arrangements… would need to be made.

He was dreading seeing his father laid out in the parlor. When he looked in the parlor, he wanted to remember his father playing chess or sitting there reading the paper, not laid out in a casket. His uncles, aunts, and cousins would need to be picked up at the station. How soon could they get here? Where would they stay? Would they expect to be put up here at the house, or would they prefer a hotel? Hopefully, Uncle Richard, Aunt Josephine, and Timothy would prefer a hotel; he really did not want to have to suffer their staying at the house on top of everything else. Uncle Michael, Aunt Louise, Mic, Laura, and Tommy, though, he'd gladly have at the house. Arrangements would need to be made for Mic, of course, but they would manage it somehow. Uncle Michael would be helpful, where Uncle Richard would only be interfering, and Aunt Louise would be a great help to his mother, where Aunt Josephine would be, well, Aunt Josephine would be Aunt Josephine, and that was all that needed to be said about that. The most he could hope for there was that she didn't kick up a fuss.

Pity I have to ask both to stay.

Checking the clock, Edward decided he had put it off as long as he could, sat up, and tried to motivate himself to actually get out of bed. From where he sat, he could see his desk and Bella's letter still lying there. He hadn't put it away with the others last night. Just thinking of her and how much better he felt after reading her letter helped him find the strength to start the day. Just knowing she was out there, or would be one day, and was thinking about him made him feel better.

He sat down at his desk and read her letter again, and again he couldn't help but smile in spite of his grief. The now familiar handwriting on the unusual paper written by the unusual pen made him feel like he could endure anything.

He wanted to write to her, but it would have to wait. At least, it would give him something to look forward to. It was too much to hope she'd already written to him, but he couldn't help hoping she had. As he opened the hidden compartment in the top drawer and saw her letter waiting for him, the feeling of being lost and alone faded completely. He wasn't alone. He still had his mother and his aunts and uncles and cousins. He still had his friends. He still had a mentor in Dr. Cullen, and he still had his work at the hospital. And he had Bella.

She's definitely in a class by herself.

The pain of his father's sudden death eased a little more as he read the poem she sent him.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there. I did not die.

He flipped the page over and read her letter.

Edward,

I don't have much time, I have to leave for school soon. I just had to tell you how very sorry I am about your father. May I ask what happened, or is that inappropriate?

Someone gave us a card with this poem on it when my grandmother died. The words aren't mine, I'm not at all poetic, but I hope they will help.

Your friend,

Bella

Writing to her could not wait, not now. He had to thank her. He wrote just a few lines before getting up and quickly dressing to start the day.

The smell of coffee brewing reached him on the stairs, and Edward suddenly realized how hungry he was. As he entered the kitchen, he saw that Nellie was just putting muffins into the oven. She had to have been up and about for a while now, but she must have taken such care to keep quiet that he had not heard a sound, not so much as a single floor board creak.

He paused a moment and berated himself as he remembered two people he should have included in the list of people he still had. You are some kind of snob, Edward Masen, to have not thought of them sooner after all their help last night.

"Good morning, Nellie. I did not realize you were already awake, I did not hear anyone about." Nellie jumped slightly. "Oh! Oh, Mr. Masen, good morning. You startled me. I did not hear you."

Mr. Masen... She had called him Mr. Masen. The pain inside Edward sprung forward again. He wasn't Mr. Edward anymore. He was Mr. Masen now. He swallowed past the lump that had begun to form in his throat and focused on the poem Bella had sent him to beat the pain back. He could let himself feel it later; right now, he had things to do.

"Nellie, I would like to thank you for your help last night. I cannot tell you how grateful I am." Blushing, Nellie looked down as she murmured, "It was no trouble, nothing at all. Anything for you and your dear mother, Sir." She hurried busily around the kitchen. "Now, then. You just sit yourself down, and let me get you some breakfast. I had hoped the blueberry muffins would be ready before you or your mother were down. I do hope Mrs. Masen will not rise too early. The poor lady needs her rest. I had hoped you would not be down so early yourself."

Edward took the cup of steaming hot coffee she offered him with an appreciative sigh and held it, inhaling the aroma, before shaking his head. "There are too many things that need to be done today. Delaying them will only make them harder still."

There was a knock at the door as Nellie was beating eggs, and she set the whisk down and wiped her hands on her apron, but Edward had already risen and said he would answer the door himself. Knowing the phone telephone calls he would need to make was making him anxious. Now that he was up, he wanted to get everything over with, and sitting still even for just a few minutes was making him restless.

He could not imagine who could be calling on them this early in the morning, since no one yet knew of his father's death, and was surprised to see Dr. Cullen at the door. "Dr. Cullen, please, won't you come in?"

Dr. Cullen stepped inside and placed his umbrella in a stand near in the entryway. "Thank you, Edward. I was on my home from the hospital, and I wanted to check on you and your mother." Edward led Dr. Cullen to the parlor and offered him breakfast, which the doctor politely refused explaining, "I am on a different schedule from most people, this is the end of the day for me."

"My mother is still asleep. She took a Veronal soon after we returned."

"That is good, I am glad to hear it. You should have taken one yourself."

"I did not need one."

Dr. Cullen leaned forward slightly, and when he spoke his voice was filled with obvious concern and compassion. "Edward, I cannot tell you how very sorry I am for your loss. I will not pretend to know what you are suffering, I cannot imagine. My own father died many years ago, and we were… estranged, for quite some time, to put it mildly. I did not even know of his death until some time afterward. But you cannot neglect yourself. You need to sleep. These next days and weeks will be very difficult for both you and your mother. You need to keep your strength up ."

Edward was very touched by the doctor's concern for him and was quick to reassure him. "I was able to sleep without taking anything." The older man did not look convinced so he continued. "Actually, I had a letter from my friend. In Arizona. I found it when we returned last night. I mentioned her to you."

Only just yesterday morning. Was it really only just yesterday morning? It feels as if it was ages ago.

The doctor looked at him with a very knowing look in his eyes. Edward had never noticed before, but Dr. Cullen had the oddest color eyes. Not brown, they were almost like butterscotch. For a brief moment, Edward felt goosebumps run up his back, and he forgot what he was about to say.

"Yes, you mentioned your friend to me."

Right, Bella. Bella's letter. He was saying he had just received a letter from Bella. But what was he going to say about Bella's letter? The poem. Right, the poem. "She sent me a poem someone had given them when her grandmother passed away. It was... very helpful."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Edward realized his mistake, and he could have kicked himself. There was no possible way he could have received a conventional letter including a poem in condolence for his father's death already. He had been going to mention the sonnet, not the poem.

"That is a sad coincidence, indeed. I am sorry for the young lady's loss, but I am glad the poem gave you some peace."

Edward felt his shoulders sag slightly with relief. Thank heaven. He thinks Bella's grandmother died very recently, and she shared the poem with me in mourning herself, unaware of my own.

Dr. Cullen rose to leave. "I will not take up more of your time this morning. I am sure you have much to do."

Thanking him for calling on them, Edward escorted him to the door. After pulling on driving gloves and retrieving his umbrella, Dr. Cullen shook his hand and again offered his condolences and assistance if there was anything he could do for them.

The day passed in a blur and proved to be every bit as trying as he expected, and when Edward closed his door that night he leaned back against it, his hand still clenching the knob, thankful it was over.

After Dr. Cullen had left, Edward ate quickly and made his phone calls. His uncles had been exactly what he expected, Uncle Richard was difficult, and Uncle Michael was consoling. Remembering his conversation with his Uncle Richard, Edward could feel his temper rising. It had been only the fact that his mother was asleep that kept him from raising his voice.

"We will arrive early Monday afternoon. Michael will come, and we will join him in Philadelphia and arrive together. Louise and the children will, of course, be unable make the trip. The inconvenience to everyone with young Michael will be too great.

"I will contact your father's attorney shortly and make an appointment to meet with him that afternoon regarding the will. There is no need to drag things out. He will be viewed on Tuesday and buried on Wednesday."

The audacity of the man never ceased to amaze Edward. If he thinks for one moment he is going to dictate to me what is to be done, he is in for a very rude awakening. Edward had let his uncle know most decidedly that HE would making the arrangements for his father's viewing and funeral, and HE would be contacting and meeting with his father's attorney regarding the will. Closing his eyes and sighing tiredly, Edward leaned his head back against the door. He never even expressed any sorrow at his brother's death. I suppose, perhaps, that is better than had he pretended. His insincere condolences would have been intolerable.

Edward already knew the terms of his father's will, and he knew that both he and his Uncle Michael were the executors. A small smile crept onto his face at the thought, and he looked over at his bookshelf, where he kept Bella's letters in a large envelope of the sort his father used for his legal papers. That ought to get Uncle Richard's dander up.

Thinking about Bella and the poem she had sent him was what had given him the strength and the patience to get through the day. He did not know how many times today he had recited those words to himself. Now, at last, he would be able to write to her and thank her properly, to tell her how much she had come to mean to him.

Edward moved the books on the shelf and revealed the large envelope. The letters inside were tied together with a green silk ribbon, and he took them all out to reread them before writing to her. As always, he felt an incredible sense of peace wash through him as he read her words. Somehow, in less than one month, she had come to mean more to him than almost anyone, and he resolved to tell her how he felt about her.

A sudden blush colored his face, and he cleared his throat both in surprise at the strength of his feelings and in embarrassment, as if someone had caught him behaving in an ungentlemanly manner. Yes, well, how I feel, more or less, at least.

For what seemed like forever, Edward sat staring at a blank piece of paper trying to think of the right words to express himself. He somehow knew, instinctively, just as he had known something was wrong when so long had gone between her letters, that these could well be the most important words he would ever write, and he began and rejected several attempts before he was happy with his letter. Edward recognized that he had overstepped what was polite in the detail of his father's illness he'd gone into, and he apologized to her for it, but striking out his words never occurred to him. Just as reading her letter last night gave him enough peace to sleep, so did writing to her tonight.

Some things she wrote do seem odd, though. What did she mean when she said she "got" the movie? Does "got" mean "saw" in her time? And why would she assume Mother persuaded Father to sail on a different ship instead of Titanic?

He smiled and rubbed his tired eyes as he remembered his parents discussing their trip on the Titanic. His mother's absolute adamance that she would not set foot on the ship, and his father's equally adamant insistence that she was being unreasonable. Of course, given the magnitude of the tragedy, his parents never spoke of the matter again, but if ever a look could say, "What did I tell you?" his mother's did at the breakfast table the morning following tragedy.

I will have a grandson named Michael. Or I already do have. Even a great grandson, perhaps. It is too much to comprehend.

He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, the stirring he'd felt inside him when she admitted to him that that sonnet, their sonnet, now made her think of him, and he stared at the letter for another moment, his eyes locked on her name, before putting it in the hidden compartment.

Bella. Beautiful. How perfectly appropriate.

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..ooOoo..

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"Bella, sweetie I wish you would tell me what's wrong."

Bella was sitting at the kitchen table with her mom and Phil eating dinner. Well, actually she was sitting at the kitchen table with them while they ate dinner. She just twirled her spaghetti on her fork over and over without taking a bite. "I'm fine."

All day long, all Bella could think of was what Edward must be going through or what she would do if something ever happened to her dad. She was glad they would be staying in Forks, and she had decided that, if it was alright with him, instead of going somewhere and only seeing him for two weeks this summer, she would stay with him in Forks for a month.

When she began playing with her dinner again, her mother pushed own her plate away, leaned across the table, and took her hand. "Bella, you're not fine. You don't eat. You don't talk. Once this past week, I watched you sit and stare at the same page of a book for an hour. Please, baby, talk to me."

Knowing she had to come up with something to put her mother off, Bella dropped her fork onto her plate, sighed, and looked down at the table for a few moments to try and stall for time while she tried to think. She remembered something she'd heard once. The best lie sticks as close to the truth as possible. She picked her head back up but kept her eyes down. Don't look at her. Don't look at her. "It's just... it's just... I heard some kids talking on the bus. One of the girls was crying, and her friends were worried about her. The girl's father died. I couldn't really make out what all they said, but I guess it was really sudden." Good, good, that's good. Sighing again, Bella kept her eyes down and shrugged her shoulders. "I guess I'm just worried about Dad."

Her mother took her hand again and squeezed it tightly. "Oh, Baby. Your dad is just fine. He's healthy, and he's careful. Nothing is going to happen to him"

"I think I'll just go give him a call. I can heat this up latter."

"Sure, Honey. You go. I'll wrap it up and put it in the fridge for you."

Bella felt bad about lying to her mom, but there was no way around it.

She really wanted to see if there was a letter from Edward yet. After the day he must have had, she realized there probably wouldn't be one yet. It would probably be late before he had time to write, and by then he might be too tired, but she wanted to check to be sure so she could write back as soon as possible. Besides, she reasoned to herself, if she really did call her dad it wouldn't be a complete lie.

She went straight to their desk to look, but she was right, there was nothing there yet. Although she expected it, she was still disappointed and blew some hair out of her face that had fallen out of her pony tail and into her eyes.

To kill some time before looking again, Bella called her dad and was now waiting for her him to pick up.

"Hey, Bells."

How did he know it was me? "How did you know it was me?"

He chuckled, "Father's intuition."

"Father's intuition?"

"Yup."

"Okay, then."

"Yup."

"So, when did you get so intuitive?"

He chuckled again, "Right about the time you started calling every other night. I added more minutes to your cell phone plan, by the way."

Hearing her father's voice sound so happy was making Bella's eyes well up, and she wiped them before the tears could fall. Edward will never hear his father's voice again.

Distracted and trying to force back the tears, Bella missed the rest of what he said. "Sorry, Dad. What did you say?" Her voice sounded all wrong–pinched, strained–and she knew her dad would catch it.

"You okay, Bells?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just…" Crap. Think. Think. Think. Think! "Just spit out a real sour piece of candy. It was gross." Should I be worried about getting better at lying?

"You know you don't like the sour ones. I just asked what you were doing."

Oh, nothing much. Just sitting around waiting to hear from my pen pal. Did I mention, he's 108. How about you? Watching a game? Covering her mouth, Bella stifled the laugh that wanted to escape at the thought of her father's reaction if she told him that. "Nothing much, just, you know, sitting around. How about you?"

"Billy's here. We're filling out our March Madness brackets."

Bella knew her father and Billy were trying to get their friendship back on track after their big blow up, but it was still on very shaky ground. "Billy's there? That's good. How's that going?"

She heard her father ask Billy if he wanted another one, and she guessed, correctly, that he was making an excuse to leave the room. "It's going." That was about as much of an answer as she expected. Her father really was not one to talk about stuff, which was what had made his tirade a few weeks ago all the more worrying.

"So, you're still keeping in touch with Tanya?"

"Um, yeah. She… ah… she… she calls… or… you know… I call."

"Good. That's great. I'm looking forward to meeting her and the infamous Cullens. Any chance she'll be around for Easter?"

"I don't think you could avoid her if you tried."

Her dad was trying not to test his and Billy's renewed, but still very tentative, friendship and was speaking in a whisper so he wouldn't be overheard, but Bella was excited and grinning widely. After everything she had heard from her father about them, she was really looking forward to meeting Tanya and her family. Nothing new ever happened in Forks, ever, and for a family of could-be supermodels, who just happened to be rich and the father just happened to be a brilliant surgeon, to move to town was Very Definitely New. Well, it was a year old apparently, but it was new to her. "Great. I can't wait."

She heard her father say something to Billy, but couldn't make it, out and heard him open a can of beer. Roger, Houston. No more about the Cullens.

"Um, Dad? I was thinking…."

Her father's voice faded a bit, as if he moved the phone away a little. "Oh no. Billy, the girl is thinking again."

"Oh, very funny. I was thinking, maybe... I should just come to Forks this summer, too. I can read while you fish."

Her father let out an exasperated sigh. "What's this really about Bells? You've never liked Forks, now you can't get enough of it."

"Yeah, well… Forks never had a resident family of ostracized supermodels before. You did say one of the brothers was free, didn't you?"

Her father didn't say anything after that, but that didn't surprise her. She needed to get away from the subject of why she wanted to stay in Forks, and all teenage girls knew that nothing would throw their father off his train of thought faster than the dreaded "B word". "Besides, I thought maybe I'd stay a little longer, if that's okay, I mean. Give mom and Phil a little time alone. Would a month be okay?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. She wasn't worried about mentioning her mom and Phil anymore, not since Tanya came into the picture, but she was getting nervous as the silence dragged on. Chewing anxiously on her lip, Bella asked, "Dad? You still there? You didn't get hit by a falling meteor, did you?"

Her dad was whispering again, but this time it had nothing to do with trying to not be overheard. "You, you want to come here, to Forks... to stay with me... for a month?"

She recognized the way his voice sounded, incredulous, disbelieving, and Bella berated herself. I'm a terrible daughter. I am a TERRIBLE daughter. "Yeah, if that's OK?"

Once again, her words were met with several seconds of silence before her father spoke. "Of course, it's okay, Bells."

"Great. Great, then We can talk about it when I come up."

"Yeah. When you, when you... come up. That'll, that'll be good... That'll be... great."

"Okay, then. Great. I, um, I better get going, Dad... I have, um, homework, and... stuff."

"Yeah, I, I should go too. I gotta drive Billy back to the rez."

"Okay. Good night, then. Tell Billy good night, too."

"Will do."

"I love you, Dad."

There was another short silence before her dad answered quietly, "You too, Bells."

Just as she was about to hang up, Bella remembered something she wanted to ask him. "Oh, hey, Dad, wait a sec, you still there?"

She was afraid he'd already hung up, but he answered, "Yeah, I'm here."

"What's a backwards 'K'?"

"What?" Her father sounded like that was the last thing he ever expected her to ask.

"A backwards 'K', in baseball. What's it mean?"

"You're asking me about baseball?" It was clear he was completely shocked.

"Yeah. What's a backwards 'K'?"

"Who are you?"

Rolling her eyes, Bella smiled. "You should try stand up, really."

"You're asking me about baseball?" her father asked again.

"Yes, I'm asking you about baseball, or at least I'm trying to. You know baseball? A bunch of guys standing around waiting and then running and trying to chase down a little white ball some other guy just hit with a big stick."

"A bat."

"What?"

"It's a bat. It's not a stick. It's a bat."

Her father was laughing so hard he was wheezing, and Bella thought she might've heard Billy laughing too. She couldn't help but laugh, too. Her father was teasing her. Sometimes, it seemed like they couldn't think of anything to say to each other, but now he was teasing her. When she was little, Bella remembered, her father would pick her up and swing her around. And tickle her... She remember now how he used to tickle her when she was little, till she could barely breath and begged him to stop, only to beg him to do it again as soon as she caught her breath. Once she started to grow up though, it seemed like they couldn't relate to each other. Teasing was good. Teasing was definitely good.

"Yes, thank you. I realize that. What I still don't know, is what is a backwards 'K'."

"A 'K' is a strike out. If the 'K' is written backwards, it means the third strike is a called strike."

"That's when it's over the plate thing, right?"

"The... plate... thing?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, a called strike is when the ball is over the plate thing." Through her father's laughter, the way he said those last three words almost sounded as if it was painful to him, and it sounded muffled, like he was talking into his hand. "Why the sudden interest in baseball?"

I may just have a little crush on a baseball player. "Oh, um, no reason. Gotta go, Dad. Good night."

"Yeah, uh huh, 'cuz I was just born yesterday, you know. Good night, Bells."

Walking back over to their desk after hanging up, Bella felt much better after laughing with her dad. She laid her head down on the leather and sat quietly for a moment, thinking about the two most important men in her life, before picking her head up and looking at her phone for the time. If there's nothing there yet, I can take a shower and read for a while and then look again. This time, Edward's letter was there waiting for her, and as she read she went from feeling like her heart would burst to feeling like it would break and back again

July 13, 1918

My Dear Bella,

If there is one thing I have learned as the result of my father's sudden death, it is that not one single day, not one single moment can be taken for granted. We waste entirely too much time trying to impress and appease those who do not truly matter, while neglecting those who do. My dearest Bella, my dearest friend, please allow me to tell you how very much I value and treasure our friendship. In these past weeks, you have come to mean more to me than I can begin to explain. I do not know by what miracle our friendship has been made possible, but I will never cease to thank Heaven for it, and for you.

My mother and I were volunteering at the hospital Friday morning and were just about to leave when my father's secretary telephoned to say that he had taken ill and was being driven home. Our family doctor came to the house and diagnosed him with a very bad case of influenza. Although he felt my father would certainly recover in a few days' time, he wanted him taken to the hospital in an effort to prevent pneumonia. Everything possible was done, but the pneumonia developed rapidly, and nothing the doctors tried helped. A doctor friend of ours said my father's was the most vicious case he had ever seen, and he stayed with us during the night as much as possible.

I cannot help but feel I should have noticed something that morning at breakfast. There had to have been some symptom, some indication that something was wrong, something that I missed. Perhaps if I had noticed, help could have been gotten sooner.

I am trying to take some comfort in the fact that, mercifully, he did not suffer long, and that, at least in that respect, the doctors were not powerless. It was unlike anything I have ever seen before or ever wish to see again. He suffered such coughing fits; I believe I will hear that sound in my nightmares so long as I live. His fever rose higher and more swiftly than I would have believed possible, and he had unusual brown bruise-like patches on his cheeks. He was given Morphine and passed most of his illness in a deep sleep as a result.

Nowadays modern medicine is making such strides, such wondrous advances and discoveries are being made, it is still difficult to accept that there was nothing that could be done. But I know there was nothing that could be done. He was a perfectly healthy, strong man on Friday morning, and in less than 24 hours he was gone.

I am sorry to burden you with such terrible detail, dearest Bella. Please forgive me for my thoughtlessness. I am still trying to wrap my head around what has happened. These past days have been the worst of my life, and the coming days will not be much better. Please know that your friendship, and thinking of you and the poem you sent, has been the greatest comfort to me.

Last year, the mother of two close friends of mine died not long after suffering a stroke. Shortly afterward, my father called me into his study and went over all of his important papers with me. He said that whenever anything of that kind happened to him, he wanted to be assured I would know what needed to be done. I do not believe I was ever more uncomfortable in my life, but now I am exceedingly grateful for his foresight. In addition to bank records and insurance papers, he showed me his will.

My father had two brothers, Richard and Michael, who live in Philadelphia and New York City. My uncles will arrive here with their families early Monday afternoon.

My father and his older brother, my Uncle Richard, have never been close. For as long as I can remember, they have always had a very strained relationship at best. I understand there was a period when they did not speak for a number of years after a particularly bad disagreement, but I do not know what they argued over. Despite this, he assumes that, as the oldest brother, he is the executor of my father's will. Uncle Richard is very domineering, to put it politely. To put it more honestly, he is a boorish, selfish, bossy, snob, and his wife and son are no better. I hope you will not think too poorly of me for speaking so, but I assure you it is true. Uncle Richard's first words after learning of his brother's death were little more than orders for the arrangements to be made according to his wishes without so much as a passing thought to what my father may have wanted. He expressed no remorse or sympathy of any kind. I was very insulted on my father's behalf initially, but now I cannot help but feel that his false sympathy would have been infinitely worse. If I have not already shocked you with my unkind words regarding my own kin, I hope you will forgive me once again for admitting that I almost look forward to seeing the expression on his face when he learns that my Uncle Michael and I are my father's executors. He will not be pleased, to say the very least.

The poem you sent me reminds me strongly of what he said to me that day. He said that when his time came, he would be beyond anything that anyone on this Earth could do for him, and for no one to waste their time sitting up with an empty shell of a body. He said the greatest thing I could do for him would be to take care of my mother.

Bella, I am trying to do that, but I do not know how. My mother took a tablet to help her sleep once we returned home and fortunately did not rise until very late in the morning. While she slept, I telephoned my uncles and some close friends. Once she was awake, a tray of food was sent up to her, and I sat with her while she ate and stayed with her until she felt ready to come downstairs. Fortunately, my mother's brothers and sisters do not live far, and we have many good friends. By early evening we had received several visitors offering their sympathy and assistance, so many so that our parlor resembles a florist shop and our ice box could not possibly hold one more thing. Her sisters stayed with her most of the day. My other aunt, my mother's sister-in-law, stayed only a short while before leaving to purchase mourning clothes for her. My mother is the strongest person I know, but I am very worried about her. I do not know what to do. I spent most of the day watching her, and her movements all seemed forced, and her normally sparkling, green eyes are dull and lifeless. When she spoke, her voice did not sound like her at all. It sounded hollow, that is the only word I can think to describe it. When she looks at you, it is as if she is looking through you, as if she does not see you at all. I have never known any two people as well matched as my parents. They were deeply in love, truly two halves of one whole. I am very worried for her. As strong as she is, I fear this pain may be more than she can bear. I only wish I knew how to help her.

Finding your letter early this morning was a great relief. I missed you terribly, and I found your letter exactly when I needed you most. I was growing very worried that something had happened to you. I do not like the idea of two ladies living alone in such a large city. Please, promise me you will be careful. I do understand and appreciate your concern about, what were your words? "screw up" my life. I have often thought these past few weeks of how very odd it is to write to someone who has not yet been born, but I never considered what it must be like for you, to write to someone who is, by your time, already dead. I must say, it is an unsettling thought.

The Time Machine was quite a short story, really, so I am not surprised they would add to it to turn it into a feature movie. The plot they added sounds very interesting, and I would imagine Wells would be pleased his great-grandson had a hand in it. May I ask, though, what you meant when you said you "got" the movie? How can you "get" a movie?

I have wondered who it was who gave you our desk. It seems inconceivable that you have actually met my grandson. I am very happy my cousin's name continues in the family. I do not know if it is proper to ask, but I must. What is he like? Is he happy? Does he have a family of his own? Does he have brothers or sisters? Aunts or uncles? Is he a friend of your family's? How did you meet him? Why did he give you our desk? Did you meet my son as well?

Yes, we were really going to sail on the Titanic. My mother never did persuade my father against it. Why did you assume she had?

To answer your question, a "K" is a strike out. It is taken from the word "struck", as K is the last letter. I do not know why it would be written backwards, though. We do not do that. It must come about later. I will make strike outs today's lesson. When a pitcher pitches the ball, it is always either a strike or a ball. If a batter gets three strikes, he is out. For a pitch to be a strike either, 1. The batter must swing and miss, 2. Swing and hit a foul ball, or 3. Not swing at a ball that is both over the plate and between his knees and the letters on his jersey, what is called "the strike zone". That is a "called strike" as opposed to a "swinging strike". The plate is home plate. It has five sides and looks basically like a square with a triangle attached on one side. I suppose it is called home plate, because it looks something like a house, although I never thought about that. There are white lines down the sides of the field leading from home plate, past first base on the right and third base on the left, all the way to the wall. A foul ball is when the batted ball lands outside those lines. If it lands inside the lines, it is in play. There are some exceptions to these rules. A foul ball is only a strike for the first or second strike, not the third, unless the batter is bunting instead of swinging. In this case, the strike only counts for the pitchers statistics, not for the out. Additionally, the catcher must catch the ball. If for some reason he cannot, the batter can run for first base. If he is either tagged or thrown out, he is out. If he reaches base safely he is safe. The strike out counts for both the pitcher's and batter's statistics but not for the out. Of course, these are the rules today, 91 years is a long time, there is always a chance that they are changed at some point. Your backwards K, for example. If a pitch is not swung at and is either wide or inside, meaning not over home plate, or too high or too low, it is called a ball. If a batter gets four balls, it is called a "walk" and he is awarded first base.

I am indescribably happy that you were thinking about me when you suggested reading Shakespeare's Sonnet at your mother's wedding. It is a beautiful verse, and I confess where it once made me think of Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth, it now makes me think only of you.

Once again, I cannot tell you how reading your words has helped me. Your letter was like a life preserver to a drowning man. A little piece of normal in a world turned upside down. Please, write to me again soon. Please tell me what is happening in your life. Tell me something happy. I need to remember that there is happiness in the world. I remain,

Your Friend,

Edward

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Well? What did you think? Drop me a review and let me know.

For those who don't know what March Madness is, it is a single-elimination college basketball championship tournament held in the United States every spring. It's a pretty big thing. People fill out brackets with who they think is going to beat who and who is going with win it all.

Remember, at this point neither Edward nor Bella have any idea there is an epidemic just around the corner. They have no reason not to believe Edward has a long (human) life in front of him.