Bella wasn't really mad at me, I knew, for making her traipse around in the woods all morning, and it would have been so anti-climactic to just walk straight here from the campsite, but I worried that I'd tired her out. And I had enjoyed her expressions of rapt attention as I told her about the house. It was just the same as it had been when Carlisle first built it, and the look on her face had been worth the wait.
The house had been renovated in the mid 1900's, when Carlisle, Esme, and the rest of us 'children' had lived, albeit briefly, in the large dwelling deep in the Montana wilderness. If you looked west, you could see the mountains looming over the valley. It was truly something to behold, and I had enjoyed our short stay in the region.
Esme, as was her custom, had immediately set about restoring the house to its former glory. The sixty or so years since Carlisle had originally built the place had not been kind, and the wooden boards had rotted out in several places, including the porch, as Rosalie had discovered to her chagrin. I smiled fondly at the memory.
Although it had been nearly forty years since we had lived here, the house was still in excellent repair. A handyman was paid to come and inspect the place every six months or so, and to perform any necessary upkeep or repairs. As such, the house was still beautiful. The windows were all intact and quite clean, the roof was in excellent repair, and the walls, now built of brick faced with pressure treated lumber, were snug and sound.
I led Bella up the flagstone path from the circular drive to the front door. Her hands fluttered gently over the wooden railings of the porch, hesitated for a moment on the antique doorknob. I found her admiration charming.
"Shall we go in? I'd like to show you the rest of the house," I suggested gently when she seemed inclined to linger outside, perhaps to take advantage of the porch swing I had had installed earlier that week.
"Of course," she murmured, taking my outstretched hand. I unlocked the door, and let it swing open, pushing her gently ahead of me. I heard her gasp of delight as she took in all the period furnishings, which were, thanks to Esme, if not the original pieces, then close replicas.
"Nice, isn't it?" I asked, grinning from ear to ear. These were the moments I loved best – getting lost in time with Bella, watching her take pleasure from small things.
"It's wonderful, Edward, really beautiful," she replied, still stunned. I pulled her further into the house, and shut the door behind her.
"C'mon, I want to show you my room!" I said, realizing as I did so that I sounded much like an over-excited five year old, but I didn't care. I wanted so much for Bella to know everything there was to know about me, and this was one of the places I had been happy for a time. She followed me with energy, bounding up the stairs as fast as her human legs would allow.
At the top of the narrow flight of stairs there were four doors. On the far right was my door, the door to a room I had not entered in nearly half a century. I wondered if it would be as I remembered it. I wanted to rush there first, but restrained myself and let Bella explore at her leisure. I smiled encouragingly when she turned to look at me, her hand hovering above the doorknob of Carlisle and Esme's room. She turned it slowly, and cautiously pushed open the door. I followed behind her as she stepped tentatively across the threshold.
To one side was a large four-poster, complete with canopy and curtains. The material was a heavy damask, a lovely pattern of roses in rich red on a cream background. I watched her run her fingers over it, savouring the texture of the cloth.
"Esme and Carlisle?" she guessed, surveying the rest of the room, from the tall wardrobe dominating one corner, to the wing-back chairs with cabriole legs, and the tall dresser with delicate glass pulls. The intricately carved patterns in the woodwork drew her attention, and I watched as she traced them with her finger tips.
"Yes, this was their room. Esme was very fond of the Victorian style. She especially liked the motif of vines and foliage, as you will notice as we go through the house." Her eyes lingered momentarily on the framed portraits on the small round table between the two arm chairs.
"Edward, is that you? You haven't changed a bit!" she laughed, holding the frame for a moment. The sunlight streaming in the window fell on her hair, setting it aflame with streaks of red and gold. Her beauty was breathtaking. I committed this moment to memory, storing it for future use.
"Yes, Esme insisted on having portraits painted, rather than framing photographs, even though by the time we were all here together, portraiture was quite out of style," I explained. "Are you ready for another room?" She nodded, closing the door behind us as I led her by the hand to the next door. "Whose would you like to see next?"
"Hmm, how about Alice and Jasper?" I wondered if she would try to skip Rosalie and Emmett's, given Rosalie's continuing hostility toward her.
"Alright, across the hall, then, if you please." The door to this room opened noiselessly, a tribute to the excellent care taken by the handyman. I would have to be sure to mention to Carlisle the superb service being rendered here, so that he could make sure the man was handsomely repaid.
This room, like Esme and Carlisle's, was easily identifiable as belonging to its owners. Alice's spunky personality shone through in the décor, from the Art Nouveau furnishings to the brightly coloured bed linens.
"Open the closet," I suggested, knowing Alice had left behind a large collection of dresses, both in the style of the period (though she had not lived here at the time) and in the style of the years we had dwelt here. The period dresses had been her way of lending authenticity to the restoration, especially since we had not planned to live here on any permanent basis. Bella opened the heavy oak doors, and rolled her eyes.
"That's so Alice," she said, tugging at the sleeve of a pale blue silk number that was clearly a French import. I wondered vaguely how it would look on Bella, trying to picture in my mind the a-line skirt falling over her slim hips, the scooped neck baring her throat, the curve of her shoulders. I found I could easily imagine her fitting in at an elegant soiree, long white gloves covering her delicate arms, a fan clutched in one hand. I smiled wistfully, thinking to myself that she was like someone lost in time, born completely in the wrong century. And yet, it was the perfect century, because otherwise I would never have met her, and my whole purpose would be lost, my raison d'etre lost to the ravages of time.
"Are you okay?" her soft voice interrupted my reverie, and I realized I had been staring at her.
"Fine. I was just thinking how lovely that dress would have looked on you," I answered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A thrill ran through me as a trail of goose bumps rose on her arms in response to my touch. It never ceased to amaze me that her body could respond to me that way, despite my predatory nature, despite the fact that death lingered in every kiss.
"Don't get any ideas, buster," she said, eyeing me suspiciously before grinning and poking me in the chest. I laughed, stealing another kiss, before pulling her to the next door.
"Come on, there's a ton more to see!" Before she could resist or protest, I let her into Rosalie and Emmett's room. Again, the furnishings were characteristic. Rosalie, like Esme, had favoured the Victorian style, but had leaned much more heavily on the ornately decorated elements, choosing richly carved pieces and expensive fabrics. Her attention was not held for long in this room, and I could feel her uneasiness at being in Rosalie's things, fearing, no doubt, that at some later date Rose would discover her visit and, in a fit of pique and pettiness, make both our lives miserable. She touched nothing in this room, and we left quickly.
"Saving the best for last," she said as we reached me room. This was the door to the tower, my own private sanctuary from the distractions of society. Her hand was on the knob, ready to turn it and enter my refuge, when I stopped her.
"Wait. I want to do this the right way," I said, keeping a perfectly straight face, even as her brows knit together in confusion. I bent slightly, slid my arms behind her knees and shoulders, and swept her up before pushing the door open. She threw her arms around my neck, her lips finding mine as I wandered blindly into the room I had occupied nearly half a century earlier. The wood floor was familiar under my feet, and I found I remembered where every piece of furniture was. I sidestepped each obstacle, making my way straight to the bed, where I set Bella gently. The simple wooden frame was a rich honey colour, a beautifully aged pine I had chosen myself. She looked at me curiously, trying to guess at my intentions, though I was not clear myself on what I was planning. The morning's outline was fast fading in my mind as I contemplated the possibility of staying here with her, making use of the bed which had, for fifty years, never once been slept in. I discarded that plan immediately. We had agreed to wait for the wedding. Virtue. That was important to us.
The wholesome Mission-style furniture should have been and excellent reminder of the innocence we were trying to preserve for a few more weeks, but I found it terribly easy to forget where we were if I let my attention focus on her alone. Temptation was something I was used to resisting, but it was getting harder and harder the closer we got. I lay next to her on the plain bed-coverings, propped on one elbow, watching her as she sat, perched on the very edge of the mattress, looking around.
"What do you think?" I asked, trailing my fingers down her back, twining a strand of hair around my index finger, leaning closer to inhale her intoxicating scent.
"It's wonderful, Edward. Does that still work?" she asked, pointing to the ancient Gramophone standing in the corner.
"As far as I know, shall we find out for sure?" I asked, thinking of all the records I owned, neatly stored in the cabinet beneath the old machine.
"Definitely!" I pulled her with me to the stack of phonographs I had collected over the years, many of them period originals. I flipped through them, rejecting the more modern recordings, choosing instead a classic from 1895, "The Band Played On." It was schmaltzy, but I thought she would like it.
"Here, this one," I said, slipping it from its protective sleeve and placing it on the turntable. I cranked the handle protruding from the side, carefully set the needle on the record, and let it go. The first notes began to fill the room, and I couldn't help myself. I took her by the waist, lifted her feet onto mine, and began to waltz around the room, holding her close, spinning through the centre of the room, dodging furniture. Though I had spent several happy years here, my memories of the space were not as sharp as I recalled, every moment fading the longer I stayed here with her, her light brightening my shadows, colouring my life more vibrantly than I would have ever thought possible. I knew that this day would be forever etched in my mind, a stronger memory than any I had previously created here.
"Edward," she gasped, laughter lighting her face, "what are you doing?"
"Waltzing with you," I said, as if it were obvious. I stole another kiss, never breaking our rhythm. Far too soon, the song was over, the crackle and hiss of the empty space on the record breaking the moment.
"You're crazy, you know that, right?" she asked, still wrapped around me.
"Yep. Crazy for you, that is," I replied. She rolled her eyes, then stood on the tips of her toes, stretching up to kiss me. A loud rumble interrupted her, and we both laughed. "Sounds like it's time for lunch!" I picked her up, slung her over my shoulder, and dashed down the stairs to the main floor.