Author's Note: Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln! I am so sorry it's taken me so long to update! This probably isn't the first (or the last) time you've heard this, but things have been really crazy around here, not the least of which is my show. The Music Man opens tonight, and I've been Pick-a-Little-ing myself into a stupor! I get a really great hat, though. ;-)

Thanks to NellieGURL, erised-i, irockupurple, dick and dunn, SockShopping, Deliriously Withdrawn, miss.dramatikkkk, cakeaddict61, and Ame Warashi for reviewing! I really appreciated all of your suggestions for names, and, as you'll see, I've voted with the majority!

Disclaimer: Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt-Evenson, Charles Evenson, and Carlisle Cullen all belong to the wonderful Stephenie Meyer, who is very soon going to grace us with Eclipse, at which point this whole story will likely become seriously AU. :-) Margaret Bennington, Frank Bennington, Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Platt, Samuel Platt, Isabella Bennington, and Robert Benjamin Baker all belong to me. President Woodrow Wilson belongs to... posterity, I guess?

10. The Reception

I sighed and fiddled with my dress, pulling here, fluffing there. "Are you sure it looks all right?" I asked for the thousandth time, nibbling my lip.

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Esme, you look fine. You look more than fine! You look positively gorgeous."

I tried to calm myself with steady breaths. "I don't know. Do you think I should have gone with an ivory instead of full white?"

"No. And even if I did, it's a little late now, isn't it?" She raised an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling. "Why? Do you have… call to wear off-white, Esme?"

My eyes widened. My reflection in the full-length mirror glanced at her reflection. "Margaret!" As always, I failed to sound appropriately reproachful and broke up laughing.

Margaret grinned. "Here, let's see what it looks like with the veil on." She went and retrieved my long, white veil from a table and then draped it delicately over my head.

I looked up at the sound of the clock chiming from downstairs. "We had better hurry up. Everyone is waiting," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

Margaret stepped back. "You know you really do look quite stunning, Esme."

I turned to her. "You don't look so bad, yourself," I said. Margaret had only given birth to her daughter a month ago, and already she was almost back to her original figure.

I reached for my bouquet and clutched it to my chest, observing my reflection. I looked pale and weak in the mirror. "Were you this scared before your wedding?" I whispered.

Margaret turned away to look out the window. "Of course I was," she said. I could tell she was lying. Why should she have been nervous?

There was a moment of awkward silence, and I found myself getting more and more nervous.

I therefore nearly had a heart attack when Margaret turned back and let out a gasp.

"What is it?!" I demanded.

"Esme! Oh, Esme! Your… oh, it's too awful! Your… your dress."

I panicked. "What's the matter with it?" I nearly screamed.

"Oh, its got soot all over it! You must have walked too close to the fireplace!"

"No!" I wheeled around on the spot, desperately trying to get a look at the damage.

"No, Esme, stop! Now it's ripping!"

I froze. I turned to look at her. She was standing, leaning casually as you please against my windowsill, and enjoying herself far too much.

"You… you…" I struggled for some cutting remark that would really get her. "You are a… not… nice… person!"

"Hey, that's my wife you're talking to."

Margaret and I both pivoted towards the door. Frank was poking his head in, grinning.

"I hate to interrupt this sacred feminine ritual, but Charles is getting a little antsy downstairs, Esme."

I nodded. "Thank you, Frank. We'll be right down."

He smiled once more and turned to go. Before he was out of earshot, I thought I heard him mutter, "Not to mention his neurotic mother…"

Silence fell over the room. Margaret and I traded a look.

"Are you sure I'm doing the right thing?" I whispered weakly.

Margaret looked stumped. It really wasn't a fair question to ask her. I knew that I was being immature, and that I was fully capable of making my own decisions. Ultimately, Margaret knew that, too.

Which is why I suppose she shrugged nonchalantly and said, "Well, it'd be a shame to waste all that cake."

I suppressed a grin and instead struck a pensive pose. "You're right. I didn't think of that."

Margaret strode over to the door and opened it wide. With a sweeping gesture of the arm, she said, "Shall we?"

I looked into her eyes and found strength. Bravely imitating her bravado, I matched her step and linked my arm with hers. "Let's go to a wedding."

I stood in a daze, numbly shaking hands with people and trying to receive compliments graciously as I mulled over the events of the afternoon. It occurred to me that Margaret had been in this situation not too long ago. Except that, when she had been at her wedding reception, Frank had been by her side, leaning down and joking to her whenever he had a free moment. Charles, however, completely ignored me. He handled the hordes of "spectators," as Margaret had referred to them, with much more grace than I did, smiling warmly and conversing easily with the women, shaking hands firmly and talking about politics with the men, but he never once even looked down at me to see how I was getting on.

Margaret's parents were some of the last people to speak to us. Mrs. Platt leaned heavily on her husband, and looked very tired. I felt an overwhelming feeling of pity sweep over me. Margaret's mother hadn't been well for the past few months. The news had reached us that she had been suffering from terrible headaches, and had to stay home most of the time. She became very weak, and was unable to leave her bed on some days. My mother and I began helping them around the house, cleaning and bringing over baked goods. Sometimes I would stay the entire day, doing the laundry and baking meals that Mrs. Platt barely even touched. She now appeared deathly pale and very emaciated. I very gently took her bony hand in mine and thanked her profusely for coming to the wedding.

"Oh, you're very welcome, Esme, darling. I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world. Not the whole world," she whispered, trying to focus her eyes on me.

She looked up at Charles. "And you look very handsome, Mr. Evenson. You'll take care of our Esme, won't you?"

Charles nodded stiffly. "Of course I will, Mrs. Platt."

I smiled at Mr. Platt and he squeezed my hand tightly between both of his own. The look in his eyes told me that I didn't need to put anything into words, and then he led his wife to a seat.

When the time came when the guests had finally all had their say, Charles turned to me and offered his hand. I accepted it and walked onto the dance floor with him, feeling as though it were only yesterday when I had first danced with him. No conversation passed between the two of us the entire time that we danced. He stared out over my head at the other couples while I studied the pale pink rose in his breast pocket and reminisced about the ceremony.

The whole morning had passed in a blur for me. Rather than being able to recall the words that had been spoken or the way the church had looked, specific emotions made moments stand out for me in a montage of flashes. Margaret and I, walking down the stairs together while I struggled with nostalgia and nervousness. The wave of panic I felt when the doors of the chapel opened and I saw the entire town in the pews, with Charles waiting at the end of the aisle. The jarring fear that I had felt in the pit of my stomach when I momentarily forgot what to say after the words, "Until death do you part." These stood out more than anything as Charles and I danced.

Then, after we had been dancing for an indeterminate amount of time, Charles murmured some excuse, pulled out of my grip, and walked off.

I made my way over to a seat and collapsed into it, fanning myself with my hand. Margaret spotted me and made her way over, cradling her daughter in her arms. She sat down next to me, grinning.

"Well, Charles tires quickly of dancing."

I smiled wryly. "I guess so."

"Frank's over there with them now," she said, nodding her head in the direction of a group of men, which included my father, Mr. Evenson, Charles, and, indeed, Frank. She gave me an exasperated look. "They're discussing the war."

I sighed. "Of course." My father spoke of little else than the war going on in Europe. He and his friends had been staunchly opposed to our going to war at all, and were quite verbal about it. When the Lusitania sank, however, they changed their tune considerably. America had been at war against Germany for four months, now, and my father lost no opportunity to discuss the situation.

"Men," said Margaret mutinously. "Why is it that they all seem to think that killing people will solve anything?" She rocked her daughter lovingly against her chest, crooning to her softly.

I decided to change the subject.

"She's getting quite a head of hair on her," I commented, reaching over to stroke the baby's down-soft hair.

Margaret beamed. "Oh, yes. It doesn't look curly, either. I hope that she doesn't have to suffer through curls."

I shook my head, smiling. Margaret had always complained about her curls, but I had always been secretly envious of them. I crinkled my brow in sudden thought.

"What made you name her what you did? It's a rather odd name – I've not heard it before."

Margaret smiled. "Frank had a nursemaid when he was younger who came from Spain. He said that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, except for me." She smiled crookedly at me. "He said that she was calm and soft-spoken, and had a gorgeous singing voice. He had been looking forward to introducing our child to Isabella, but she died shortly before our baby was born. Frank was quite sad – he had really looked up to her – so I suggested that we name the baby after her."

I smiled back. "I think it's a lovely name." Isabella wrapped her entire hand around my index finger, and I giggled uncontrollably as she stuck my knuckle in her mouth and sucked on it.

"So, do you and Charles have any idea of where you might like to live?" Margaret asked.

I nodded my head. "Charles has already found us a house. He wants to stay here and open up a law firm."

Margaret scoffed. "Oh, yes. In order to deal with our burgeoning crime rate."

I feigned seriousness. "Indeed. Why, did you hear about that incident just the other day? Robert Benjamin Baker stole a pie right off of his aunt's window sill!" I shook my head grimly. "Shocking, just shocking."

Margaret nodded emphatically. "I should say. The young hooligan!"

"Are you talking about me behind my back, ladies?" Frank had just strolled up alongside Charles.

Margaret grinned at Frank's antics. "Frank, you have impeccable timing," I said. "Your wife and I were just discussing the case of the missing cherry pie when you walked up."

"Ah," said Frank, immediately joining in. "Yes, they'll be taking that one to the Supreme Court. But hopefully, with a name like… what is it? Bobby Benjamin… Bud Barker something? Well, hopefully he'll be able to plead insanity."

Margaret nodded once more. "It still is a shame, though. So young. So young…. Well, at least we have the guarantee of an excellent law firm opening up."

Charles must have sensed that we were poking fun at him, and I saw his brow cloud up.

"I think you'll find that there is much need for a law firm here in town. We lawyers don't just work with petty criminals. We also handle much necessary paperwork, such as wills… how is your mother feeling, by the way, Mrs. Bennington?"

Margaret's mouth fell open in shock. She reached over for Isabella, and I saw that there were tears in her eyes.

Frank looked absolutely livid. His eyes flashed with fury, but he contained himself long enough to turn to me and say, "I'm afraid we have to be going, Esme. It's getting late. Many congratulations."

I nodded miserably. My own throat felt terribly constricted. "Thank you so much for coming," I managed to say.

Margaret didn't seem to be able to speak. She just looked at me and I did everything to shout my apology through my eyes. Then they turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood up. "What did you have to say that for? That was absolutely uncalled for!"

Charles turned to me, his black eyes gleaming. "Uncalled for? She was begging for it, making fun of me at my own wedding!"

"She was not making fun of you!" I nearly shouted. "She was just teasing, and I don't care if you were the President of the United States and this was your inauguration ceremony; don't you dare treat my best friend like that!"

Charles moved so quickly that I didn't even notice before I felt a terrible pain shoot through my arm. He had stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, twisting my hand painfully. I felt tears of my own form in my eyes and I fought the urge to cry out. He leaned down until we were face-to-face. "Don't you ever tell me what to do again. Do you hear me?"

I nodded mutely.

He released me and flung my arm away from him. I stumbled backwards, clutching my hand. I looked up to see him watching someone. I followed his gaze and saw Uncle Franklin standing there, his glass of champagne halfway to his mouth. I saw him nudge someone – my father – and gesture in our direction. In the time it took my father to find the object of Uncle Franklin's attention, Charles was already back at my side.

"Let's dance," he murmured, wrapping an arm around my waist and sweeping me onto the dance floor.

Charles spun me around the floor, weaving us in and out of the other couples. When the song ended, I was quite dizzy and disoriented, but as Charles abandoned my once again and I made my way to a seat, I knew that my head was spinning for another reason entirely.

I stood in the washroom, studying my reflection in the mirror for the second time today. My eyes held a look of fright that I couldn't deny or ignore. I observed the lines across my brow and the trembling of my lips and I watched as my eyes filled with tears and spilled over. I suddenly felt nauseous and sat down on the floor, leaning against a wall. I curled up into a ball and rocked back and forth, hugging my knees to my chest. I let my tears fall as my circumstances hit me in waves.

It's my wedding night, and Charles is waiting in the bedroom, and I will never sleep in my old bed again.

The day before the wedding, I had cleaned all of my things out of room, just as Margaret had done, and moved them over to my new house.

I'm married now, and I have to go to Charles, and I have to live my life with him.

I had cleaned out my wardrobe, and as I had pulled out the last of my clothes, I caught a glimpse of white. I had pulled out the old jacket, which was gathering dust, and held it between my hands. I had held it to my face, but the scent had long since faded; I couldn't even remember it any more.

He's gone and he's never coming back and I couldn't be with him even if he did, because I'm married now. And Charles is waiting in the bedroom. And I have to go to him. And Carlisle is gone forever.

I ground my fists into my eyes in an effort to regain control of myself.

"Esme?"

I looked up. Charles was calling me. An odd silence fell over me. I stood up and unnecessarily brushed myself off. I leaned over the sink and washed my face clean. When I looked at my reflection, I was surprised to see how calm I looked. I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear before heading out into the short hallway to our room.

I opened the door and saw Charles, reading beside the lamp, which cast shadows elsewhere. My eye was drawn to my wardrobe on the other side of the room. In my old room, it had been right by the door, but now it was almost directly opposite.

Charles set his book aside and stood up. I involuntarily glanced at the wardrobe again, before forcing myself to join my husband.

I wasn't necessarily being unfaithful, I thought later that night while Charles slumbered next to me. Spending the whole night imagining that I was with someone else didn't count as actually being with someone else, I reasoned, listening to Charles' deep breaths as they stirred my hair, trying desperately to recall that sweet smell. I glanced out over the room, searching for the silhouette of my wardrobe. The moon reflected off of the wood in such a way as to make it seem to glow from the inside out. After all, Carlisle would never really come back.

But I would always keep his jacket safely hidden. Just in case.

Author's Note: Thanks for the suggestion of Isabella, NellieGURL and Ame Warashi! Did you all like the chapter? A stolen cherry pie to everyone who reviews!