For Kimberly, Gina, and Meg.
Chapter Ten: Golightly, Moon River, Golightly
The ten months since I've seen the beauty of Edward has done little to lessen the picture of him in my mind: handsome on those stairs, sweaty above me in ecstasy, sleepy and heavy-lidded as I rode him like a cowgirl at the National Western Stockshow.
And now I'm going to see him again - in seventeen-and-a-half minutes if he's punctual with dismissing the meeting currently occupying his office. Edward is anything if not punctual, and I'm beginning to reevaluate the wisdom of seeing him here - his territory, no neutral ground upon which to hash out serious details (why did we get off on the wrong foot? why does he want to produce my book? why he has an obsession with fucked up women authors?).
His assistant watches me stonily from his spot at the front desk. I hope he doesn't have a clue who the fuck I am. That wish proves I'm fully aware of my past stupidity - thank you, thank you very much.
Luckily, I made this appointment under a false name. I didn't want him to see me coming, just incase the "beat him to a pulp" option was still on the table. I'm sneaky like that.
When he enters the lobby, escorting a group of elderly, balding men toward the door, my breath catches. Goddamn, he's a sight for sore eyes. A dress-shirt with rolled up sleeves, a brown vest, tan slacks, and gorgeous caramel-colored shoes - certainly made of Italian leather; his beard is still thick and full and ginger, and his forearms bear even more tattoos than the day we parted.
And he's stopping before me. Transfixed.
His eyes give away confusion and mix of emotions at my sudden reappearance in his life ... and at his office no less. "Bella," he says; my name rolls from from his tongue almost reverently - an honor I don't deserve. "This is unexpected." He fiddles with his phone, pulling up the day's schedule surely, and lifts his eyes back to mine with a crooked smile. "Holly Golightly, I presume?" he asks, biting back a laugh as he refers to the pseudonym I used when scheduling the appointment.
I shrug, trying desperately not to smile. I'm not ready to smile at him yet. Soon, maybe - we'll see - but not yet. "Breakfast at Tiffany's is a favorite of mine," I begin, waiting - wondering - if he'll catch the significance. He does. Of course he does. He's a film producer. There's no way he doesn't appreciate the classics or how that specific film might relate to a broken soul such as mine. "I have a special place in my head for self-destructive, poor decision-making heroines. Self-discovery, relating, and all that jazz."
And just like that, my confessional is no longer a sacred place for only priest and sinner; Edward has been welcome to partake in my penance. This is my Hail Mary, and I hope he'll see the effort for what it is.
"Now that you mention it," he says, smirking, and a flicker of hope tickles my stomach. "I recall a moment where you called out in your sleep, "'Cat! Cat!' Hmm ... It's all falling into place now."
I blush ninety-nine luftballons worth of red; I can't believe he said that aloud ... in his office ... in front of Stone-Face-Assistant-boy. There are many words to be aired and this is not the place for them.
"Can we speak in your office?" I ask, desperate to get away from the eyes and ears of gossiping office folk, hanging about like gnomes in a garden.
He blinks, his goofy grin giving way to a tightened jaw and thin-lipped nod. "This way."
I follow him down a colorful hallway, filled with posters of Hollywood's most epic films, and nearly stumble to a halt before Audrey Hepburn's black-draped silhouette, sunglass covered eyes, and fancy-cigarette holding fingers. A chill runs up my spine like a dozen little mice feet because this? ... This is a sign. It can't not be a sign. Can it?
"Bella," Edward calls back from further down the hallway. I don't want to look away from the poster - it's giving me a weird feeling of courage the more I stare - but his voice is equally luring. So I salute Ms. Hepburn with a wink and head his way.
His office is masculine and modern, but I'd expect no less. And on his desk is my book, and a photo of Alice Cummingham with him on a beach. She didn't have hair whenever the picture was taken, and looks frail and thin as the chemotherapy surely had begun to take away whatever life the cancer hadn't already laid claim to.
Edward sees where my eyes are focusing, and leans against the front of the desk, effectively blocking my view - protecting. I lost the right to see into his life because I preferred to be blind back then.
"So," he starts, "what can I help you with?"
A million words rush to my tongue: wicked, spiteful, remorseful ... But, when I open my mouth this comes out instead, "Have dinner with me?"