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Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary?

A Room with a View

twelve

Her shoulders are hunched as she crosses the parking lot, the weight of the low gray clouds seeming to press down upon her from above. She does not raise her gaze, chin low, eyes trained on her feet. When she reaches the fire door at the rear of the center, she ducks through as if trying to avoid notice, a flush stealing up her cheeks as she hurries down the corridor past her coworker's offices. Seconds later she has reached her own minuscule space, darting inside, shutting the door, and leaning against it with a deep sigh. It is the first time she has ever been late, chagrin and embarrassment gripping her muscles as she denies the reason why.

Bella had been standing in front of her closet for a solid thirty minutes, unable to decide on what to wear, when she finally realized why she was suddenly dissatisfied with clothing she'd barely noticed before. She'd shrieked with dismay, bending down to grab one of the many shirts she'd tried on and discarded in the past half hour, batting at her tangled hair with furious hands as she yanked on plain khaki pants, then shoved her feet into flats.

She'd clattered down the narrow staircase, wrenching on her rain jacket and thundering out the door to her truck. It wasn't until she was halfway to the center that she realized she'd forgotten her backpack, a worn, fraying thing she'd carried since her freshman year of college. It usually held her lunch for the day, a book to read in the instance that she decided to take a break from reviewing case files, and any records she may have taken home the previous night.

Swearing, Bella had slammed the flat of her hand against the steering wheel before yanking on the turn signal and pulling a reckless u-turn. A horn blared behind her and she was momentarily tempted to raise her middle finger to the window of her truck. It was only then that she realized she was acting utterly unlike herself. Why should she be so frantic, so frustrated, so on edge?

Calm had immediately seized her, brown eyes wide and ashamed, barely seeing the road as she'd driven much more slowly back to her father's house. By the time she'd arrived at work, she was nearly forty-five minutes late. She didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed that no one seemed to have missed her.

Bella settles at her desk, knowing she has barely any time before her only appointment of the day. She smooths at her hair, knowing it must be wild with all of her rushing around that morning, then gives up, feeling silly. She had resolved to help him. She had accepted that she couldn't make her feelings go away, but decided that no one needed to know about them. She had yet to figure out how to address the charges that had brought Edward to this place, but hoped the solution would come to her over the course of his visit. Taking a deep breath, Bella grips her pen and stares at the door, trying to convince herself that she is ready.

Several minutes pass in which Bella maintains this pose, certain that the moment she bends down to fetch her cell phone from her backpack to check the time, he will arrive in his usual startling manner. Her heart races every time the stomp of passing feet sounds beyond the door, but at no point do those feet indicate someone arriving for her—and she remembers that she has yet to hear Edward's approach beyond the occasional cursory knock.

Several more minutes pass in which she begins to get jittery, the pen wiggling between nervous fingers, fussing at the wild tendrils of her hair, attempting to tuck the strands behind her ears. Finally, a blush that is a mixture of embarrassment and anger curls up her throat to her jaw, blinking rapidly as she struggles to maintain her stare. Abruptly, she dives to the backpack beneath her desk, swiftly retrieving the cell phone and pressing the key to bring up the screen.

He is fifteen minutes late. But he has never been late, either arriving early or exactly at nine. Bella realizes the phone is shaking in her grasp and lays it on the desk, clenching her hands into fists in her lap. Perhaps there was an emergency at home? Or some mischief of Alice's has delayed him? Her gaze is now transfixed on the phone rather than the door, watching the minutes tick past.

After five more minutes she picks up a case file and pretends to read its contents—but her attention is constantly drifting to the phone, switching it on whenever the display times out, unable to let the minutes pass unheeded. It is only when the number flashes to ten that she rears away from her desk with a deep inhalation of air. Her eyes lift to the ceiling, hands still clenched in her lap. She is unable to believe that after everything…but perhaps there is a reason, an excuse…

Bella frowns, silently berating herself at the thought. She has been grasping for reasons and excuses the entire time that she has known Edward. She should accept that there is no reason—he chose not to come, just as he failed to show for any of his truancy related appointments. She is a fool to think otherwise.

Yet Bella cannot resist rising from her desk, shoving away from it with apparent anger as she stalks to the corridor and out to the reception area.

Maria appears startled by her appearance, dark eyes wide as she takes in the flushed features of the usually calm, reserved graduate student. Her mouth opens to speak, but Bella cuts her off, "Did the Cullens call to cancel Edward's appointment?"

Maria turns to her computer, a brief frown flitting across her brow as she clicks through several screens. "N-no," she stutters, gaze darting between the monitor and Bella's increasingly furious face. "There was no cancellation—he didn't show."

Bella can't trust herself to reply, spinning on her heel as she strides back to her office.

But she is unable to focus. Her gaze betrays her every time she hears the sound of patients and social workers passing the door, rising with nervous hopefulness…before sinking back to the page of whatever file she is attempting to audit, blushing and shame-faced as they continue on, voices fading.

When a knock does finally sound on the door, she is long past hope, resigned and weary as she pencils comments in her notebook. "Yes?" she asks, wondering who it could be as neither Edward nor Margery have ever waited for her acknowledgment.

A thin face peers around the door, topped by the frizz of a chemical perm. If Bella is startled by Janet's appearance, there is no indication of it in her expression, patiently waiting for the social worker to speak. Faded blue eyes regard Bella with sympathy, one cigarette stained hand grasping the frame of the door as she leans inside. "Maria told me your client didn't show."

Bella somehow manages to look unaffected, the porcelain of her features calm and bland as she returns Janet's gaze. She had assumed from briefly passing the other social worker in the hall that Janet was in her forties, but there is something lined and weary about her features that gives her a much older appearance, as if she has absorbed all of the pain of her clients through the years.

"I wouldn't take it too hard, kid," Janet continues, the last word raspy. She coughs, clearing her throat. "I'm amazed he came as long as he did."

Bella's gaze drops, unable to conceal the confusion and worry she has been feeling for the past few hours, struggling to sit still in the absence of the visit she had been anticipating all day…all week. "I'm sure he'll come in next week." Bella's voice is confident but she doesn't lift her gaze from the desk, certain Janet will see it's all bravado.

Janet is silent and Bella slowly realizes the more experienced social worker is not speaking because she has nothing encouraging to say. Her gaze flies up, wanting to hold on to hope, certain she must have misunderstood the other woman's silence…but Janet's blue eyes are pitying, her thin lips twisted into a grimace.

"You did everything you could," she tries to console Bella. "Don't take it too hard."

Bella simply nods, blinking back sudden, desperate tears. She barely registers the click of the door closing, unaware of anything but for the burn of her nails digging into her palms.

Can this really be it? Can all of this really be over?

And with enough time, might she forget him? Might she forget the strange longing he'd engendered in her, the mix of unfamiliar feelings she couldn't hold back when in his presence?

Bella rises from her desk, filled with a sudden determination. She hurries into the lobby, unaware of the drawn nature of her features, the unnaturally pale cast of her skin. "I have a quick errand I need to run," she calls to Maria. "If anyone asks." Bella is certain no one will, but doesn't want to take her chances.

Seconds later, she is perched behind the wheel of her truck, twisting the key in the ignition before doubt can halt her actions.

The highway is a blur, Bella's hands instinctively turning the wheel back towards Forks, flicking on the wipers when a momentary drizzle speckles the wind shield. It is only when she has reached Calawah Way that conscious thought appears to return, a faint frown marking her brow as she tries to recall the turn Alice had taken.

Her eyes narrow as she makes a guess, turning up a drive that she quickly realizes is too overgrown to be the manicured property of the Cullens. She shifts into reverse, looking over her shoulder as she carefully backs down to the main road. Once on Calawah, she barely goes over twenty, too worried that she's mistakenly passed it to give any thought to what she's doing, to why she's there.

She is not certain what possesses her to suddenly turn the wheel, some combination of instinct and memory pulling her from the road, the truck bouncing from smooth concrete to rough gravel. She exhales with relief when the overgrown hedges and scraggly pine fall back to reveal familiar green lawns, so evenly trimmed they might pass for a golf course…and at the top of the drive, the towering house shingled in cedar.

It is only when she has shifted into park and pulled the key from the ignition that the sudden silence brings her back to earth. She freezes behind the wheel, eyes staring and wide, unable to imagine what she thought she could accomplish by coming here. What could she say? What purpose would it serve? A bright flush blooms in her cheeks and her gaze falls to her lap, suddenly very certain that she has lost her mind.

"Bella! We weren't expecting you today!" The call of a bright voice from beneath the shadows of the porch shocks her from her thoughts, gaze flying from her lap to the front door of the house. She wonders if there's time for her to start the car and squeal away—but Esme's light figure is gliding down the steps too quickly, a smile curving across her full lips.

Bella reluctantly stumbles from the cab, the keys tightly gripped in her hand as she struggles to think what to say. But Esme is speaking again, raising her gloved hands apologetically. "I've been gardening so I regret I can't greet you properly."

"Oh, no, that's fine," Bella murmurs, belatedly noticing the canvas apron Esme is wearing, pockets and loops along the front carrying tools she vaguely recognizes; a small shovel, a three-pronged till, clippers and something that looks like an oversized ice pick. Her hair is pinned away from her face and loosely caught at her nape, revealing the paper white curve of her throat; even in the low northwest light, the color of her hair is richly colorful, alternating between golden honey and darkly caramel. "I should have called—ahead." Bella's voice is uncertain, the words jerking awkwardly forth.

"Edward and Alice are still at school but should be home shortly. Why don't you come out back and I can show you my Hostas?" The statement is so benignly innocuous, so utterly domestic, that Bella can't think of a reason to refuse.

"Sure," she responds, obediently following.

A faint frown crosses her brow that there is no path here, no artfully placed stones to lead the way behind the house. But Esme shows no hesitation in treading upon the rich, even grass, small feet sinking into the thick pile with light steps as she follows the perimeter of the house to the rear. Bella trudges after, her mind relentlessly blank though she knows she should be thinking of an excuse, an escape route—a way to get out of this mess of her own making. When she lifts her gaze, all thoughts fly from her head at the vista before her.

Widely spaced rows of rose bushes tumble down to a creek she hadn't realized bordered the property, the undulating shape of each row mimicking the flow of the water. Pink and white buds are just beginning to bloom, peeking between darkly glossy leaves. Interspersed among these rows are carved urns topped by a mix of lavender and rosemary, the herbs untamed and wild in contrast to the formal stone that encases them. At the base of the urns are the Hostas Esme had mentioned, arranged in meticulous concentric rings, each ring representing a particular species as indicated by the patterns on their full, extravagant leaves.

"Esme," Bella manages to murmur. She cannot think what to say, her gaze darting from the carefully pruned roses to the cleanly raked pebbles marking the paths between the flowers and shrubs, unable to absorb it all. "This is so lovely," she finally manages to remark.

Esme's smile is sweet, teeth briefly flashing in Bella's direction before she tilts her head towards the creek. "The Hostas closest to the water are beginning to bloom."

Bella again dumbly follows, noting the bed of cultivated moss flowing over an artfully arranged rockery, a burst of pale columbine blooming a few steps later, and a wrought iron bench tucked between two dense rose bushes she would not have noticed until passing directly before it.

They are nearly to the rocky edge of the creek when Esme draws to a halt and stoops to a bed of lush Hostas all capped by tight twists of hidden buds, the very edges of white petals peeking through. She draws off a glove to reveal an ivory hand, touching the little furls with gentle fingers. "Did you know," she asks, "this is an unusual one?" Her gaze lifts to Bella, honey eyes filled with an emotion Bella can't identify. "These flowers only open at night."

Unthinking, Bella blurts, "Then who gets to enjoy them?"

Esme's smile is gentle, gazing back down at the buds. "Oh, we all do." Bella is silent, lip caught between her teeth, certain there is something she is missing. Esme continues, still gazing down at the Hostas as she draws her glove back on to her hand. "It isn't so difficult to adapt, especially when nature gives you no choice."

Bella's gaze rises to the creek, slick water clear and swift over rocks, the dense forest towering on the opposite side. She can easily imagine this place at dusk, the light low, the white flowers of the hosta slowly opening to the night air.

Esme's soft voice breaks into her thoughts. "Would you like some tea? I imagine it will only be a few minutes more."

Bella regains herself, sucking in a breath as her eyes dart about the impossibly wonderful garden. "I don't think—"

"Please don't refuse," Esme interjects, the request somehow gentle and yet unyielding at the same time, a firmness underlying the words. "Edward should understand that he can't miss his appointment with no consequences."

Bella's eyes instantly widen. "Oh, I have no intention of penalizing him!" she protests as she shakes her head.

Esme's smile is instantaneous, comforting and warm. "I only meant that his actions will have an effect, whatever that may be—your visit, his own…don't you call it backsliding?" Esme begins back up the path, inclining her head to indicate Bella should follow.

"You mean, that he'd suffer some kind of relapse?" Bella can't contain her curiosity, quickly tripping after Esme with eager steps.

"In the sense that…" Esme hesitates but her expression does not indicate that she is reluctant to share, only that she is uncertain of her wording. "That he would become as unhappy as before."

Bella frowns, disappointed yet relieved that Esme was referencing his emotional state rather than behavior when she mentioned backsliding. Biting her lip, Bella wonders if she can bring herself to ask Edward's foster mother about the charges—but Esme continues before she can think to form the question.

"Only…" Esme pauses as they reach a set of concrete steps leading down into the basement of the house. When they descend to the back door, she twists the knob and opens it, gesturing for Bella to pass. Then, continuing, "only, I should admit that he hasn't been all happiness and joy these past weeks."

It takes all of Bella's power not to snort but Esme seems to sense the restrained reaction, honey eyes darting up, a mischievous smile crossing her lips. "I know my son is hardly the picture of sunshine, but seeing you has changed him." She draws off her gloves, placing them on a bench just inside the door, then unties the apron and hangs it on a hook set into the beadboard. "Certainly, at times he has even seemed more unhappy than before but I imagine that might be the norm—the feelings that talking through things must unearth."

Bella shakes her head, a grimace twisting her mouth. "I've only observed counseling prior to now," she admits. Silently she thinks that even those observations have all but ceased, the vast majority of her time at the center dedicated to auditing files rather than sitting in on client sessions.

"So Edward is your guinea pig?" Esme asks, her gaze wide and guileless.

"Or vice versa," Bella can't restrain her snort now, which is quickly followed by an embarrassed blush. To her relief, Esme laughs as she leads the way up a narrow staircase to the main floor.

"Let me just wash my hands and then I'll put the kettle on," Esme calls over her shoulder. The steps lead into the corridor Bella had traversed once before, the library at one end, the open kitchen at the other. Esme's step is brisk as she turns right and Bella hurries to follow.

"You said Edward was even more unhappy before," Bella prompts, no longer reluctant to get what information she can.

Esme gestures to one of the stools wedged beneath the edge of the granite topped island before turning to the sink and quickly rinsing her hands. Bella obediently takes a seat, observing Esme's turned back closely as she moves to the glossy stainless steel stove. When Esme finally speaks, there is no denying the sadness in her voice. "He was resigned. It was as if…there was no hope." There is the click of the pilot light then the whoosh of flames igniting, but Esme does not turn to face Bella.

Her sadness is almost tangible, seeming to fill the room, and Bella does not know what to think or feel. She is gripped by an even more powerful desire to see Edward, to understand him…yet she knows her motives are so flawed, so blurred, that guilt and shame mix within, setting her stomach rolling. "I wish I could help," she whispers.

Esme finally turns, amber eyes wide. "But you do! If you could see the change in him…" Her gaze is imploring. "I will not lie. It is not that he is no longer unhappy. But Edward has begun to suspect there is hope, that there are possibilities he had not thought were available to him." The love Esme clearly feels for her adopted son is evident in the conviction with which she speaks, her hands tight fists at her sides. Bella can only regard her with wide eyes, wondering how Edward could feel such hopelessness with such a fierce advocate behind him.

Esme shakes her head, going on. "If he's been unhappy these past weeks it's because he sees what could be, he has an idea of what he's missing—but even if this unhappiness is more intense, I would not wish him returned to that ceaseless melancholy of before, with no hope, no relief."

Bella is silent, absorbing Esme's words…before she begins to realize she hasn't truly learned anything new about her client—that Esme may as well have spoken in riddles. "Relief?" she echoes. From what? From who?

It appears Esme is forming a response when her gaze suddenly snaps to the front door. "They're here."

Bella's confusion is instantaneous, brow furrowing as her gaze darts to the wide windows. She hadn't heard the crunch of tires on gravel or the slamming of car doors. The kettle begins quietly burbling, steam pushing through its spout, before she can form a question. "Would you like chamomile or peppermint?" Esme asks, seemingly unaware of Bella's mystification.

"I—how—" Bella stops and takes a breath. "Peppermint."

The turn of the latch distracts her from this confusion at Esme's strange ability to detect the arrival of Edward and Alice, neck craning as she swivels on the stool. She is anxious yet full of anticipation, breath caught in her throat.

The memory of their first encounter instantly fills her mind, distinctly recalling the dark, forbidding expression that had clouded his features that day…for it is so unlike how vulnerable and even humorous he'd been at their last appointment, and so uncannily similar to his demeanor now. Even his actions are similar to that first day, gaze fixed on the floor, refusing to meet her own. "Alice is waiting for you on the porch." He speaks but it is to Esme, the words flat as he stops just inside the threshold, hands shoved in his pockets. Bella stares at him, almost willing him to meet her gaze, but his eyes are locked on the floor, anger evident in every inch of his frame.

"Here's your tea," Esme quietly murmurs as she places the mug on the granite island, one hand drifting against Bella's arm in a motion that is almost comforting before she continues on. Apparently unfazed by Edward's obviously black mood, she pauses just before passing through the door, reaching up on tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. She appears to say something, lips moving, but is gone through the door before Bella realizes exactly what she's doing.

And perhaps it doesn't matter for Edward's expression is unchanged, silent as he glares at the floor. Resentment begins to warm Bella's blood, her own brows drawing low as she watches him, waiting for him to say something. She can feel her stomach churning, hands trembling as the tense silence stretches out. Her anger intensifies at the thought that she should remain so in the dark, that she should be so full of self-doubt, that he should make her feel this way…and yet he stands there, unspeaking.

"Why didn't you come today?" she finally exclaims, unable to conceal the accusatory note in her voice.

Edward's gaze flies up, surprised. Her anger falters at seeing that his eyes are black again, as if reflecting the darkness of his mood. "I waited for you," she weakly adds.

Edward's brows lower. "There's no point." His gaze is steady as he regards her across the span of the room.

Bella's frown becomes one of frustration, desperate for him to see reason. "I want to help you!" she protests.

A single brow lifts as Edward asks, "Is that why you're here?"

Frustration ignites a flame in her belly. Why must he always turn the tables back to her? Bella sucks in a breath and flings up her hands, "I don't know why I'm here!"

Edward's frown deepens, lines forming around his mouth as his lips tighten over his teeth. "Do you know anything?"

His statement sends her rocking back on the stool, caught off guard by the sharpness of his tone, by his equal if not greater frustration with her. He continues before she can reply, "You don't know why you're in Forks—and now you don't know why you're here at my house."

Bella's cheeks burn, her gaze diving to her lap as she realizes the truth of his statement. Her heart pounds in her chest, knowing that she has failed to examine her motivations for very good reasons, that she has been all instinct and no logic with him, ricocheting from moment to moment without taking time to think about her actions. Her voice is a whisper when she responds, barely able to get out the words in her chagrin, "I just knew I couldn't—" She can't go on, unable to admit the truth, not out loud, not in his presence.

"Couldn't what?" Edward's voice is dry and her gaze lifts, surprised to find his expression has turned sardonic.

Her eyes narrows and she can't help blustering, "Couldn't let you not come!" Blood pulses in her cheeks, her hands clenched in her lap. Trembling, she wishes she had a better answer but knows there is nothing she can say that will not reveal the truth in her heart.

Something shifts in his expression, the cynicism and darkness washing away to reveal something akin to wonder, black eyes full of curiosity. His voice is softer when he speaks, the question lacking the cutting incisiveness he usually shows. "Why is it so important to you?"

"Because you're important."

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself…and seconds later, she realizes she doesn't regret saying them.

If she had thought his expression had transitioned before, she is nearly breathless at the sight of the slow smile that reluctantly spreads across his lips. It is guilelessly happy, his dark eyes bright as his head lifts, regarding her with what she knows is hope.

"Alright, Bella," he allows, the smile turning almost playful. "I'll be there next week."

"You will?" She realizes it is now her turn to sound hopeful.

"Yes."

Hosta: a shade tolerant ground covering perennial perfect for the weak light of the northwest. A picture of the night blooming Hosta plantaginea can be found here: http : / www (dot) ces (dot) ncsu (dot) edu/depts/hort/consumer/factsheets/perennials/images/HostaPl1 (dot) htm