Chapter 50:

Unlikely Valentine


The mind of a human was a complicated little mechanism. Always straining with the effort to churn out a coherent thought, processing things at speeds so slow they made slugs look like little slimy blurs in the garden flower bed.

Yet a vampire's mind held ten times the capacity of a human's, and the ability to think on multiple things at once was both a blessing and a curse. There were oh so many things to think about. So many things to remember, so many things to try to forget.

Esme had spent the past two days avoiding Carlisle since their disagreement over the Volturi letters. It was a silly thing to feel anger over, but she had carelessly let her pride mar the way to a truce with him. Instead of facing him for apologies, she distracted herself by cleaning the house from top to bottom.

Not a single cobweb remained in any room in the house, thanks to her obsessive perfectionism. She was eager to soon work on the outside of the house as well, but while she was waiting for the snow to melt, fixing up the inside was the perfect way to spend her time.

Edward helped her occasionally on her eccentric little projects. He was more enthusiastic when it came to refurnishing the music room, of course – other than that, he was content to sit and watch her while she worked. He was, however, most eager upon discovering the old harp that had been cloaked beneath an old white sheet and layers of dust. While cleaning, he swept his hand over the instrument's strings, strumming forth a sonorous crystalline chord. In the study, a softly muttered, "Dear Lord!" sounded. Clearly the sound had startled the poor doctor. Both Esme and Edward had forcibly pinched their own cheeks to keep from laughing.

They had reduced themselves to little more than two naughty children in desperate need of their busy father's attention. And really, they should not have been so disruptive when Carlisle had more work than ever as a result of his recent promotion. His hours in the hospital had unfortunately doubled toward the end of the season, but Esme remained more than grateful for Edward's exceedingly amusing company in the doctor's absence.

"So why are you still giving Carlisle the cold shoulder over those damned letters?" Edward asked her unexpectedly while they were cleaning out the inside of his piano.

Esme sighed forcefully. "I'm not giving him the cold shoulder... Am I?"

Edward raised a suspicious eyebrow. "He seems to think you are."

"Ohh," she groaned into her hands. "I didn't mean for this to go as far as it did. It was just a minor disagreement. I was only frustrated with him for not being entirely honest with me about his problems."

Edward cocked his head as he took the duster from Esme's limp hand, stealing her attention. "I get it. He could have told you more. The thing you have to understand about Carlisle is that he's used to me reading his mind for everything. Sometimes he's not so good at sharing his feelings...at least not coherently." He smirked softly. "I'm sure he's just worried that bringing you into this mess with the Volturi would only cause you more stress. That's only more pressure he'd be putting on you."

Esme shook her head, feeling some of her suppressed frustration from the past few days rising in her stomach. "But I practically invited him to put more stress on me. I don't mind sharing his problems if it means I can help him in some way."

"You should tell him that," Edward said casually.

She gave him an empty stare.

"Do you want me to take it up with him?" He threatened with a knowing smirk.

"Ugh...You're right," she conceded with a deep sigh. "I'll take care of it."

But she never quite worked up the courage.

She heard Carlisle come in through the door that evening, the stress positively radiating from his gorgeous body. She couldn't bear to bother him.

Late that night, however, he called softly for her from his study. Esme panicked, thinking that he was going to try and discuss their disagreement with her. Deciding it was best to get it over with if that was his intention, Esme swallowed her pride and went downstairs to find him.

He had been preparing for a difficult surgery he was to perform the next day; a strange leathery form in the shape a human's chest stuffed with cotton had been laid out on his desk. There were markings all across it – little arrows and letters and numbers – reminders in red and black ink, slits where he had cut through to the inside, and various morbid looking tools which he had used to make the incisions.

She gulped at the sight of it, but he welcomed her in with a tentative, not-all-the-way-there smile. He lifted a hand briefly, beckoning her closer to sit with him on the other side of the desk. Then she realized what they were going to do.

Even though Carlisle had such rare time to spend at home, he managed to devote an hour or so in his pressing schedule for her "blood training" in the middle of the night.

Together they went through a lengthy assortment of vials, each containing blood that increased in sweetness as they went down the line. Esme was able to resist every one of them without a struggle, even while holding the vial directly under her nose, and Carlisle was perhaps even more impressed by her progress than she was.

At the end of the session, after he had locked all of the vials safely away, he stood and said in an intriguingly playful tone, "I recall once, that you asked for a present after we had finished a successful test."

She raised a suspicious eyebrow as he crossed over to the shelf behind his desk, and knelt on one knee before the bottom cabinet to unlock it. With a secretive smile, he pulled out a flat round box, made of pale glossy wood and opened it so that only he could see what was inside.

"Carlisle..." She said his name as a subtle warning, but he ignored her as she knew he would. And that made her smile.

He turned the open case around in his hands and lowered himself to crouch beside her chair, showing her what was inside.

The shallow case smelled of sand and salt, and was filled to the brim with exotic looking seashells of various sizes and colors – cocoa brown, and candy pink, and kiwi green – each more enchanting than the next. And they were clearly not the kind that would be blindly picked up from any old beach; it was obvious that they had been selected for their special qualities, that the hand that had plucked each from its place in the sand had been enchanted by each shell for a different reason.

She looked up at him in vague uncertainty, but his eyes just twinkled silently back at her. She knew what he wanted her to do.

"Pick one?" she whispered, an almost hopeful edge to her voice.

The corner of his lip shrugged. "Or two, or three..."

Her eyes dropped eagerly back to the open case, scanning each shell in turn for one that called to her.

But they were all calling to her, because they were all his.

Because she was convinced that there was nothing more intriguing than a surgeon who collected seashells.

Some were the color of sand, glossy and new looking despite their age. Some were the color of the ocean, creamy turquoise, and shining sea foam, curled to emulate a wave on the beach. Some were swirled, like porcelain ice cream with caramel tendrils. Some looked like the shells of beetles, iridescent jade and jewel-toned blue. Some were speckled like bird's eggs, coffee brown and rusty red. Some were incredibly thin, like blown glass – so frail looking that she feared one touch might turn them to dust. But others were sturdy and thick, like opaque ceramic. There were sunshine yellow cockle shells and sky blue conch shells with clouds of milky white. There were also two dried sea stars, but she felt it would be rather presumptuous to pick one of those.

A little overwhelmed, her fingers decidedly reached for the first shell they happened across, and she pulled it from its place of burial with a careful grip.

"That's a conch shell from the Indian Ocean," Carlisle explained as she examined it, turning it slowly between her fingers. The shell itself was surprisingly petite in size, with a graceful sort of twisting shape and slender spikes about its top that reminded her of a delicate but dangerous star. "It has always been one of my favorites because of this..." He turned it over to show her the shell's shockingly colorful underside, tracing his finger over the bright violet lines with care.

One of his favorites? She couldn't very well take it, then.

"Do you have a favorite?" she asked him curiously.

His eyes drifted down to the box, looking over the shells with a proud fondness, as if they were his own children.

"Well, yes." He bit his lip, then carefully sifted through them to pick up a small, white, misshapen shell that had been buried in the far corner. It was, funnily enough, the plainest of the group. "This one – it was the first one I found – from England." He let it rest in his palm so that she could look at it. "I always called it 'angel wings' because it has these strange bits sprouting back here that look like wings."

She giggled at the comparison, and stared up at him in amusement, only to find his eyes intensely locked onto hers. She had the odd feeling that his eyes had never left hers all along. Only now she was fighting for breath in the sultry golden ocean of his stare.

He kept her, stock-still with his gaze for a strong moment frozen in time, then suddenly she felt something small, cold, and glossy being placed in her hand.

He was giving it to her.

"What? Oh, no...no. Carlisle, I can't take this one from you—it's too precious—it wouldn't be appropriate..."

But his mellow smile never melted as he only softly shook his head. Her hand was being gently crushed between both of his now, as he trapped the tiny shell in her closed fist.

"I wouldn't have a collection at all if it weren't for this shell... And I wouldn't have a family if it weren't for you," he explained in a sincere, husky voice. "I think it is more than appropriate that you keep this shell."

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes furrowed in sadness as she looked down at the present she had received. The present she had asked for, but never really wanted to possess.

"You've given me too much," she whispered almost miserably as she caressed the little white shell, though her heart was sweltering with joy inside her chest.

He closed the lid on the wooden case with a soft click and leaned closer to murmur against her forehead before he stood up, "I can never give you enough." Standing at his full height he turned to the window and tied back the curtains. "And now I wish to apologize to you for the other day—"

She had known it was coming, but for all their pretending that nothing was wrong between them, she had almost fooled herself into thinking their problems had been forgotten. To suddenly hear his intention to apologize out loud was even worse than it would have been had he simply apologized the second she walked into the room.

"You don't need to do that, Carlisle," she pleaded, closing her eyes as she gently squeezed the shell in her hand.

"Yes. I do," he said, soft and insistent. "It wasn't right of me to send you away like that when you were only trying to help me."

She shook her head vehemently, rising from her chair to join him by the window. "I sent myself away."

"Because of the way I treated you," he finished abruptly, his dark eyes flashing, "...which was unacceptable. I promise never to behave that way again." His eyes normally would have retreated when he spoke the final sentence, but this time his eyes remained locked steadily onto hers as he made the promise.

Her skin felt flushed, and she quickly turned her face away. "I never meant to be pressuring to you," she said, seeking her own redemption. "But if there is any way I can help you, I want to know about it. I want you to know that you can come to me when you need me." Her confidence heightened enough to let her eyes raise to meet his again. "You don't have to pretend that your problems are nonexistent just to protect me. I want to know everything, Carlisle – even the things that aren't so pleasant."

He looked slightly surprised, but more than that, he looked worried. "As a part of my family, you deserve that, Esme." His brow furrowed as he considered her point. "But maybe it is still too soon for you to be concerned over these matters."

She sighed, this time with utter patience and understanding in place of agitation and anger. "If you keep protecting me from what is happening in the real world then it will always be 'too soon' for me, Carlisle."

His expression changed in understanding, like a father realizing for the first time that his child was no longer a child. "You're right," he murmured, his eyes wandering from the dark window to her face. "You want the truth of the matter, then?" he whispered reluctantly.

She nodded resolutely, determined that he would not deny her anything this time. "Yes. Every detail."

She inched closer to him, eager for his explanation.

Carlisle sighed and looked down as he spoke. "I've made the mistake of promising Aro I would return to Volterra one day. He's under the impression that I will be bringing Edward along with me. I never told the Volturi about you, and I don't want them to know you exist... and so I've been trying to find an excuse not to go." As he talked, his fingers fiddled with the little golden latch on the wooden case that held his seashells.

"Why don't you want the Volturi to know about me?" She didn't mean to sound suspicious, but her tone suggested it.

He looked from one side to the other, then down at the ground again, his expression showing deep discomfort.

"It would only complicate things," he finally said, his voice soft. "They would ask me questions about you; they would make presumptions about you. They would likely want to meet you."

"Would it really be so terrible if we visited Volterra someday?" she asked delicately.

His face, if possible, seemed to grow paler at the suggestion.

"Honestly... I just don't want to go back there." She thought she saw him shudder as he looked back out the window. "The memories hurt. I don't want to relive the things I've seen there. I know things wouldn't be the same now, but I have no immediate desire to see them again, and I don't think I will any time soon."

"I can understand that." She nodded slowly, meeting the gaze of his reflection in the window. "I couldn't see myself wanting to return to my home in Ohio. I think it would be too painful for me, too."

He was silent for a moment, but when he turned to face her, she was beaming. "Doesn't it feel better to talk about these things?" she asked him.

He nodded solemnly.

"I'm sorry if I seemed like I was prying, Carlisle. But you worried me that day when you burned those letters. You seemed so...irrationally angry."

A small wince slipped across his lips. "I overreacted. You were right to be concerned for me. But it wasn't just about the Volturi, Esme. It was... a great many things."

His voice sounded weary again, and she longed to lift that invisible weight she sensed hanging over his shoulders.

"Anything I can help you with?"

He gave her an achy smile. "I'm afraid not. But thank you for listening to me." Then he took her hand and gently laced his fingers with hers. "I forgot how much I needed this."

And she had forgotten how much she needed his touch.

Her eyes closed in contentment as the familiar blazing warmth of his strong hand rushed into hers, restoring a vital part of her that was lost over the past few days of silence.

"I just wish we could clean up this mess with the Volturi somehow," she murmured, leaning closer to him until her hair brushed his arm.

"We'll figure things out," he said, his voice flowing like silk, set to a familiar timbre of unrestrained care.

She looked up at him hopefully.

"It will all turn out in the end," he said with a small smile.

Looking at their bonded hands, Esme was reminded of the wooden hands she had tried to carve. Her heart sank with regret as she thought of the project she had abandoned only for Carlisle to finish it in secret while they weren't speaking to each other.

She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. After so long avoiding the subject, she now suddenly wanted nothing more than to bring it up. "Carlisle... about my carving..."

His eyes widened and his lips fell open, his handsome face going tense with nervousness. "Oh, forgive me, Esme! I couldn't bear to see you give up, so I thought that if I—"

She hushed him swiftly with two fingers against his lips. "I only wanted to thank you."

He slowly closed his lips, and she thought she could feel them press against her fingertips ever so lightly before she slipped away. An appreciative shiver raced up her spine. While he was staring at her so deeply with those childlike eyes, she could not keep from offering her own apologies for very long.

"Carlisle, you know that it is my own fault that this happened," she whispered shamefully. "If I hadn't turned you away from me that morning when you tried to help me with the carving, we wouldn't have been so quick to turn against each other."

For the first time, Carlisle did not argue with her to claim the fault was his. She could not deny it; it hurt her pride.

He stared at her solemnly, his eyes expressive but still. "That was all I wanted, Esme. To help you. I meant nothing more by it." He sounded so hurt, so vulnerable and broken that she almost crashed her lips against his to keep him from speaking. "Is it not ironic that we both refused each other when we only wanted to offer help?"

"I know," she whispered back fervently, wishing he would stop before she started sobbing. "I know..." Her hands framed his solid cheeks, and she moved closer to him. "Oh, Carlisle... I was frustrated. I wasn't thinking. I so wish I could take back everything I said."

"Do not wish for that," he said wisely, his smooth skin sliding against her hands as he spoke. "The words you have spoken may have been spoken in anger, but they were honest words, Esme."

She looked down in shame, knowing she could not deny this.

"I hope that you will always have the courage to be honest with me, even if it may hurt one or both of us. Do you understand?" He said the words so gently, so quietly that she felt the strange need to close her eyes.

"Yes. I understand." She lifted her head higher and held his gaze, struggling against her urge to cry. "But this is one problem that you cannot blame yourself for, Carlisle." She paused, letting her words sink in. "You must forgive me."

His eyes were calm, with only the tiniest twinge of regret. They were learning, one small step at a time, how to live together and how to understand and accept each other. It was not an easy feat, but the longer they took to learn it, the more beautiful the outcome would surely be.

"Forgive me," she repeated once more, desperately, beneath her breath.

With the gentlest touch imaginable, Carlisle reached out for her cheek and whispered, "I forgive you."

And those were his words of parting before he left her for another fourteen hour shift at the hospital. He did not leave without first offering her a forgiving embrace, and for that she was grateful. Secretly, she had hoped he would offer her a small kiss, returning the favor she had granted his cheek. But she was content to at least be back in his arms again. For now, it was enough.

Esme tucked her precious new gift away with her music box and her swan maquette and the book of South American maps on her bedside table. Before she could fall into a sentimental spill over the doctor's relentless generosity, she dashed downstairs to busy herself for a fourteen hour shift of her own.

That morning after putting her newly finished wooden hand carving safely into her bedside drawer, she had resolved to finish painting the ballroom once and for all. Four paintbrushes and seventeen cans of green paint later, Esme finally faced the very last panel, and it was already more than half-way through its first coat.

She didn't know how dear Edward found the patience to watch her without growing bored out of his mind. Then again, if he was listening to her thoughts, maybe he would have gleaned more entertainment from the situation. She didn't think of much, though. Just Carlisle and the things she was trying to paint. Mostly Carlisle.

"Will you stop humming that song over and over again?" Edward pleaded with an exhausted sigh.

Esme had dared to play her music box several times every day since she had received it, and it had since glued itself securely in the back of her mind, repeating in an endless string of melancholy chimes that refused to fade. The song would forever remind her of the night she had met Carlisle, and silly as it was, some part of her feared forgetting it despite her impenetrable memory. So she replayed it feverishly in her mind, every minute while she worked.

Sorry, she mumbled through her thoughts, for Edward's sake.

But the song still played on, uninterrupted inside her mind.

"You're hopeless, you know that?"

She smirked.

"Helpless, hopeless Esme..." Edward's velvet voice made the taunting syntax sting less, but it still bothered her to hear it.

"Only I am allowed to call myself that," she said in as light a tone as she could manage.

"Oh, I beg your pardon." He poorly masked his snickering.

She glared at him.

"Where did it come from, anyway?" he asked curiously.

"I can't remember. Probably from the children who used to tease me."

He was quiet as the bleak string of memories chuckled silently in her mind.

And because Edward could not apologize in silence like she could, he was forced to say it out loud.

"Sorry."

She smiled forgivingly.

"It's all right. That's far behind me now. Along with everything else in my human life..."

Her heart grew sore as the familiar, withering images of Carlisle tending to her broken leg flashed through her memory. His pale hands, his gentle smile, his warm eyes...

Edward's breathing took on an awkward rhythm behind her.

Sorry.

There was an unusual amount of apologizing being done today.

"Why would you apologize for that?" Edward asked, his voice torturously soft.

Her paintbrush stilled as she lowered her head, sighing painfully. "You're exhausted by my thoughts of him. You don't need to pretend that you're not bothered, Edward. You have a right to be, and I understand that."

"Esme, you haven't done anything wr—"

She cut him off quickly before he could finish. She'd sooner be damned if someone told her once again that she had not done anything wrong. Because she had. She had done many things wrong, many things that she was not proud of and that she could never amend.

"Edward, I am lost in my own heart," she tried to speak clearly without sobbing. "I don't know how or why I've let myself fall in love with him, but I have, and it's too late for me to change that."

Edward sucked in a breath, and she quickly continued talking, anticipating that he was only going to refute her again.

"You must promise me that you will never reveal my feelings to Carlisle without my consent," she whispered sternly, whipping around to meet his gaze. "Do not even imply anything. Do you understand, Edward?"

Edward knew every one of her secrets, and she was now aware of the danger he posed to exposing her feelings. It was relieving in a sense to at least confide in one person, but if Carlisle knew... Dear Mother in heaven. She would simply die. She didn't even know why, but the idea of him knowing that she loved him in that way terrified her.

Edward stared at her intently for a few seconds, then nodded resolutely, much to her relief. He looked almost too scared to speak.

She turned her back to him firmly, and raised her brush to the wall, but she was swiftly impaired by the wrenching sobs that she knew would eventually find her, vulnerable and all too ready to cry.

"Esme."

She felt him approach her from behind, and with effort, she managed to compose herself just long enough to make one more stroke on the panel before she surrendered herself to the silent sobs.

"Esme..."

His long fingers gently curled around her hand, taking the brush from her reluctant grip.

"There's no reason to be upset," he tried to talk sense into her, but his effort was futile. Of course she had reason to be upset. She was in love with a man whom it was very well possible would never love her in the way she selfishly wanted to be loved. Hers was a situation people would rather kill themselves than be caught within. The more she told herself it was impossible that they would ever find love like the kind she had read about in books as a child, the more wonderful Carlisle became.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she sniffled into Edward's shoulder, laughing a little bit at the foolishness of her reaction.

"There's nothing to be ashamed or afraid of," Edward told her, rubbing her back soothingly as he rocked her in his arms. She could hear the smile of relief in his voice.

"I've just never felt these feelings for anyone before," she choked out, her words quaking sadly. "Even when I think I'm angry with him, even when I feel that he has wronged me, it all only seems to make me want him more, and I... I don't know what to do."

Edward rubbed her shoulders with pacifying strokes, trying to calm her. Then after a brief minute of silence, he spoke. "You should tell him."

She yanked herself out of his embrace with a gasp of pure outrage.

What business did Edward have telling her when and with whom she could share her secrets?

Why did he not understand that this must forever be kept hidden from Carlisle?

"Why on earth would I do that?"

Edward stared at her as if she had just fallen from the sky. A twisted smile of disbelief crossed his face as his mouth dropped open. "Because it's so clearly torturing you?"

She swelled with so many conflicting emotions in that moment she thought she might be in danger of losing her head.

"It would only torture me more if he knew!" she hissed hysterically.

Edward tossed his arms into the air in frustration, still smiling insanely about the whole thing. "That doesn't make any sense!"

She shook her head fervently. "He can't know! I'm not ready," she whispered pleadingly. "Edward..." Her hand clutched his sleeve in desperation, and he looked down at her in pity.

"Esme, you're only making this harder for yourself," he warned wearily, dragging his fingers through his unruly hair.

She instinctively clutched her stomach, frightened by the sadly familiar, empty, ill sensation. "I don't care. I'm not ready," she repeated.

"How will you know when you are ready?"

Her voice dropped beneath a whisper. "I may never know."

Edward's jaw tightened, but something in his dark eyes sparkled strangely, as though he were burning to tell her something more.

"Follow me," he offered quietly, taking her by the hand out of the ballroom. He weaved his way through the corridors until they came to Carlisle's study. He threw open the doors with ease and dragged her towards the desk from where a most fragrant scent was emanating.

Her eyes widened in confused surprise: the surface of Carlisle's desk was covered corner to corner, not with papers, not with medical instruments, not with candles, but with hundreds and hundreds of bright bouquets of flowers – the sunniest daffodils, and the sweetest roses, and the most vibrant violets, and the daintiest baby's breath, all of them artistically arranged into their own ornately ribboned baskets and vases.

"Good heavens! Where did they all come from?"

"Carlisle's patients," he chuckled. "It's that time of year."

She cocked her head in confusion.

With a hesitant grin, Edward walked her up to the odd display and plucked a single red rose from one of the carefully wrapped bouquets.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Esme."

Her heart sank heavily. She had forgotten.

In all her distress, she had forgotten the one day that would have made her torture ten times worse. And Edward was only trying to cheer her up.

"Oh..."

She accepted the stem with a limp hand, staring down at the fair blood-red petals in disgust and agony. If she could have cried, her teardrops would have landed in its velvet mouth, like crystal droplets of dew.

"I know it isn't what you wish it to be, but I can be a better Valentine than Carlisle can." He flashed her his most charming smile, and a sad little laugh spilled from her lips. "He can spend his entire day at the hospital making rounds while I'll stay home making you happy."

She laughed soundly in spite of the sobs that still trembled in her chest. It was so easy to laugh when Edward was with her. So easy that she almost forgot her problems, if just for a few moments at a time. He made an unlikely Valentine, but she was more than willing to call him hers.

Esme had to admit, the boy was faithful to his proposition. The old days of watching him compose at his piano, and sitting on the roof just talking together about nothing in particular were resurrected meticulously. And at the end of the evening, he told her that everything would fall into place when she least expected it. He promised that he would be here for her if she needed him, no matter what happened.

Edward could distract her so well when he wanted to, but deep down Esme knew that she was well past the point of leaving her worries behind entirely.

At midnight, Carlisle walked through the front door in all of his blond, doctorly splendor, carrying an armful of more basket blooms and small red and pink envelopes. She did not bother to meet him at the door, but she watched him discreetly from the top of the staircase as he gracefully balanced the light load of gifts. She could have been helpful to him that night, offering to hold things while he took off his coat in that familiar little ritual by the foyer closet. But she didn't help him. She couldn't bring herself to hold those flowers or those flirtatious notes of appreciation that were meant for his eyes only. She would have broken down and cried right there in front of him.

She watched him sigh and shift things from arm to arm and close the closet doors, and then he left her sight, carrying his gifts back to his study, the potent perfume of those flowers making her sick to her stomach.

She was not sorry that she hadn't greeted him at the door that night. Not sorry at all.

But part of her couldn't help wondering if he might have wished her a "Happy Valentine's Day," in that sweet, sincere lilt of his when he saw her face at the door. She would never know.

It was past midnight, anyway. It would have been too late.

She went and curled up in her useless bed, finding it surprisingly easy not to cry to herself, knowing he might have heard her and known the precise cause of her sadness. In her mind she thanked Edward deeply for his consideration, and even after she closed her eyes and stuffed her head beneath the pillows, she swore she heard his whispered words of acknowledgment before his piano drowned them out.

"You should tell him."

The memories of Edward's innocent warning began to make her wonder if she was doing the right thing by tucking herself away in the corner. Perhaps being silent was not so far from being dishonest. And Carlisle positively despised dishonesty. He would despise her as well, if he knew the things she kept from him. Not only the things she could tell him if she so desired, but the things she was ashamed to even have thought about with only herself for company. Things she did not even dare to think around Edward.

But because of her own carelessness, she now faced the daunting decision. To risk Edward's either intentional or involuntary revelation of her heart's deepest desires, or to confess her love for the doctor to his face, herself.

Either way she chose, Carlisle would inevitably come to know of her affections. The only question was how long would it be before he knew?

-}0{-

The following morning arrived with a half-hearted snowstorm, hopefully the last one they would see this season.

Esme watched the snow suffocate the floor-length windows of the ballroom while she worked to cover the very last wall panel in paint. She had been working on this damned room since the end of last summer; to see it finally finished was rather like having a heavy load lifted from her back that she hadn't realized was there.

Every gilded compartment now looked like a window to an exotic jungle rather than the pages of a crumbling love story. She furiously tamped down the part of her that missed the paintings underneath the layers of green and forced herself to feel proud of the new art she had created. And truly, it looked even more beautiful than she'd thought it would. The brightness of the green made her long for summer, and it stood out like the flashiest of emeralds – an ideal complement to the golden trim of each panel. In bold repetition around all four walls, it truly made the room look spectacular.

She wanted him to be the first one to see it all.

The doors to Carlisle's study had been left open, as if begging an intruder, and so Esme became an intruder.

If in that split second she decided to walk in on him, she had thought in the very back of her mind that she possessed the bravery, the right, and the forwardness to tell him of her feelings, she would have never found out. She had missed many an opportunity in the last few days, but she was truly not regretful of any one of them. What was meant to happen would happen. She needed to let go of her worries and let nature run its course.

Esme slipped between the open doors to the study, her feet stepping onto the familiar carpet like they would step into a warm bath. It was a relief to be in here again, even if Carlisle did not look particularly energetic this morning.

To her surprise, he wore a sulking expression - bleary-eyed and pouty, like a child who had received every present he hadn't asked for on Christmas morning. The ridiculous clouds of flowers framed his sullen face, their beauty blotted out by the golden gleam that persistently haloed his body. His eyes rose up to find her through the overbearing enclosure of blossoms, and he sighed in lament, his eyes longing for something that just did not exist. It pained her to see him looking that way, and why should he be so depressed when everyone so clearly loved him to pieces? One would think those flowers had been sent for his funeral.

"I see you have many grateful patients," Esme said warmly from the doorway, hoping to lift his spirits.

He gazed around the surface of his desk with a wan smile. "I don't see what I could possibly do with all of these flowers. They're just clutter, really," he said in an uncharacteristically bland tone as he lazily flicked the petal of a purple tulip with his finger.

She smiled tightly back at him and forced a cheerfulness into her voice. "Pretty clutter, though."

He looked up wearily, and as his eyes fell on her, the corner of his mouth found the sincerity to twitch the tiniest bit in appreciation. "Yes... pretty."

She shifted her feet uncomfortably. "I don't know if you're interested but...well, I finished painting the ballroom this morning."

His eyes opened a bit wider, and some of the wornness left his face. "Did you?" Even the tone of his voice lifted slightly as he rose from his chair. "I would love to see it."

Her legs started to tingle as he walked around the desk, and in a helpless reaction to his approach, she stepped shyly backwards in the direction of the door. The soles of both their shoes made light scrapes against the carpet, and that tiny sound was perhaps the most intimidating thing she had heard all day. With what she hoped was a disarming smile, she slipped ahead of him to lead in a quick flash down the hall leading to the ballroom.

She'd left the doors open, and even from a distance, the green and gold seemed to glow from the room, filling the dark hall with a regal light.

Carlisle stepped inside before her and took in the surroundings slower than even a human might when reviewing the room for the first time. "Oh, Esme. You've worked so hard," he said in soft wonder as he turned a full circle. "It's breathtaking."

Breathtaking. He had called something she created breathtaking.

She almost sobbed with joy. "Thank you."

The faint noise of scuffing shoes by the door behind her alerted her to Edward's presence, and immediately her nerves were calmed. The boy rested his scruffy head against the door frame and gazed around the room with the most interest she'd ever seen on his face as he regarded her artwork. He said nothing, but caught her eye and smiled at her knowingly as Carlisle continued to appraise the room with the most beautifully astounded expression.

"It is such a shame that no one but us will have the chance to see it," the doctor said regretfully as he crossed his arms and turned back to face her.

If only he'd known just how much that did not matter to her. If only he'd known that just having him as her only audience would have been enough to satisfy her for life.

Edward pursed his lips as he stared at her, waiting for her response as well. Coolly, she shrugged with a pleasant smile. "I don't mind. It kept me occupied for the past six months."

She was somewhat surprised at the way Carlisle's eyebrows drew together in a mildly saddened expression. He looked down at the floor for a brief moment as though knowing this had made him terribly uncomfortable.

Edward took the moment to interject kindly, "Clearly all of your time paid off."

Esme sent him a grateful smile while Carlisle's eyes flickered to Edward's feet instead of his face.

"Yes, it looks lovely, Esme," Carlisle assured with a glorious but clearly strained smile. At least she could tell when his smiles were strained.

"You're not still disappointed that I painted over the dancing debutantes?" she asked teasingly with the hopes to relieve whatever ailed him.

Her heart leapt with delight as she managed to elicit a grudging chuckle from him. His eyes were sparkly as he looked down at her with a sheepish smirk. "If I hadn't been cursed with a perfect memory, I believe I would have forgotten about that by now."

"Thank goodness."

They laughed easily now at the rather regretful reminiscence, as Edward's thoughtful eyes moved between them.

Esme liked to think she could read facial expressions just as well as Edward read thoughts, but it seemed an ironic necessity that Edward's face was impossible for anyone to read. Whatever he was thinking in that moment behind the curtained mystery of his mind, it was not regretful or unenthused or even dismissive.

But when she tried to name what she saw in those eyes that flickered with wise intensity, his face was too many things at once confused, relieved, curious... awakened – too many emotions that made no sense when they were stirred into one.

Or perhaps they did, and she was only too blind to notice.

Perhaps she was blind to all that made sense in this world.

Edward gave a well-meaning roll of his eyes, and Esme took this as a gentle confirmation.

With a strange smile, he smoothly departed, leaving her alone again with Carlisle.

The breathy echoes of their laughter had since died down to leave the room in a wake of comfortable silence. But a silence so comfortable could not remain that way for long. Carlisle could only admire her artwork for so long before he had to find something else to claim his focus.

Esme gingerly stepped forward to brush an invisible line of dust off her painting, breathing a brief, musical sigh for effect.

She could almost feel Carlisle tense behind her. "Esme?"

"Hm?" She waited a moment before turning to face him.

His eyes were... affectionate. Distressingly so.

"Remember when you said little girls never outgrow their fondness for flowers?"

She giggled reminiscently. "Of course."

"Well, I was wondering if you were an exception." He stared at her meaningfully, a tender smile tugging one corner of his lips.

"No, I am not," she consented without a thought.

His smile blossomed freely. "Then...the 'pretty clutter' in my study? You can keep it."

Esme nearly bubbled over with elation, but she kept it hidden quite well. Deciding the moment too precious to pass over, she teased him a bit more.

"Whatever will I do with all of those flowers?"

He shrugged. "Anything you want. With so many of them, you could probably reconstruct the Garden of Eden."

She laughed richly at the suggestion. Only Carlisle could inject a religious reference into something meant solely for humor.

But with this thought came another: If she were to reconstruct Eden, she would be more than willing to share it with him.

"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively. "For the flowers, and the suggestion."

His lips parted to respond, but his eyes were wandering almost inattentively across her face. She wondered what on earth he was searching for that he could not seem to find no matter how hard he looked.

"Is all forgiven between us, then?" he asked, so hesitantly she thought she felt a tear of joy trickle from her eye.

"Of course, Carlisle," she whispered sincerely, her words barely echoing in the grand room. The gold and green panels surrounding them seemed to melt into nothing but a confusing swirl as she tentatively lifted her arms and touched them to his shoulders, drawing him close for a hug.

His hands wrapped around the small of her back, and into her ears he whispered, "Happy... belated Valentine's Day, Esme."

The echoes of their joined laughter made the ballroom that much more beautiful.


A/N:

You can read this chapter from Carlisle's POV in Behind Stained Glass, "Chapter 29: Of Roses and Baby's Breath"