Happy Saturday, people!
We're back from Venice with a lot of pictures and very tired feet.
The usual stuff:
1. THANK YOU ALL so much for all the reviews. I've loved hearing your thoughts throughout this story, especially since it is so dear and near to my heart, and I've veered a bit away from my usual fare, and I'm thankful y'all lapped it up.
2. This is the epilogue. You may or may not need tissues. And also, sorry not sorry :)
3. HUGE thank you to Team Momo, who've worked tirelessly for a year to help me make this readable, listened to my rants, and talked me off the ledge. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
4. I still don't own - SM does. But I will forever claim EditorWard.
For the last time, I give you ... EditorWard and IvorElla!
BEHIND THE IVORIES – EPILOGUE
Fourteen Months Later
"Are you sure you're up for this, Ladybug?"
She rolls her eyes at me, with good reason. "You asked me a gazillion times. Yes, baby. I'm up for it. I've been cooped up at home forever. Just let me have tonight, and I'll be back on bed rest tomorrow with no complaints."
The pout she unleashes on me is lethal. I've turned into an overprotective ball of anxiety in the last eight months, and she's borne it all with grace. Mostly. Bed rest, however, isn't to Bella's liking, especially because it impinges on her ability to play.
Since I'm a pushover when it comes to making my wife happy, and she deserves a break and a celebration, she'll get her wish. "Fair enough. I'll spring you for the night. But if anything, and I mean anything—"
"Yes. I promise. I've been feeling really good the last few days."
I sit beside her in our bed, her current perch, albeit reluctantly. She reaches for me, and I encase her hand in both of mine, planting a kiss to her forehead. "I know this forced inactivity is a pain in the ass, but Dr. Bree said it's a necessary precaution. It sucks that we can't be at the awards show. You should have your moment of triumph."
She shrugs with a philosophical smile on her face. "Our baby has a penchant for sowing chaos, it seems. Don't sweat it. I wouldn't have been able to travel even without the threat of preeclampsia. No airline would let me fly, and I wouldn't risk flying either. Plus, can you imagine me negotiating an aircraft bathroom at thirty-seven weeks? With my ever-present pee breaks? Hell, no, thank you. I'll stay put and watch on TV. I still can't believe I raked in all those nominations. It's unreal."
I chuckle in response. It was a bit of a shock last November when the Grammy nominations were announced, but only for Bella. I had no doubts her achievements would be recognized. Her Isabella: Unplugged album climbed the charts and broke a few records upon its release a year ago. At first, Ross and Jake were disappointed that a few post-production snafus had prevented them from exploiting a holiday season release to drive sales, but when they saw the early streaming and download numbers, their disappointment evaporated.
Bella and I rode that same high into February when we got married at Wisteria House on the anniversary of her first concert at Sharps & Flats. Her record went platinum on the same day as an added bonus to our gathering, held in the presence of our friends and family in the same backyard where we've spent countless evenings stargazing, talking, and making out like teenagers ever since.
A few things have changed over the last year or so.
After our wedding, I didn't return to my office at the Tatler. I've taken a leave of absence to focus on helping Dr. Maggie with the support group and to write my book. When I relayed Félix's idea to Bella, her answering smile dispelled any doubts I still harbored about telling my story for public consumption. So, I started doing some research, I put an outline together, and talked to Curtis Brandon about my job. Despite my concerns, he magnanimously granted me a leave of absence, lauded me for my new endeavor, asked me who should replace me, and extracted a promise that I'd be back.
Every time I pop in at the Tatler to check in with Jasper—the newly minted Acting Editor—Tanya wags her finger at me, repeating her usual mantra. "It's temporary."
On the first day of my leave, I called Félix to update him on my next steps. The man erupted into a French torrent of enthusiasm, and when I told him I didn't have a publisher or editor yet, he wouldn't take no for an answer. He worked his magic on his extensive network and put me in touch with a few publishers until I found one that was the right fit for this project. I signed on the dotted line last May and have been working my ass off to finish the book ever since. Félix agreed to edit it and write the foreword. Mac is giving me access to his personal photo archive. Ben Cheney will design the cover, which he can start doing now I've finally figured out a title—Corresponding Damage: The Untold Consequences of Reporting from a War Zone, by E.A. Cullen.
My leave became a godsend last summer because Bella and I got an unexpected gift for my birthday.
When we decided to get married, we agreed to let fate take its course. We'd hop on the baby train whenever it rolled into the station. With some flair for theatrics, Bella threw her birth control in the trash and even wrote a eulogy for it. We laughed. We hoped. We waited.
Despite our ardor and assiduous lovemaking, we continued to wait.
Until, on the morning of my forty-first birthday, Bella jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to puke her little heart out. She refused to let me help her, but the smile she gave me when she re-emerged ten minutes later allayed my concerns. Drunk on happiness, I reciprocated with my own goofy smile and twirled her around in my arms after she waved at me a stick with two pink lines.
Pregnant. We'd have a baby.
We're having a baby. In three short weeks. Hence Bella's bed rest and inability to travel. The bed rest, alas, came as a requirement with her preeclampsia diagnosis a few weeks ago. Nothing drastic but enough to kick my prospective daddy nerve-meter into overdrive.
The announcement of Bella's pregnancy to our family and friends turned into a hard explanation for Bea, who's a little afraid of being demoted from her princess status. However, Bella reassured her that Unca Ewar—my new job title—would still give her cuddles and let her play with his typewriter. That promise sufficed for now. Let's see what happens when our baby finally arrives.
Our baby.
The thought always has the power to make me smile, creating a bubble of elation around me, a protective cocoon against the minor and major annoyances in life. Some lingering fear remained after Bella's announcement—fear I wouldn't be a good father, I wouldn't be supportive enough to Bella, or something would go wrong with the pregnancy. I've learned to recognize my new triggers and work with Dr. Maggie to manage them. My PTSD will never vanish. I know this. But I'm no longer allowing it to control my life or force me into an apathetic ivory tower away from anything and anyone.
We've been toying with baby names, nixing a few and shortlisting others, but we've put a strict embargo on gender reveals and related craziness. Bella hates the idea of gender reveal parties, and even if we know what we're having, we'd like that to be a surprise for everyone else.
Watching Mac and Alice try to extract clues on both things—names and gender—has been hysterical. Bella and I have also become rather adept at fending them off. Because they haven't seen Bella for the past couple of weeks with her on bed rest, tonight's gathering for the Grammy Award show is going to be interesting.
Yep. The other big thing that happened is Bella's multiple Grammy Award nominations in November.
Bella says she still can't believe it. I, on the other hand, am incredibly proud at her nominations and not at all surprised.
When you dislodge the likes of Ed Sheeran and Ariana Grande from streaming charts, the writing's on the wall. The industry has its eye on you. Despite Jake's grumblings that the awards are a self-congratulatory feast for industry moguls intent on ass-kissing and churning out standardized products, the nominations alone trained an even bigger spotlight on Bella and her music. That's the kind of recognition she absolutely deserves, and it gives her clout with the label, which means more freedom and more bargaining power.
Tonight's break in Bella's bed rest regime is a special concession for the awards show, which takes place in Los Angeles. There's no way for us to travel there, preeclampsia or not, but the telecast gives us an excuse to gather the gang at Wisteria House, eat junk food—for the non-pregnant people—and cheer for Bella while she, hopefully, makes a clean sweep of all the categories in which she's nominated.
After I help her downstairs and install her on the sectional in the front room, I slide toward her a little TV tray with all her necessities—phone, drinks, bowl of her doctor-approved munchies, pre-natal vitamins, and her iPad. Mac built the tray; it has casters, so we can wheel it around wherever Bella needs it.
She's on leave from teaching at Berklee, but still advises students part-time via email and listens to their compositions. Advised, in fact. Past tense. She took a break after our last OB-GYN appointment when Dr. Bree prescribed bed rest. She still writes music, with the help of technology, and still keeps up interactions with her fans on social media. The Duckling Army reacted to the wedding first and pregnancy news later with boundless support and enthusiasm. They're even sending gifts for the baby, and Ross is having a ball managing all the incoming mail. I've stopped being surprised at how responsive and involved that not-so-little community is with our lives, but I'll never stop being grateful and moved by the affection and loyalty they convey.
Bella's munching on fruit salad and zapping through networks in search of the Grammy telecast when the doorbell rings.
"It's open. Come in!"
"They really let anyone in here," Mac says.
He's carrying two huge bags of food. Ross stands behind him with a stack of pizza boxes.
"Including you, evidently," Bella answers. "I hate you all and your junk food. Stay away from me!" She's complaining, but she's mainly pulling Mac's leg, who turns contrite the second he sees her peeved expression.
"I'm sorry, Best Contemporary Instrumental Album. What would you like to eat? We'll get it," he pleads.
"Ha! Gotcha, again!" Bella retorts triumphantly.
Mac scoffs, his face turning thunderous as he sets the food on the kitchen island. "That's no way to address your most ardent supporter, Best Duo Pop Performance. It's just unkind." If Bella's pulling his leg, Mac is masterful at faking outrage.
Ross points to the pizza boxes, and I tell her to stash them somewhere on the counter.
The doorbell rings again, this time revealing Jake, Seth, Jazz, and Alice. They haven't even crossed the threshold when my parents materialize in the driveway, along with Ben, Angela, and Tanya.
The ladies all descend on Bella, intent on asking for updates on her health and eager to see if they'll catch the baby moving. Seth and Jake, who are looking into surrogacy, are high on baby vibes and join the baby bump watch contingent.
"How is she really doing, Ed?" Mac asks. His words match my father's and my friends' faces, concern and anticipation shining through in equal shares.
"She's getting to the stage where she's fed up with being pregnant and fed up with being on bed rest, but it can't be helped. Tonight is a nice break for her. Thank you for being so understanding about this."
"Hey, don't even mention it," Jasper answers. "We're here for both of you. It doesn't happen often that you get to watch the Grammys with a pluri-nominated artist." He's taken to the Acting Editor hat in stride, but his heart still lies with the music section.
"What happens if she wins?" my father asks, popping a few peanuts into his mouth.
"When she wins," Mac corrects him. "Rosie says they recorded some video messages and sent them to the producers. Even on Mars, people know Bella's about ready to pop, so nobody expected her to attend tonight. But, at least, they have an acceptance speech. I have good money on her winning," he adds, rubbing his hands with glee.
"Emmett Ulysses McCarty, don't tell me you're betting money on my daughter," my mom chides from the living room.
Mac doesn't whisper, so of course Esme hears him over there. So does everyone else.
"Oh, come on, Momma C! I'm showing my faith in piano momma by putting my money where my mouth is. She can totally take Ariana Grande and those Jonas guys."
Esme grunts, unconvinced. Bella and Ross are laughing right along with Seth and Jake. Angela steps into the kitchen, sidling up to Ben.
"Well," she says, "he's not the only one betting. There's so much of that going on that we had to open a Grammy odds and bets section in the Coop."
"The what?" my father asks, bewildered.
I decide to put him out of his misery. "It's the Duckling Army's official website. Ducklings, coop … got it?"
Carlisle slaps his forehead dramatically. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"It's a shame they don't allow public voting at the Grammys. You could have weaponized the Coop for it," Mac muses.
"Wait until Bella gets nominated for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. That one has public voting." It's a given Jasper would know those details. Once a music critic, always a music critic.
Our chitchatting stops when Ross's yell floats in from the front room. "It's time!"
&&&IVORIES&&&
"I've lost count of all the fucking commercials in this thing," Mac complains.
We've been watching the show for a good two hours, going on three. Bella's been yawning; fuck, we all have, but we're determined to see this through. Alice even made cute cards for us to tally Bella's awards against her nominations.
Seth and Ross are having a grand old time acting as resident fashion police. They graded all the red carpet looks. Jasper is taking notes on the live performances for his piece to be published in the Tatler. Ben and Angela have taken it upon themselves to explain the ins and outs of categories and eligibility to my parents.
"We have a few more categories to go, Em," Ross says.
"Four, to be precise." Alice is keeping track of which awards Bella's won and lost. "So far, she lost out on the Best Pop Solo Performance. Drat."
"But she won Best Pop Duo Performance. It was nice of Eric to go and collect it for both of you," I add. Their cover of Eric's song "Another Place" from the live album netted them a number of accolades. And now, they even have a Grammy to show for it.
"I had good money on Best Traditional Pop Album and on Best Music Film, but Beyoncé had to go and make videos again. There goes another fifty bucks." Mac, on the other hand, is keeping track of his bottom line.
"Bah. You know it doesn't change jack squat whether I win or lose, right?" The nominee herself is the one with the philosophical attitude about this—another reason why I love her.
"We do, Ladybug. We're still fucking proud of you." When I kiss the tip of her nose, and my hand lands on her baby bump, I'm rewarded with a tiny kick against my touch. Our baby likes to make their presence known every now and then.
"Language, Mr. Editor. Baby can hear you," she chides playfully.
I chuckle, letting my hand draw calming patterns on her belly. At random intervals, I feel more nudges.
"Speaking of which, let the record reflect that I don't agree with your gender-neutral language. It's infringing on my construction efforts," Mac quips.
He's building a jungle gym for the baby in our backyard, but wants to know if he should go for a boy or girl theme. Bella refuses to cave, arguing that a jungle gym is a jungle gym.
"When you and Ross produce your own humans, you can do whatever you like," she retorts.
He grumbles something unintelligible, then Alice interrupts him.
"We still have the four main categories to go. The hot ones,"
"You mean, the ones where we could potentially blow Mr. Douchebag out of the water," Jake clarifies.
"I didn't want to be mean." Alice shrugs yet grins.
"Triple A, there are times when you have to be mean," Ross counters. "This is one of them. Mr. Douchebag is going down."
The kicker of this Grammy extravaganza is that James Fray received a few nominations, by some miracle, and they happen to be in categories for which Bella is also a contender.
"Based on your helpful little cards, this is what's left," my mother says, enumerating the categories on her fingers. "Best Classical Instrumental Solo, Best Contemporary Instrumental Album, Best Contemporary Classical Composition, and Best Engineered Album – Classical. Did I miss anything?"
"No, Esme. The douche is nominated in three of those," Ross confirms.
"And he's probably having a snit fit that he missed the nomination for best composition," Mac adds with a grin.
"There's no way he'd ever get a nod for that. He doesn't write one note of what he performs. Unless they hand out retroactive Grammys to Bach and Beethoven, that is." Jasper to the rescue.
"Will you guys please quit with the background noise? It's starting," Angela notes.
"Pencils at the ready, people. Here we go! The last rush of the night." Alice grabs the remotes and turns the sound back on.
&&&IVORIES&&&
"High-five, piano momma!" Mac cheers. "Four out of four awards! That's what I'm talking about!"
The curtain just dropped on the 62nd Grammy Awards show, leaving Bella with five wins out of eight nominations for the night. And she wiped the floor with James Fray, who was frozen out of all three of his nominations.
"I'm so fucking proud of you, Choc!" Ross exclaims.
It's been a whirlwind of hugs, high-fives, congratulations, and cheering for the last ten minutes. I haven't been able to hug or kiss her yet. Too many people around us are clamoring for her.
"I need Edward," she pleads after the last hug.
A path clears around the sectional so I can finally congratulate my wife. "I'm here, love. And I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you," she says in a whisper as I kiss her. "But I need a potty break. Can you help me?"
She normally clings to the shreds of her independence fiercely and insists on walking to the bathroom on her own whenever she can. The fact that she's asking for my help raises a red flag.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. But my back aches," she adds with a grimace. "Too long in one position."
I'll take her word for it, but keep a watchful eye on her. "Okay. Let's go." After helping her stand, I lead her to the half-bath off the kitchen. It's the closest.
I close the door behind her, and while I wait, I step into the kitchen for a glass of water. I hardly ever drink alcohol in the evenings since we learned of the pregnancy. Anything could go wrong, and I'd need to be able to drive her to the hospital.
"Edward, baby!" she yells for me after a few minutes.
"You all done, love?" I reply, approaching.
The door swings open, and Bella's standing there, only her oversize T-shirt covering her—my ladybug and typewriter shirt. There's liquid gushing down her legs.
"Baby, I said!" she repeats.
I shake my head. Once the momentary fog lifts from my brain, I finally register what's going on.
"Your water broke? But it's early! She's early!"
Bella leans into me, grabbing my forearm with more force than her usual grip. "Spoiler alert, she evidently doesn't care." She groans.
And we just blew our cover, but who cares at this point. We have other shit to worry about now. With a tense chuckle, I cradle her in my arms, then yell for Ross to grab her hospital bag from upstairs.
"It's time to go meet her, Edward," Bella murmurs. Her face contorts in a grimace of pain, but her smile is glorious.
"Let's go meet her."
Drowned by our family's cries of cheer and concern, we set off for the hospital.
At the end of a ten-hour labor, we meet our daughter. Allegra Marie Cullen.
What an adventure life with her will be.
The End
And that's all she wrote on these two. I'm so thankful you've all embraced them as I did. It means a lot to me.
A few random end notes.
Credit for EditorWard's book title goes to my PA AGoodWitch, who came up with the gem of a title you read in this chapter.
She also helped name Baby Cullen and listens to my rants on the daily.
I'm sure y'all have thoughts and opinions, and before I click "complete" on this I wanted to explain a couple things. It's not important for our gang to know why Kate and her father did what they did. They are spoiled, rich, entitled people who think they can manipulate others just because, and they're arrogantly stuck in the belief that rules don't apply to them, so they'll get away with whatever. Well, turns out that isn't always the case. But Bella nailed the diagnosis for that lot while they were remodeling the bathroom. Kate is an arrogant narcissist. It's all about her. She wants the adoration and attention, and doesn't care that her obsessions are unwarranted or convey other meanings to the people around her. She's also not used to people telling her no. Which is why Edward's pointed refusal to give her the time of day again made her so insistent in trying to mess up his life. But since she's an oblivious bitch, she didn't realise that fixating on Edward for the wrong reasons would alienate Lauren. Good riddance to bad trash, I say.
Some hinted at wanting to see a wedding scene. I had to refrain from handing out spoilers - because this story has been entirely written for a while (since I started posting it, FYI), I couldn't and wouldn't change the way things go in the story. There are a LOT of fanfic weddings. We've seen it all. For these two, experiencing the "day of" was less important, IMHO, than seeing their lives blending together. And that's why you got a glimpse of their wedding, but not the thing itself. If it helps, I also have it on good authority that no, Bella wouldn't wear a dress even on that day ;-)
What's next? Head over to LaMomo's Lair on FB to find out (type it in the search bar). We're in Italy for another week, then I'm giving my team a bit of a break so I can bank more chapters of my WIPs. But this is what I'm actively working on right now:
1. Shape the Narrative, LawyerWard sequel to Correct the Narrative. This will hopefully debut in a month or so, depending on how writing goes.
2. Dreams Unwind, a RockerWard story. I'm in the middle of writing it and I'm hoping to debut it in the new year.
THANK YOU FOR READING AND REVIEWING!