From: Marcia Stewart

Date: Mon, Nov 30, 2008 at 12:07 PM

Subject: RE: Quick Question

To: Esme MacDonald

Hi Esme,

Let me say this was not an easy request dear sister. The hospital protects its donors' request for privacy and they originally said they could not give me any info about where the miracle fund came from for Chase (who sends his love to you as always). But because you seemed very insistent, I kept calling them with other questions…made a very nice story about needing to thank whoever it was. It was quite moving, if I do say so myself.

Anywho, the long and the short of it is that I was finally able to get them to give me information. The funds are coming from a Montgomery Trust account. Does that satisfy your insatiable curiosity? I did a brief internet search and there is a very wealthy Montgomery family up in New York City that are mega-billionaires. Perhaps it is the same one?

Please do not let me know if you need anything else. I am exhausted from that request.

There is a job fair that I am going to tomorrow. Only a few employers will be there with only a few positions open. There are some roles in the call center of a credit card company that I have applied for…I'll keep you updated.

Hope all is well on the Isle. Give Jasper a kiss from his auntie.

MS

~O~

In front of Edward lay his marriage certificate, his wife's medical record, a business plan for Sleat, and a tumbler of whisky.

Isabella was asleep in the bedroom, her pain meds making her powerless to fight the drowsy side effects they induced.

Dr. Williams had kept Isabella in the hospital for another 24 hours to monitor her before giving her approval for Edward to take her home. Williams had diagnosed her with a mild concussion on top of everything and wanted to do a nuero check before she released her. The doctor had a closed-door conversation with Isabella before she agreed, and while Edward didn't know exactly the specifics, he would not be surprised if it had anything to with the curious way the doctor had been looking at him.

The drive to Skye was quiet. Edward bundled her up in the blankets that Esme and Carlisle had left when they dropped off his vehicle the day before. Within minutes, Isabella had her eyes closed. While he wasn't sure if she was asleep or not, he did not dare disturb her rest.

Instead, he drove with a deep frown on his face as he planned their next few days.

He would have to take at least a few days off work. Jasper and Carlisle would have to cover at Sleat. He knew that he just barely had the funds to pay Jasper's unplanned extra wages for the few days, but he would have to make do. Sleat needed to stay open for the small tours and they needed to continue to package and ship the bottles to meet what little demand there was.

With paying Jasper, there was not much left of the budget for him to take home to his own household.

Edward thought about his dad, explaining why Carlisle had only been so happy to turn the reins to his brother when they had returned from Glasgow. "It's a great stress to be the one in charge, Edward. Ye bear the brunt of the hardship and at the end of the day, ye are the last one to get paid."

With a sigh, Edward shook his head and refocused on the road.

The sun was already below the horizon when they arrived back to his house on the Trotternish Peninsula. Granted, at that time of year, the dark settled before most people ate dinner.

When Edward had parked the car and she had remained asleep, he had gotten out of the car and gone over to her side of the vehicle. Moving cautiously, as if she might break, or at the very least start bleeding, he slid his arms under the crook of her knees and behind her back, easily lifting her small frame out of the car.

As soon as he moved, she stirred against him.

"Aye, I've got ye."

And they crossed the threshold of the house in the traditional bridal style.

It was perhaps one of the only proper things they had done throughout their marriage.

Isabella seemed to be caught in between consciousness and unconsciousness, moving her head slightly as he walked her to her bed but not allowing her eyes to open.

Getting her under the duvet and sheets of her bed presented a challenge. Putting immense faith in the strength of his quad muscles, Edward bent down and with the hand under her knees, pulled back the blankets. Bella turned her head into his chest and mumbled but otherwise did not wake up. He got her settled into the bed and left a note on her bedside to call if she needed anything.

As soon as he shut the door to the bedroom, he let his head fall against it while all the air in his lungs escaped.

Then, he made his way to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff dram.

He was on his third now.

Esme or Alice must have brought his mail in when they picked up his car. He opened several bills, wincing at the amount demanded of him with each statement. The past few months had him scraping the bottom of the savings accounts left over from the deaths of both of his parents.

It would not hold much longer.

It was a surprise then, when the large envelope turned out not to be a bill, but rather his marriage certificate, officially arriving from the Scottish government.

A part of him was surprised that it had arrived at all. The strings Carlisle had pulled in order to allow them to be wed in such a quick time were dubious at best and fraud at worst.

Edward was still concerned about the registrar, an old Fitzgibbons, that had "expedited" their paperwork as Carlisle had said. Edward was fully aware that such things couldn't typically be expedited but he had too much of a coward to ask if his uncle had encouraged an innocent third party to break the law on his behalf. On their behalf. On Sleat's behalf.

Yet, here was an official document from the government that allowed him to let out a breath of relief.

He looked down at the plain silver band on his left hand. It had been his grandfather's ring that had been passed to his mother when her father had died. It had been the only thing in the house at the time of their nuptials.

Its twin was on Isabella's left hand.

It was entirely for the sake of appearance that they wore them but looking at that marriage certificate prompted him to give the ring a hard stare.

The paper in front of them boldly and formally declared them man and wife.

The set of papers next to it were care instructions for his wife, details on how to heal from the miscarriage of another man's baby.

Edward had read them over multiple times and saw nothing other than rest and hydration as the main courses of treatment after her surgery. The small set of stitches would need to be removed in a week at the local medical center. If she had any cramping, she was to call Dr. Williams immediately.

He was relatively certain that he had the words memorized.

What he was not certain of was how he had ended up here, staring at the papers with his whisky and a knotted stomach.

He knew that she was not really his wife.

He had known her less than 24 hours before they had promised love and fidelity to each other. Even despite their wedding night, she couldn't really be his wife. He told himself he was under no illusions that she had romantic ulterior motives, or any motives beyond trying to keep Sleat in the hands of its rightful owner and its rightful legacy.

So why did the care instructions mock him?

Why did he have a deep pit in his stomach as he thought about her with another man?

Why did he want to demand answers from her when he wasn't sure he really wanted to know?

Why did he both want to hit something and hold her tightly?

Edward tossed back the rest of the glass, attempting to force the burn to dissolve the hard knot in his stomach.

At best, he reasoned, it was a one night stand she was coming from, a casual fling that had fizzled out.

At worst, she was running from the man whom she had conceived with.

In the middle, perhaps she was a very high end and successful prostitute. It may explain the money.

Edward didn't know if he wanted to know. He was deeply fearful that uncovering the truth from her would send her away.

Or it would be more sinister and unlawful than that.

The possibility that he may be an unknowing bigamist had not escaped his attention.

Yet, also on the stack of papers he had found on his dining table was a notebook full of scribbles, with random loose pieces of paper bulging out of its contents. When he opened it, he identified Bella's neat and sprawling handwriting immediately. All of the pages were detailed with information about Sleat.

As he read, he had realized that it was her plan.

She had pricing strategies for their UK, broader European, and American markets, both for the short term and the long term, neatly lined out in columns. She had planned distribution schedules to minimize costs and meet demands. She had done research of niche markets in Asia and had plans to aggressively market and distribute the Scotch there. She had advertising plans for their tours, including potential packages with the seafood shack near Sleat and accommodations at the Isles Inn. She had proposed extended contracts with tour companies like Rabbie's – a whole list of the company with contact information. She even had employee planning to correspond with the time she expected it would take the economy to begin to increase its demand for whisky again.

Nothing other than his eyes had moved as he read it all. He stayed stone still, shocked at the complexity, detail, and thought that she had put into the extensive scribbled plan.

Upon reaching the end of the notebook, he had merely swallowed, forcing the movement against his dry throat.

He had been sure that she was intelligent.

He was surprised that she was brilliant.

It made him want to call Emmett and wave the notebook in his face. It still bothered him that his brother had attacked his decision of trusting her, despite his presence at the hospital as a peace declaration. Emmett's questioning had made him question his own judgment in trusting her, something he was sure his brother had picked up on, damn him.

Especially with the offer from Diageo, he had been less and less sure about his wife.

Edward reached for the blended malt and poured himself another glass, his eyes passing the care instructions as he reached.

No, he would not ask her about it.

The last in a string of brief chapters. As I am certainly to be reminded by some reviewers of the word and chapter count of the story thus far, I am thinking about how the best things take time, whisky being one of them.

All the love. Be well.