The scathing critiques she had been reading filled her veins with the bitter venom of self-righteous vindication. Seeing her nemesis autobiography so relentlessly torn to shreds brought Esme to the brink of a delirious state of euphoria which happened to be a stark contrast to the vague aloofness instilled in her since birth. However, she decided to put good manners aside for the time being since there were no witnesses to her little lapse in judgment.
Swirling the wine glass, Esme inhaled the rich aroma of the Coche-Dury Corton Charlemagne, vintage 1996, and allowed her mind to drift back to the unusual man she had so fiercely supported earlier that evening. Her eyes strayed to the book that tauntingly lay unopened on the escritoire on the left corner of the room. She had bought it on a whim, but never had found the courage to actually get to know the woman she had hated for the past twenty two years.
Although she was loath to admit it, Esme feared she would feel a measure of compassion for the other woman … perhaps, even admiration, like she had felt for the young man today. And she didn't want it, for hate was everything she had left. Once again, she regretted the decision to enroll in the writing class. She had done it on a whim, because there were rumors that Bella would be a guest speaker.
Esme couldn't explain why her thirst for justice hadn't yet been appeased. All she knew was she still wasn't satisfied, she still hadn't made peace with the past. She needed to confront Bella, to hurt her, to draw more blood … Maybe then, she would find the will to become the paragon of serenity that breeding demanded her to be.
Drinking the wine without really tasting it, Esme smiled bitterly. The crackling fire in the hearth did little to appease the violent cold that seemed to be her constant companion. The house's temperature was modulated to fit into what was pleasant and polite—the fragility of her decaying body was a private shame. Appearances, that's all her life was about …
That's why she couldn't afford the luxury of turning up the heater in her own home. Sighing she joylessly dressed for her next appointment. Her wardrobe was comprised of a never ending sequence of bland tones and conservative cuts – whatever she chose to wear, she would look pretty much the same. Did she lose her vanity as she grew older or had she always been like that? Abandoning those unladylike musings she left without giving a second thought to her appearance.
The tea party she was attending was the epitome of elegance and good taste. The richly decorated room reeked of old money and outdated mannerisms; its occupant's faces wore the eternal mask of faint disapproval so peculiar to the higher ranks of society. Nobody seemed to care about the charity they were fundraising for—their minds were too busy dissecting the latest gossip while their eyes eagerly followed the subject of such distasteful activity.
Unfortunately for Esme she was the one being covertly scrutinized by the other ladies. She'd known her earlier slip wouldn't go unpunished; however she never predicted the delight they would take on her downfall. Was showing empathy towards another human being such a heinous crime to merit so much recrimination? Feeling slightly hurt and overwhelmingly angry, Esme retraced her steps to the entrance, taking a coward's way out of an uncomfortable situation.
She had always strived to be a model of dignity and deportment, but her efforts proved to be in vain. The truth, inexorable and acid, made itself known, at last. A Southern Belle born out of new money would never be regarded as a social equal by the arrogant northern dragons of society who, apparently, still hadn't been informed that the Civil War was over.
Pride kept her from crumbling, but on the inside she was engulfed by agony – without the distractions provided by social engagements, the rest of her life stretched ahead, long and unfeeling.
Weeks passed without her ever leaving the house. The few callers she had during that time were gently, but firmly denied entrance to what she now called her mausoleum. Truth was Esme lacked the motivation to engage in mindless chatter, as well as the focus to effectively deflect their none too gentle probing. She was feeling tired and old; overwhelmed by a life she no longer wanted or valued. Not even sleep offered a reprieve from her dissatisfaction, for her dreams were of warm arms and a different life.
Her waking hours were spent wandering from room to room, seeking for anything that could justify a reprimand on one of her employees… just so she could interact with another human being. However, they had been trained by her, therefore they were as close to infallible as humanly possible. Trapped inside a gilded cage made out of her own poor decisions, Esme felt desperation creeping in. The mind was a terrible thing, for the idea of cutting her life short seemed to be growing on her.
The inane existence she had led so far had to come to an end one way or the other. Clutching her overpriced dress against her chest, she thought about all the crazy theories people had about the things money can't buy. However, privileged woman that she was, she knew the answer all too well – a meaningful life was something that had to be built and earned, no amount of riches could get her that. She thought back to the young man with the horrible life and she felt sorrow for a woman she had never met. A woman abandoned by the only man who had ever loved her, doomed to lay on a bed unconscious, because her psychiatric condition prevented her from acknowledging the life that went on around her. Smiling suddenly, Esme gathered her purse and left the house. Maybe two pointless existences could give meaning to each other.
Although she wasn't sure about the name of the Institution she meant to visit, she had a pretty good hunch about its location. A long street lined with lilies of the valley ended in a property circled with tall walls. There was no need to read the sign to know she had found the correct site. She remembered running a benefit for that institution a couple of years before—despite its high standards, the patients didn't pay a penny for their treatment. Back then she had been too preoccupied with her crumbling marriage to pay much attention to the man who ran the place. Now she regretted her lack of attention — knowing the director's name would surely help in being granted access to the woman she meant to visit.
Sighing, Esme wavered in her resolution—it would be so much more comfortable turning back on her heels and forgetting the whole thing … At that moment, she felt the return of her backbone. Squaring her shoulders, she marched towards the tall gates guarding the interns from the prying eyes of the outside world. Although she couldn't see beyond the tightly placed bars, Esme somehow knew the place was surrounded by a meadow filled with the same flowers that adorned the lane that had brought her there.
One deep breath before starting the rest of her life … and Esme rang the intercom.
Every day Dr. Banner spent at least one hour observing the girl he had failed. He could never bring himself to actually enter the room, preferring to stay outside watching her through the glass walls. The staff's curious glances had lasted for a couple of months, until they had simply given up understanding his behavior. Had he been asked for an explanation, Dr. Banner wouldn't have been able to offer a proper explanation. His feelings went beyond what was professionally acceptable: she had become an obsession, although not of the sexual kind. The girl surely was pretty enough, but she'd never stirred his desire.
Throughout his long career, Dr. Banner had lost a fair share of patients to whatever mental illness ailed them. However, his inability to salvage at least a bit of lucidity for someone who had suffered as much as Rosalie was a bitter pill to swallow. Once he had been so consumed by the crusade to save her that he had sacrificed his marriage, for he had failed to comply with his wife's request for him to abandon Rosalie's case. Eventually, his wife decided that all the money that came with him wasn't enough to make up for his constant absence anymore—she found herself a new provider and asked for a divorce.
The walk down memory lane was interrupted by the shrill voice of the nurse whose name he never seemed to remember. The message she delivered was so startling he had to ask her to repeat it. Annoyed and obviously calling him senile inside her head, she spoke in a louder voice.
"Doctor Banner, there is a woman outside asking for entrance. She said she wanted to visit the girl who believed herself dead, but she couldn't remember the name of the patient."
He was about to deny the strange woman entrance, when curiosity got the best of him.
Sitting behind his desk, Dr. Banner barely had the time to conceal his surprise at the identity of the woman who had just walked into his office. He remembered her from a fundraiser that had been shoved down his throat years ago. The institution didn't need it and he sure as hell didn't want it, but there wasn't any reasonable explanation for his denial. Besides, a touch of deviltry had him curious about people's reaction to his sudden reappearance. Sadly, he was as unremarkable as he'd always feared and nobody seemed to remember him—as long as he went by his mother's surname, he was of no consequence to people.
Inviting her to sit, he couldn't help but noticing her elegance and poise. She certainly knew how to dress appropriately for her age—he couldn't stand grown women who tried to dress as teenagers. Her figure was still slim—all long limbs and discreet curves. Although lined from the passage of time, her face was still as lovely as he remembered, his finger itching to explore it. She wore her hair white, but surprisingly it didn't give her a matronly air—it simply complimented her natural beauty.
His musings were interrupted by Esme gently clearing her throat. Her expectant eyes were fixed on him and he cursed the warmth he suddenly felt on his cheeks. What kind of man blushed at the age of sixty five? Embarrassed, he regarded her warily. She seemed to have missed his sad display of juvenile infatuation. Fighting to regain control over his unexpected bolt of lust, Dr. Banner reminded himself that he was a man with a secret, faced with a woman who had the means to uncover it.
"You made an unusual request, Mrs. …?"
It was a childish antic, but pretending not to recognize her was the best way to buy himself some time to come up with an strategy to deal with her.
"Actually, nowadays I go by Ms. Platt."
Her status as a divorcée shouldn't have elicited any reaction from him, much less one as visceral as the one he was experiencing. Being a grown man he was fully aware of its meaning, however he couldn't fathom why he felt attracted to her. The woman before him was the quintessential socialite, the bastion of a world he had left behind long ago. Women like her only cared about financial reports and social status—they had no warmth, no altruistic feelings, no capacity for anything deeper than lust. He'd already had one like her and it was more than enough.
Unbidden memories of his ex-wife assaulted his brain. Renata had been the sweet promise of something real in the world of plastic perfection and cold emotions he had been born into. Naively, he took her into his heart and surrendered the contents of his pocket without question, never inquiring the nature of her feelings for him. Soon enough he realized that Renata was the epitome of a self-centered woman — her sparse shows of affection were poor rewards for the absurd demands she made on his time.
He spent miserable years catering to Renata's every whim, until the day she crossed all lines and he refused to follow her orders. Unsurprisingly, she found herself another wealthy arm candy leaving him alone, disillusioned and bitter. He never remarried preferring to dedicate his time and attention to the mentally ill. As for female company, he never lacked it since he always made sure to pay them handsomely.
Uncertain and a little afraid, he was at a loss on how to deal with Ms. Platt.
Swayed by the glimpse of raw need he saw in her eyes while she recounted the tale of how and why she was there, Dr. Banner found himself guiding Esme through the institution's intricate labyrinth of corridors. There was no need for him to accompany her, but he simply couldn't help himself. Grimacing in derision, he fought a wave of nausea against his behavior, for he could barely believe that after all his bitter experiences, it took only a pleading look from an attractive woman to turn him into a puppet.
Looking at the woman beside him, he tried to imagine the havoc she most likely had wreaked on her former spouse's life. However, try as he might, he couldn't picture her as a money-grubbing trophy wife — there was an aura of dignity around her that thwarted his harsh assumptions. Irritated beyond belief, he would have turned on his heels after ushering her into Rosalie's room, had she not asked him a difficult question.
It wasn't unexpected, but it was unsettling, nevertheless. Although ethics dictated he should have refrained from answering her, his damned male instinct to please a female he fancied had him disclosing information that should have been kept private.
"A colleague of mine diagnosed her with an extreme case of Cotard Syndrome whereas I believe she is experiencing severe depression. He suggested electroconvulsive therapy, but I disagree—given time the antipsychotics, mood stabilizers and antidepressants should do the trick and bring her back to reality."
The dismay evident on her face was a sentiment he shared. There was nothing he wanted less than submitting Rosalie to another trauma, but the decision was not in his hands.
"You won't allow him to electroshock her, will you, Carlisle?"
As the name escaped the confines of Esme's trembling lips, a memory tugged at the back of her mind, demanding to be freed from the constraints of time and tell a story that needed to be known. Gazing into Carlisle's eyes, she repeated his name, seeking for some hint as to what she should be remembering. For one infinite moment, the threads of their bruised hearts entwined in an elemental level and they sensed the truth of each other's soul. Preconceptions fell to the ground—they were bared to the very core, vulnerable to rejection, eager for acceptance.
It was one of those rare moments that seldom happened in real life, but it wasn't meant to last. Unnerved by feelings he couldn't name, Carlisle looked away and tried to steady his racing heart. He was a man of science used to dealing in the realm of tangible things, overwhelmed by the illogicality of knowing a truth he couldn't rationalize. Filling his lungs with a fortifying breath, he looked in Esme's general direction, carefully avoiding her eyes.
Informing Esme of the intricacies of the situation, he tried to remain as detached as possible, but it wasn't meant to be. A simple touch of her hand on his coat's sleeve, a word of concern for a woman she barely knew and Carlisle's resolve to escape Esme crumbled into tiny pieces blown away by the wind of hope.
Over the next months they became friends of sorts. He observed her as she gently cared for Rosalie and then they talked as he escorted her out of the facility. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when the cerebral man felt instinct take over. Before his natural shyness could overcome the unusual impulse urging him to say the unthinkable, the words were already out of his mouth.
"Ms. Platt, I hope I don't come out as too forward, but I would love to see you again. Outside of hospital grounds, I mean."
The thrill of the chase left Carlisle's body and he was once again rendered awkward and speechless before the beautiful woman he liked. Her only response was a sharp intake of breath followed by the uncomfortable silence that usually preceded a gentle let down. Discouraged by her diffident demeanor, he was about to withdraw the invitation when he felt the touch of her hand on his bare skin.
Esme hadn't been aware of moving until she was assaulted by the undercurrent of longing unleashed by the feeling of Carlisle's hand beneath hers. Unconsciously sensing his hurt over her reticence, she couldn't bear the thought of him putting walls between them—it seemed wrong and unnatural. Besides, she hungered for the warmth of human contact after having been deprived for so long.
A cacophony of past hurts whispered against her heart's desire to take a leap of faith and believe the doctor's good intentions. Indecision gripped her mind, locking her in a state of anguished expectancy. Fighting against the dread threatening to take over her, Esme raised her eyes and met Carlisle's uncertain gaze.
And she understood she wouldn't be the only one taking a risk. In fact, at that moment she could swear Carlisle shared her doubts and fears, but unlike her he'd had the courage to defy his shy nature and reach out to her.
However, doubt still lingered. Was it possible for a sixty five year old woman to love again?
The multitude of emotions playing in her too expressive eyes had Carlisle racking his brain for a way to help her decide. Even to his emotionally impaired self it was blatantly clear that her hesitancy wasn't born out of distaste for him, but rather as a result of a painful past. Come to think of it, he had a vague recollection of reading about some sort of scandal regarding her divorce. For a woman as reserved as she seemed to be that ought to be the worst kind of torture.
"We are not dead, you know. And even if we were, who's to say the dead can't find solace in each other?"
Had he any doubt as to the idiocy of his remark, the unmistakable stiffening of her spine would have confirmed it. A woman who had been hurt by an uncaring husband wouldn't take lightly to being linked to some sort of second rate choice. Cringing in dismay, he forced his eyes to search her face for a clue on how he could salvage the situation.
Before his wary eyes, the anger contorting Esme's face melted away and amusement took its place. Disconcerted by her changing moods, he could only stare in dumbfounded silence while she laughed delicately.
"You surely choose your words poorly, Dr. Banner."
"That, my darling, is the male's curse. And, please, call me Carlisle."
"Carlisle. What are you doing tonight?"
Fighting to maintain her dignity through the giddy feeling threatening to overcome her natural sense of reservation, Esme looked at the mirror and wondered … Would he be pleased with the result of her efforts? Would he appreciate her understated makeup and sober clothes? Would he overlook her flaws? But more importantly: could he desire her?
After so many years being nothing more than a lady, the sudden possibility of being a woman once again was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. But against her own expectations Esme wanted it with a desperation that bordered on insanity. It had been hard admitting it, even to herself, but once she had, Esme took the reins of the situation, actively pursuing what she wanted.
Chuckling at the recollection of the timid doctor, Esme felt a surge of tenderness wash over her. His guileless behavior was extremely attractive after the years she had spent surrounded by men who were always playing games. Startled, Esme realized she had grown weary of navigating through high society and all its trappings—she yearned for a different life, filled with real laughter and true bonds.
Not for the first time Esme questioned her mother's motives to push her towards a life so different from the one in which she had been raised. Memories of the real affection between her parents brought tears to her eyes—it was too late for her to experience the joys of motherhood, but maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have to spend the remainder of her years alone.
The seed of a dream had been sown and hope started to grow within her forgotten heart.
The rules of courtship were a mystery to Carlisle. It had been years since his last attempt at wooing a woman and even his younger self hadn't been much better at engaging a female's attention. Much to his consternation he felt sweat covering his cold hands while he searched the Internet for answers—it really didn't help, if anything it only increased his anxiety. Adding to it was the little matter of his deception—should he tell her who he truly was? Did he want to tell her?
No, he didn't. He wanted to be appreciated for himself, not for the money or the prestige attached to the Cullen surname. However, he feared hurting her by withholding information—if the relationship between them blossomed, wouldn't she feel betrayed by his silence? What was the lesser of these two evils? More importantly, would she ever forgive him?
Age was supposed to bring some measure of wisdom, but for Carlisle it merely enhanced the never ending string of self-doubt ingrained in the very core of his soul. For all intents and purposes he was an accomplished doctor, well respected and vastly known for his charitable work, but only his pillow knew of the solitude gnawing at his heart and the feelings of worthlessness torturing his mind.
With a frantic heart and constricted lungs, he made his way to Esme's home. A decision had been made and he was determined to see it through. Today he would be a brave man and take a chance on a better future.
Esme knew she should be frowning in disapproval at the over the top offerings, but in fact she was slightly amused and vastly flattered. Wine, flowers, chocolate and even a teddy bear—her date had spared no efforts in trying to gain her good favor. She would have thought him a smooth talker if he hadn't been absolutely tongue tied and blushing which was oddly sweet and very reassuring—he obviously wasn't a man used to dating many women.
However, something was off with Carlisle. He seemed to be exceedingly nervous and fidgety … Perhaps he wasn't comfortable dining at her home? Cursing herself, Esme wondered for the hundredth time why she hadn't chosen to meet him at a restaurant. Deep down she knew it was because she wanted to avoid her acquaintances—she was aware that they would ridicule her for pursuing a romantic entanglement at her old age. But there were certain things that were better left unacknowledged.
Carlisle's uneasiness made for stilted conversion and awkward silences—not even a hostess as gracious as Esme was able to smooth the tense atmosphere surrounding the lavish table. No matter how charming or witty she tried to be, Carlisle's only reply was an absent sort of smile, almost as if he were apologizing for not being really there. Eventually, she gave up and concentrated on enjoying the scrumptious food.
Lamenting the colossal failure of a night that had held so much promise, Esme almost missed the whispered words of Carlisle's pained confession.
"There is something you have to know."
To say hundreds of horrifying scenarios played before Esme's eyes wouldn't be an exaggeration. However, only one image rang with the undeniable colors of truth—he wasn't free to be with her. The pain of her ex-husband's deception made itself known by whispering derogatory comments about her foolishness in believing the lies of another player. Indignation flared, almost clouding Esme's judgment. She stood proud and self-righteous, ready to purge her home from the man who dared to drag her through his filth when she took a good look at him.
As reason sipped through the haze of anger, Esme saw that whatever secret Carlisle held was terrifying enough to reduce a man who had seen his fair share of deviant human behavior to a trembling imitation of a person. Would it be fair of her to simply toss him out before she heard the actual words? What if she were wrong? Was he a convicted felon? How big was this secret he meant to tell her? Did she want to know? Furthermore, did he really want to tell her?
A part of her wanted to turn away from the entire situation, believing it would be better this way. However a bigger, wiser part knew it wouldn't be better, simply easier, less complicated … and much, much less interesting.
There were many things that could be said about Esme Platt, but coward wasn't one of them.
"Are you married or otherwise involved with another woman?"
"What? No! I'm completely unattached."
"Are you a serial killer?"
"WHAT?"
"It's a fair question. I read somewhere that psychiatrists are the craziest of people."
"Are we really having this conversation?"
"A convict felon, perhaps?"
"No and no. And again, what?"
He felt aggravated by the unexpected course their conversation had taken. As usual, the agitated mood brought forth his worst personality traits: belligerence, lack of verbal filter, the instinct to strike first as a self-protection maneuver—he was a cornered animal overcome by irrational responses. He was ready to pounce when something about the woman he meant to overpower gave him pause. Maybe it was the hint of vulnerability or the insinuation of steel, but whatever the unnamed quality was, it made Carlisle hesitate long enough for reason to return.
Surprisingly, his mind didn't stay in the moment, instead it drifted to the past. Suppressed memories of the only mother figure he had ever known came to the forefront of his mind. Huilen, his illegal immigrant babysitter, the romantic woman who spent hours educating him in the matters of the heart. "She will whisper to your soul. She will make you want to be better and make you feel three feet tall at the same time. By her side, you will become everything you are meant to be", Huilen used to say with such burning passion that the words had been imprinted in his brain even though they had been forgotten for so long.
And she was right. So right.
The first stirrings of recognition were already there, but Esme's following words sang to Carlisle's heart—and it responded in kind composing a melody as timeless as the soul, as fathomless as the human ability to dream of the divine.
"Carlisle, your answer is no to everything that truly concerns me. Whatever secret you are keeping is obviously painful and I don't want to see you suffer. You will tell me if and when you feel comfortable, all right?"
It was the final straw: Carlisle came undone.
Of all the confessions Esme expected to hear, a mere story about a different surname and an unhappy marriage to an unsuitable mate was the most harmless possibility her overactive brain had concocted. She couldn't help herself: she laughed merrily. Not because she was belittling Carlisle's heartfelt admissions, but out of despair over the ugliness of the secrets she now felt compelled to share. How would he feel about her once he knew the ugliness of her past? The pettiness of her actions? The resentment in her heart?
Gazing into his open, honest, inquisitive eyes, she told him everything. Between laughter and tears she spilled the pain of her husband's betrayal, the glory of taking revenge, the bitterness of finding no satisfaction. She couldn't bear to see the revulsion on his face, so she turned her back and waited for the sound of the closing door, but it never came.
"Don't expect to chase me away. I'm not leaving. Not now, not ever."
Old habits die hard. Against Esme's better judgment, despite her unexpected faith in Carlisle, darkness sipped into her heart whispering harsh words of mistrust.
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
Recognizing her steely posture, Carlisle contemplated what his next move should be. His mind had a very clear idea, but his heart viciously rebelled against it. In the end, he decided to be rational, for there was too much at stake to allow his tender feelings to dictate his actions. Besides, if there was something he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was that his capacity for logical thinking surpassed his emotional intelligence by a long shot.
"The ball is in your court. Come to me when you are ready to open your heart."
After uttering these words, he left, praying for a deity in which he never really believed in to prove his theory right.
At first she was angry, but as the days passed by Esme found herself mourning the loss of someone she never really had. Feeling foolish and heartbroken, she tried to push him away from her mind by going back to a life that had never brought her any real joy, except for the time she spent with Rosalie, but even then her happiness was marred by his deliberate absence. It made no difference, though—no matter how hard she tried, nothing could mask the grief choking her weeping heart.
However, she wouldn't be deterred. She made discreet enquires and eventually found the name of someone who could help her. As she entered his practice, Esme thought about the irony of seeing a psychiatrist in order to forget another one. Maybe there was something truly off with her, because she found herself laughing hysterically at her odd joke.
As she sat and waited for her name to be called, she wondered if maybe she shouldn't just bite the bullet and go to him. But pride was a terrible thing and hers had been badly bruised by his withdrawal, leaving her argumentative and self-righteous. Maybe she should ask the doctor to help her work through her issues, so that she could be with Carlisle. Or maybe she should stop overanalyzing …
At that moment all her thoughts came to a halt, for the patient stepping out of the doctor's office was none other than her archenemy. Pure, unadulterated hate coursed through her veins, but instead of reciting a litany of chosen expletives, Esme bit her tongue. Truth was she was tired of wasting her energies in hating a woman who was nothing more than a stranger.
Oh, there were things she wanted to say and, by God, she would say them. And then she would work on forgetting all about Isabella.
Bella smiled. Not out of mirth or disdain, rather because it was over. The dread, the anticipation, the endless self-flagellation … it ended today, after confronting the casualty of her ascension to a better life. In the beginning she hadn't given much thought to her new husband's former wife, however as the years passed and Bella regained some measure of morality, the memory of Esme's broken, accusing eyes never left her mind. She even felt bad about denying Esme the sweet satisfaction of a well delivered revenge, for her overtaking the company had been the key that opened Bella's heart to a new, better, brighter life.
However, Bella was just a human being who couldn't help but feel a little bit bitter about the way Esme overtook the company that once had been her life.
"You took the company away from me."
The accusation lacked the power of true anger, nevertheless Esme seemed to be taken aback. But she was a lady through and through—it didn't take her long to regain her composure.
"Tell me, honey: how does it feel to be deprived from something you truly care about? To lose your reason to live?"
The almost angelical expression on Esme's face was betrayed by the glint of malice in her eyes. Bella was taken aback by the hatred she glimpsed in the other woman's face. Her mind worked frantically to understand Esme's reasons, but to no avail. A barely audible whisper escaped her lips.
"Why?"
Of course, Esme listened. At that moment, she burned hotter than the blazes of hell, brighter than the lights of heaven. She was an ethereal creature ready to teach humanity a lesson, to impart a simple, but inescapable truth.
"You took him away from me."
The statement was so simple and yet was so filled with emotion that Bella was rendered speechless for long seconds. Eventually, she found the courage to ask the only question that mattered—depending on the answer, she would finally be free from the guilt tormenting her for the past twenty two years. Or not.
"Did you love him?"
Did she love Marcus?
No, not now.
Had she ever loved him?
Try as she might, Esme couldn't remember a time when he had filled her mind with dreams, her heart with levity and her stomach with butterflies. She had felt complimented by his interest, flattered by being his chosen one, but first and foremost she had been absurdly elated at being able to prove her mother wrong.
She huffed in surprise, for the memory of her mother's teachings had been repressed for years now. She had been so focused on the happy memories that she had forgotten about her father's betrayal and her mother's bitterness over it. She had chosen to suppress the way her mother had repeated countless times that no man would ever be faithful to a wife.
And to think that she had been so proud of Marcus' unshakable loyalty to her …
She still remembered how her mother's almost demented eyes had glowed in satisfaction when she had been informed of her daughter's misfortune. Esme had found no understanding, no comfort, nothing warm in her mother's embrace …
Had it all been about pride? All these years, all the hurt she had felt … had it all been about her mother? Deep inside her heart, she writhed in pain for she knew that her conclusion was right.
It hadn't been about love.
It hadn't been about Marcus.
It had been about her mother … who had been betrayed by her father.
It had never been about Esme's story. All this time her life had been guided by hurts inflicted to another woman, but not anymore — she would take control of her own life. But first she had to deal with the recipient of the hate that had never been her own.
"Isabella, it's over. You're nothing to me. From now on, I don't hate you, I don't love you … I simply don't care about you."
Esme left towards her future, leaving behind a teary Bella who had finally been freed from the guilt that had tortured her for far too many years.
There was nothing crueler than tasting heaven only to be denied entrance. Worst of all: due to a decision made by none other than himself. Sweet agony was his only companion, for he was constantly waiting for his lady's return. But she never came, leaving him bitter, lonely and unable to find pleasure in another woman's body, solace in another female's lies.
Irritable and desolate, he dragged himself through the routine that had become a form of torture to him. He could barely stand to walk through the hospital's corridors, for he could almost hear the clicking of her heels following him. The sight of the patient, who had once been his obsession, now filled his heart with anguish. Therefore, he had ceased to spend more than five minutes gazing at her.
Nothing was the same and yet nothing had changed. Sometimes, Carlisle wondered if the changes in him were visible to the outsiders. But then he remembered he had no close friends or family, no one who cared, no one who paid attention … Once or twice, his pillow witnessed the extent of his weakness, for he spilled some tears of sorrow …
Sorrow for all the little things that had led him here … Sorrow for what could have been … Sorrow for an attraction that wasn't given the chance to blossom into love … Sorrow for the foolishness of his decision … But above all, he felt sorrow for the loneliness both him and Esme would have to endure.
However, as life is wont to do, he was in for a wondrous surprise, for Esme was about to reenter his life with all the subtlety of a storm.
The pounding of her feet against the tiles of the sterile floor was a perfect counterpoint to the steady cadence of her heart. The physical exertion didn't affect Esme's body, for it was attuned to her emotions and those were calm, centered, sure. Her erratic breathing didn't stop her from laughing and smiling while crying tears of pure bliss. She wasn't perfectly groomed, neither was she perfectly poised—appearances were unimportant when one was running towards the future.
Impatience bloomed within her chest and she hastened her steps. Precious time had already been wasted and she felt the need to start a new existence. No, she thought, she would no longer merely exist—she would finally, finally start living. Not being dead wasn't enough to qualify one's existence as living. A life needed colors and enthusiasm, laughter and tears. And above all, insane, inexcusable, inexplicable, undeniable, immeasurable love … lots and lots of it.
She was panting, sweating and her eyeliner was running down her face when she saw him. For a second she faltered, the old doubts once again rearing their ugly little heads, but she looked them in the eye and dismissed every single one of them. That's how strong she had become in the short spam between entering the doctor's office and finishing her talk with Bella—she no longer shoved her doubts aside, she confronted them.
Moving on she ran into Carlisle's back, how he hadn't heard her approaching she would never know. Esme threw her arms around his neck and awkwardly tried to wrap her legs around him while clumsily kissing his nape, but they fell to the ground. At the sound of Carlisle's moan of pain, Esme burst out laughing.
"Perhaps we are a bit too old to indulge in such extravagant demonstrations of affection. I promise to watch my manners in our future interactions", Esme said as they gazed at each other, eyes wide open.
A whirlwind of thoughts, emotions and sensations almost robbed Carlisle of whatever sanity he had left. He was sprawled on the floor, panting, struggling to understand the meaning of the events preceding his fall and the implications of Esme's garbled speech. Any intellectual activity was impaired by the mere sight of her disheveled beauty, her animated face, her exuberant smile.
All he could do was gaze at her with a plea in his eyes and a prayer on his lips—please, be here to stay. After the seventh or eighth time he'd quietly repeated this mantra, it finally downed on him. She'd said "our future interactions" … she had come back for good. His heart constricted painfully with sentiments he wasn't about to name, neither was he inclined to analyze. All that mattered was the return of hope and happiness personified in the woman staring back at him.
No, there wasn't the thrill of a romantic song on the background, time didn't stand still, the world didn't stop rotating … Yet, they kissed and the magic of the act wasn't diminished by the lack of theatricality, for it was special for the participants. Yes, it was slightly clumsy, a bit awkward, perhaps, but what they lacked in practice (it had been a long time for both of them) they made up in ardor, willingness and all of those giddy emotions so uncommon in a pair of would be lovers.
Eventually, the kiss came to an end. Not because they were disturbed by the curious glances of the senior staff, or the mocking giggles of the trainees, not even the dreaming sighs of the few romantic onlookers had penetrated their bubble of bliss, but rather they stopped kissing out of the necessity to voice their feelings.
"Thank you for waiting for me."
"Thank you for coming back to me."
Carlisle was ready to resume their previous activity, however, Esme needed to ask him a question, for she was really at a loss on what the answer might be. And she was the kind of woman who really needed to know. Some might call her a control freak; she would simply call herself cautious.
"Carlisle, what happens now?"
"Now, darling, we go about the business of falling in love."
And going about the business of falling in love they did, fearlessly braving the unknown territory of dating as mature adults. Once again, Carlisle was anxious … Now it was about the prospect of having to come up with ideas of fun, romantic dates. But this time around, the Internet came in handy, for it provided the answers he needed.
So it began the epic story of how Carlisle managed to sabotage his own attempts at wooing his ladylove.
...
Date 1 — The Dancing Lesson
The intimacy shared between the couple during a dancing session would extend to more pleasurable activities later on. At least that was the idea … was being the imperative word.
From the moment he had stepped into the studio, Carlisle realized it had been a huge mistake on his part. Every single man in the room looked lither, younger and more attractive than him. Besides, they knew how to dance and he … well, suffice to say that he ended up falling on his back. That earned him a trip to the E.R. and a night spent under observation. Worst of all, Esme wasn't allowed to stay with him.
So much for a night of carnal delights …
...
Date 2 — The Balloon Ride
There was nothing fun about having to fight the urge to puke. After the monumental fiasco of their first date, all Carlisle wanted was to prove to Esme that he could be a good company. The balloon ride had been such a promising idea … however, he had forgotten about the fact that he'd always felt nauseated when flying on a plane.
Carlisle should have had the wisdom to foresee that being on a tiny, unstable, unsafe flying device would enhance his stomach issues. Feeling positively green, he tried to put on a brave face. He kept telling himself "I will not cast my accounts over the basket; I will not cast my accounts over the basket".
He didn't cast his accounts over the basket—he did it inside the basket, ruining the food, the instructor's sneakers and Esme's expensive shoes.
So much for making her laugh …
...
Date 3 — The Picnic
It was a very secluded area of the park which allowed him to feed her the sensuous items he had selected for their meal. His mind was filled with the lurid images of how their encounter would proceed, of how he would entice her senses and tempt her libido … Yes, she would succumb and both of them would come out the winner.
Had his mind been less preoccupied he would have seen the approaching corgi and shooed it away. Instead, the mischievous animal had the time to do what it liked to do best: pee on women. The reasons for its preference were unknown, although Carlisle had a long string of unrepeatable words to express his frustration with the pet's behavior.
So much for seducing his lady …
...
Date 4 — The Movies
Grinding his teeth, Carlisle once again cursed the Gods who, apparently, hated him. How had this happened? It was supposed to be a French drama filled with sex scenes meant to put ideas in his lady's head, but, idiot that he was, he got the wrong address. Now, here they were, watching some stupid vampire movie surrounded by teenagers.
When the movie ended and he was giving thanks for coming out of the date mostly unscathed, a brawl irrupted and before he could help it he was swept away in the crowd. The police was called and Carlisle was arrested.
Obviously, he was the laughingstock at the precinct, for all of his fellow brawlers were young enough to be his grandsons. Add to that Esme's chuckles when she'd come to bail him out and the end result was a very grumpy Carlisle.
So much for enticing his woman …
...
Date 5 — The Restaurant
Abandoning the notion of trying to be creative, Carlisle decided to stick to tradition and adhere to the wisdom of generations of males that had preceded him. Tonight would be the night—nothing would go wrong. He would finally play it safe and maybe manage to make progress.
Boy, was he wrong … They weren't even sited when he tripped on his own foot and fell with his mouth over a man's lap, his mouth open and engulfing said man's private parts. Esme helped him up, after having a good laugh, one might add, which only enhanced his foul mood.
So much for keeping it simple …
...
Thus ends the string of failed dates to which Carlisle and Esme managed to survive. The story of their beginning was told many times in the future by a laughing Esme and a brooding Carlisle, but deep inside both of them knew the experience had only strengthened the bond between them.
Within the chest of every man, especially the ones from Carlisle's generation, lies a secret they fiercely try to conceal. It may come in the form of a fond memory, a repressed yearning or even an unspoken preference, but it's always there taunting their masculinity with whispers of the dreaded sexuality they'd rather not explore. Of course, once the few brave ones embrace their little peculiarities, they were surprised by the realization that they weren't fundamentally changed by the experience—they were merely happier, more truthful.
Carlisle held such a secret. It was a romantic fantasy where he danced with a faceless woman, listening to the most sublime love song he'd ever heard. For years, he felt like less of a man for developing such a fancy at the ripe age of thirty three. But now the woman was no longer faceless and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that, should he manage not to make a fool out of himself, it would be simply perfect. Yes, Carlisle was willing to embrace his feminine side if it meant presenting Esme with the ultimate dating experience. Or so he hoped.
The date was thoroughly planned. Flowers were delivered to her house, along with a beautiful gown (since he was not telling their destination, she wouldn't know what to wear) and a beautiful pair of comfortable heels. He had his car checked (he didn't want any surprises when he went to pick her up), he called his credit card company (just to be on the safe side) and asked his tailor to double sew his tuxedo (to prevent a wardrobe malfunction). Carlisle even double checked with the event's organization in order to assure himself that they wouldn't be attending a drag queen's performance or an impersonator's show, but fortunately he had bought the tickets for the real thing.
He needed not worry. The curse had been broken and everything went smoothly. Esme loved everything: from the elegant, yet simple (but very expensive) necklace he draped around her neck, to the air of mystery he kept while he drove and the revelation of how exclusive the event was going to be. But what truly had her jumping up and down, like a happy school girl, was knowing the name of the artist who would be singing—turns out Esme was a Carly Simon fan too.
They danced and gazed into each other's eyes. Romance was in the air, but when Carlisle heard the initial accords to "Coming Around Again", he couldn't help but bringing Esme that much closer and allow his eyes to gaze at her with much more intensity. For him the song was about getting a second chance at love … Why had he always loved this song? Maybe, somehow, he'd always known that the second time around would the one …
Right there, while Carly sang about believing in love, Carlisle kissed Esme. This time it wasn't mundane: it was theatrical, for he dipped her perilously low; it was magical, for that's how they chose to remember it and, of course, there was an amazing song playing in the background.
Little did Carlisle know that Esme had a surprise of her own planned for that night.
Esme was worried, nervous and unsure, but she invited him in anyway. For long minutes they conversed while she silently plotted the best way to achieve her goal. The fine art of enticing a man into her bed had once come naturally to her, but now she felt like a green girl. Maybe it was the side effect of being deprived of male companionship for over twenty two years. Just the thought of having a warm body over hers, inside hers, filled her with a fire that was hard to deny. Or hide.
"Esme, are you feeling all right?"
"Carlisle, will you please come to bed with me?"
Mortified, she closed her eyes. Why, oh, why did she have to blurt out such a question? Even if he didn't run out the door … wouldn't he accept just out of pity? Maybe he would think her a loose woman … Worst, maybe he would reject her … Maybe …
"Oh, thank God you asked. I'd never have the courage to do it."
Carlisle took Esme into his arms and enthusiastically kissed her, leaving no room to questions or even awkwardness. Passion flared, wild and timeless, careless of their age, of their past, of their insecurities. In the midst of their intense feelings, Esme had enough presence of mind to pull Carlisle up the stairs and into her bedroom. The elegantly decorated room was the only witness to the tentative kisses and caresses which led to the main event.
The act of baring their skin was done with some embarrassment from both parts, for their bodies were no longer firm and toned (things tended not to be where they used to be); their skin wasn't smooth (it carried the marks life had left) and because of all those other imperfections that tormented men and women alike. But Esme was perfect to Carlisle's eyes, as well as Carlisle couldn't have been more handsome to Esme's way of thinking and somehow both of them conveyed their thoughts to their partner. And being perfect for each other was all that mattered.
That night they made love for the first time.
But not for the last, not by a long shot.
Of course, people stared whenever they were out in public. The sight of their glowing happiness and flaring lust had people gasping in outrage, in awe, in amusement. Some wondered if their relationship was new or if they'd been together for many years. Nevertheless, every single observer, spiteful or not, had a little bit of jealousy in their hearts, for humanity's fondest desire was to love and be loved in return. Just like the grey haired couple attracting everyone's gaze.
Caught in the bliss of recently awakened love, they sat on the grass, gazing in each other's eyes, lost to the world around them. The absurdity of their game of improbable questions and illogical answers was only surpassed by the ridiculous amount of happiness they radiated. It was perfection, heaven, romance … everything good, at least that was Carlisle's opinion. At that moment he realized that what had been a promise just a while ago had materialized into the real thing.
They were in love. It was simple, marvelous, engaging, heartwarming, scary, exciting … The inextricable confusion of feelings didn't bear dissection, neither did he want to dwell on something as banal as understanding the workings of his heart. He felt—for him that was an intransitive verb. Period. So, he took her hand, kissed her fingers and bared his heart. His words carried the weight of the truth, spoken without any editing, and they were all the more valuable for it.
Esme said yes, for how could she respond any other way? It didn't matter that he didn't have a ring or that there was cat poop between them, it was still perfect. Disregarding … well, everything, she threw herself on Carlisle's lap and kissed him passionately.
Just like in the books she secretly adored, her love story would include a wedding. Hers. To the man of her dreams. Maybe for the first time in her life, Esme sighed in contentment.
However, before their wedding could take place a shadow descended upon Esme's life. It came in the form of a bill for the funeral of a man whose name she'd never heard before. However, his last name caught her attention. She'd heard it many times before always associated with a derogatory comment about its carrier's lack of honor. The Masen whore – her father's mistress.
Edward Masen … her brother? Her breath shortened, for her lungs constricted painfully. Her heart hammered within her chest, for she was conflicted as to what she should be feeling. On one hand, she felt a twisted sense of satisfaction on her mother's behalf, for the fruit of the whore's womb had perished. On the other hand she mourned the brother she'd never known, the connection they'd never formed, the love they never shared.
Lost, she turned to Carlisle for support and understanding. Listening to her barely coherent speech, Carlisle silently fumed in rage. Esme's mother had committed the ultimate sin: dragging her daughter into the mess her marriage had become, instead of protecting her. Calmly soothing her, he brought her to reason, making her realize that she owed no loyalty to her mother.
Relieved, Esme felt unburdened, finally free to deal with only her own feelings. Despite being unable to put a name on her mental state, of one thing she was sure: she felt no trace of bitterness towards her brother. Therefore, she would pay for his funeral, lament his death and forever dream about experiences from which they had been deprived by their parents' poor decision making.
The next day, as she gazed at him, the color of his hair, so much like her own used to be, was enough to shatter Esme's self control. Her tears weren't the controlled pouring of adults, but rather the unselfconscious expression of grief usually reserved to children. Her slender shoulders shook with loud, gasping sobs interspersed with the incoherent speech of the inconsolable.
Only in Carlisle's embrace did Esme find the much needed strength to calm her despair, letting her tears subside and eventually run dry. Making a spectacle of herself wasn't a prospect Esme relished, but Carlisle didn't have the heart to remind her of their audience. She needed to exorcize the pain in order to deal with her brother's loss.
"Carlisle, my heart is broken."
The small, almost childlike voice that reached his ears hurt him to the core, for it was a stark contrast to her usually self-assured tone.
"Then let me mend it for you."
It was a cheesy line, he was aware of that, but it wrought a smile out of her tortured features. To Carlisle, that's all that mattered, bringing a little bit of sunshine to Esme's darkest hour.
"I've always wanted to have a brother, you know that?"—fighting off a new wave of tears, she continued—"I wish I had known him. I wish I had known about him. But now he will forever lie in silence, his thoughts and impressions forever unknown. Do you think he would have liked me?"
Carlisle didn't know what to say, for he had run out of cheap lines and witty comments. So, he simply hugged her and rocked her gently, for he knew that she was going to overcome it.
But that would never come to pass–burying Edward didn't leave a scar on Esme's heart, for that would imply that she'd healed from the experience. The cut never closed—it was always bleeding, shadowing her otherwise clear, bright eyes. Carlisle wasn't ignorant of that fact, but there was little he could do since most of the time she behaved normally. It only happened sometimes … out of the blue, her eyes darkened and she hid them from him.
It was a hard pill to swallow, but Carlisle came to accept that she would never be the same again, that there would be moments when she would be swept away by her grief. This depth of feeling for someone who was nothing more than a stranger made Carlisle's love for her grow, for her attitude betrayed her true nature better than anything she'd chosen to let him see so far.
For her part, Esme's feelings for Carlisle doubled when she saw how gentle and accepting he was of her mourning. Therefore, she made an effort to pretend that everything was as perfect as it should be, until it came the day when the pretense became reality … At least for most of the time. Little by little, she got better at pushing aside the raw pain of loss and concentrating on the blessing of loving Carlisle.
Eight months had passed since his impromptu proposal when Carlisle presented her with a ring. It was a gimmal ring, reputed to be the oldest of its kind, for it could be traced back to the 17th century when it adorned the hand of a very ugly aristocrat. Unsurprisingly, Esme was extremely pleased, for she loved objects that had a lot of history behind them. She admired the ring on her finger and curiously wondered how it would look like when it was reunited with the one Carlisle currently wore and with the one she hadn't seen yet.
As for the wedding plans, they made none. They were weary of waiting and ready to start their forever.
They eloped to Las Vegas.
The bearer of the third ring waited in the Chapel, standing by the Elvis impersonator/Minister. Esme instantly knew the newcomer's identity, for the features smiling at her weren't the ones of a stranger—she was immediately reminded of a dear lost brother. To any other person their guest's presence in the chapel would have been deemed unseemly, but to Esme it was simply perfect, for in some twisted and inexplicable way it made her feel closer to Edward. Gazing at her groom, she silently conveyed all of her gratitude for his thoughtfulness.
The Masen whore, the Platt's mistress, Edward's mother was the only attendant to the wedding that had the society papers writhing in delight – large fortunes, one old name, a southern belle, an hermit, a society dragon united … how? Why? Everybody wanted to know, they all wanted to see. However, the happy couple had no plans to indulge anyone's curiosity. They were going to live as they pleased and f … Well, with little to no regard to anyone's opinion.
And that's how they lived, happily united and completely wrapped around each other. Of course, their tight unity extended to include the sleeping girl they both adored. They would spend many years caring for her, showering her with love and attention. And the day her body really stopped functioning, they mourned her loss and hoped that she would at last find some measure of peace and happiness.
Not everything was perfect between them, though – there were days when Esme could have happily wrung Carlisle's neck. For his part, Carlisle had this recurrent fantasy where Esme, for whatever reason, lost the ability to talk … Oh, to live in a world without a nagging female intruding his every thought. But in the end, they always kissed and made up.
For their part, Carlisle's team was very aware of the nights their boss spent reconciling with his lady–He always sang "Coming Around Again" the next day. All day long.
Had Carlisle and Esme been aware of the staff's chuckles and whispers, they'd been terribly embarrassed. As it was, they were happily ignorant of everything, but each other.
Just as it should be.
Just as it was until they took their very last breath.