Happy Saturday people!

Welcome back, and thank you for all the alerts and reviews! I treasure each and every one of them.

After going through reviews for the latest chapter, I'd like to offer a morsel of food for thought.
When I posted with the prologue of this story that it came with a warning, because one character suffers from PTSD, because of the obvious mentions of war zones, etc., it wasn't just a ... decoration.
I meant it. By now it should be clear that the character impacted by war to the point of suffering from PTSD is Edward himself.
And yet, barely a handful of people picked up on that in the last chapter, and connected the dots to how poorly he reacted to being suddenly thrust in a setting that was highly triggering for him. He was already on the brink of a panic attack while on the phone with Jasper. The sensory exercise he goes through is a common coping mechanism to stave off anxiety attacks, and helps people ground their emotions when they start feeling overwhelmed.
The interview site was a construction site littered with debris. Just imagine how triggering that would be to a man who spent 18 hours buried under chunks of debris in a war zone.
Sure, his behavior was unprofessional. Sure, he should have been better prepared. But could he have realistically caught up with Jasper's level of preparation (who has been preparing for this for weeks) in the two hours he had from Jazz's phone call to when he had to show up at the club? Realistically, no.
Someone threw out there the phrase "it's been a few years, he should just get over it." Trauma doesn't work that way. You don't "just get over it." I hope you don't say that to any people in your life who've been through trauma, because it's a rather unsympathetic thing to say. A little empathy goes a long way.
Someone had less than complimentary comments about him not being able to decipher Jasper's own notes. Personal notes Jasper took with no expectation of them being used by anyone else. Would anyone be able to decipher YOUR notes that you took only for your own personal use? Not necessarily.
Also, there seems to be some confusion on the job description of an Editor in Chief. It's not their job to "be prepared on everything" or know everything about every single piece in the pipeline. It's just not their job. Their job is to implement the outlet's editorial guidelines and policies, to hire staff, manage the newsroom, give assignments, review features once they're drafted. They also do a lot of administrative and financial tasks.

Second point. Bella's character is partly inspired by a real Italian composer, Giovanni Allevi. For years, he has been the target of criticism from "serious" classical musicians and performers, criticism that's very similar to what Bella has heard against her own music in the story. I'd link you to actual press articles, but since Giovanni is Italian, 99% of the press about him is also in Italian. But he does have a website, and if you want to know more about him, feel free to google him.

Last but not least, a couple of housekeeping items:

- Correct the Narrative and Business Class Girl are nominated in Twifanfictionrecs' Poll for the Top 10 Completed Fics in 2021. Voting is open daily until Feb 25. If you loved the stories, please vote! I won't post the link because ffnet eats them up, but if you Google "Twifanfictionrecs", it's the first result that comes up.

- Team Momo work tirelessly to help me make this readable. It 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.

- *checks notes* Still don't own any of it, peeps.


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 6

Ross Whitlock—whose name is Rosalie, I learn, as she accompanies me out of the club—can't even look me in the eye. She steers me toward the front door in complete silence, arms crossed against her chest.

Isabella—Bella—stormed out of the interview, never looking back.

I know I fucked up. I shouldn't have let Jasper coax me into picking up his slack. I should have done my research better. I should have done my research, period. I shouldn't have let her get to me. I shouldn't have been so callous. So confrontational.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda—it's all pointless.

"Thank you for your time today, Mr. Cullen," Rosalie says, after opening the door and leaning against it to prop it open.

"Fat lot of good it all did," I mutter, more to myself than to her. "I apologize again. For all of it. Jasper Hale will be in touch." That is, if they aren't reconsidering the entire dog and pony show.

"Look," she begins, bidding me to stay, "perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, but …"

"Yes, Miss Whitlock?" My black mood and consequent irritation haven't evaporated yet, which causes my voice to sound a tad more caustic than Miss Whitlock's behavior alone would warrant. "Forgive me. I have no quarrel with you."

"It's okay," she replies, closing the door behind her. "Full disclosure. I was listening in earlier."

I raise an eyebrow. I knew Miss Swan was recording the interview. I had no idea Big Sister was also watching.

"Ugh. It's her first interview in forever. She was nervous. When Mr. Hale called this morning, she wanted to call it off, and I forced her to keep the engagement because we're on a brutal schedule for the next two months. We know we haven't been very flexible with scheduling this, but at present, it was the best we could do. I guess we'll have to explore alternative arrangements with Mr. Hale if we want to make the January deadline."

"Thank you. You certainly are under no obligation to justify your actions to me. Again, I apologize. And please apologize to Isabella on my behalf. Jasper and I will do our utmost to work with your team."

It's a pile of trite corporate speak for "I fucked up. Don't hold it against me." I just hope it works.

"Listen, Mr. ..." she starts, then pauses, gingerly grazing my forearm with her hand. "May I call you Edward?" I nod. "Look, Edward, don't take all the blame for today. You shouldn't. There were a lot of last minute changes for everyone. Plus, Bella doesn't do well with the press."

"Small mercies, I guess? Thank you … Rosalie, for your honesty," I reply with another nod, as I steel myself to go. Somehow, I predict the true clusterfuck status of this situation will erupt once I show up at the office.

"You're welcome. You're not so bad, after all," she quips, winking at me.

"I'll tell Jasper to get in touch with you. After he's done cursing me out for this mess. Goodbye, Rosalie."

"What did I tell you about blaming yourself? I'll talk to Bella. Let me look at the schedule. We'll work something out with Mr. Hale … Jasper—jeez, all this Mr. This and Mr. That gives me a headache. Still—this isn't all going to shit. I'll see you around, Edward."

I want to contradict her. There's no way I'll be allowed within a ten-mile radius of Isabella Swan ever again. But after a friendly pat to my shoulder, she disappears inside the club.

I can't go back to the office right away. I don't think I can bear it. I need to decompress first. As I look left and right before crossing the street, it starts raining. A worthy continuation of my day, perfectly in keeping with its craptastic start.

It suddenly occurs to me that the unusual location of Sharps & Flats puts me about a block away from my father's office. Maybe if I show up out of the blue, he'll take pity on me and lend me an ear. But … you don't just show up at Carlisle Cullen's office. He may be anywhere besides behind his desk. Luckily, I know whom to call.

"Cullen & Cullen LLP, this is Shelley. How may I help you?"

"Hi, Shelley. It's Edward."

My father is a serial monogamist both in his private and professional life. He's had the same wife and the same secretary for decades. Shelley is a sort of surrogate aunt at this point. She's been around since I was in college.

"Edward! How are you?"

"Same old, same old. Hey, is the old curmudgeon in the office?"

"As a matter of fact, he is. Let me put you through," she offers without prompting.

"No need. I'm in the neighborhood, and I wanted to drop by and say hello—"

"But it would be all kinds of useless if Carlisle was God knows where," she replies, always on the ball.

"You read my mind. I'm just around the corner. But if he's busy …"

"Edward Anthony Cullen, do not finish that sentence. You come on up to the office and say hello. There's a good lad." See? She even middle-names me.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be there shortly. You sure he's not busy?"

"He had a conference call that got canceled last minute. You're golden."

"Thank you, Shelley. I'll see you in a bit."

"Sure thing. It'll be good to see you."

Ten minutes later on the dot, I ride the elevator up to the pristine, minimalist-chic offices of Cullen & Cullen LLP. The other titular Cullen is my uncle Peter. Well, my cousin Riley works here too. They just don't want to add a third "Cullen" to the name because they all agree that "Cullen, Cullen, & Cullen" would sound both pretentious and ridiculous.

As soon as I step into the reception area, the receptionist—whose name I cannot recall—greets me. "Good morning, Mr. Edward. Shelley told us to be on the lookout for you."

"Good morning …" I hesitate, throwing a surreptitious glance at the nameplate on the desk. "Debbie. I'll just go on back?"

"Of course. Have a good day."

I nod again, waving at her as I walk down the corridor that leads to my father's office. I've barely knocked when an imperious, "Come in!" beckons me inside.

"Is it a bad time?"

Dad is sitting at his desk, a multitude of papers strewn across it in haphazard streams, which Shelley will no doubt be reordering into neater, more logical piles before the day is done.

"Edward! Of course not. Come take a seat," Dad answers. His signature uneven grin is in place as he stands to greet me with his likewise customary half-hug, pat-on-the-shoulder. "What brings you here?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

"Can you stay for coffee?" He presses a button to his intercom. "Shelley? Oh, you already knew? Why am I always the last one to be told things in this joint? I'll remember that at bonus time." Their banter is legendary. They have a similar dynamic to Tanya's and mine. He manages the firm, and she manages him and everything in between. Also notable, his threats to her are completely idle. "She didn't tell me. Can you believe that?" he adds, turning to me after his brief call to Shelley.

"I asked her not to tell you, Dad. I decided to drop by exactly ten minutes ago," I explain, landing my butt in one of the comfy visitor chairs in front of his desk—a gigantic affair with a crystal tabletop and ebony legs. The color of the wood makes me think of the keys on a piano, of Isabella Swan's all-black attire, and her cloud of mahogany hair, which looked almost pitch black in the badly lit atmosphere of Sharps & Flats. Death by association of ideas—just what the doctor ordered today.

"Are you all right, Edward? It's not like you to drop by for coffee and a chit-chat."

And there goes Carlisle Cullen, aiming straight for the metaphorical jugular.

It's a known stereotype that lawyers are sharks. My dad is an extraordinary lawyer—perceptive and straightforward. He'll take a good look at you and extract your darkest secrets in five seconds flat. Being under his emotional microscope might not be the smartest position for yours truly at this exact juncture in time. So why did I come straight to him after I got my ass handed to me by a diminutive piano player?

Because I can't make any damned sense of what just happened, and I'm hoping the counselor will give in to his natural instincts, ask me a few uncomfortable questions, then blurt out why in the ever-loving fuck I'm flummoxed by today's turn of events.

"Did something happen? Is it about Kate?" he asks, testing the waters.

Mom reacted with rants and raves at the announcement on Sunday, but he shrugged it off. That's how he acts as a counterpoint to her; if she goes berserk, which tends to be her go-to reaction when incensed, he tries to smooth it over. I appreciated that he didn't dwell on the clusterfuck. Between J and Mac ambushing me in the office, and hearing Mom's colorful rosary of insults lobbed at the Caulfields, I've had my fill.

"No."

"You didn't act at all surprised on Sunday. Did you know?"

I shrug. "I still have sources. Mac and J made sure to tell me ahead of the press conference."

He nods pensively just as a knock on the door interrupts our conversation. Shelley's face appears from a crack in the door. "I brought your coffee. Hi, Edward."

Dad motions for her to come in, and she sets a tray with coffee and cookies on his desk. Then she turns to me, arms akimbo. "You promised you'd come say hello, young man."

With a bashful smile, I stand and lean down to kiss her on the cheek. "Hi, Shelley. You look as magnificent as ever."

"And you're a genetic smooth talker like your father," she quips back, patting my forearm. "I'll leave you to it. Some people here still have to work for their keep." Then she vanishes just as quickly as she appeared.

"Whatever are you going to do if she quits, or worse, retires?" I can't resist tempting Dad with my rhetorical question. He'd be lost.

"No. Don't mention that kind of blasphemy in my presence. Shelley will never quit and will never retire. I forbid it," he answers with an imperious gesture of his hand.

I grab a cup of coffee and a cookie and resume my seat.

"Does that bother you?" Dad is clearly not referring to the coffee or the cookie. They're both fantastic—they have lofty clients to keep happy here, which includes having a full coffee bar on the premises. It's normally used to cater for the conference rooms and client meetings, but I guess I qualify as a guest today. That, and my father probably doesn't partake of the swill dispensed to the general population.

"What would be the use of it?"

He throws a glance at his computer screen, then shrugs. Whatever the interruption, he decided it doesn't matter. "I can see the point. But you're still evading the question."

"Damn, Dad. Ever thought of switching to litigation? Your questioning technique would sizzle at the witness stand."

"Too much paperwork. I'll leave that to your uncle Pete. But you're deflecting."

With a deep sigh, I steeple my fingers and look straight at him. "It rankles, Dad. What do you want me to say? It pisses the fuck out of me. But it would be a fruitless emotion to waste on her. I'm done."

"If you say so," he replies, throwing another glance at his computer screen, which just pinged. No doubt, he's being bombarded with emails.

"Do you need to get that?" I gesture to the screen. He's obviously busy, and I barged in unannounced, after all.

"Don't you dare leave. We hardly ever have time to talk as it is. That crap can wait." His words hang in the air, almost suspended in time, when a second perfunctory knock interrupts us. This time, the interloper is my uncle Pete.

"Did you look at the conflict?" he asks without noticing me at first.

"I was having coffee with Edward, to be honest."

Uncle Pete steps into the office, and yes, now he sees me. "Edward, how are you? Haven't seen you in ages." Pete abruptly turns to Carlisle, almost forgetting I'm in the room. "Did you mention that to Edward already? The conflict, I mean?"

Dad huffs and shrugs before answering. "Bah. I know we need to document this crap for posterity to cover our asses, but if you ask me, the mighty senator can go empty the bay with a spork."

Uncle Pete nods. "Well, I guess that settles it. Do you want me to reply?"

Dad grimaces, then props his glasses on the top of his head. "Please. I'd rather not have my name anywhere near that inquiry."

"Okay, brother. I'll leave you to it. Edward, don't be a stranger!" he calls in my direction before closing the door behind him.

"What's this about the senator? Which senator?" It's the journalist in me. The questions just pop up unbidden. It also sounds eerily coincidental that Uncle Peter should bring up "a senator" just when I'm here in my dad's office, sipping their coffee and eating their cookies.

"Case in point, son. Senator Caulfield—rather, his bloody campaign—approached us for legal advice."

Well, this is bombshell news. And possibly radioactive. "I didn't know the firm had taken up lobbying work."

"We haven't. And it's not for lobbying; it's campaign finance consulting, which we also don't do."

Something doesn't add up. "Why did Pete mention a conflict if you're not going to take the job? Or did I misunderstand your implication?"

Dad sips his coffee before answering. "Nope, you didn't misunderstand a thing. We don't do that kind of work, and we will not be assisting Senator Caulfield's campaign. But"—he pauses—"let's just say an overeager senior associate on the partnership track was approached for this at a fundraiser, and that's who sent out the conflict check."

"A senior associate went behind your backs for this? Without consulting any of the partners?" I'm no lawyer, but I've known the inner workings of Cullen & Cullen LLP long enough to see that they may have a disaster brewing.

"He's being reprimanded as we speak. The conflict search email must be answered and archived, so we can document what we did internally with the request down the line. If anything happens. My preference would be to dismiss the idiot, but he's otherwise a good lawyer. It's a matter for the entire partnership." Meaning him, Uncle Pete, and their other partners.

"Why do you think they'd approach someone from your firm, knowing that you don't do either lobbying or campaign finance work? You can't swing a dead cat in D.C. without hitting a law firm that would provide this kind of legal assistance. Why yours?"

"Bah." It's Dad's standard dismissive sound. "It's most likely nothing nefarious. The kid was at a fundraiser; he got talking to someone, and put our name forward. I doubt it even comes from the top of the campaign."

"If his campaign manager had any sense, he wouldn't encourage it. I can already see the gleeful headlines if this leaks."

Dad gives me a speculative look and downs the rest of his coffee. "It won't because we'll bury it. But back to the subject, which is not the senator. I understand why you wouldn't want to pour your heart out in your mother's presence. She can be …"

"Explosive?"

Dad shrugs, giving me a mischievous smile. "Her fiery temper is one of the things I love about her," he quips with a wink. "But, Edward, you know she only gets that pissed because she cares."

I nod. I do, in fact, know. "Yes. I wasn't in any mood to discuss it on Sunday. It's still hazy, I guess? I don't know what I'm supposed to feel about it."

He stands and walks over to the front of his desk, taking a seat in the other guest chair beside mine. "There's no rulebook, son. You're entitled to feel whichever way you need to feel."

That's what disarms me about Dad. The complete acceptance; the utter absence of judgment. I sag into the chair, defeated. "How can it still hurt? How? I thought I'd buried all of it."

He pats my forearm. "Buried doesn't mean forgotten, son. The pain and the scars are still there. You, of all people, should know."

"My brain knows, Dad. It takes a while for the rest to catch up, I guess? I don't begrudge her moving on. I really don't. But …it still rankles. Why wasn't I good enough?"

"You know what I think about Kate. My opinion hasn't changed. I still believe she's a spoiled brat. She's been coddled her entire life. She's immature and willful. When you got hurt in Syria, she only saw what it meant for her," he says.

"She saw it so well that she sabotaged my job without thinking twice."

"She's always been ambitious."

"So have I. I don't begrudge her that, either. What I find highly objectionable is that she threw me under the bus in the process. My profession. Our relationship. Five years. Because the rubble and missiles in Homs evidently didn't do the job."

"Bah. Her father filled her head with all sorts of shit. You didn't hear—thankfully—what kind of lectures he gave her in the hospital in Paris. He was worried about image. She wanted to go back in the field."

"But she couldn't because CNN was running an internal investigation to exclude liability in what happened to us. She exploited the entire situation to her advantage. Including me."

He nods again, pensively, then walks back behind his desk and plops down in his chair again, throwing a surreptitious glance at the clock.

"Am I keeping you from your work?"

"No. I'm the boss, remember? How come you were in the neighborhood this morning?"

Right. There he goes, straight for the jugular again without even knowing. Killer instincts, I tell you. "I had an interview this morning, right around the corner."

"Not a job interview, I hope? Curtis Brandon's head would explode if you left."

"Nah. A real interview. Interviewing a subject. A person. You know, for the Tatler."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms on his chest. "You? Interviewing people again?"

"Hale had the brilliant idea to throw his back out over the weekend. He's bedridden for the foreseeable future, so I had to bail him—and the magazine—out since we were on a deadline." I can't resist frowning at the thought of how well I bailed Jasper out with my stellar interview skills. Damn.

"How did that go?"

"Fantastically down the drain since you're asking. I had a bad feeling about it from the moment he called me."

"How come? Who was the interviewee?"

Mirroring his posture, I lean back in my chair, but cross my legs at the ankle. This was why I came running to my dad. Might as well get comfortable. "Ever heard of Isabella Swan?"

He rubs his forehead, scrunches his eyes and nose in one of those weird faces he makes when he's trying hard to remember something. "Musician of some sort?"

"Close enough. Composer and performer."

"You? Interviewing a piano player? Is she duetting with Eddie Vedder or something?" My dad knows my musical tastes—and expertise—extremely well.

"Nope. At least, not that I know." My grimace remains steadily in place as my mind catalogues the gallery of horrors I accumulated earlier this morning.

"How come the interview went down the drain?" Straight to the jugular, once more. Thanks, Dad.

"I didn't want to do the damn interview in the first place, but we were kinda backed into a corner. I didn't do any of the research I should have done—although I really had zero prep time for it. Regardless, I knew zilch about her, and she saw through me."

"You got shot down? Who's this piano player?"

I throw him a withering glance. "What do you know about her?"

He waves his hand around while he talks. "I remember a Ferrari ad—is it possible? And your mom wanted to go see her play while we were in New York the last time, but we had no hope or prayer of getting tickets. All sold out."

"Yeah, that's the one."

"So you had an unfortunate run-in with a composer, huh?"

"Disastrous, more like. I've been mentally chastising myself since I walked out. I'd be banging my head against the wall if I could."

He chuckles at my hyperbolic statements. "Now, now, there's no need to resort to violence, son. What happened, exactly?"

I sit up and lean my elbows on my thighs, settling in to relate my tale of woe. "Interviews can get confrontational. It's part of the game. But sometimes … sometimes, you just don't click with your subject, and it's worse than pulling teeth. It didn't help that I knew jack squat about her, and not only because Hale roped me into replacing him only this morning. I fucked up, Dad. I know it. But dammit, if she didn't push all my buttons."

"Umm." This is Dad's only comment. "Is that all there is to it?"

"There's something about this girl."

"Girl?"

"She looks young, so young. She has one of those faces you could read like a book. Every emotion was there on display, and yet … and yet sometimes, I could tell she caught herself before she showed too much, or said too much. There's something about her. Her eyes—she has the eyes of someone who's known loss and disappointment, but she has a fiery temper. And she's not afraid to use it."

"May I infer that she unleashed it on you?"

"She stonewalled me at every turn." I rehash every look, every zinger she threw at me in my mind. I kept digging a deeper hole for myself, unrepentant.

"With good reason." Dad studies me from across his desk, leaning his head to the side as he does when he's deep in thought.

Taken aback, I look at him in disbelief. "Whose side are you on, old man?"

"Yours, of course. But it looks like this Isabella Swan has you all twisted up in a knot for some reason. Now, I can't condone the malpractice of not researching your subject properly. If that bloody litigator you have for an uncle were here, he'd say—"

"Never ask a question you don't know the answer to. But that's the Perry Mason modus operandi. Come on, Dad, cut me some slack."

"Did you consider how being unprepared made you look in her eyes?"

It did start to weigh heavily on me, in fact.

Before … Before, I was always prepared for interviews. I knew every quote, every contradiction, every statement. I studied every angle, found every loophole, then turned all of it into gripping questions that couldn't be evaded. Before.

After … The Edward Cullen of after doesn't do interviews. And even if the standard best practices are ingrained into me, I've lost practice. Six years of practice.

"She caught me. Right away."

"And what happened?"

"She stopped the interview. Jasper's going to have a cow when I tell him. Making deadline is going to be a royal pain in the ass."

With his elbow propped on the armrest of his executive chair, Dad leans his head on his hand and gives me an appraising look. "This young lady appears to have affected you greatly, Edward. I wonder why."

I shake my head, grasping for a reason. I wondered about it too on my way here. I still don't know if there is one. Sometimes, there's no reason for things, even if humans are hardwired to need one in their quest for cause and effect, for an orderly world. The world isn't orderly. The world is a fucking mess.

"I don't know. We just didn't click. It happens," I add with a shrug, fully aware it's a half-truth at best.

"The first time I ever met your mother, she got in my face. It wasn't pretty."

It's a story I've heard too many times. She got mad. He groveled his way out of trouble when smooth-talking failed. A year later, they were married. "It doesn't always work that way. I've come to accept that not all people will like me and that I won't like every single person I meet. It's just the way life is." I end my philosophizing with a minute shake of my head.

The interview bombed, and it massively irritates me. It's a blot on my professional record, for sure. I have to accept my share of responsibility—I didn't prepare for it. What irks me even more than that? I can't shake this feeling of unfinished business, even though it's highly unlikely I'll ever see Isabella Swan again.

"Bah. There is always a good enough reason for strong feelings, even if our conscious mind can't tap into it. I wonder …"

"That slogan reeks of management coaching seminars, Dad. Are you trying to shore up your CLE?"

"Guilty as charged. It's near the end of the year, and I was missing a couple credits. But the point stands. Again, I wonder what she's like, this Isabella Swan?" he ponders aloud, not looking at me.

Before I can attempt an answer that doesn't put me in a bind, he's clicking away at his computer.

"Ah, there she is. Yes, yes. I can see that now. You were right on one thing. She is young."

"You didn't google her, did you?"

He laughs. Out loud. Completely unapologetic. "Of course I did. The first woman my son mentions in six years—the least I can do is check her out."

"May I point out that we just spent the best part of an hour talking about Katherine Caulfield?"

"Bah. Semantics. I rest my case. She's really young, this Isabella. Twenty-seven."

"And you believe the stuff that circulates on the Internet?" I don't want to have this conversation, and I resent my father's implications. I also don't want him to know either of those things.

"It's on her personal website," he replies, his index finger pointing to the screen. "San Francisco native, divorced parents, Juilliard—she graduated early, another overachiever," he adds with a raised eyebrow at his own trailblazing son.

"Why are you doing this to me, Carlisle?" I only call him by his given name when he irritates me. And he knows.

"Well, Edward Anthony"—cue middle naming the ingrate offspring—"I'm trying to figure out what happened. This young lady caused a reaction. It's notable. You can't go through life as a monk just because your last girlfriend was a conniving bitch." He pauses a smidge, then adds, "Don't tell your mother I used the b-word. But needs must."

"Yeah, well. I'm not sure you're on the right track, counselor. Plus, chances are I'll never see her again. She leaves tomorrow for a two-month—"

"Tour of Europe. Then back to Boston for a club grand opening. There's an article here that speculates about a chair in the piano department at the Berklee College of Music …"

"Dad, stop. Just stop. I don't need to know all that. It's no use to me. Please." I take a fleeting look at the wall clock—another minimalist affair that perfectly blends into the background. "Oh, look at the time!" I am the worst actor in the Boston metro area. "I gotta head back to the office."

"All right. I'll stay out of it. But remember I'm here if you want to talk, Edward."

I stand and pull on my coat. "Thank you. I appreciate that. I'll see you …"

"On Thursday. You're not going to miss Thanksgiving, are you?"

Heaven forbid. The wrath of Esme Platt-Cullen for missing a holiday would be cataclysmic. "Hell no. There's a pecan pie with my name on it."

"Good. Good. Now let me work, you lazybones."

Right. So says the guy who just pissed away half a morning playing armchair shrink to his grown son. But he's effectively dismissed me, and after I hunt down Shelley to say goodbye, I walk to the elevator and trudge back to the offices of the Tatler.

A part of my brain still wonders about Isabella Swan.

&&&IVORIES&&&

Once I'm back at the Tatler, I retreat to my office, slamming the door after a sharp look at a bewildered Tanya.

The walls around me are almost entirely frosted glass, but the closed door—an unusual occurrence because of our open door policy—acts as a filter of sorts. Any prospective intruder will need to pass Tanya's scrutiny first, and good luck with that to anyone.

First order of business—background music. With my mood still in the general vicinity of the crapper, I revert to one of my long-time staples: "Spin the Black Circle." As Pearl Jam rides the punishing rhythm of this song, accompanied by Eddie Vedder's raucous, angry vocals, I finally sit down at my desk to start my workday.

I sort through emails, typing out replies and doling out tasks to Tanya or Alice, depending on the topic. Tanya is the organization expert; Alice is the finance guru. With mild surprise, I find two media inquiries for me personally, not for the magazine. Politico is seeking my reaction to the Senator's and his daughter's announcements. I don't reply. The "no comment" is implied, and there's no way I'm leaving a paper trail about this with a news outlet.

Then there's an email from a former colleague at CNN who's involved with the CPJ—the Committee to Protect Journalists. I did some liaison work for them after the debacle in Homs, and I participate every time there's an event or commemoration dedicated to Marie and Remy. The email is about one such event, a gala scheduled to take place in New York sometime next September. After a quick glance at my calendar, I verify the date is available—for now. A forward of my acceptance goes to Tanya so she'll update my calendar and make my travel arrangements. The event is black tie, so I'll have to remember to double-check my tux and get it dry-cleaned in time. Two more calendar reminders to Tanya and myself.

While the music does dampen most of the noise outside my office, voices do travel sometimes, especially if they're close by. It's no wonder Alice's stream of questions to Tanya, spoken in her usual perpetual "outside" voice, breach through the bars of "Corduroy" and "Not For You." Tanya answers in hushed tones, but her firm, "Not now," filters in anyway. So of course, a second later, there's a dainty knock on my door.

"What is it, Alice?"

"Good morning to you, too, Edward." She's undeterred, but her voice sounds softer. There's no reproach, no hard edge to it, and I'm almost relieved to hear that. Relieved there's one person I've managed not to disappoint today.

"Hi, Alice. Sorry. Not having the best day."

"I won't interfere but … call Jazz, please."

I lean my head to the side to look at her from behind my computer screen. "How does non-intervention chime with asking me to call him? I'm trying to figure that out."

She rolls her eyes at me. "He feels horrible."

"Because his literal backbone is rebelling against him or because he guilt-tripped me into a disaster?"

Uninvited, she takes a seat before me, crossing her legs. Today's quirky fashion choice is a flowy, asymmetric top with a rainbow motif all over it. But the rainbows are not in the usual colors because that would be too easy. They're all in earthen hues, with muted greens, maroons, dark sienna, and mustard tones. All she's missing is a pumpkin somewhere.

"Please, call him. I know you're contradicting me because you're pissed, but you would have to call him anyway, so why make this harder on both of you? Just go ahead and call him."

She has a point.

"How's the poor bastard doing?"

She sighs before standing and turning toward the door. "Better than this morning, but still pretty much bedridden. The doctor's coming by later, hopefully with prescription-strength painkillers."

"Do you really need to be here? You know you can work remotely. You don't need to run it by me."

Her expression softens into a smile. "Thank you, but I'm doing it for my sanity. And for Jasper's. He gets cranky when he's sick, and we end up getting on each other's nerves. Distance makes the heart grow fonder."

"Spoken like a true agony aunt," I quip, knowing the epithet will irritate her.

"Advice columnist, for Pete's sake!" she counters, disappearing behind the closing door.

I already knew I'd have to call Jasper and touch base after my clusterfuck of an interview. Before I can grab my cell phone to do just that, Tanya calls me on the intercom.

"I have a Garrett Dwyer for you on the phone. He says he knows you," she says tentatively. She does this with all names she isn't familiar with, and, as a rule, with people who claim to know me, precisely because seven times out of ten it turns out to be a crock of shit.

Not this time. "I do know a Garrett Dwyer. Did he say who he's with?"

"Bloomberg?"

It makes sense. Garrett is a finance reporter and used to be a coworker at CNN. Our paths didn't cross very often, but he gave me a great crash course when I had to understand the ins and outs of financial legislation preventing terrorist financing. "Yeah, that's fine. Put him through, T. But—"

"Hold your calls, right?"

"You read my mind. Thank you."

The line clicks and crackles as she transfers the call. Then finally, a voice I haven't heard in about six years thunders through the headset.

"Cullen, you indestructible bastard, is that really you?"

"Evidently, Dwyer. You asked for me."

"You're still the same smartass, too. How's life stateside been treating you?"

I shrug, even if he can't see me. "Fewer bombs. More assholes. And you? Bloomberg, huh?"

"Listen, I heard about the senator's daughter," he says. Of course he did. Only Martians haven't heard of it by now.

"Yeah, well … is there any way I can help you today?" Which is code for: if you're fishing for information, you ain't finding it here, so move the fuck along.

"As a matter of fact, yes. What the hell did you do to my sister, Cullen?"

"Sister? What sister?" If this is a prank, it's the worst day ever for it. I'm not in the mood. Not that Garrett has any way to know, all the way down in Manhattan.

"Yes, my sister. Isabella Swan."

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Explain, please." My tone isn't harsh, but it doesn't brook any refusals either. "I didn't even know you had a sister."

"Stepsister, if you want to get technical. My dad and her mother remarried when Bella was barely in kindergarten. I never cared much for stepmommy dearest, but Bella and I are close."

"Talk about a small world."

"Yeah. Full disclosure. They—that is, Bella and Ross—called me when they learned you'd be interviewing her instead of Hale, asking if I knew you and such."

That explains one of Rosalie's statements. "Rosalie mentioned something of the sort—that they vet everyone?"

"Well, if you ever got a taste of the shitstorm Bella had to go through with the European tabloid press, you'd be doing the same."

"Our lifestyle columnist alluded to it. Look, I already apologized to Bella and Rosalie. I tried to help J out, but …"

I'd like to be able to tell him that with every question I asked, more and more images of my last interview in Syria flooded my system. That every tense retort from Bella triggered my own fight or flight response. The associations were arguably irrational, but I have no handle on my brain at times like those. In another world, in another life, I would have known how to approach a person like her. But not in this one. Not anymore.

"They called me because they figured out we'd been colleagues. I know your history, Edward. I watched in the office as we got satellite video of the bombings. I'm not blaming you, nor is Rosalie."

As it is often the case, what people don't say matters more than what they do say. Garrett's omission is as glaring as it is deliberate. "But Bella is, right?"

Garrett sighs through the phone. "Give her time, please. She'll come around. I know she can be … prickly, if you will. But if you could see her, hear her play, seated behind the ivories …"

After a few pleasantries, our conversation dwindles, and we hang up with idle promises to keep in touch.

I do end up calling Jasper before the day is out. Apparently, he got a call from Ross Whitlock after the interview. Ross was apologetic and far less demanding when it came to accommodating logistics and rescheduling. She said she'd review their schedule for the coming weeks and get back to Jasper with a few dates on which they could have a series of Skype calls. Isabella gets to go on her tour, and Jasper gets his interview material.

But what do I get out of this? The question still plagues me after I trudge back home to my loft in Cambridge after work with a steaming bag of Chinese takeout.

Unlike the majority of inveterate bachelors on the cusp of forty, I know my way around a kitchen—courtesy of Esme Platt-Cullen's ideas on a well-rounded education. She coaxed me into cooking classes instead of football or space camp, but there's no way I can find the focus and patience to whip something up tonight.

Plus, I'm starving. So Beef Lo Mein it is. Washed down with a bottle of Sam Adams, it hits the spot. After that, and after cleaning up the kitchen, I still need to wash off the grime and unease of this day. But even a long, hot shower doesn't divest me of the lingering feeling that I failed. I was weighed and found wanting.

Something still nags at me after the day I've had. And maybe, just maybe, the solution is to go back to the start.

And that leads me to the first night I google Isabella Swan.


Late housekeeping addition. Twific Fandom Awards Nominations Round 1 are out. Thank you so much for all the nominations! Voting opens tomorrow and will close on Feb. 27. Here they are:
Correct The Narrative was nominated as:
Favorite All-Time Fic
Favorite Drop Everything Fic
Favorite Snuggle Fic
Business Class Girl was nominated as:
Favorite LMFAO Fic
Favorite Snuggle Fic
I was nominated under my penname LaMomo as:
Favorite Mister Rogers
Favorite Potential Best-Selling Author
Favorite Screener
Thank you to the organizing and hosting team for all their work, and congrats to all fellow nominees. And don't forget to vote for your favorites. You'll find it by googling Twific Fandom Awards. Not posting links because ffnet at usual will cut them off.

Somebody's got some googling to do. Next week we'll see what Edward learns. See you!