Happy Saturday, peeps!
Usual housekeeping:
- 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.
- Twific Fandom Awards Nominations Round 1 are out. Thank you so much for all the nominations! Voting on round 1 closes tomorrow 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.
- *checks notes* Still don't own any of it, peeps.
The general sentiment appears to be that Edward didn't cover himself in glory and that Bella also was a bit of a brat. Give them a little time to redeem themselves, will ya? Otherwise this would be a VERY short story ;-)
Here's what happens after he googles her. This takes us from after Thanksgiving to Christmas chez Cullen. Shall we? Here we go.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 7
With Thanksgiving behind us, we all slide into December, trying to recover from the food coma and not quite ready to tackle the pre-Christmas rush.
Jasper has been in touch with Isabella Swan's camp, and they've started having bi-weekly Skype chats. He keeps me apprised of the basics, but I haven't interfered or asked him any questions. And unbeknown to everyone else, I've kept up my own research on her.
After that first night I googled her, it has become a habit—the kind of habit you don't want to kick. I can't explain to myself why. Maybe I'm overcompensating for my failed interview. Maybe I'm punishing myself. I don't know, but somehow I can't bring myself to stop.
When I was an up-and-coming foreign correspondent, I had a Twitter account. A well connected Twitter account, which I deactivated and let fall to the wayside like many other things in my life after my accident in Syria. Before I could pause and question the wisdom of it, last week I found myself with a newly resurrected Twitter account. I don't tweet. EACullen just lurks.
I also acquired another less conspicuous account—Instagram. Fuck me sideways. The only saving grace in this social media indigestion is that I've learned a million little things about Isabella Swan.
She is an absolute chocaholic. According to Internet lore, she must have a slice of chocolate cake before every live performance. It's sort of a ritual.
She has a never-ending collection of Chucks. Hi-tops, low-tops, every color of the rainbow and some in between, with bling, without bling. Her Instagram proudly displays a picture of her at a concert in the Vatican last Christmas. She wore her usual uniform of total black, but the lapels of her blazer and her Chucks were adorned with crystals and glitter. Bling, as I said.
She suffers from an almost crippling form of stage fright. She often recounts the tale of her ill-fated first concert in Paris while she was still a student at the Conservatoire National. She peeked at the auditorium where only nine people sat, waiting for a piano performance that never came. She puked her guts out in the wings and never found the courage to take the stage.
She meditates and practices yoga. Both things have helped her manage her performance anxiety. She says meditation helps her get grounded and centered before a show until the outside world fades away. And she has rituals, like her chocolate cake.
She doesn't drive. Ever. It's unclear if she even has a license. She explains it away as being environmentally conscious—she takes public transport whenever she can or walks. Based on my personal experience with anxiety issues, being stuck in traffic is never beneficial to one's mental state. So maybe, just maybe, there's more to her aversion to transportation than the fight against increasing carbon emissions.
I marvel at her achievements—graduated one year early from Juilliard, accepted for a master's program in Paris with acceptance rates lower than Harvard's, tapped for a few chamber music ensembles straight out of the Conservatoire in Paris, catapulted into planetary fame with a recording contract after a few gigs at Sharps & Flats and a tour of Europe. It all begs the question of how she adjusted to all of this; especially, after the dozens of articles I found where this or that classical performer spewed oodles of vitriol against her.
And it's not just performers. Music critics have been piling on as well. Their criticism runs the gamut from her actual lack of musical abilities, to purported phoniness in what they perceived is an affected persona curated for media consumption, from blatant disrespect of the classical music arena, to an alleged trivialization of classical music into trite bubblegum pop territory.
How did I find out all this if she never gives interviews? Well, she may hate the press, but she loves her fans. And it's with her fans that she opens up the most online. Jasper mentioned the Q&A sessions she posts on Instagram and Twitter. I've watched most of those—some of them twice.
Some of her fans are aspiring performers and musicians. She bestows advice freely with the grace and encouragement of a proud big sister. There is no condescension in her tone, no hint of "you should be doing this or that," but rather warm support for each of these young people to find their own voice, whatever it may be.
They ask about the motivation and inspiration behind some of her pieces. Again, she opens up about it freely with anecdotes about her music that tell a fascinating, enticing story about a young woman with a complex, captivating personality and a quirky, self-deprecating disposition.
I haven't heard her play a single note yet. I don't know why, but I've avoided all the videos where she plays. All the YouTube links, all the Ferrari ads—I skipped over each and every one of them.
Despite Garrett's plea, I still don't know what she's like, what she sounds like, what it feels like to listen to her when she's at her piano, seated behind the ivories. Maybe it's another unconscious form of punishment I've chosen for myself. Maybe it's because I've been doing my fair share of googling Bella Swan at the office, and for those deep dives into the bowels of the Internet, I muted the volume on my speakers and let Pearl Jam drone on in the background. It would be a shock to the system if Tanya or anyone else ever heard me play anything other than my usual fare of grunge and alternative rock. I can stray from Pearl Jam far enough to include Incubus and Snow Patrol, but those are the days when Tanya wants to check if I'm running a fever.
While I'm looking at Instagram pictures of Bella Swan's latest concert in Europe—in Berlin, with Angela Merkel in the front row—a knock on the door interrupts my covert ogling. Mac and J poke their heads into my office without waiting for me to welcome them inside.
"What's up, guys?"
They plop on the visitor chairs in almost perfect synchrony. "We're here about the Sharps & Flats spread," Jasper announces.
"Okay." It's their rodeo, so I gesture for them to proceed.
With a gleeful expression, Mac opens a folder and sets a series of pictures on my desk. They're evidently from the Isabella Swan-Jacob Black photoshoot.
"What are we looking at, Mac?" The fucker just threw the pics at me without explanation. I didn't say a word to him about the failed interview, so maybe this is his way of getting back at me. But poking the bear is never a great strategy.
"These," he begins, indicating a stash of pictures taken in the club in its current under construction status, "are the pics we took at Sharps & Flats for the part of the article that's about the club itself. Jacob will send us his architect's renderings to show what the club will look like."
"The idea," J interrupts, "is a before/after comparison."
"Makes sense. What else do we have?"
"These are the pics I took of both of them at my studio," Mac continues, indicating another series of images.
One shows Bella sitting at a kiddie-sized piano, hunched over it like Schroeder in the Peanuts comics. In another one, Black and Bella are playing tug-of-war over a huge musical note covered in purple glitter paint. In the third one, Bella is balancing two oversized musical symbols in each hand—a sharp and a flat in contrasting colors. Glitter, again. I'm beginning to sense a theme to this spread.
"How much did we spend for the Godzilla-sized props?" I sound like Ebenezer Scrooge, but we had a budget for this shoot, and it's in my job description to make sure we don't blow it.
"The cost of paint. The Styrofoam is salvaged from packaging and the like, and I got a bunch of kids from the theater club at the high school in my neighborhood to shape and paint them," Mac explains with a proud smile.
"Ingenious and cost-effective. Good one, Mac."
"We'd like your help choosing the front cover image," Jasper says.
"Do we have a shortlist of candidates? And what about pictures that will go with the piece? Have you chosen those?"
J and Mac exchange a look. Mac responds, pushing three photographs toward me.
The first one shows Bella and Black leaning against a grand piano at the club on what remains of its stage. They're both looking at the camera, but he's wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Protective. Affectionate. Caring. Somehow, that gesture irritates me.
In the second one, Bella sits at the piano while Black flings smaller replicas of the glittery Styrofoam music notes at her. They're both laughing. Bella looks glorious. And when that thought hits me unbidden, I move the photograph away.
The third one shows them standing back-to-back, almost mimicking Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's posture on the poster of that spy movie they did together. Only, in this instance, Bella and Black are not holding guns, but guess what? A sharp and a flat. The interior of the club features in the background, out of focus but recognizable.
"This one for the cover," I respond with a snap decision.
"You sure, Ed?" Mac asks. "You don't prefer the second one?" The sneaky bastard noticed my reaction, and now he's fishing for information.
"No, this one is more representative. They're both in the picture, there's a pop culture reference, and you can see the club."
"I agree with Ed on this one," Jasper states. "The feature is about three things—the club, Jacob Black as a music entrepreneur, and Bella Swan as an artist. This one has all three things."
"I love the others, don't get me wrong. Your work is stellar as always, Mac. But I'd rather use those with the article, and maybe online. We can have an image gallery to go with the article, and you can go a little crazy with that. Ask Cheney to set up the tech side of it."
Mac nods. "Got it. Do you want any copies?"
Talk about questions out of left field. "No. Why would I? I never keep copies. It all goes in the archives." But he can't control what I save to my desktop once the article is online.
"Umm. If you say so."
"What else?"
Jasper sits up straighter and sets an envelope on my desk. "We—meaning the newsroom—got tickets for the grand opening. Jacob sent them."
It isn't uncommon. After all, Jasper will want to review the club once it opens, and in that vein, it's an investment for Jacob Black to send free tickets to a gig.
"How many did he send?"
"Here's the kicker, Ed. He sent tickets for everyone. And his note said that he'll send more if any of us need plus-ones."
"That's mighty generous of him. Have you thanked him on our behalf?"
Jasper raises an unkempt eyebrow at me. "What do you take me for, an uncouth moron? Of course, I thanked him."
"I guess being married to Madame Etiquette has its uses," Mac comments before I can answer.
"Good, good."
They both look at me with unreadable expressions, then exchange another look. What are these two fuckers keeping from me?
With a fleeting thought, it occurs to me that now I'll have an opportunity to listen to Isabella Swan play. "When are those tickets for?"
"Early February, for the grand opening. I'll have Tanya block out your calendar."
I nod. "Thanks. And keep an eye on the plus-ones, will you? I don't want Jacob Black to think we're abusing the privilege."
"Got it, Ed. I also emailed you a draft of the feature."
I throw a sidelong glance at my inbox where, in fact, an email from Jasper resides at the top of the pile, its bolded subject line almost taunting me—Draft-January Cover Feature.
"I'll take a look at it later. Any specific concerns?"
"I've had to mention the mounting critiques against Bella from those stodgy old-fashioned jerks in Europe. It would be journalistic malpractice to sweep them under the rug."
Another nod. I know far too well what he refers to. "We kinda have to. Did she have a rebuttal?"
He flashes me a shrewd, mischievous smile. "What do you think? She had a dozen or two. But mostly, she doesn't give a flying fuck."
"Are we quoting those exact words?" Funnily enough, I can picture her say something along those lines. Then I wonder why I'm so confident imagining her spit out curses against her detractors.
"No, that's my personal interpretation," he replies.
"Oh, come on, people! You're no fun. Bella would totally say something like that." Mac, of course, has no qualms about profanity.
"Yeah, but we can't print it," Jasper objects. Thankfully, he still sticks to editorial standards.
A call from Tanya interrupts the diatribe. I signal the two Stooges to shut up for a second while I pick up the phone. "Yes, T?"
"Alice needs to talk to you. Are you nearly done?"
"Let me ask our music editor. J, your wife's asking for me. Are we done here?"
Mac snickers in the background, but J silences him with an elbow to the ribcage.
J nods.
"Yes, T. We're done. I'm going to dismiss the brain trust here in a second. Send Alice in whenever. Thank you."
"Okay, boss," she replies, then disconnects, always too busy for pleasantries.
"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure …"
"But you like the agony aunt better than us," Mac quips.
Right then, Alice opens the door, retorting, "Advice columnist!"
These two bicker like kids.
"Alice, love, just ignore him," Jasper says, ever the peacekeeper.
With a few more zingers back and forth, Jasper finally manages to extricate Mac from my office, and Alice sits down on the chair her husband just vacated.
"I didn't have time to look at the revised budget, Alice. I'm sorry; it's been a hell of a week," I plead, knowing I'm delinquent on a few finance-related tasks we share.
She waves me off. "Don't worry about that. There's nothing earth-shattering in it, but the Editor in Chief needs to approve it, so …"
I gather into a neat pile the pics Mac left behind for some arcane reason. Alice notices them and snatches them from my grasp.
"Oh, these are for the feature? Wonderful shots." She scrunches up her dainty little nose in a dubious expression but doesn't comment any further.
"Uh-huh. If it's not about the budget, what can I do for you today?"
"Right. I've received a letter for Ask Alice Already, and I thought it best to have you take a look at it before I decided whether I should publish it and reply."
This is so far out of the realm of normality for Alice that I'm instantly half-intrigued and half-worried. She has complete editorial control over her column, and since her page views go through the roof every week, I've never seen any reason to rock the boat. She has great instincts on picking content that is both challenging and relevant. Her replies are always spot on, honest, and zero-bullshit.
"This is unusual. Why are you worried? Do we need to get law enforcement involved?" We've received our fair share of hate mail, threats, and the like over the years. We always report the lot to the Boston P.D. As a rule, nothing comes of it, but better safe than sorry.
"No, nothing like that," she hedges.
"Then what is it?" And most of all, why does she think I should be involved?
"It's a repeat customer, if you will."
"I didn't know you had frequent flyers. How do you even keep track of it?"
She raises her left hand in another refined, dismissive wave, and the glare from my table lamp ricochets off the rock on her ring finger. "I have a system. Don't ask."
It's probably a multi-sheet Excel file with pivot tables and charts that trace every single query she ever received, just because Alice is organized like that.
"So, there's no immediate danger, it's a repeat … advice seeker? What do you call them?"
Mac calls them "agonizers," but I have a feeling Alice would resent his terminology.
"Readers. They're readers, Edward. Nothing more, nothing less. But back to the issue at hand." She sets an email printout on the table and pushes it in my direction. "Here, read it."
From: ChocBFlat
To: ask_alice_already
Date: December 15, 2017
Subject: Preconceived notions and second chances
Dear Alice,
It's been a while.
You didn't publish or answer my latest email, but I understand. On second thought, it was probably for the best. Somehow, you always seem to know best.
I had a bad experience lately. It disturbed me, left me rudderless, almost disoriented for a while. In fact, its repercussions haven't left me, and I've started to wonder if I should have known better and behaved better.
After all, I've been on the other side of people's preconceived notions of me, and I can't say I've liked it so far.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My relationship with the press is contentious at best. My critics rely on it to impugn my work and my character, day in and day out. Certain corners of the press—the society press—gleefully participated in amplifying the most humiliating moment of my personal life not so long ago.
However, I recently had to set aside my distaste for the free press to help and support a friend, someone who's been my champion without fail for the last three years. I had to fight with my personal prejudice, my anxiety, and my distrust and shove it all to the back of my mind for the sake of my friend.
I walked into that encounter with low expectations and stumbled into a confrontation with an invisible enemy instead.
Every platitude, every trite characterization, every preconceived notion about me I'd ever heard hit me in a volley of rapid fire, without pause or apology. At the time, I followed your "quitting can be healthy" advice. I stood up for myself, vacated my chair, and left.
Unfortunately, my instinct for self-preservation created a professional mess someone else had to clean up.
Now, three weeks after the fact, I'm not so sure my righteous indignation should have been the reaction of choice. I could beg for the court's leniency—the court of public opinion—or I could explain it all away in a dozen other ways. But they would all be excuses.
When I get down to the bottom of the barrel, the truth is that I've accused the press of harboring preconceived notions against me, but I had my own bias against them whenever I interacted with any of its representatives.
This time was no different. I merged the collective flaws of a few onto an unwitting individual. It's such a common occurrence in life that idiomatic phrases exist to describe this situation. Tar people with the same brush. Paint people with the same brush. Lump people together. Judge a book by its cover. Look at the world with the same faulty lens. You get the gist.
The press I've met before was vitriolic, mean-spirited, and biased. Determined to bring me down. Uninterested in hearing my story in my own words. So I built this misguided syllogism in my head that all members of the press had to be vitriolic, mean-spirited, and biased.
But a conversation is a give and take. How could I expect to be heard, if I wasn't willing to listen?
My prejudices worked against me, and now I'm starting to wonder how wrong, how unfair I've been in my behavior, but I don't know how to fix it. I don't know if I'll have a chance to fix it. If I'll have a second chance. Because I'm starting to value second chances. My entire life story so far is a second chance.
I don't know how to get this second chance, Alice.
It's okay if you don't publish this letter either. I just needed a safe place to vent. Again.
So thank you, from the bottom of my chocolate-addicted heart.
Choc B Flat
I can't wrap my head around what I've just read. I just can't.
But Alice stares at me, tapping her high-heeled foot on my office floor—a clear sign of her impatience.
"Why did you need me for this?" I ask, cognizant that I'm deflecting, and the odds are she's seeing through me. But still.
"Doesn't it sound weird to you? Kind of hitting close to home?"
It does. But Alice doesn't need to know. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know, exactly." She pauses. "Not yet. But there's something about this reader. She drops hints."
With a skeptical frown, I interrupt her. "Why are we assuming it's a she?"
She shakes her head. "There's something about it, I tell you. The language, the phrases she uses. Metaphors. That sign-off."
I shrug. "Circumstantial. Are you going to publish it?"
She suddenly blanches, almost in fear. "I don't know if I should, Edward. Some details in there suggest the sender might be a public figure of some sort."
"You edit letters for clarity and space all the time—can't you do some strategic cut and paste to this one, too?"
She stares at the email printout with a determined expression, as if that email held the secret to nuclear cold fusion. "And then it would read 'redacted this, redacted that, redacted again'. My column isn't Politico's commentary on declassified intelligence reports. I don't want readers to think I censor letters."
She has a point. "Fair argument. So don't publish it, then. If you think it would be detrimental to—what's their name?—Choc B Flat." I still don't know why she showed it to me, though.
"Maybe. I'll have to think about it. I just thought you should know."
"Well, thank you for involving me. I don't know that I've been much help, Alice. I trust your instincts."
She nods, and without another word, stands and walks out of my office.
The email printout still lies on my desk. Taunting me. Challenging me. Poking at my mind.
Choc B Flat … Choc B Flat … Who the hell are they? And why do their turns of phrase sound so familiar to me?
&&&IVORIES&&&
Ten days later, weighed down with bags of presents and snow in my hair, I find myself knocking on my parents' door. On a good day, I can jog from my loft in Kendall Square to their house in Monument Square, but I didn't imagine trudging over here on foot. Given the surprise smattering of snow we got just in time for a white Christmas, and the multitudes of irate Bostonians on the roads, I drove—and, fortunately, found a parking spot right in front of Casa de Cullen.
The counselor opens the door and ushers me in, offering to relieve some of my load.
"Merry Christmas, Dad."
"Merry Christmas, Edward. What's all this?"
"What's all this, he asks. You're a lawyer; you're supposed to know things," I joke.
"Oh, I drink, and I know things."
He didn't just quote Game of Thrones, did he? I'd better check his booze intake. "And you make pop culture references, apparently. Will the wonders ever cease?"
He shrugs with a chuckle, then sets the bags of presents by the coat rack while I divest myself of my jacket and gloves.
Mom prefers us to dress up for the holidays, but Dad adamantly refuses to wear a suit after he goes through entire collections of them in any given year, and when I'm off the clock, I dress for comfort, too. My concessions to Mom's rule are the emerald green cashmere sweater I'm wearing—which should appease her because it was a gift from her—and slacks instead of jeans. Ironically, Dad is also wearing a cashmere sweater in an almost identical shade of green and a pair of burnt sienna corduroy pants that put him right in the middle of a British estate, circa 1970. Well, not really—but corduroy? As he would say, bah.
"Did Mom get these on BOGO, you think?" I snicker, indicating our matching sweaters. Our Lady of the Globe is a high-end but thrifty shopper.
"She may have, but she'll deny, deny, deny," he admits with a snicker, also matching mine.
"Where is she?" I ask, craning my neck to look for her in the living room.
"Kitchen, obviously. But on the phone with a gazillion people while she checks the turkey every now and then."
"She never stops networking, does she?" I reply while I follow Dad from the hallway into the living room to deposit my packages under the tree finally.
"You know how she is. Too polite not to answer if someone calls. Even if it's Christmas Day. Drink?" Dad offers, gesturing to his prized bottles of whiskey.
"I'll have what you're having."
"One Dalwhinnie neat, coming right up." I knew Dad's beverage of choice would be single malt. In a minute, he has two tumblers ready and hands me one of them.
"Cheers, son."
"Cheers, Dad," I reply, smiling at him as we clink our glasses.
"How's life been treating you since our impromptu coffee, Edward?" Ah. There goes the counselor, aiming straight for the emotional jugular again.
"It's been busy, Dad. End of the year is always a mess. And we're planning a big splash for the January issue, so add that to the pile of crap we've had to deal with."
He nods, taking my words in as the amber nectar of the gods swirls in his glass. "Any resolution on that composer of yours?"
I wave him off. "There's no composer of mine, Dad. Come on, be serious."
"Mine? Who's yours, Edward? When do we meet her?" And this, ladies and gentlemen, is Esme Platt-Cullen in all of her festive, intrusive glory. You can get the editor out of the newsroom, but you'll never get the newsroom out of the editor. She hasn't even greeted me, and she's asked me three questions already.
"Merry Christmas, Mom," I address her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, hoping it'll appease and distract her. Deflect, deflect, deflect.
"Merry Christmas, sweetie."
I'll ignore the endearment. I think I'm past the age to be called "sweetie" without relinquishing a piece of my dignity, but Mom gets a pass. Mom always gets a pass. "So, what was that about?"
"What?" Deflect, deflect, deflect. My impish grin probably won't work, but I'm almost out of diversionary tactics.
"Composer? Of yours?"
I glare at Dad with a gesture that indicates we'll settle our score later. In private. He shrugs with a diverted smile. So uncharitable to enjoy other people's suffering at Christmas.
"There's no composer of mine. There's nobody of mine, for that matter. Dad was being facetious."
"Uhm." Mom utters a non-committal reply that drips disbelief as she folds herself into her favorite armchair with consummate grace. She's tenacious—always has been—which means I'm under no illusion this puts the subject to rest. She's going to revisit it later when we're all in the grips of postprandial somnolence.
"Where's the rest of the crew today?" she asks after accepting a club soda from Dad.
"Scattered to the four winds. Mac is back in New York; Jasper and Alice are at the Brandons' house in Cohasset. Tanya's in Florida with her mom, Cheney said something about skiing and Vail, and Jess is at some wedding in Nantucket." I enumerate everyone's whereabouts in between sips of my single malt while Dad stokes the fire, rearranging the consumed logs here and there.
"How long 'til turkey's ready, Es?" he asks, patting his tummy when he resumes his seat.
"Not long now. There's no hurry, is there? It'll keep for a minute. I set the timer. Let's talk a little. We're hardly ever in the same place together these days. How come you went to have coffee with your father and you didn't come visit me, Edward?"
Ah. There she goes. I knew Dad would tell her. After all, the secret ingredient for their rock-solid, four-decade-plus marriage is they don't keep secrets from each other. The thought of such unconditional trust warms the cockles of my cynical heart, but daunts me at the same time.
I thought I had that once—and it bit me in the ass big time. I wonder sometimes when I'm lying awake at night whether I'll ever have that. It's been happening more often since I met a certain tiny, determined composer. The association of ideas—unconditional trust and Bella Swan telling me off in no uncertain terms—feels as jarring as it is incongruous since she has no place in my life. Except as a means to tell me that maybe, just maybe, choosing to relinquish journalistic fieldwork hasn't been such a crushing failure. Maybe I'm not cut out for it anymore.
"Well, Mom," I begin, after pushing my inner musings to the backburner of my mind, "Dad's office just happened to be around the corner from where I was at the time. I haven't mentally adjusted to the fact that the Globe relinquished its historical perch in Southie yet."
My upbeat, sarcastic response almost fools her. Almost. "It's been six months, for heaven's sake. And it's a five-minute walk from Dad's office to mine. And what in the blazes were you doing in the Financial District anyway?"
"Bailing out Jasper's bedridden ass, that's what."
The last syllable hasn't even left my lips before Esme Platt-Cullen's perfectly manicured hand is already slapping my delinquent arm. "Language, Edward! And what is it about poor Jasper being bedridden?"
Dad, who knows the story, is laughing up his sleeve.
"He's married to Alice, Mom. That alone is bound to backfire on occasion. This time the backfiring consisted of him throwing out his back."
Because she considers my close friends and coworkers to be all adopted Cullens-at-large, she worries and enquires about them as a matter of course. So neither the question nor her reaction catch me by surprise. "Oh, the poor child! What happened to him? Is he all right now?"
I resist the temptation to roll my eyes at her, describing Jasper as a "child" since we're only a couple months apart in age, but that's Esme for you. "Alice turned her inner decorator loose and ordered him to move furniture around for an entire weekend, which resulted in Jazz throwing out his back. He's fine now. It's been weeks."
She nods, taking in my answer. "You had to bail him out, you said? For work?" One thing about Esme Platt-Cullen: she never forgets details. An admirable and convenient trait in a political reporter, a most annoying quality in a mother.
"Yeah. I took over for something he was scheduled to do." And this is why I'm being vague, almost monosyllabic, in my answers—to avoid giving her more details she can latch onto in order to interrogate me.
"For work?"
"No, for the knitting and crocheting club. Of course, it was for work, Mom."
"Don't you get snippy with me, Edward Anthony," she warns me, clearly unappreciative of my repartee.
Just then, the oven timer blares. Its tinny, impatient ringing reverberates from the kitchen, stopping all of us in our tracks.
Dad is the fastest one to react. "I'll get it out of the oven for you, Es," he announces.
I'm starting to suspect he might have an ulterior motive. He's fleeing the scene.
"So you took Jasper's place for one day. How good of you." A seemingly innocent remark on anyone else's lips, but Mom is still digging.
"We were under a strict deadline. No rescheduling allowed."
"Ah, yes. Deadlines. The bane of a journalist's existence. How did that go?"
"The deadline? We made it. With a few adjustments." I'm not sure it's the answer she's actually craving. Let's see if she buys it.
"No, bailing out Jasper. Heavens, Edward! It feels like pulling teeth, not a conversation. Next, I'll call in Dad and have you labeled as a hostile witness."
I chuckle. "Dad doesn't deal with witnesses. That's Uncle Pete's job." Which she knows perfectly well, but the diversion affords me another second of dilly-dallying instead of responding.
"Semantics." She huffs with a dismissive wave. "Now, that work assignment?"
She won't let it go. I know her. My best bet is to own up to the truth and hope the digging doesn't go too deep. "It was an interview with a composer; hence, Dad's jibe at my expense."
"Composer? Who might that be?" she asks, scrunching up her caramel-colored eyebrows into a perplexed frown.
"Isabella Swan. Heard of her?"
A beatific smile dawns on her lips. "Of course! I wanted to go see her in New York—"
"But Dad couldn't find you tickets. Yes, he told me." Fuck. She knows of Bella Swan. That would be just my luck.
"How come the Tatler is interviewing her? She's leery with the press, as far as I know."
"Leery is a fucking euphemism. Jasper looked like Christmas had come early the day the interview was confirmed." At this point, the path of least resistance is for me to spill my guts to my mother. After all, she's been a successful journalist for four decades; she might have valuable insight on how and why I fucked up. "So you can imagine the depth of his despair when the poor bastard threw out his back the day of the interview."
She nods, stands, and gestures for me to follow her back into the kitchen. Leaving Dad alone too long with a turkey might result in culinary disaster. "He conned you into doing the interview in his stead?"
"Didn't exactly con me into it. He went for the pity vote. And got it."
"How did that work out for you?"
I groan, both at the thought of reliving that day and at the sudden succulent aroma of roast turkey when we step into the kitchen. "Like a shit sandwich. I shouldn't have caved to his moral blackmailing and stayed in my lane. Far away from interviewing recalcitrant composers."
"I'm ignoring your foul language because I can tell this unsettled you, for some reason, but don't think you're fooling me for one second. Jasper must have passed you his research, why did the interview bomb? Because I'm assuming it bombed, from what you're saying."
And that is why she's been the brightest star in the firmament of New England political reporters for about three good decades and then some. Because she picks up on details, gathers the evidence, and then connects the lethal dots into an unassailable piece of analysis.
"He did. Some of it, at least. But his interview style and mine don't mesh. I was sorely out of practice, I didn't have time for research, and what research I did was crap. Icing on the shit cake was that I had a personality clash with Isabella Swan. It didn't just bomb. It bombed spectacularly. She called me out on my shit, and then walked out on me."
"Oh, Edward. That's horrible. I'm sorry. But every reporter has gone through something like that at some point in their career. You shouldn't take all the blame for it, though."
"Why not?" I think I see her point, but even a month after the fact, I still need reassurance that I'm not a gross failure.
"Good interviews are like good conversations. It's a give and take." It's an adage I've heard often from her over the years. "And while you certainly share some of the blame, Jasper throwing out his back was unprofessional at best. Dumping the entire thing off on you was also unprofessional. How come you couldn't just reschedule?"
With a deep sigh, I dive into the explanation, and at the end of my tirade, Mom nods. "I see. Well, it wasn't an easy situation, whichever way you look at it. It seems to me it boils down to a concerted effort to make something work at a time and in a manner that wasn't suited to it. It may have bombed even if Jasper hadn't thrown out his back."
She's not making any sense to me. "What do you mean, Mom?"
By now, we're standing in the kitchen. Dad is carving the turkey, Mom is transferring sides to serving dishes, and I'm left to slice the bread before we carry all of this bounty out to the dining room and finally sit down for our Christmas meal.
"Well, from what you told me, Miss Swan was also under some pressure to go forward with the interview despite not feeling ready for it. You were a last-minute remedial recruit for a project you didn't prepare for—at no fault of your own. Setting aside the lack of professionalism, it was bad timing. If Isabella weren't ready to open up and be interviewed on that day, she would have been hostile even to Jasper. How did you resolve the entire thing?"
"I'm curious about that, too," Dad pipes up from the dining room.
"Jasper talked it out with Isabella Swan's management. They ended up having Skype chats while Isabella is touring Europe. According to Jasper, it's gone swimmingly. He handed in his draft early, and I signed off on it right away. It was stellar work."
Mom nods, then discards her oven mittens, and gestures for me to go ahead. "Bring the bread basket with you, sweetie. I'll be right out."
I obey without a word and take my seat at Dad's side. He's already filling everyone's wine and water glasses. Mom joins us with two serving trays of sides, then raises her glass for our customary toast. "Merry Christmas, my love. Merry Christmas, my darling boy."
We reciprocate the well wishes and raise our own glasses, then with Mom's permission, Dad and I dig in.
"So, to recap the entire ordeal … It seems my theory holds water," she begins in between morsels of excellent roast turkey.
"How so, darling?" Dad asks. Now he's not even pretending not to have eavesdropped on our entire conversation earlier.
"Well, Miss Swan clearly needed to build a more long-term rapport with an interviewer to be able to open up. The format Jasper wound up using—a series of Skype calls instead of a one-and-done—helps build that. He produced a good product because he chose the right medium for it."
"You're suggesting she would have erupted in Edward's face in any case?" Dad asks.
She nods, takes a sip of her Merlot, then dabs at her lips before answering. "In my professional opinion, yes. She's not a politician who can concoct an on-message soundbite at the drop of a hat. I believe she'd need to feel a connection to the interviewer before …"
"Before she gave up the goods?" I offer, by way of explanation.
"Don't be crass, sweetie. But characterization aside, yes. That's what it boils down to. Don't beat yourself up over it. All's well that ends well," she concludes.
"Did you know she's going to be playing in town, Es?"
For a guy whose professional life is steeped in confidentiality, Dad has a big problem keeping his big mouth shut. Thank you, Carlisle.
"Is she? Do you know when, Edward?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Early February."
"Oh. Where?" Cue Esme Platt-Cullen's interrogation, part two.
But an idea dawns in my brain that might possibly get her and her deductive reasoning skills off my back. Approach with care first. "The entire reason for the interview is that a new club is opening in the Financial District, right around the corner from Dad's office. It will be called Sharps & Flats."
"Oh, like that place in New York? The jazz club?"
I nod. "Same owner. He's branching out. Isabella Swan will play at the grand opening. Actually, the owner sent some free tickets to the newsroom. Would you like to come along?" Then strike while the iron's hot.
"Well, could we? We're not taking anyone's place, are we?" Mom looks expectantly at Dad, who nods in acquiescence. Two tickets for Cullen, coming right up.
"I have a plus one I won't be using, and I'm sure I can get another ticket."
She claps her hands and bestows me a mega-watt smile. Maybe I should have forgone the Hermès scarf and just gotten her the tickets as a Christmas gift. "Thank you, sweetie. I can't wait to meet her." Or not.
"It's not like she'll be at our disposal, Mom. But I'll see what I can do. Or better, I'll ask Jasper to put in a good word."
"Nonsense, sweetie. I have a good feeling about this. Send me the details, will you?"
I nod again, grateful that somehow I dodged the bullet of further inquiries just by offering up free gig tickets.
Or did I?
Our Editor in Chief seems to be doing fine in his sleuthing.
Until next week!
