Another Saturday, another EditorWard update!

Thank you for propelling Behind The Ivories past 470 reviews this past week! I read and treasure every one of them.
Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner.
Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.

Thank you for all your votes in the Twific Fandom Awards Round 1.
I made it to Round 2 as follows:
#BusinessClassGirl is up for Favorite LFMAO Fic
Yours truly as LaMomo is up as:
Favorite Mister Rogers
Favorite Potential Best-Selling Author
Favorite Screener

Polls close tomorrow 3/13 at 11:59 EST
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.

Two quick things to clarify because they may have gotten lost in the weeds:

- while it was obvious to YOU the readers who the author of the letter signed "Choc B Flat" might be (and at this point even Alice should have enough clues to guess), because by Chapter 8 both Alice and YOU the readers have seen 3 different letters from this particular reader, and you have a pattern of behavior and trail of evidence to base your assumptions on, Edward's only seen this last one, the one Alice printed out for him. He's an investigative reporter - he knows better than to assume a conclusion when he doesn't have enough evidence. And as a reader, you can't likewise assume he KNOWS or has READ the other two letters, because he's very clear on how much editorial freedom Alice gets with her column. Besides, these three letters were spaced out over the course of three/four years. Alice could remember them, but the Editor in Chief, who has other stuff to worry about? Zero guarantee he'd have read or remembered the one letter Alice did publish back in 2014.

- someone else commented that Kate might have cheated on Edward because she was seen with Lauren at the White House Correspondents' Dinner. That is waaaaay off. First, it didn't happen. Second, the timeline doesn't fit, and you can clearly read that in Chapter 4. When Jasper and Mac reveal to Edward that Kate and Lauren are getting married, Jasper clearly says "Remember that food show host she sat next to LAST YEAR" - meaning, in 2016 (because Chapter 4 takes place in late 2017). Edward and Kate broke up in 2012, after the accident in Syria (which took place in February 2012).

As I said in my FB group about the letters, details here matter. Btw, if you want in the group, type "LaMomo's Lair" into the search bar on FaceBook and join the shenanigans. There are teasers and RobP0rn.

That said, back to the show!


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 9

It's been almost two weeks since my epiphany over Choc B Flat's pseudonym.

I'm almost 100 percent sure I'm right, but I have no hard evidence. It's a hunch. One of those pervasive, niggling gut feelings I used to have when I worked in the field. Over the years, those hunches pushed me to investigate when my editors demurred because they weren't solid enough. They were intuitions, not facts. But on the wings of those flights of intuition, I dug, and poked, and prodded … and most of the time it paid off. Fucking hell, I won a Peabody because I followed a hunch.

After almost a month of nursing my hunch, this leads me to think I am indeed correct in my initial assessment.

The elusive, mysterious Choc B Flat must be Isabella Swan.

Of course, I could walk straight into Alice's office, bounce my hypothesis off her, and listen to what she has to say. But Triple A is a perceptive half-pint of a woman, and signaling interest in Isabella Swan mere weeks before we're all huddled inside Sharps & Flats at her grand opening concert doesn't strike me as a brilliant idea. Not with the level of interest Alice takes in all things Isabella Swan. Since I value my sanity, and I'm not ready to respond to her incessant questions about why I should care or how I've reached this conclusion, I'll play my cards close to my chest on this for a while longer.

Last week, I gave myself permission to read Jasper's interview. That, too, is part of my long-distance training program for frequent observers. Current enrollees: one. Me. Self-flagellation included in the syllabus. Extra credit for social media presence, but I can't claim it because I'm still just lurking. EACullen does not retweet.

Based on all measurable journalistic metrics, Jasper has done a magnificent job with this assignment. Bella—in my head I've graduated to calling her Bella, even if I may only get insults from her in the future—responded to him in ways she didn't with me. Perhaps Jasper's personality isn't as abrasive as mine is. Perhaps the fucker did his research. Perhaps he knew just what to say. Be that as it may, he created a rapport with her, and she opened up to him to the point that the entire piece sounds and feels more like a conversation between friends than an interview.

My abysmal attempt was on par with an interrogation. Or rather, a deposition with a hostile witness on the stand.

Now this is an interview.

Tatler: What does Bella Swan do in her free time?

BS: Does Bella Swan have any free time? I don't know. And what is free time, exactly?

Tatler: I thought I was asking the questions.

BS: My humblest apologies.

Tatler: Back to the question, perhaps?

BS: Free time. A rare commodity. I try to savor life even when I'm on the go, which happens quite often. Stop and smell the flowers, so to speak. I walk every day for at least a mile. I swim. And while I swim and walk, I'm meditating or composing in my head. So … yeah … I'm a serial multitasker. What's free time, again?

Jasper led her to opening up, in ways I couldn't have imagined, on small, seemingly inconsequential things and on momentous, heavy-hitting topics.

Tatler: What's this rumor I've heard about pre-concert rituals?

BS: Who says it's a rumor?

Tatler: Really, again? Are you allergic to questions, Miss Swan?

She laughs.

BS: Well, I am. But back to your original question … pre-concert rituals. Not a rumor.

Tatler: How so?

She replies after a deep, cleansing sigh.

BS: I've always suffered from almost crippling performance anxiety. The rituals help me center myself before performing. They ground me.

Tatler: How about the chocolate cake?

She laughs again.

BS: Oh, that's just because I like it!

That tidbit about chocolate cake reinforces my belief that it's her. Yes, Choc B Flat has to be Isabella Swan. An idea suddenly takes form. But could I? Would I?

Then I remember the toughest part of Jasper's interview. The part that cut like a knife, even if it wasn't my life on display for public consumption. Even if it wasn't my failures under a spotlight this time. But I knew. Deep down, I knew what it cost to admit it. To face it. To say it out loud. To take the high road and grow a thicker skin.

Tatler: I'd be a crap reporter if I didn't ask you …

BS: Ugh, that sounds ominous. And bad. Go ahead, fire away …

Tatler: This is the first interview you've given in years. The very first you've granted to a US publication of any kind. How come?

BS: I've had awful run-ins with your colleagues in the past. Now, I know that sounds whiny and entitled …

Tatler: What makes you say that?

BS: Well, isn't that the customary rebuttal to famous people who complain about the press? I chose a life in the spotlight, so I should just put up and shut up?

Tatler: Your words, not mine …

BS: True. I stand by them, though. I haven't given any interviews because … well, it seems like whoever takes delight in criticizing me will do so whether I speak up for myself in the press or not. Instead, I just let my work speak for itself.

Tatler: Which hasn't shut up your critics either.

She snorts.

Tatler: You know I'd have to bring it up sooner or later. You're a bit of a conundrum for traditional classical music milieus. They don't quite know what to make of you. Most of them have been … less than welcoming.

BS: You don't have to sugarcoat it for me. Call it like it is. They fucking hate me. They think I'm a hack. A fraud. A lightweight. A no-talent poser. Did I miss anything?

Tatler: You are well informed, it seems.

BS: And after that, you ask me why I don't give interviews?

Tatler: How do you counter those narratives if you don't?

BS: You're assuming I want to. You're assuming I care. Here's the thing. I never asked for their good opinion. I never set out to conquer the world. I compose. I play. I let my soul loose in my music. I let it speak for itself. I've done this for the last three, four years now. The numbers speak for themselves, just as the music does. I put my music out into the world, and it has touched millions of people out there. Critics are entitled to their opinions. I'm entitled to give them all the consideration they deserve.

Tatler: Which, by your own implication, seems to be none.

BS: Your words, not mine. Here's the thing. Whatever I say, I'll never change their minds. But I don't make music for the critics. I make music for myself, to express myself. My fans out there—and whoever listens to it—find that my music speaks to them, that they can relate to it. I never set out to be this or that. I am just me. This is the only way I know how to be. They're free to think I'm a poser, but since they don't really know me, who's making assumptions? They're free to think I'm a hack, or a fraud, but I never said I'd be the next Beethoven. Nope. Zero. No interest in that. We've had one Beethoven. I'm here, and I'm doing Bella Swan. It's the only thing I know how to do.

Tatler: You're going to be the opening act for a new club in town next month.

She blooms in a radiant smile.

BS: Sharps & Flats in New York changed the course of my career. How could I not give back to Jacob and help him launch his new club in Boston? He was supportive and gave me a chance when no one would. He bet on me when it was a shot in the dark, but it ended up paying off nicely for both of us. I got a jump-start on my career, and we became lifelong friends.

Tatler: There's a speculation that it might be something more …

BS: Now, now … I was starting to like you, Mr. Hale. Don't make me regret it. No personal questions, please.

Tatler: Fair enough. How is it, working with Jacob?

BS: He's a force of nature. Amazing musical instincts. Great businessman. He can almost predict what will work and what won't. Some say he has a magic touch. I just think he likes a million different things and isn't too keen on forcing labels or definitions on artists or their work. It gives artists freedom to be creative, to take risks. He did that with me, and I'll forever be thankful that he did.

Optimism. After all the crap the world has thrown at her, she radiates optimism. She's tough, but there's an innate sweetness about her. And the bit about chocolate. She has a sweet tooth. She sounds like an introvert though. Swimming, walking, composing music … not much of a social butterfly. I wonder why.

That interview has been swirling around my brain for the last week, and so has Bella Swan's optimism. Which is why, on a nondescript, late January morning, I'm sitting in my office debating my next move.

I've concluded I have to go through some sort of penance because of how horribly I treated Bella during my botched interview. Putting my plan in motion, however, requires going through a few people—with some degree of circumspection.

And because procrastination isn't going to solve my problems, or cause time to go by faster, with a deep breath, I finally tackle the first step in my diabolical plan. With one simple touch of a preset button on my office phone.

"He's alive! What's up, boss?" Tanya responds, always on the ball. I came into the office early this morning—around 6:30 a.m. because I couldn't sleep—so I missed my customary start to the day; that is, coffee with Tanya in the break room. Which explains her quip.

"Good morning, T. Can you pop over here for a minute?" I don't need anyone passing by her desk to eavesdrop on even a shred of the upcoming conversation.

"Sure thing. Need coffee?"

"A fresh cup'd be great. You're priceless, T."

She chuckles. "Remember that at bonus time. Give me a minute to fetch it, and I'll be with you."

She hangs up the phone with a resolute click. If I'm going to tackle the idea that just came to me, I'll need a plan of action. Five minutes later, when I've barely scribbled a couple of bullet points on my notepad, Tanya pushes my office door open with her foot and comes in, holding two steaming mugs of coffee.

She sits on the visitor chair, hands me one mug, then looks me straight in the eye. "Take two. What's up, boss?"

"I need you to run a little covert op," I reply.

She sits up straighter and crosses her arms. "I'm all ears," she says, grabbing her notepad and pen. "What are we doing?"

I sit back in my chair and start enumerating points on my fingers. "One, where are we with the free tickets for the Sharps & Flats concert? I want to make sure we're not abusing the courtesy and showing up in good numbers at the same time."

She nods, making a note before answering me. "Nobody asked for a deluge of additional tickets, if that's what you're wondering. A couple people asked for plus ones, but mostly, folks around the office have been good about trading those off among each other."

"Good. Ethically, it's a slippery slope that an interview subject sent us a gift, and we're accepting it. I don't want people to get cocky or disrespectful. That said, please see what kind of wrangling you need to do to get me another plus one."

"Another plus one?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow at me. Clearly, the irony of my statement doesn't escape her. That and my status as a perpetual bachelor is the worst kept secret of the Tatler's newsroom.

I answer with a death glare that has no effect on Reynolds. "I'm bringing my parents. Cool your jets."

"I'll get it done. It's the least I can do for the counselor and Mrs. Cullen," she quips with a mischievous smile. She has a bit of an innocent crush on Cullen Sr., much to my mother's amusement and to my father's discomfort. Tanya can get fresh at times.

"Two, get contact details for Isabella Swan's management from Hale."

"Anyone in particular?" she asks while jotting down more notes.

"Ross Whitlock. Word of caution, Ross stands for Rosalie."

"Gotcha. And if Hale asks why, what do we tell him?"

I wave my hand at her, trying to grasp an idea out of thin air that will sound plausible and above suspicion at the same time. "Can't you come up with something?"

"We want to send flowers the night of the show?"

"See? It's a thousand times better than anything I would've concocted. Go with that."

"And I will arrange for a flower delivery in any case. Not just as a cover-up."

"What would I do without you?"

She chuckles to my face, unabashed. She knows I'm not above flattery, but the appreciation is genuine. Her help is invaluable. "Be non-caffeinated and inefficient, I suppose? What do I do when I have those contact details?"

"Just pass them on to me. And, of course, get a nice flower arrangement. Maybe get it delivered to the club. Check what their plans look like. Miss Swan will be touring for a few days still, I believe. "

"Well, aren't you well-informed all of a sudden?"

I cast her another withering look with marginally better results. Her snickering subsides, and she takes a deep breath, recomposing her features into a professional façade. "When is the concert, again?" I turn toward my computer screen and click around to navigate to my calendar.

Just as I locate the correct date, Tanya precedes me by a nanosecond. "February 9th. Second Friday of the month."

"And is that significant in any way?"

"Not to the general public. But it's the monthly canasta night at the church, and that means I'll miss game night in the name of team spirit. You should appreciate my sacrifice."

Meet Tanya Reynolds, a bundle of contradictions. The mouth of a sailor—especially when dealing with one Emmett McCarty—but the heart of a woman of faith. Cutthroat efficiency paired with a motherly touch for all and sundry. She may sound cynical and sarcastic, but it's a coping mechanism. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. After an emotionally draining divorce almost a decade ago, her safe haven has been her church community in Southie. One of her running jokes is that her job will grant her fast-tracked sainthood since she has to deal with Mac and me both.

"Have you told your ladies that it's for a good cause?"

"Some of them are actually kinda jealous. Isabella Swan seems to have fans in weird cross-sections of the population."

Of course, she does. And I bet all the church ladies think she's as cute as a button. "Wide appeal and all that, what can I say?"

"So, summing it up. Keep an eye on plus-ones. Tickets for the august Cullen couple. Contact details for Miss Whitlock. And flowers. Is that it?"

I nod while staring at new emails popping up in my inbox. More financials to review, more edits to approve, and a pile of other shit I'd rather not deal with. The glamor of being the editor in chief.

Tanya figures out, in record time, that I'm absorbed by other tasks right now, and she's been dismissed. She murmurs an assent and disappears, leaving my door open.

Time passes—one email at a time, one phone call at a time, one interloper at a time. Staff waltz in and out of my office, prompting me to read this email or that one, hounding me for signatures or sign-offs. Until the procession of people outside my door takes on a different direction. They start ignoring me, and walk past. All in the direction of the lobby and elevators in small clusters of twos and threes, chatter filling the background a few decibels above the usual office cacophony of phones, emails pinging, and printers whirring. This clues me in to … yeah, as I suspected.

Lunchtime. Suddenly, a burger and a chat with Alistair is just what the doctor ordered.

Computer screen—locked. Phone—charged and in my pocket. Coat, scarf, and hat—done, done, and done.

"T, I'm stepping outside for …"

"… Lunch? Bull & Crown?" It didn't take a genius to guess the first part. Or the second. But sometimes, I am entirely too predictable.

With a nod, I disappear into the elevator. By some miracle, I'm alone, which spares me from engaging in chitchat.

Not ten minutes later, I push on the frosted glass door of the Bull & Crown. The typical aroma of pub grub—fried food and grilled meats—invades my nostrils just as I blow out one, last, almost-frozen outside breath in a puff of warm, impalpable fog. I throw an appraising look around me, taking in the familiar surroundings.

Booths along the walls are separated by old, darkened oak partitions. Tiffany lamps diffuse warm light above the tables. A plethora of vintage Guinness advertising posters dot the walls in splashes of color, interspersed with black-and-white reproduction prints of Irish landmarks. The Bull & Crown is the epitome of an old-fashioned, if somewhat clichéd, Irish pub.

Not many of these remain in Boston now, with most of the old haunts driven out of their premises by mounting rents or turned into common, unoriginal, but glitzier venues. Not the Bull. Due to a convoluted twist of events that goes back a couple generations, Alistair Ogilvy owns these walls, and he isn't giving them up anytime soon. He's had offers over the years, and each time, with his typical flair for the dramatic, he made a big scene of ripping them to pieces and burning them to ashes from his perch behind the bar.

After a cursory look around the place, taking in the lunchtime crowd, my gaze lands on the man himself. As a ginger-haired, blue-eyed, six-foot-six hulk of a guy Alistair appears intimidating. It could be the multiple ear piercings. Or the Celtic knot tatts on his forearms. Or the unreadable set of his square jaw and thin lips—the chiseled features of a Viking giant. His phenotype isn't a rarity in Boston nor is his boisterous personality. But he's a picky, opinionated fucker and has zero tolerance for stupid in his establishment. The fact that our bullshit meters are finely attuned is the cornerstone of our friendship.

"Look what the cat dragged in! Cullen, have a seat," he bellows at me from across the room. I step closer to the bar and comply, parking my butt on a stool right in front of him.

"Good to see you, my friend," I reply, shaking his proffered hand, then flexing mine. The man has a killer grip.

"It's been a hot minute since you graced these halls, you broody bastard. What's going on with you?"

"Same old, same old. Just busy."

He eyes me skeptically, crossing his massive arms on his chest. "Uhm." A patron sitting farther down the bar beckons him for a refill. "Let me see what's up with that and I'll get back to you. You want your usual?"

That would be a pint of ice-cold Guinness. "Not today. I need to keep my wits about me for the rest of the day at work. Or at least pretend."

He nods, walking away to cater to the other patrons. A minute later, a tall glass of iced tea appears in front of me. "Usual grub, Cullen?" Alistair hollers, standing by the kitchen window at the other end of the bar.

I nod, knowing he'll put in the order for my medium cheeseburger with bacon, onion, pickle, mustard, no tomato.

A while later, he sets the plate on my placemat and grabs my almost empty glass to refill my ice tea. "So, what's eating at you?"

There's no use beating about the bush with him. Bullshit meter and all that. "I was sort of forced to be a field reporter again recently. It didn't go over well."

"Holy fuck, Ed. How did that even happen?" he asks.

The scratch of a stool on the worn floorboards distracts me from answering. A voice I know very well exploits my momentary flub, pre-empting my reply.

"Because I was a lousy fucker and guilt-tripped him into it," Jazz announces from the seat beside me. "Mind if I join you for lunch?"

I shake my head and gesture for him to be at ease. When I turn toward him, Jasper's look nails me to my spot.

"I want to apologize for that, Ed. I shouldn't have forced you. I should have stood my ground with Isabella's folks and rescheduled. It wasn't your problem to solve. It was mine."

Before I respond, my hand pats his shoulder in appreciation. "Thank you, Jazz. But don't take all the credit for that clusterfuck. I had my own part in it."

He shakes his head. "It still wasn't fair of me to pawn my work off on you that way. With zero notice to boot. I knew how important that interview was and didn't …"

"Bah. You can't predict when your back is going to give out on you. Not even your perceptive, all-seeing wife can do that. Although, to be fair, she could exercise better timing." Hopefully, my rejoinder will convey that I don't hold it against Jasper. It wasn't meant to work out. Period.

"How's life, otherwise?" he asks. From anyone else, it would be routine small talk. From Jasper, who sees me day in and day out, it's a segue into something deeper.

"Trying to ignore the fact that my ex-girlfriend and producer is gallivanting her way through the state. Her father is parading her around like a show pony."

"She is a goddamn journalist."

I raise an eyebrow at his opening salvo.

Undeterred, Jasper continues. "What I mean is … are there no goddamn rules that say it's tacky at best, rife with conflict and unethical at worst, for her to be campaigning for her father?"

"You'd think so. But ethics rules are predicated on good actors. Bad actors don't give a shit; they just flout them. In that regard, she fits the mold to a T."

Jasper emits a sound that's half-huff, half-growl just as Alistair reappears, setting a pint of Sam Adams on the coaster in front of him.

"Isn't it early for a pint?" I wonder.

"If I have to discuss the she-wolf, I'm gonna need booze."

"We don't need to discuss her. You brought her up."

His reply sublimates into a frustrated gesture as he waves his pint around. The amber liquid inside it sloshes perilously close to its glassy rim. "I can't help thinking there's a correlation between her reappearance and the flubbed interview."

I've thought about it. In passing. But facts don't support the theory. "Nah. You're imbuing events with a manufactured motivation. It's rotten timing, but there's no cause-effect nexus. Trust me."

"If you say so. Do you think she might turn up at the grand opening?"

"Why would she? It's not a campaign event. She gains zero by being there." That and it's a far too casual venue to be interesting to Katherine Caulfield. Country clubs and the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum are more her scene.

"I just don't want her to ruin the evening. Jake and Bella don't deserve it."

I'm about to comment that he's getting cozy with his interview subjects, but a quick look at the clock stops me. It's almost time to go back to work.

After a few minutes of shooting the shit with Alistair—who's got time on his hands now that the lunch rush is over—Jasper and I walk back across the street and into the Tatler building. We part ways in the hallway and head back to the rest of the day's grind.

An hour later, after I've waded through the dozen or so emails that accumulated over lunch, I pick up the phone and dial a number I can recite by rote on any day of the week.

"Esme Platt-Cullen," she announces, loud and clear. Her standard phone answer, landline and mobile. Without fail. She'd know it's me from the number of her phone display, but she's likely doing two or three things at a time, and she won't spare a glance at it if there's anything else more important to attend to. Classic Esme, ever the multi-tasker.

"Good afternoon, Mom. Is it a bad time?"

"Sweetie! No, never for you. Give me one second," she states, as imperious as ever. Disjointed noises filter from the background. I bet she's dismissing whoever was in the room with her. "I'm back," she finally says. "How are you, Edward?"

"I'm doing fine, Mom. You?"

"I heard about that obnoxious fundraiser at the Gardner. I made sure the Board of Trustees knew my opinion about it." Of course, she did.

"Mom, you don't need to stick your neck out for me that way. I don't give a crap about what they do. Either of them."

"I may not need to, but I want to. I'm not even sure the museum's charter allows them to host political events," she adds, disdain dripping from her voice.

"I doubt Stewart Gardner had that kind of concern in her pre-Teapot Dome Scandal times. But that's all beside the point, Mom. And it certainly isn't the reason I'm calling."

She sighs, momentarily conceding the point but undaunted. Although her keenness to exact revenge on the Caulfields is concerning, I'm grateful she's incensed on my behalf, ever my champion. "Which is? I'm sure you have better things to do on a weekday afternoon than chatting with your decrepit mother."

"My mother isn't decrepit. Don't put yourself down—everyone knows you don't look a day older than forty-five."'

"And you're a shameless flatterer like your father, Edward Anthony. Now, stop dilly-dallying." You compliment the woman and she middle-names you. But what can I say; Mom gets a pass.

"I have your tickets for the grand opening of Sharps & Flats—February ninth, remember? It's a Friday."

The rhythmic noise of pages turning crinkles through the headset. "Isabella Swan! How could I not remember? Fantastic. Do you want to come over for dinner and give us the tickets?"

"I technically don't have them yet; I'm scrounging up an additional plus-one. I put Tanya on the case. But, yes, on principle, it's feasible. I'll give you a ring when I do have them. One more thing, Mom."

"Yes, sweetie. What do you need?"

This is the tricky part. The part that will spark a thousand questions. "Your chocolate cake recipe, as a matter of fact."

"Do you now?" It is a sarcastic comeback. We've shared recipes before since I like cooking. But she's guarded the chocolate cake one with possessive care over the years. However, it's a key point of my diabolical plan. I need that recipe.

"So, may I have it? Pretty please?"

"Uhhm. I wonder why," she hedges, as inquisitive as ever.

"Well, I did get you Isabella Swan concert tickets. Didn't I?" It is blackmail, of sorts. But I'm not above playing dirty.

"I suppose you did," she replies. "Fine. On one condition."

"Name it."

"Come and have lunch with me next week. I'll have Tanya block your calendar."

I guess she still hasn't forgotten that I had coffee with Dad. Two months ago. So now she's jumping at the chance to level the playing field, and true to form, she's phrasing it as a demand. But Mom always gets a pass. "Of course, Mom. It'll be my pleasure."

Computer keys click in the background with the distinctive sound of her manicured nails hitting them in rapid succession. "I just emailed you the recipe. Got it?"

"I thought it'd be more complicated than that. You have access to your recipes from the office?"

"Technology is a wonderful thing, Edward. Meant to make our lives easier," she quips just as my email client pings with a new message.

When I hover over the email preview, one solitary line of text jumps at me from the screen. "How long have you been dabbling with emojis, Mother?" She used them appropriately to boot.

"I like to keep up with the times, son. Now, I love talking to you, but duty calls. The chair of the Massachusetts GOP is finally replying to my emails, and I need to nail that bastard to the wall."

"Mom, your bias is showing," I chide her with a chuckle.

"I write op-eds these days. And he is demonstrably a wishy-washy bastard. Now, are we done here?"

"Yes, Mom. Go back to chasing your politicians. Thank you for the recipe."

"No problem. And do let me know how it turns out. I'll see you on Sunday night. Love you, sweetie."

"Love you, too, Mom."

When the line clicks off, it takes me a second to shake off my sudden, momentary trance. This chocolate cake needs a dry run before its debut, or my diabolical plan will deflate faster than a bad soufflé.

For the first time in ages, I'm cutting my day in the office short. It's only an hour, but it's the principle of it. This explains Tanya's saucer-wide eyes when I walk past her desk, armed with my coat, beanie, office keys, ID lanyard, and my backpack.

"Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic boss?"

My attempt at a stink eye fails when she laughs in my face. It's clearly my day for my women to laugh me out of town—first my mom, then Reynolds.

"You don't love me anymore, T. That's clear. And sad. I'm going to drown my sorrows in booze."

She graduates from laughs to snorts. Great. "No, you're not. What are you up to, Edward?"

"I need to go grocery shopping." My voice deadpans as I fold the printout of Mom's recipe and stash it in my coat pocket.

"I suppose you can go," she says. Her mock-haughty tone still sounds diverted. She knows I can feed myself pretty well, but I guess we never swapped recipes or Whole Foods coupons. It's just implied that I shop for groceries like all common mortals.

"Why, thank you, ma'am," I reply, bowing at her with a flourish.

"I want a slice of that chocolate cake, by the way …"

Damn. I forgot that she has access to my emails.


Next up, the Editor bakes a chocolate cake, meets his mom for lunch, and attends a certain opening night ...