Happy Saturday, people!
Thank you to everyone who voted in the TFFAs and congrats to all the winners! Special thanks to the ladies who host and organize this every year, it's a TON of work!
Yours truly came in 3rd as Favorite Screener for my pre-reading work. Thank you so much to everyone who voted for me!
Thank you also for all your reviews and alerts. I love reading your thoughts and theories.
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.
I don't have a recipe for the first chocolate cake, unfortunately. EditorWard and Esme were very secretive about it!
There is, however, a baked chocolate cheesecake this week, and I might post the recipe in my FB Group, LaMomo's Lair. Do consider joining for teasers, bonus contents like playlists and pics, lots of Rob, and the occasional glimpse into my work in progress. Just type "LaMomo's Lair" in the search bar on FB and it will come up.
Back to EditorWard!
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 13
On Thursday morning, I wake up with a jolt, remembering I have something to do before work. It's early—my alarm won't start pestering me for another half hour.
But first things first.
I shoot off an email and text to Tanya, telling her I'll be in later than usual. It's just a regular Thursday morning, with no scheduled meetings and no pressing business. For once, I can make the executive decision of setting my own working hours without guilt.
Next, I shower while coffee brews.
My mind goes back to last night with its inevitable mix of highs and lows. Witnessing another of Bella's performances definitely counts as a high. And there's something there. Something about her. Something about me when I'm with her. Something foreign but not unwelcome. Exhilarating and unsettling—to the point I hesitate to put a name to it.
Kate's unexpected appearance is the uncontested low point of the night. With her general bitterness to me, and everyone in my orbit, Mac's words about her latest romantic entanglement resurface in my brain.
Could it really be the case that it is all a publicity stunt? Would she fake all of it for the sake of the limelight? Because after observing her behavior with her fiancée—whose only fault so far seems to be her association with Kate—I have to wonder. This wouldn't just be the actions of a corporate hawk, throwing her coworker and boyfriend of five years under the bus to get ahead. This is more. This isn't solely about her career, her public persona, or boosting her father's campaign. This is her personal life, her identity, on the line.
The charitable side of me reasons that it's not for me to judge if she finally found herself. Her truth is her truth, no matter when or how she found it. I start cataloguing in my brain how difficult—painful, even—it must have been to come out to her family of bigoted assholes and to her family's entourage of posh country club gossips.
Then the realistic, evidence-based side of me that runs on black coffee and corroborated facts remembers all the red flags I dismissed about her during our five-year relationship. All the times she flung snide, covert remarks about Mac, whom she considered not glamorous or classy enough to hang out with. All the times she pushed me to compete for the flashier, attention-grabbing projects that would give me more exposure as a reporter, regardless of a journalist's perennial mantra of telling the story without becoming one. All the times she went behind my back or above my head to change the direction or slant of our reporting, in spite of having no byline and no sources. That was all me—I put in all the field work, talked to sources, read hundreds of pages of intelligence reports and government records. She dressed it up, if that. All her grumbling when I put down my foot to get on the ground in Syria. She only relented when she heard that the legendary Marie Colvin would be there. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to notoriety, to other people's fame, which she always saw as a stepping-stone. Until the bitter, crumbling end.
Until I became the stepping-stone.
While I step out of the shower enclosure and grab a toasty warm towel to dry off, I shake my head in unsurprised disbelief. Then, with unusual lack of coordination, the towel falls to the floor when early morning traffic outside the building erupts in a cacophony of honking horns, startling me. I bend to retrieve the rogue terrycloth, and as I rise, my groaning muscles remind me just how close to the big four-oh I am. I need to go back to working out with some sort of regularity. But then again, exercising in the winter in Boston means cooped up in a gym. After being in an office for most of the day, that shit just has little to zero appeal to me.
As I check if my beard needs trimming, the wide mirror in front of the double sinks in my bathroom reflects my half-naked, half-wet image in all of its rugged glory. Despite the recent lapse in my workout regime, I still look reasonably in shape for my age. Mac would probably go as far as describing me as "fucking hot for an old fart"—regardless of the fact that he's not much younger than me, thank you very much.
Yet, the defined pecs, biceps, and deltoids counterpoint the devastation on the left side of my body. Apart from a smattering of auburn chest hair that runs a bit farther down, I'm not a hairy guy. My glabrous skin offers a merciless, crisp canvas to the litany of scars along my left flank and femur. The ones from the explosion follow a random pattern on my skin—their own little explosions in clusters of cuts and scar tissue, some devoid of sensitivity to this day. The surgery scars are less glaring, less intrusive. No gnarly knots of dilapidated skin there, but well-practiced straight lines that have almost faded into the background. But they're still there. They tell the story of how I almost didn't make it out of Homs alive that fateful day six years ago.
What am I doing six years later?
I wake up in the morning. Work out, if I can get my ass in gear. Commute to the office. Work. Probably too much. Have dinner with my parents every Sunday, more often if the august Esme Platt-Cullen summons me. Shoot the shit at the Bull & Crown with J and Mac. That's it.
Maybe Mac isn't so wrong when he tries to push me out of my comfort zone. But there's "out of the comfort zone" and there's … contemplating anything with Bella Swan. How did he phrase it? "Getting past the friend-zone." Man, I don't even know if I am in the fucking friend-zone. I don't even know how to be in the friend-zone with a woman anymore.
"Maybe you should fucking try it for a change, Cullen." Great, now I'm talking to myself in the mirror.
And because acknowledging the problem is the first step, I shake my head, trying to tame my hair and my wayward thoughts at the same time.
By the time I'm dressed and in the kitchen, sipping a mug of Kona coffee as I sift through my pantry and fridge to figure out what kind of chocolate concoction I can bake, I've decided I'll just take things as they come. Gaming things out in my head beforehand will only drive me nuts in the process. Vague echoes also surface in my brain—my therapist's recommendations that craving control for the sake of it isn't healthy. Less control, more "go with the flow." If I could just find the fucking flow.
Then I remember that the reason I went down this rabbit hole at all was Kate fucking Caulfield. It does have a ring to it, damn you, Mac—and this gets me to the second momentous decision of the morning. I don't give a shit about Kate. Not anymore.
Her life, her decisions. Running into her in Boston on a regular basis sounds about as appealing as a colorectal exam, but I'm not going to censor myself or change my habits to avoid her. I'm still an inquisitive bastard, though, and the question lingers: if she's so blissfully happy and successful, why did she seek me out with the fundraiser invitation? Why did she approach me at the club and spew vitriol at me?
"Bah," I grumble to myself, channeling my father for a second. Again, who gives a shit, anyway?
Looks like I have ingredients for a baked chocolate cheesecake and start working on it. Ah, there we go. Happy place—the rhythmic movements of mixing and stirring always relax me more than an hour of pretzeled-up yoga poses. It doesn't hurt that I'm imagining Kate's strawberry blonde curls whipped into a gruesome, Tarantinoesque version of cheesecake batter. That KitchenAid whip attachment could do some serious damage at top speed.
Two hours later, I step off the elevator at the Tatler. Tanya's in an animated phone conversation, arguing about invoices and late deliveries, probably reprimanding a non-compliant supplier for the screw up of the day.
"Thank you, that is exactly what we would like," she replies at the end of a rather incensed tirade. Her tone conveys that if whoever's on the other end of the line had acquiesced to her wishes right away, the conversation would have been much shorter and, certainly, less irritating. For her, of course.
"Good morning, I hope?" I hedge, as soon as she's dismissed the caller.
She rolls her eyes, leaning back in her office chair with a huff. "Hi, boss. Hoping it becomes a good morning. Is that for me?" she asks, indicating the cake box in my hands.
"Yes and no. It's your covert assignment of the day. Same address as the last one."
She nods. "Any cards? Or are we incognito again?"
Good question. "You know what, Reynolds? Just sign it 'From the Cake Fairy'."
Make of that what you will, Miss Swan.
"Is that all?"
Tanya's question stops me right at the door to my office. "Actually, no. Get me Jacob Black on the phone, please."
&&&IVORIES&&&
A good twenty minutes later, after I've cleared out my inbox, sent off edits on first drafts, approved a few topics for upcoming features, and downed my second coffee of the day—while Pearl Jam croons "I Am Mine," in keeping with my earlier post-shower musings—my office phone finally rings.
"Tanya, I'm all yours."
"I hope not. You're not my type," she quips.
"I don't know if my ego will survive this, Reynolds. Why are you even pissing on my parade now?"
"Jeez, aren't we cranky this morning? You asked me to get Jacob Black on the phone for you. It wasn't even that long ago."
I did ask. "Did you manage to track him down?"
"Yes. He's on line two."
"Thank you, Tanya. Put him through, please."
"He's all yours, boss," she replies before hanging up.
And then the line clicks and crackles while it connects again. "Jacob? Hi, this is Edward."
More crackling and some wind. "Hi, Edward. Sorry about all the noise. I'm trying to get my jog in before I head to the club."
Ah, that would explain it. "You're a braver soul than I, running outdoors in Boston in February."
He chuckles. "I'm from Washington. State, not D.C. The cold doesn't faze me. So, you're a runner, too?"
"Yes, but I cheat. I normally use the treadmill in our building in the winter. Have you explored the gym yet?"
"Not yet, but now you mention it, I'll have to check it out. So, what can I do for you on this fine day, Mr. Cullen?"
Back to business, though Jake's tone is playful. The guy seems perpetually chill. Maybe if I hang out with him more, I'll pick up whatever trick he uses to be that chill.
"First of all, I'd like to apologize for the pitiful scene at the club last night." I didn't create it, but I won't have Jake believe I'd be that disrespectful of his place of business.
He huffs and puffs. How much of the huffing and puffing is due to running and how much to dismissing my concerns, that's up for debate. "No apology necessary. I saw one lady amble for your group from behind the bar, and then Lauren followed her. You all were minding your damn business."
"Thank you, Jacob." Although the way he phrased his explanation leads me to think he might know Lauren personally since he singled her out. I'll stick a pin in it for further scrutiny.
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jake? I'm starting to get a complex here," he quips.
"Thank you, Jake. You happy now?"
"Much. So, I take it you didn't call me to discuss workout habits and amenities in the condo building?"
"Yeah, about that. I hate to do this, but Alice cornered me yesterday, and somehow she got wind that Bella gave me tickets to all the shows this week. I invited her to come along last night as my plus one—"
"But being a married woman, Mrs. Hale was otherwise engaged on Valentine's Day?"
"Bingo. And it's Brandon-Hale. She's very proud of her hyphenated title."
"But of course. Well, we'd be happy to have Alice at the club tonight, if that's the case," he offers without prompting.
And that's where I have to be utterly shameless. "Yeah, I pretty much gave her my plus-one for tonight, but I hate to exclude Jasper, and I hate to beg for another ticket."
"You're not begging—I'm offering. Jasper's feature just ensured we are fully booked through April."
"Are you sure? I haven't told Jasper yet. I mean, I could just give them my tickets for the night …"
"And then Bella would have my balls when you didn't show up. Nope. Big fat nope. You bring Jasper and Alice tonight; the ticket will be at the door. And I'm not taking no for an answer."
"Thank you, Jake. Really."
"Yeah, no biggie. You know, we're practically neighbors; we'll have to hang out sometime."
I decide it's one of those "go with the flow" things I should just let happen. Grab the bull by the horns.
"I'd like that, Jake. See you tonight."
"Sure, sure. See ya," he answers just before the line clicks.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Because Cheney, Mac, and I scheduled a huddle to discuss upcoming proposed changes to our website and social media accounts, I end up having lunch with them in the break room. Luckily, the Bull & Crown delivers. We're excellent customers.
"So, let me get this straight," I say, glancing between my two employees, "you want to overhaul the entire look of the homepage?"
Reluctant skepticism is my standard reaction to Cheney's newfangled ideas. I am an absolute graphics heathen. I know what I like, but I have zero clue why it works. This is why we have Cheney. Mac is my sidekick; he dumbs it down enough for me to fill in the gaps.
"Ed, the thing is … this is the look we've had since … God, I can't even remember," Mac starts.
"Shortly after Ed came on board, actually. It's been a while," Cheney explains.
"Okay, okay. I'm sold. Too long. Ideas?" I ask.
Of course, Cheney's gonna have ideas. He's the graphics and social media guru—this is his happy place. But then I remember we can't just go revolutionize the entire shebang. The Back Bay Tatler has a long, established history in Boston. "Hang on, though. I have a question. What about branding? Are we sure that any of these changes won't impact that? We need to still be recognizable to our readership."
Cheney smiles. He's done his homework. "I've combed through website feedback and the results of the anonymous survey we ran a few months ago. Reader comments boil down to: a) make the homepage easier to navigate, b) keep recent posts on top instead of the 'highlights,' c) pick a font color and background that make for crisper contrast for readability, d) add links to contact writers directly in some way, and e) make the website search less clunky and with better results. None of this affects branding. It's mostly user-experience stuff, and some redesigning, but nothing radical."
"Good. I'll be sure to let Alice know the survey paid off. Who did the data crunching?"
"The interns, and then I reviewed it. Obviously, we should leave the masthead alone. I've selected a couple of font combinations that could work well for the rest of the homepage section headers, and I tested them in both dark and light mode."
"Great call, Ben," Mac offers. "Some fonts look okay with lighter backgrounds but get all kinds of screwed up on dark mode."
"On that note, here's what I came up with." Cheney throws a couple of printed mock-ups at me.
Clean, crisp lines in one. Fussier, busier in the other one. In both versions, he's kept the flagship colors of blue and white and our proprietary font for the masthead. That's non-negotiable. It was designed specifically for the Tatler when Curtis Brandon took over the magazine eons ago.
My penchant for zero-fuss things affects my choice. "I'd go for the minimalist look. Let the contents speak for themselves."
Cheney grimaces. "Really? Not the other one? Mac, what do you think? Help me out here," Ben says, elbowing him.
Mac grabs the mockups to look at them more closely. "Uhm. I'm not sure about all the curlicues in these section headers and separators. Dingbats like those often don't translate to all mobile devices—"
"And a good half of our hits come from mobile devices. Portability is the name of the game, Cheney. I appreciate that you unleashed your inner artist, but …"
He nods. "Point taken, Ed. Although—maybe I could tweak the minimalist design a bit? Make it less severe?"
"Just so it doesn't look like a dull government website, you mean? Yeah, it's worth exploring. How long would you need?"
"For the tweaks? A couple days."
My turn to nod. "Go ahead with tweaking then. And to implement the whole enchilada later?"
"A week, but it's mostly under the hood changes. We'd have to tease the launch on our accounts. Maybe do a test run where people can toggle from one layout to the other, just to get used to it. I'll check if it's feasible."
"Costs?" Because that's always at the back of our minds whatever we do.
"It won't break the bank. Alice signed off on my estimates a while ago. Design was done in-house. Migration can be done by a couple of techs whenever we decide to launch, but again, it's under the hood work. We can have a new landing page ready, and then have it go live whenever we want. It's not going to stop any day-to-day fruition of the website."
I glance at the chosen mockup again before handing it over to Ben. "Go ahead then. Now, I want to eat what's left of my pastrami on rye in peace. Off you go."
With a mock salute, Ben gathers his stuff and races out of the break room. Mac lingers. Of course.
"So, you going to Sharps & Flats again tonight?" From Mac, it's by no means an idle question. It's a fishing expedition.
"Yes. You know I have tickets for the entire week. Well, until Friday, that is."
He nods sagely, in between popping French fries into his mouth. "Anyone using your plus-one?"
Cue a raised eyebrow from yours truly. "What are you getting at, Mac? Want another go at Miss Whitlock?"
He huffs. "What's it to you?"
I ball up my sandwich wrapper and throw it in his face. "You're sounding eager, Mac. I'm wondering why."
He runs a hand through his hair. He growls. Then sags back into his chair. Frustrated Mac is making an appearance. "Fine. I give up. If you wanna know the truth, yes. I want to see Rosalie again."
No hint of a salacious expression. No waggling eyebrows. No innuendo of any kind. He's being genuine. He must have done some thinking since our talk last night. However, considering his reluctance in sharing just now, I'll let him open up about it in his own time. Unlike him, I'm not a nosy bastard. Unless it's for professional reasons.
"I'm taking Alice and J with me tonight. I've already scrounged up an additional ticket for him, or I'd ask Jake for another. Want to come along tomorrow night? It's the grand finale."
He ponders for a minute, his hulking body almost motionless as he dwarfs one of the white IKEA chairs we keep in the break room. "Nobody else lined up for Friday? Not even Momma C?"
I shake my head. "Nah. I didn't ask, but I think the parentals had their fill of music for Valentine's Day. Plus, they're my tickets, so I'm taking whomever the hell I want. You in?"
After a deep breath, he answers, "Yeah, I'm in. We having dinner there?"
I shrug. Of course, he'd be strategizing about food. "Saves us a trip somewhere else. They have killer appetizers."
"Cool, cool. Let's just Uber it this time, capiche? It's Friday night, and I don't want to fart around looking for parking."
"That, and you may need booze to deal with Miss Whitlock, right?" I quip, trying to defuse the tension.
He angled to come along, but he still seems reluctant to talk about it. After all, this is a big conundrum for Mac. The first time he actually wants a woman, and the lady won't even give him the time of day.
"You got me there, bro. You got me. Well, I have a shoot for one of Jessica's society pieces, so wish me luck. I'll see you around, Ed."
Standing, he slaps my shoulder and walks away, leaving me to a solitary, well-earned coffee. Alas, the quiet solitude doesn't last long.
"Edward? Are you in there?" Alice's voice calls from the hallway, and a second later, her head pokes in through the door.
"Yes, Alice. I'm in here. Hiding from my staff."
"Oh, sorry. Do you wish me to leave?"
I wave her off. Sometimes, she's so considerate that she gets too literal. "Nah. Come on in. Have you had coffee yet?"
"Wouldn't mind a top off," she answers, taking a seat beside me.
I stand and rinse out the coffee pot to start a fresh one. Who knows how long that last bit of coffee lingered there. When I resume my seat, Alice is on me like white on rice.
"So, are we still on for tonight? Are we seeing Bella?"
Her enthusiasm is so vivid it's almost childlike. Alice has a unique way of looking at life and appreciating the little things.
I nod before answering. "Yes, and bring the old ball and chain with you. Jake set aside another ticket for him."
She claps her hands. "Oh, wonderful, wonderful. I'll have to figure out what to wear." Of course, she does.
I'm about to throw a zinger at her when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I'm all set to ignore it and have an actual conversation with Alice when the ringtone fills the break room. A few bars of Pearl Jam's "Alive" resonate before I peek at the screen.
"Do you need to take that, Edward?"
Local number but not in my contacts. Who could it be? "Yeah, I'd better. Sorry about this," I tell her, apologetic.
Alice, who takes a hint better than anyone else does, waves me off, and stands to leave. She mouths, "See you later," at me before closing the door behind her.
Deep breath, and then I tap accept. "Edward Cullen."
That's been my standard reply to calls from unknown numbers for years. It's in the reporter's rulebook. Don't dodge calls and identify yourself. You never know when you might get "the" call.
"Oh. Hi, Edward. It's Bella."
A strange, jittery high possesses me as soon as I hear her voice. "Bella. Hi."
"I didn't think you'd take my call."
The involuntary chuckle that escapes me defuses my temporary case of butterflies. Butterflies? First, I'm talking to mirrors, and now I'm getting butterflies. Weird.
"Well, I'm a journalist. If I refused calls from numbers I didn't know, my job would be heaps harder."
She giggles. "Oh, that figures. I hope you don't mind me calling. I asked Jake for your number."
"No, I don't mind. At all." And I realize I'm not just appeasing her. It's true. I mean it.
"Right. So. I just wanted to check—you still coming to the club tonight?"
"Yes, I am. That seems to be the question of the day, though."
"Oh. Is that so?" she asks after a brief pause. "And who else is asking?" Her voice sounds playful but tentative at the same time.
"Mac, the big oaf."
Bella's answer is an outright chuckle this time. She has his number. "Right. Are you bringing him tonight, too?"
"Nope. Your friend Mr. Hale and his wife are coming with me."
"Oh, Ask Alice Already. I'm a fan. I'm so excited to meet her!"
"Didn't you meet on opening night?"
"Not really. Too chaotic. I'd love to talk to her more," she adds.
Maybe I should warn her. "Fair warning—she's also a fan. Just so you know."
"She doesn't scare me, Edward."
This girl … her reactions sometimes are so unexpected. "Well, I won't be the one to tell her," I assure her just as a calendar reminder beeps in the background. Time to go back to the grind.
"Oh, you need to go, don't you?" she asks. So perceptive.
"Unfortunately, yes. Duty calls."
"I'll let you go then. But fair warning for fair warning—my brother will be at the show tonight. Just so you know."
I love how she's throwing my exact words back in my face. "Well, I'll be sure to have a nice chat with Mr. Dwyer tonight."
"All right. See you later, Edward."
"Goodbye, Bella."
Though, somehow, "goodbye" doesn't sound right. Somehow, it hurts.
So, Tanya so far is the only one who does know that he's the Cake Fairy. Does Bella know or suspect? So far, we don't know. Stay tuned.
More speculations about Kate's behavior, and two interesting phone calls, one with Jake, the other with Bella.
More on deck next week!
