Happy Saturday, people!
Housekeeping first.
1. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your reviews and alerts. I love hearing your thoughts and theories.
2. 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.
So, general consensus seems to be that James belongs in the fiery pits of Hades, and so does Kate (no surprises there), possibly next to each other. Can't argue with that.
I'm glad most of you are loving the baby steps and the slow burn. As I explained in my review replies, there's a deliberate point to it. Bella and Edward both have traumatic pasts, Edward in particular. They're not people wired for insta-love. It's just not them.
That said, did someone say "dinner at EditorWard's"? Here we go. See you on the flip side.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 20
After the impromptu dinner I cooked for Bella, there's another shift in our friendship. I no longer keep track of who starts conversations. If I had to measure, I'd say we're neck and neck, but there's no accounting in friendships.
I took Mac's advice and set up a group chat to plan dinner at my loft. Reluctantly, because my misanthropic nature abhors group chats of any kind. I had to psyche myself into using the Slack chats at work, but my arguments fizzled away when I realized I didn't have to leave my den to talk to people.
Of course, Tanya got the task of tallying everyone's preferred dates against my calendar. Someone proposed Easter, but since it falls on April Fools' Day this year, Mac offered a good reason against it—to avoid having a dinner for fools on fools' day. After some more wrangling, we zeroed in on the second Saturday in April, and calendar reminders went out to all the invitees for April 14, at seven p.m., at my loft.
Bella proposed to adopt a BYO approach to the dinner party, which I opposed. I invited everyone to my house, I dangled lasagna in their faces, as Mac put it, so feeding the small army falls squarely on my shoulders. But I won't refuse random appetizers, or booze, or help with cleaning up after the fact.
It's been almost a month since I showed up at Bella's looking like a drowned rat after her distress call. During our lunch last week, I asked her why she called me, of all people. I imagined Ross or Jake would have been higher on her list of people to call in a crisis.
As so many other things about her, her answer disarmed me, at the time, but it made a hell of a lot of sense.
"I needed an unbiased listener. I knew you'd be supportive but also objective."
What floored me was her absolute faith in my reaction when I wasn't sure about being unbiased myself. I told her as much, but she dismissed my concerns. And that ended the discussion.
I'll have to come clean about my covert googling at some point, but as a matter of due diligence, I checked out the article about Fray and some subsequent press released prior to his upcoming concerts in the States. The man comes across as a puffed-up, conceited asshole. All he talks about is me, me, me. But evidently, he's saying the right things because the industry press is treating him like the second coming of Mozart.
And today, the very day of this dinner of misfits I've agreed to throw without quite knowing how it happened, I'm spending my Saturday morning roaming the local farmers' market for a few odds and ends I need for tonight. The pièce de résistance will be my lasagna, two pans of which—in its carnivore and vegetarian version—are ready to go in the oven to bake later this afternoon. I spent Friday night making the sauces from scratch, sautéing the veggies, and building the layers. I plan to make a couple of quiches as appetizers, and I've already picked up some pancetta that will taste great in a quiche Lorraine. I'll also serve a side salad, which is the main reason for stopping at the farmers' market. There's a stall that always has the best seasonal produce, and that's where I'm headed.
Because I'll have a varied audience tonight, and I'm all too acquainted with how particular people get about their salads, I'll build a salad bar of sorts. So, after I grab all the variety of ingredients I have on my list, it's time to walk home and get down to business.
I'm standing at the elevator bank waiting for the next one, when someone pokes my shoulder, and I instinctively turn to identify the interloper.
"Jake, hi! How's it going?"
He regales me with one of his pearly white smiles, worthy of a toothpaste commercial. How this man manages to look dressed to the nines even in jeans and a blazer, I'll never know.
"Hey, Cullen. Good, good. I'm on my way to a lunch date."
I can't resist teasing him a little. "Hot date?"
"I hope so. It's your tax guy." This man doesn't miss a beat.
"Seth? Well, have fun. I'll see you tonight, right?"
He nods. "That's the plan. Listen, would you mind if—"
"Bring him along, Jake. There's plenty of space and grub for one more."
He slaps my shoulder with a tad more enthusiasm than I expected. "Thanks. I'll see you later, solo or hopefully not. Oh, we might be late!"
I shake my head, chuckling at his antics, but glad my suggestion to contact Seth has yielded more than just a painless tax season.
One silent elevator ride later, I dump my two grocery bags on the kitchen island and start sorting through the contents. Salad stuff goes straight into the fridge because nobody wants wilted lettuce. I keep the pancetta, French cheese, and crème fraiche on hand. The two quiches are my top priority for the next two hours.
I have quiche crust chilling in the fridge that I made this morning, and when I pull it out to find space for salad ingredients, its consistency looks perfect. Because nobody's here to see it, a celebratory fist pump doesn't go amiss.
Baking and cooking have become relaxing rituals for me, and as a rule, I don't need anything else to get "in the zone." But today, the stubborn silence that blankets my loft is like a too hot, too heavy cover I want to kick off the bed. Music it is. In a few seconds, Bella's notes bathe my kitchen in a harmony of soothing crescendos. A few months ago, my tastes and inclination would have steered me toward Pearl Jam ballads. Now, I just pick anything of Bella's and let the shuffle function work its magic.
By lunchtime, the rhythmic, exacting work of rolling out the crust for two quiches is done, and they're cooked to perfection; I just have to pour in the filling I mixed while the crusts baked. I can't resist snitching a piece of pancetta—tastes amazing, if I do say so myself. The mixed veggie and cheese quiche—for the two vegetarians in our midst, Ross and Alice—is also smelling all kinds of delicious.
With the filled quiches back in the oven to bake for a final forty minutes, I set the timer and sneak away to grab a shower finally. It didn't make any sense to shower this morning with all the shopping and cooking still to do. At least, I'll be presentable when people start arriving in a couple hours—because even if the invite says seven p.m., someone will be here early.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Case in point, the intercom buzzes a few minutes after six. Luckily, I'm showered, dressed, and I even trimmed my wayward facial hair. And the pans of lasagna are baking.
Bella—she's here first. She waves at me from the security camera, and I buzz her in. I leave the door open a crack, so she'll know where to go once the elevator deposits her on my floor.
When a few short raps on the door announce her, I'm behind the kitchen island mixing a pitcher of lemonade. The kettle's also about to whistle, if my timing is correct; I wanted to have some of her herbal tea at the ready for her.
"Come in, Ladybug."
She walks toward me and winds an arm around my waist. It's her usual greeting by now. I try not to put any stock in it, but the gesture always warms my heart, and when I return the embrace, that electric tingle in my fingers returns with a vengeance.
"Hi," she says. She looks up at me, a shy smile in place. The scarf in her hair today is an enticing shade of green, somewhere at the crossroads between emerald and teal.
"I like the scarf."
"Thank you. I like mixing it up, especially if I'm not performing. The Army has opinions." When my face contracts into a puzzled scowl instead of answering, she clarifies. "The Duckling Army? My fan club."
"Oh, that army." I remember them and their cobalt blue scarves at all the shows she played at Sharps & Flats. "I was worried for a minute there."
"Hush, you. Now, I know I'm awfully early—"
"I opened the door, didn't I? I fail to see the issue here," I reply.
"Because you're all politeness. I'm here early for a reason," she counters. Right then, I notice she's set a grocery bag on the island. It's emblazoned with the logo of a glitzy deli in her neighborhood. "I brought baked brie."
"You didn't need to bring anything; I told you." I'm tempted to huff, but I'm touched by the gesture.
She struggles with the bag for a minute, then extracts a package. "My grandma used to say you don't show up at people's houses empty-handed, so here I am. I'm just a girl, with a baked brie, asking you to bake it."
I laugh at her characterization, realizing she spoofed a quote from a movie. "I didn't expect you'd be a rom com kinda girl."
"It's my go-to Christmas movie. Two words: Hugh Grant—yes, please!"
"Hugh Grant, uh?"
Her expression turns playful while she unpacks the baked brie from its parchment paper confines. "I have eyes. What can I say?"
"Give me that slab of cheese. We'll get it baked when the lasagna's done. It can be a last minute thing. Want a drink?"
"Is that homemade lemonade?" she asks, pointing to the pitcher.
"Yes. Just mixed. Want to be my taste tester?"
She nods enthusiastically and jumps on one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
I turn to grab glasses from the cupboard and pour lemonade for both of us.
Her voice—her voice in my space, rather—should startle me, but it doesn't. Somehow, it fits.
"I didn't peg you for an industrial loft kind of guy."
"What did you peg me for then?"
She takes an eager sip of her drink, then moves her hands around, gesturing to my kitchen and front room. "Not this. Maybe … more minimal chic? I dunno. This is surprising. But it feels homey and kind of feels like you."
"Would you like a tour? Kitchen, obviously." I point to our surroundings, then to the sectional and coffee table across the hallway. "This is my day-to-day living room. I have a bigger space back there, but I don't use it so much when I'm on my own."
I'm walking down the hall toward the open-space dining and living room—the second thing that sold me on this place after its gigantic bathroom—but Bella isn't following. She's planted in front of the wall-to-wall shelves housing my record and book collection.
"Sorry, I'm terribly nosy. I'm one of those people who try to shrink the shit out of my friends by spying on the books they read and the music they listen to."
I shrug. I'm not going to confess it now, but I'm a judgy bastard when it comes to music. I've been known to look through my acquaintances' collections too. "Feel free to shrink away."
"A lot of grunge. Figures." She's leafing through my vinyl records and appears ready to move on to the CDs when the intercom blares again, interrupting our tour.
I glance at the security camera, then Bella's voice stops me in my tracks. "Who's the intruder?"
"Mac. And he's early. Usually, he's the last one in the door. Come up, Mac," I speak into the intercom.
He replies with a nod and disappears from the camera.
I return my attention to Bella, who's now examining my bookshelves. "Tons of mysteries and detective stories here, Mr. Editor."
"I like puzzles. Must be the investigative reporter in me."
She nods, then points to the hallway. "Do I get to see the rest of your lair?"
I motion for her to follow me. "Come along."
Bella steps into the dining room just when Mac rings the doorbell. I yell to him that it's open. A minute later, Mac appears at my side, and the forceful slap he lands on my shoulder almost topples me.
"Jesus, Mac. What did I do to you?"
"Nothing at the moment," he answers, winking at Bella. "Hey, piano girl." Then he turns to me. "Ed, I brought two six-packs of crafts from Cambridge Brewing; I stashed them in the fridge."
"You sound like you're quite at home here, Mac," Bella states.
He walks over to her and engulfs her in a bear hug. "What's the Indiana Jones version on it? It's not years, it's mileage? That's Ed and me for you. Mileage."
There's a lot of hard truths in those words, but a lot of brotherhood too. And just when I'm tempted to say something disgustingly sappy about it, the buzzer rings again. We're getting closer to seven—the oven timer for the lasagna should go off right about now.
"I'll get the door, Ed. You get whatever's cooking in your magic oven. I'm no good in the kitchen, you know that."
"And what do I do?" Bella asks.
Mac shrugs. "Stand there and look pretty?"
She playfully punches him in the side. "You sexist, chauvinistic …"
"He's trying to rile you up, Ladybug. Just ignore him," I retort.
Mac's built like … well, like a Mack truck. I just hope Bella didn't hurt her hand. She follows me into the kitchen while Mac handles door duties. The lasagna needs to rest for a bit, so I pull it out and transfer it to the warming drawer, then I slide Bella's baked brie in for a quick bake that'll make it all nice and gooey.
A small crowd enters when Mac opens the door—Jasper, Alice, my parents, and Ross. For a few minutes, a cacophony of cross-greetings and hugs drown the kitchen. After I've plied everyone with their drinks of choice, my mom sidles up to me in the kitchen.
"So, do you need help setting out stuff?"
"Actually, yes. Salad bar bowls go on the sideboard; you know where. The quiches can go on the table. There's another side table set up; that's where the drinks go. Thank you."
Esme snaps her fingers, and just like that, Jasper, Mac, and my father do her bidding.
Ross whistles. "I want to be her when I grow up," she whispers in awe.
Mom pats her shoulder as she slides past Ross. "Oh, you have time, dear. It took me decades to perfect the snap."
"Where's Jake? It's not like him to be late," Bella asks.
We're all moving into the dining room to take our places after the resident busboys have transferred all the grub and booze to their designated spots. It's merely twenty past seven. Still plenty of time on the clock to be fashionably late. But she might not know what I know about Jake's other engagements for the day.
"He'll be here, Choc. Plus, if he's late, more lasagna for us," Ross quips.
Bella nods, but it's my dad who answers. "An argument even I cannot refute."
Conversation at the table turns lively without effort. That was one of my underlying qualms about this dinner—throwing together a bunch of people who don't really know each other can be a gamble. With big personalities in the mix like Ross and Mac, who are at odds right now, the gamble may not pay off. But to my utter surprise, Ross stays civil—in fact, she's a delight. A big factor might be that she's seated beside my father, as far as possible from Mac. The man stuck to Jasper's side like a suckerfish.
"That salad bar is to die for, Edward! What's in the quiches?" Alice asks after her second stop at said salad bar. Guess it was a good idea, after all.
"Stick to the one closer to J. The other has pancetta in it."
She pouts a little, but then nods with good cheer. "Oh, thank you for thinking of us non-carnivores."
Bella, who's seated next to me, leans into my side. "What's in the pancetta quiche, for the carnivores?"
"It's quiche Lorraine. It has pancetta, gruyere, caramelized onions, crème fraiche, and eggs."
She looks pensive for a spell. "I'll try it."
"You lived in France for eons, and you never tasted a quiche Lorraine there?"
"I was a grad student. I didn't really care about gourmet dining that much," she retorts. "May I have a slice of it?"
"Sure. Dad, pass the quiche, please?"
Carlisle obliges. Then Ross involves him in a conversation about her inquiries into starting law school.
"Did you get ahold of the dean?" he asks.
"I did; thank you for the introduction. I'm meeting him next week. Now, if I could also get my housing situation resolved at the same time, it'd be fucking great. Oops. Sorry about that, Carlisle."
Dad chuckles and shrugs. "I've heard worse from lawyers, dear girl. Don't worry about it."
"What's wrong with the house, Ross?" Alice asks. Of course, she'd latch on to a conversation about real estate.
"What's not wrong with it, you mean?" Ross answers with a groan.
Bella growls, then cuts Ross off. "You didn't have to move out, Ross. I told you. There's plenty of space at my house. But, no, Miss Independence had to go and spread her wings."
After a long pull of her beer, Ross gears up for rebuttal. "That wasn't the point, Choc. I was just excited to be in my own space. I love that condo, but—"
"Where did you end up, Ross?" Jasper asks.
"Isn't it the converted church in Southie?" Alice chimes in. Always on top of notable real estate news. Must be in the family's DNA.
"Yes!" Ross exclaims. "And that's what I loved about it. But the previous owners had some gaudy décor going on, and I want to remove that, tone it down. Enter stage left the contractors and designers from hell."
"Oh, no. Plurals, Ross?" Bella asks. Her tone is ominous.
"Yep. We're two for two. Meaning, two designers and two contractors fired. They're driving me up the wall or trying to run circles around me, or both. I've had it."
"Well, if she'd just taken someone's offer two months ago, she wouldn't be in this predicament now," Bella whispers, leaning into me.
I nod and pat her forearm to mollify her. "That's what's driving her up the wall probably."
Bella chuckles and we turn back to the others in time to hear Alice chime in. "I'd be glad to help with suggestions if you want, Ross. I dabble in that sort of thing."
Ross's reaction is almost comical. Trying to remain impassive, she's giving Alice a once over, taking in the whimsical attire for the day. Alice is wearing one of her colorful tunics with an orange scarf and purple leggings. If she had pigtails, she'd be worthy of a Pippy Longstocking episode. What poor Ross cannot know is that despite Alice's often-questionable fashion choices, she does have a knack for interior design.
"I'm sure your tastes are impeccable, Alice, but correct me if I'm wrong, didn't your husband almost end up hospitalized the last time you redecorated?"
Jasper snorts into his lemonade. "She's got you there, Allie."
Alice, now looking quite dismayed, doesn't even know what to say. She's sitting there like a salt statue, holding her fork and blinking like an owl. "Well, but that … that was an unfortunate accident!"
"Still, I'd rather not risk anyone's health," Ross answers. Then she turns, winking in my direction.
"She's something else," I whisper to Bella.
Then, when I least expect it, Mac clears his throat. He's been mostly silent so far, apart from some back-and-forth with Jasper—inevitable since they're sitting side by side.
"Well, Ross, if you're really desperate—"
"Oh, I fucking am! Ready to throw in the towel!"
"As I said, if that's the case, I have a few names I can throw your way."
Ross frowns for a second, then it disappears. "Names? Other people?"
Mac shrugs, averting his gaze. If I had to find an adjective for his demeanor now, I'd say he's being … shy. Mac and shy are normally on two different planets.
"Well, you made it clear you didn't want me anywhere near it, so … other people it is."
Ross's face takes on a dejected frown I'd bet is unrelated to her decorating woes. She's still feeling it—the sting of those unkind, ill-advised words. "Emmett, I'm … I'm sorry. No, I'm appalled that you'd still think …"
He shrugs again. "Well, I won't assume," he whispers eventually.
"Fair enough," Ross answers. "How about I ask you? Emmett, would you please help me remodel my house?"
There's a beat of silence where everyone's waiting in suspended animation. Nobody speaks, nobody moves. They're barely breathing.
Then Mac answers. "Yes, I'll help you."
Ross nods. "Good. Thank you."
And with that, the rest of the table dissolves into disjointed conversations. When I throw a sidelong glance at Bella, she's also staring at me.
"What in the world did we just witness?" There's awed surprise in her voice, but also a ton of relief.
"Well, it sounds like they sorted out their shit."
"That they did." She shakes her head, sipping her lemonade before addressing me again. "Okay, now I'm worried. It's almost half past eight. Where the hell is Jake?"
"He had a lunch meeting," I answer, hoping it'll placate her.
"Sure, with the tax guy." So she knows about it. "But wait, how did you know?"
"I ran into him in the lounge this morning. He was on his way out."
She nods, mulling over the new information. "He's still rudely late. I'm gonna call him and chew him out."
"What are you, his mom?"
She opens and closes her mouth, clearly baffled. "No, but …"
And that's when my phone, which I left on the kitchen counter, blares out "Alive" at full volume. Again, a reporter's bad habits—my phone is never on silent mode. "Apologies, everyone. I'll be right back," I say to the table at large. Then I turn to Bella. "Let me check if it's Jake."
"I'm coming with you," she insists.
I know better than trying to dissuade her. She follows me.
When I grab my phone off the counter, my suspicions are confirmed. "Jake, you're causing quite a stir here."
"Hey, Ed. Sorry about being so fucking late," he starts. He's laughing in-between words. My best guess? The lunch date did turn into a hot date.
"You sound like a very happy camper."
He snickers. "I bet Bella's giving you grief because I'm late."
"Nailed it. Should we wait for you, or do I tell Mac he can finish all the lasagna?"
There's some commotion in the background, and I don't even want to speculate what that might be.
"You won't give Mac my lasagna if you love me."
Cue my snickers. "That's debatable, but I won't. How long 'til you're here?"
"Give us ten minutes?" The plural pronoun solves the mystery. He must be with Seth.
"All right. See you later. Wanna talk to Bella?"
She nods, angling to grab the phone from my hands.
"That'll be a no. I'll see her soon enough." And he hangs up.
When I set down the phone on the counter, Bella's standing next to me with a face full of pique, her hands on her hips.
"He hung up on you, didn't he?"
I reply with a shrug. "We were done, anyway. He'll be here in ten."
She growls, her hands clawing the air around her. "He always does this. I can't stand it." The way she's phrasing her grievance points to more than just playful annoyance with Jake's behavior.
"What is it that irritates you? That he's late, or that he had plans he didn't share with you?"
"Both. But I feel awful admitting it," she whispers at last. "I've grown a little codependent, I guess. I don't begrudge him having a life—"
"No, you wouldn't do that, would you?"
She frowns. It's a rather tortured look and shouldn't come across as cute, but on her, it does. What did Mac say to me that one time? Stick a fork in him—he's done. He might be right. But I can't dwell on what this means to me, to her, to us.
"I wouldn't, but … Fuck, I'm pathetic. I just feel left out."
My arms circle her shoulders before I even attempt to answer her. She burrows into my chest, looking tiny, vulnerable. That protective instinct I felt last month flares up again and I gather her closer in my arms. While my fingers run through her hair and that familiar tingle courses through my skin, irrational terror grips me. My breathing grows shorter and tenser. But I can't let Bella see this side of me—not now when she needs me. So I take a deeper, steadying breath, count to ten in my head, and breathe her in. That alone seems to ground me, but lingering fear crawls beneath the surface.
"You've been each other's sidekicks for how long? Years?"
She nods, giving me a muffled reply against my chest. "Yes. Since I moved to New York."
"Then it's human to feel a little unsteady. Things are changing all around you."
She giggles. "You speak like my therapist, but you're right."
"I've racked up my fair share of therapy hours over the years. I've picked up a trick or two."
She squeezes my waist before letting go. "Still, thank you for the perspective."
At that exact second, someone knocks on the door with a distinctive rhythm.
"That'll be Jake. It's his 'I'm sorry, I'm late' knock," Bella explains. Then she walks over to open the door.
"Hi, Cullen. Hi, Bella. This is Seth Clearwater," he announces, pushing Seth toward Bella.
Seth's a big guy. Almost as tall as Mac but leaner. He's built more like Jacob, but there's something happier, more carefree in his manner. He waves at me with a smile. We've known each other for years, and I genuinely like him—which is saying something since he's my tax guy.
Bella's sizing up Seth—I can see it from the way she's examining him. She's probably one minute away from some sort of "you hurt him, I hurt you" speech, but Jake pre-empts her.
"Put those claws away. There's nothing to be afraid of here. Least of all Seth. Get to know him, okay? For me?"
She sighs. Whatever fight she was going to put up just evaporated. "For you. Fair enough. Now, go get your lasagna, if Mac didn't devour all of it."
She turns to walk back into the dining room, but Jake stops her. "One sec, Choc."
"What's up?" she asks, now puzzled.
Jake plonks on one of the bar stools, and Bella sidles up to him. "I have to leave town for a while."
"Oh," Bella whispers. With her recent avowal that she's afraid of feeling left out, this impromptu revelation can't be the best thing to hear right now.
"I'll be back. It's only for a month or so. But the old Sharps & Flats needs me. We knew this could happen at any time."
She nods. "I'll be fine. You'll be back. You'll call, right?"
Now he nods, reassuring her. "You'll be sick of taking my calls. Let's join the others now. We've been rude long enough."
She slaps his side with a playful look in her eyes. She's fine. She's okay with this. "That would be you! I got here first; I'll have you know."
"Of course, so you'd have more time to cozy up with Cullen." Then, laughing, he flees into the dining room, leaving Bella to gape at his retreating form.
"Can you believe that guy?" she asks. It's a phrase I've heard a few times from her.
"Let's go back to the others. My mom brought dessert."
"What are we waiting for then? Let's go," she exclaims.
The curtain of sadness Jake's news just brought is now lifted by the mere promise of chocolate. That's how strongly it affects Bella. If it means she's happier now, I'll take it.
&&&IVORIES&&&
When Mom said she'd make dessert for tonight, for a minute, I feared she'd make the Cake Fairy's chocolate cake, thus outing me to Bella, who would no doubt recognize that concoction anywhere.
Luckily, Mom's arsenal of desserts is wide and varied. For tonight, she brought a marbled mint and chocolate cake. Close enough, but different enough not to blow my cover.
After dinner, we decamp to the big living room, and everyone scatters to grab the seating that most suits them. My parents sit demurely on the couch, next to each other. Alice and Jasper opt for a cozier perch on the loveseat. Mac plonks in his usual spot—the beanbag. I claim my favorite armchair, and Bella lands on its armrest. Seth and Jake share the other armchair, and Ross finally sits on the other end of the couch, a couple feet away from Mom.
Esme and Alice are passing cups of coffee and herbal tea around while I try to cut the cake in reasonable slices despite Mac's demands of more sizeable chunks.
"Oh, hush. You and all that talk about size. It's gonna bite you back in the tush someday," Bella throws at him. Her unrepentant look leads me to think she's aware of how the man would construe her line.
"I don't mind biting, as a rule. In the right places." Signature Mac. Of course, he'd go along with it. "But I don't have a tush, piano girl. For fuck's sake, please don't call it a tush."
Jake, Seth, and Jasper all devolve into laughter at this exchange. Carlisle and Esme look on with contented, indulgent smiles on their faces.
"Yeah, well. I have a three-year-old niece. I'm training myself to clean up my language."
"Oh, that is so considerate, Bella," my mother comments. I swear, at the mere mention of a toddler, she has stars in her eyes.
"How's the delightful Miss Bea?" Alice asks. Right, she did meet Little Bug.
Bella's smile at the question lights up the entire room. "I talked to her earlier today. She's fine and quite adamant that she needs a Frozen castle."
"Frozen castle? What would she do with a frozen castle?" Mac wonders, completely befuddled.
"Frozen, as in Frozen the animated movie, you genius," Bella retorts, laughing. "She's all Anna this, Elsa that."
"Sounds about right," Jake says.
"You've been replaced, Uncle Jake," Bella quips.
Jake looks devastated. "Really? That's just wrong. Why? Who?" He sounds genuinely bereft. But then again, I saw how he interacted with little Bea the night of the show. There's genuine affection there.
"She asked about her 'pwetty Ewar' before we said goodbye," Bella says. She's throwing me a sidelong glance full of mischief.
"And what did you tell her?" It's only natural I should ask.
"That I was going to see Ewar tonight. But she won't believe me if I don't send her a picture."
Ross bursts out laughing from her spot near my parents. "Oh, man. That's priceless. You're blackmailing him with Miss Bea to take a selfie with him?"
Bella sits up straighter with her chin up in the air, looking supercilious, then she answers. "I can't just tell Little Bug the resident brooder here didn't want to take a selfie, can I? She wouldn't understand."
"She called you 'resident brooder', Ed. Those are fighting words," Mac points out.
I'm laughing. A carefree, liberating laugh. Just thinking of that conversation between Bella and Bea, with Little Bug negotiating—well, bribing—her way to a picture of me and her aunt together. I'm imagining this is a long-standing habit of theirs, sharing pictures to keep up with each other because Bella's life's been so nomadic thus far.
"Ladybug?"
"Yeah?"
"Take the damn selfie. Before I lose my nerve."
And everyone joins in on our laughter.
He's melting all right, that EditorWard. "Stick a fork in him, he's done."
But I mean, WHO would say no to Miss Bea? Not me, since she's modeled after my own niece ;-)
See you next week, and happy long week-end to those in the US.
Talk to me!
