Happy Saturday, people!

The usual stuff:
1. People, you propelled Ivories THIS CLOSE 1,8k reviews! EditorWard is busy with Ladybug but sends his chocolate cake recipe as thanks. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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.
Some fiddling occurred. Momo fiddled AGAIN.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs. One of them has a Monet painting of waterlilies on them.
4. The Golden Onion Awards are upon us, and yours truly was lucky enough to be nominated in a bunch of categories:
- Author of the Year
- Best A-Lister (Edward/Correct the Narrative)
- Best Farce Fic (Business Class Girl)
- Best Je t'aime Fic (Correct the Narrative)
- Best Nail-Biting Fic (Correct the Narrative)
- Masterpiece of the Year (Correct the Narrative)
- WIP of the Year (Behind the Ivories)
- Mina Rivera was also nominated for Best Banner of the Year for the wonderful cover she designed for Behind the Ivories.
Congrats to all fellow nominees and thank you to the organizers for their hard work putting this together year after year. You can vote daily until August 21.
Because ffnet doesn't like links, I put a link to the voting site in LaMomo's Lair, my fanfic group on FB. Enter the name in the search bar on FB and you'll find it.

So, who's ready to spend the weekend with EditorWard? Here we go.


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 30

"You haven't told me where we are going exactly. And I still fucking love your scruff. Looks amazing on you. So grungy, Mr. Editor."

These are Bella's first words when I pick her up at Wisteria House on the Monday before July 4th.

"Quite the non-sequitur, but I'll take it. And good morning to you, too." I can't resist being a smartass.

She leans across the center console, pouty lips and mischievous expression on full display. "Morning. I do love the scruff, though."

I oblige, brushing my lips to hers, but otherwise I demur, not quite knowing how to take the praise. "It was a spur of the moment decision. It didn't dawn on me until later that I'd be springing my new look on you in the middle of a rowdy birthday party."

We've talked about the significance of my now forgotten beard. She's had words of wisdom about it, too. Something about shedding emotional weight. As usual, she proves insightful in her comments.

"Well, for what it's worth, it's your facial hair, and you have the unfettered right to deal with it as you see fit. But for purely selfish reasons, I'll go on the record saying that I love it. I like seeing more of your face."

I throw her a wicked grin as I navigate out of our neighborhood and onto I-93. "But you also liked the beard-inflicted tickling, didn't you?"

She blushes, but recovers quickly. The salacious smile she unveils makes me weak in the knees. "You know it."

Oh, I do know it. She conveyed her opinion on it vociferously and with unbridled enthusiasm last night. I hated to spend the night apart, but we both still had to pack, so I balefully went back to the loft. We'll be together for the entire week anyway. "And that's why I kept the scruff."

"I-93 South? Where are you taking me? Not the airport, I hope."

I snicker. I did keep her in the dark about our trip. Mostly. But I told her to pack for the beach. "I mentioned Cape Cod, didn't I?"

"That's about all you mentioned. I'm getting antsy with anticipation here."

"We're going to my cabin in Cape Cod. Truro, to be precise."

"Wow, that sounds glitzy."

We have two hours to spend in the car before we reach our destination. We might as well get comfy and chitchat along the way. I set cruise control, fiddle with the radio, and set it to the grunge/alternative station, then finally start disabusing Bella of all notions of glitziness about the beach house.

"The zip code might be, but the house certainly isn't. My grandfather Platt bought it as a present for my grandma in 1940. We've upgraded things over the years, but it's nothing fancy. It's quite spartan, in fact. No air conditioning, no central heating. A cast-iron stove and a few fans. There's a claw-foot tub in the bathroom—we added a shower sprayer, but there's no shower curtain. And the freaking tub weighs a ton. The other shower is outside."

"So, no funny business in the shower—is that what you're trying to tell me?"

By now, we're out of the city and zipping down I-93, aiming south until we veer onto Route 3 toward the Cape. Because we left two days prior to the long weekend, traffic isn't heinous, which allows me to keep my eyes on the road and my ears engaged with our conversation.

"That's all you got from no AC, no heating, no shower curtain?"

She shrugs and smirks at me. "A girl's gotta have priorities."

I shake my head. "You're spending too much time with Mac."

"Inaccurate. He's too busy boinking my manager these days. Tell me more about this cabin. You keep saying 'we.' Who owns it?"

"Legally, I inherited it from Grandma Platt. Because I'm the only grandchild on that side, she thought it best to transfer it to my name and be done with it. Esme helped with remodeling, and it's the family's getaway home, even if my parents don't get to use it as much as they'd like."

"So there are more Cullens I haven't met yet?"

"Correct. My dad has an older brother, my uncle Pete. He's the other Cullen in Cullen & Cullen LLP. My cousin Riley also works at the law firm."

"And you're the black sheep who didn't go into the law."

"I prefer contrarian by nature, but that's the gist of it. My mom will tell you there's some conceptual contiguity between lawyers and reporters. Both argumentative, inquisitive, stubborn fuckers."

She snickers, then roots into the cooler bag I packed this morning to retrieve two water bottles. She passes me one, then almost drains the other. "Chitchat makes me thirsty. Now, would the illustrious Esme Platt-Cullen express herself in those terms?"

"Oh, hell yes. You should hear her wax poetic over some of the people she interviews. Or my less than stellar ex."

Bella shudders for a second, then makes a strangled sound. "Ugh. Don't remind me. That one meeting was enough. Not to be judgy, but what the heck were you thinking, baby?"

She has a point. Kate wasn't one of my best ideas. Not even close. "No argument there, love. None at all."

"Speaking of families, can I ask you something?"

I raise an eyebrow, unsure of the turn the conversation may take. "By all means."

"Why were you so anxious about me meeting your parents? I was almost afraid it would turn into a huge affair, but they're so approachable. They were adorable."

It's a question I expected, and we've been so busy after the fated brunch that we've spent our time alone together mostly canoodling or just being. We've shied away from "big" conversations; unconsciously, we may both still be metabolizing the one momentous talk that brought us together as a couple.

"My parents tend to hover, as you may have noticed."

Her eyes widen, and she brings her hands to her mouth with overdramatic flair. Her expression drips sarcasm from every muscle. "No? Really?"

"To be fair to them, they've had good reasons to hover in the last few years. My accident in Syria was an ordeal for them as much as it was for us. Until Mac and I were medevaced to Paris, they had a hard time getting news on our conditions. I went through physical therapy and rehab for close to a year. Early on, I even moved back in with them because I didn't have the loft yet and being alone wasn't practical or safe. They've let me make my own choices in life, but as my mom says, worrying is part of the job description. I haven't introduced anyone new to them in years, let alone a girlfriend." I shrug. "Come to think of it, I built it up in my head more than it needed to be. I'm sorry if my attitude made you uneasy about meeting them. It was the furthest thing from my mind."

She grasps my hand that's lying on the console and squeezes it before answering. "There's nothing to apologize for. I was curious. I mean, I wish my own parents were that involved in my life."

A shadow passes in her eyes, and it has nothing to do with the weather. There's nary a cloud in the sky. It's a hint of a grimace, traces of old pain. It evaporates in a flash.

Her words bring to mind some things Garrett mentioned months ago. Maybe starting from basic data points will ease us into the more hard-hitting questions.

"They're divorced, right?"

She nods. "For everyone's sanity and peace of mind, yes. And they live on opposite coasts. Did my brother gossip to you like an old lady?"

I can't hide this from her. I wouldn't anyway. "It was very early on. He tried the protective big brother shtick after your show."

She makes a cute, unladylike sound, halfway between a grunt and a snort. "He's impossible. I apologize for what he said. He had no right to—"

"Don't begrudge him that, love. He knew about the bombed interview, and my presence at the show surprised him. He's a reporter; it's his job to ask intrusive questions. Regardless of who's replying, I might add. But I sense a story there."

"Yeah. I swear he acts more protective than my parents combined. But I'm sounding resentful and ungrateful. You need context, and I'm not explaining jack squat."

That sounds more like a term Ross would use, but I refrain from commenting on her verbiage. "Well, we still have an hour and a half before we get to Truro, more or less. Explain away."

She takes another gulp from her water, then fishes around the cooler for the bag of peanut butter cookies I baked last night after I left her at Wisteria House. I couldn't sleep without her, so I thought I might as well make goodies for the road trip.

"These are scrumptious, by the way." Her words sound garbled around her munching. "So, my mom and dad. Or rather, Renée and Dad."

"Should I infer that your dad doesn't have a given name?"

"No, smartass. Charlie. His name is Charlie. The inference, if you will, is that between the two of them, he parented me much more than Renée ever did, or tried. My dad is a peculiar guy. A lot of people call him quirky. He's freakishly intelligent. Not for nothing, he got into MIT at sixteen. Right out of college, he developed some of the ideas that ended up catapulting his tech company into the Fortune 500. Within a year of graduating MIT, he'd made his first million and was married to Renée who, to the contrary, had gone to college just to find a husband. The snazzier, the better. She soon realized that Charlie wasn't the right kind of snazzy for her."

"I'm going to need you to elaborate on that."

"Let me put it this way," she begins, passing me a cookie. "She's a Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf's kind of snazzy. He's definitely West Coast snazzy. A company, job, and house in Silicon Valley have as many zeroes as one in Manhattan's Upper West Side, but they don't have the same flair."

"He's a millionaire nerd, basically?"

She nods. "And she's an entitled socialite bitch. Oops, did I say that out loud?"

My snicker starts on the sly, then devolves into cackling laughter. "Oh, yeah. I can see why Esme and Carlisle didn't intimidate you one bit. You're making your family sound like a dropped subplot from The War of the Roses, and I don't mean the medieval one either."

"I have a few bones to pick with Renée, but I'll give you the bare-bones version. She divorced him as soon as he made it big, and she made sure to get a shark of a divorce lawyer. The bastard tried to squeeze as much money out of Charlie as he could. Luckily, by then, he had a successful company and his own army of lawyers. He might be quirky, socially awkward, a little distant, but stupid is the one thing he's not. He retaliated. And won big."

There's a streak of deep-rooted animosity in her tone. I don't have to wonder whose side Bella took in that divorce.

"Is that how you ended up spending so much time in Boston?"

The frown she sported a second ago morphs into a serene smile. "Partly. Dad traveled a lot for work. After he got full custody of me, he cleared with the court that the best way for me to have continuity of care was to reside long-term with my grandmother. He flew in every weekend, but at least Grandma Marie raised me and not a revolving door of nannies, which was the sad state of affairs while Renée had a say in my education and upbringing."

Did I hear that correctly? "Your father got full custody? How old were you when they divorced?"

"I was four. Charlie got full custody because Renée didn't give a shit about it and didn't fight for it. I have more memories of my nannies playing with me than of Renée. To this day, she maintains that raising children is grueling work."

I grumble under my breath. My mom would know how to react to Renée's attitude—by calling a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy. A guy in the North End, to be precise. A guy who would make it look like an accident. "Oh, for fuck's sake. And she gave up custody of you, just like that?"

Bella shrugs and answers with a small voice. "She didn't care, Edward. She cared about status and money. She cared about keeping up appearances. She cared about knowing and mixing with the right people. And by then, she'd scored all of the above. She'd met Garrett's dad before the ink was dry on the divorce filing—which, by the way, Charlie used as ammunition against her. Judges in family court don't like adulterers. But again, she didn't care. She wanted a hefty settlement but gave up trying to nickel and dime Charlie when he threatened to leak her affair to the tabloid press. And she caved to secure a seemingly unsullied reputation in the press and with her next husband—a much older, much richer, much snazzier man, who'd shipped his one child off to his ex-wife and didn't want any more kids."

Forget Michael Douglas and Danny DeVito. This is the kind of salacious, tacky, messy divorce story that would make our society columnist salivate for an exclusive. And it paints an extremely unflattering portrait of Renée.

"She's a serial trophy wife." I can't help but conjure in my head an image not unlike Kate and her ilk. Great façade with appalling contents.

"And happy and proud about it."

"How did your dad cope with it? How's he doing now?"

She shrugs again, but this time, she's also smiling. "Charlie? He threw himself into his job. He's always been a loving dad, if a little absent. He's not the best at providing emotional support, but he's a great listener. Sometimes, I'm in awe of how empathetic he can be; he just doesn't always show it. To be honest, I've always believed he might be neurodivergent, but he's never been diagnosed or tested—like a lot of people from earlier generations. But despite his quirks, he's never stood in the way of anything I wanted to do. He's never uttered a mean or resentful or disappointed word about the career path I've chosen. He's always supported me."

"Unlike Renée, I'm assuming."

"Bingo. She'd like to claim the famous daughter and bask in the second-hand limelight, but I perform my own stuff, wearing well-worn jeans and Chucks instead of the latest Maison Margiela frock. I don't have the glitz factor. In fact, I don't give a shit."

"Why do I surmise you relish rubbing that in her face?"

Cue the impish smile. "A tiny bit?" she replies. She's making the universal "a little" gesture, holding her thumb and index finger a hair's breadth apart. "So that's the story. Charlie might be lost in his bubble of work, hard to read at times, but his unwavering support matters more than any outward display of affection or anything else I know he's not wired to do."

"You two meet in the middle, so to speak."

She leans her head to the side, contemplating my words. Then smiles at me as understanding dawns on her. "Yes, that's a great way of describing it. I've never tried to change him, and he's never tried to change me, in turn. We work around each other. Would I like him to be a bit more present? Sure. But I know for a fact he is, in his own way."

"How so?"

"He listens to everything I release. Every single piece of music. He listens to recordings of live shows. Then he writes me email reviews of them. They're things of beauty; he describes the tempo, the math behind the music I write. He's a scientist, and he uses what he knows to understand what I do. Once, he wrote me some code that represented my music as fractals."

My turn to frown as my math-hating brain tries to parse her words. "Fractals?"

"Complex graphic representations of geometrical equations. There are fractals everywhere in nature. Snowflakes. Pineapples. Broccoli heads. Trees. Cactus spikes. Fern leaves. The visual renderings are gorgeous to look at. He took my music, turned it into math, and made it beautiful."

The love and devotion in her words is awe-inspiring. This man deeply loves his daughter. And I wonder whether I'd be capable of half that dedication if the time to be a parent ever came for me. For us. But that's a momentous thought for another day.

"Your music is already beautiful, but what he did for you is incredibly meaningful."

"Yes. He can't always convey his emotions. But if he finds an equation that does the job, he's golden."

At this point, we're about an hour into our drive, and Bella punctuates her last words with a yawn. We didn't sleep together last night, but it doesn't mean we didn't have a very late night. I'm not dozing off because I caffeinated out the wazoo, and I'm driving.

"Sleep, Ladybug. I'll wake you when we get there."

She mumbles something, then closes her eyes. Her fingers are still entwined with mine, but her grip loosens.

I turn off the radio, pull on my iTunes playlist of her music, and keep driving toward Truro.

&&&IVORIES&&&

Once I turn onto Route 6 leading into Yarmouth and up the Cape shore, traffic slows to a crawl. After all, it's a two-lane road that runs through long stretches of forest and a few villages in an area that doubles in population in the summer months. When we pass the "Welcome to Truro" sign, Bella's still sleeping soundly.

Not even the rugged dirt road leading to the cabin, with its potholes and bumpy surface, jostles her enough to rouse her. Perhaps, it's the movement that's relaxing. God knows it doesn't take me long to doze off when I'm not driving.

The turnoff from the main road toward the cabin is way before the grocery store and the other shops in downtown Truro. I'd rather we get settled in before we start exploring. It's close to lunchtime; if Bella feels up to it, we can get cleaned up and wander into town later for nibbles and necessities.

When I stop the car in the gravel patch that's all the parking space the cabin boasts, the brakes scrunch on the uneven terrain before coming to a complete stop. We've had to dump more gravel on this makeshift driveway time and time again over the years because sand from the nearby dunes encroaches on it. Nature claws back living and breathing room from civilization, but after all, we are the main trespassers here.

Still, I can't fail to appreciate the quiet untamed beauty of this place. I've always loved it here, but I've never been here with anyone but my family.

There are no other noises around us other than the wind, cawing seagulls, and waves crashing on Ballston Beach. Yet, Bella doesn't wake. Unwilling to leave her alone in the car while I deal with our bags and open the house, I debate for a second on the best possible course of action.

The bags are inanimate objects that can be left to their own devices for five minutes, with the added bonus they won't protest. One quick check in my pockets verifies the keys are at the ready. Hoping my resolution doesn't blow up in my face, I step outside the car, walk around to Bella's side, and open her door.

She's still sleeping. No sign of movement.

With cautious gestures, I gather her in my arms and maneuver her out of the car. It's an awkward posture, quite lopsided weight-wise, until I step away from the vehicle and stand up straight. Now, her uncooperative, sleepy form is better balanced in my arms, and I can walk to the front door without the risk of face planting both of us on the pathway.

It's the metallic clinking of the bunch of keys turning in the lock that finally disrupts her slumber. With slow, uncoordinated movements, her eyes peel open.

"Where am I?"

"We're at the cabin, Ladybug. You took a long nap." I'm standing by the front door, holding her in my arms, and trying to keep the screen door from hitting my back.

"We're here?" she asks, a shy smile blooming on her face. Sleep-rumpled and adorable. Beautiful and peaceful.

"Yes."

"Why are you carrying me?"

"It seemed a shame to wake you." If I could, I'd shrug. But I don't have any available muscles for it right now.

"Put me down, please?"

I acquiesce and let her slide off me. She stands tentatively, still a little groggy, and holds on to my arm while she looks around.

"This place is like a wild paradise. I love it."

I had a feeling she'd like it here as much as I do and show my gratitude by kissing her forehead. "Want to take the five-cent tour?"

She grabs my hand and walks inside, pulling me behind her. "Yes!"

&&&IVORIES&&&

Ten minutes later, I've unloaded our bags from the car, cooler included, and showed Bella around the house. I'm taking a minute to check the water heater and the fridge are working properly and transfer our drinks into it while Bella walks around the kitchen, marveling at the place.

"This is amazing. You weren't kidding when you said it was spartan."

"I abhor false advertising," I retort. I'm still elbow-deep inside the fridge, and my voice sounds muffled by its whirring. It's a cranky, loud contraption, but it's served us well for decades.

"All this mix and match reminds me of my house. It's all haphazard, but it's warm and homey. It's relaxing. I can see why you love it so much."

"It's an oasis of peace, that's for sure."

"Will the holiday weekend be very loud and chaotic here?"

I shake my head and walk to the sink to wash my hands. What I really want is a shower, but that needs to be carefully organized here because of the limited supply of hot water. "No, with fireworks being illegal statewide in Massachusetts, and with the National Shore on our doorstep, local enforcement is strict. Which is one more reason for me to spend fireworks weekend here instead of in Boston."

"Because there's always some asshole in town who doesn't think laws apply to them," she comments with a little growl.

With a nod, I close the tap and turn toward her, leaning against the farmhouse sink—another relic from a bygone era.

"So, did you pick us a bedroom?"

"We can seriously pick any of the three?"

"Well, I hope you won't consider the one with bunk beds as a serious option."

She comes to stand in front of me after abandoning her prior explorations. "Did you ever sleep in there?"

"As a kid, yes. I had to fight Riley for the top bunk, though."

She comes closer, perching her hands on my hips, hooking her thumbs to the belt loops on my jeans. "I can see how two little boys would have a blast here."

"It didn't look nearly as good as it does now. It was even more rugged. Now it's rustic-chic, sort of. Meaning the faucets don't leak and the windows seal properly. But the floorboards still creak like crazy."

"I love what your mother did with it. All the reclaimed wood and pieces of old doors and windows she used to decorate the rooms. Is that an old door used as a headboard in one of the bedrooms?"

"Oh, yes, in the back bedroom. I forget where she got it. I wouldn't be surprised if it's one of the old doors they pried off the hinges in this house during the remodel."

"Can we take that one?" she asks. For some reason, she's being tentative and shy about it. As a rule, she has no qualms moving around my living space when we're at the loft.

"We certainly can. That's where I sleep when I come here."

"Oh, good," she says. Was that a sigh of relief? "I didn't want to—"

"Sleep in my parents' bedroom?" I throw it out as an off-the-cuff comment. It's the kind of third-grade humor Mac thrives on, but I don't normally get much enjoyment from it. Only, Bella's sudden blush tells me I might be onto something. "Is that it, Ladybug?"

She hugs me, replying with muffled words against my chest.

"I don't speak T-shirt; you'll have to translate that for me."

She looks up at me, still blushing. "Yes, that's it." She shrugs, still embarrassed.

I lift her chin and capture her lips in a chaste kiss.

She relaxes in my arms immediately. "I didn't want that to be weird, but …"

"Hey, it's fine. I wouldn't have taken their bedroom either, but if it's any consolation, they haven't been here in a couple years. Plus, when we're here as a family and guests come over, there's always a game of musical beds going on to ensure that everybody has a place to sleep. But I do prefer the back room myself."

"Okay then."

"Would you like to freshen up or shower? If you do, I'll give you a crash course on the facilities. They take some getting used to."

"I wouldn't mind freshening up a bit, at least. But I can wait and shower tonight."

"Let's go then." I clasp her hand in mine and lead her to what's now been designated as our room.

The blue bedroom sits ensconced at the back of the house, off the den and the living room. Getting around from there to the kitchen and main bathroom isn't a straight shot. In fact, my parents' bedroom to the right of the front door is closer to everything, but it's also closer to the access road to the property. Closer to neighbors. Closer to the public parking lot for Ballston Beach.

My room, on the other hand, is an oasis of quiet—not that the rest of the house has noise levels competing with Storrow Drive at rush hour, but still. It's quieter and more intimate. When I deposit our bags by the door, Bella flits to the window on the other side of the room.

"This is so peaceful. I love this place; thank you for bringing me here."

I step around the bed and come to hug her from behind, perching my head on her shoulder. "I've never brought anyone else here before." I don't have to clarify what I mean by that. Her expression—awe and surprise—tells me she's figured out my meaning without any more prompting. "I've never wanted to bring anyone here with me. This is my sanctuary from the turmoil of life, and you … Bella, your heart is my home. You belong here."

She turns in my arms, a lone tear trapped in her eyelashes. "I love you so much, Edward."

&&&IVORIES&&&

Later that day, we stumble back home after a lazy stroll through Truro and a quick dinner on the shore. We also stopped at the store to get some groceries. We don't keep basic pantry items in the kitchen anymore to avoid the risk of pest infestation, so I packed a few necessities in the cooler, including Bella's herbal tea and my coffee.

"That lobster was delicious." Of course, Bella had to taste a local delicacy for dinner. And she taunted me the entire time—licking her lips and her fingers every time she dipped the lobster in melted butter. Every. Damn. Time.

"You are delicious," I tease, throwing her over my shoulder.

"Put me down! What are you doing?"

"Taking you to bed, obviously."

She protests, but she's laughing hysterically at the same time. I put her back on her own two feet by the time we reach our bedroom. She's still laughing.

"Oh, God. Everything feels upside down." She grabs my forearm to steady herself. "I want a shower before bed."

"Of course, my lady. Come this way." I walk us toward the bathroom.

Unlike the rest of the house where the original wood paneling has been preserved to the extent possible, this room is painted white. The facilities are all white, too—sink, claw-footed tub, and the toilet with its ancient pull chain. The only splashes of color are the stacks of towels on the only piece of furniture in the room—a huge, old beat-up dresser that used to be in Grandma Platt's bedroom here before we remodeled. Mom modified it by removing the drawers—which she reused for something else—and turned it into a shelving unit after painting it white.

I start the bath for her while she sits on the toilet lid, taking in the space.

"Now I see what you meant about the tub. It's really short."

"Told ya. I literally don't fit in there with my legs stretched out." My six-four frame is way beyond the capacity of the thing. "No funny business. At least, not in the tub. I'll leave you to it, Ladybug. Holler if you need anything."

I putz around the bedroom, fishing through my duffel bag for sleep pants, clean boxer briefs, and my toiletry bag.

About ten minutes later, Bella's anxious voice calls out through the house. "Edwaaaard!"

I may or may not rush to her side, which accounts for the bathroom door slamming when I get there. "Yes, Ladybug? Need anything?"

She rises to her feet in the bathtub, standing naked and wet before me, wearing only one of her sexy as fuck smiles.

"You."


It's getting hot in here, or is it just me?

So, now we know more about Charlie and Renee. In my head, Charlie is a bit of salt-and-pepper, older version of Spencer Reed in Criminal Minds, behavior and personality wise. He may be on the spectrum, but like a lot of older adults (past 40, I'm thinking of my generation and older), he wasn't diagnosed as a child.
The cabin in Truro, MA is a real place, and when I stumbled across the pictures online, I knew I HAD to include it in the story. So here we are.
I'm posting pictures of it in LaMomo's Lair. Please join for fic visuals, teasers, RobP0rn and shenanigans! You can find the link on my ffnet profile, or type the name in the FB search bar, and you'll find it.

More of their week-end next week.

Talk to me!