A/N: Happy December!

I started this holiday story last year. I'm hoping to finish it this holiday season. If you still need to read it, go catch up first. Then come back here. If you need a refresher, go re-read it. Then come back here. :)

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 7 – The Grinch

Seattle – A couple of weeks ago:

BELLA

"Congratulate me! I found a house!"

I'd purposely wedged in the announcement between the last bite of dinner and the first sip of coffee, hoping that being at the crossroads of overfull versus undercaffeinated kept the discussion short. Unfortunately, the news startled Mom and Dad enough that they seemed to forget their overindulged tummies and sluggish brains. With the sort of synchronization that I could only attribute to over a quarter century of marriage, they set down their utensils and coffee mugs in favor of gaping.

I continued with the basics. "It's a turn-of-the-century Victorian on the outskirts of a small town called Forks, which is up by the Olympic Mountain Range – not too far from here. Be a sweetheart and pass the almond milk, will you please, Dad?"

Again, I'd hoped that would be the end of it. But that Dad kept blinking and not passing the almond milk didn't bode well for my hopes.

"Turn-of-the-century? What, this century?"

"Ehh, more like the previous century."

"The previous-" Dad cut himself off, frowning now. "Bella, what condition is this house in?"

Resigning myself to no almond milk, I sipped the coffee black, grimacing when the lack of my favored nondairy left the coffee scalding. "Ouch, that's hot."

"Bella?"

"Oh! Well, it's got good bones, " I said, nodding and resorting to the line Alice the Realtor had used to lure me in the day before when she took me to look at the dilapidated Victorian.

"That bad, huh?" Dad smirked.

"No. No," I lied. "It just…needs a little work."

"Such as?" Mom prompted now.

"Man, you two are chatty tonight." I took another slow sip of coffee, more cautiously this time. But sweet Jesus, one should never be forced to consume coffee without some form of dilution from its bitter-

"Bella?"

"Such as new windows, floors, roofs, bathrooms, a new kitchen, and a few other odds and ends."

Their mouths fell open in that endearing, coordinated way of theirs.

"The good news is that the carpenter has sounded the house, and he's assured me that it probably won't fall down on me if I wait until after I move in to take care of most of that stuff," I offered with a grin.

"Oh, my God," Mom moaned, palming her forehead.

"Bella, why would you want to buy a house in that condition?" Dad asked in bewilderment.

"Dad, you've got to see the views from this house, the snow-capped mountains in the background, the majestic evergreens in the foreground, and the possibilities within the house itself! I mean, yeah, it needs some work, but it's got good bones!"

"Bells, you just started looking for a house. What's the rush?"

"Or why don't you just buy a plot of land in the area if you enjoy the view? Aunt Gigi certainly left you enough for you to build a new construction," Mom said, adding to Dad's argument.

"I want this house."

"Why?" Dad asked.

"I just…" I shrugged, "I don't really know. I've got a feeling, like a sixth sense telling me that this is the house for me."

"Bella, honey, you know we'll support you no matter what…" Mom paused, measuring her words, likely noting that she was toeing the line between offering her adult child life advice and downright preaching. "We're just concerned that as soon as your signature is dry on that deed's dotted line, something's going to go Poof! in that house." She threw her hands in the air in a non-threatening depiction of an explosion that honestly did nothing to carry her point.

Yet my dad nodded vehemently, backing up his wife.

"Listen to your mother. And with houses like that, no matter how much you cross off at the top of a things-to-do-list," he said, now pantomiming an invisible list in one hand and an equally nonexistent pen in the other, which he used to pretend-scribble furiously at the bottom of said list, "that list will grow and grow. And grow," he emphasized, pulling back his chair so that he could lean over and add another invisible line way down at the bottom of this list, close to his feet.

"That's some list."

"You're not taking this seriously," Dad said.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I apologized.

But hiding behind the rim of my coffee mug was a smile. I was unable to disguise my amusement and, looking back now, my naïveté because I was an individual who'd never owned anything beyond the clothes on her back and her precious Doc Marten collection. Oh yeah, and her Mac.

"But guys, I had a catty aunt keel over into a bowl of sweet potatoes and leave me her unexpected and, let's face it, probably ill-gotten fortune. I just feel like…that has to mean something; it's got to have some purpose in my life beyond just buying a plot of land and popping in new construction." Leaning closer to them as if I were about to impart my own age-old wisdom, I added, "So bring on the endless things-to-do list and the things that go POOF in the night!" I threw my hands to the sky and acted out my own explosion, fluttering my fingers back down gently.

"What? What was that, a rainbow?" Dad asked.

"Fireworks!" Mom guessed.

"Oh, like you guys pantomime so much better," I chuckled.

Present - Two Weeks Till Christmas:

I set a tray of snacks, a pitcher of water, and a couple of recyclable glass bottles on the coffee table I'd recently uncovered. Next, I set up my laptop, one of my twenty favorite yet-to-be-cracked-opened journals, a pen, and my cell phone by the sofa seat that afforded the best view of the mountains. It was such an arresting sight that I paused for a couple of seconds to gaze at the snowcaps half-hidden by a film of gauzy clouds while the moonlight above lent a glow to the entire scene.

With a sigh, I straightened out and took a step back, tapping my forefinger against my chin. I'd successfully lit my first fireplace, and the flames crackled quietly in the hearth, lending additional warmth to the room. Thankfully, despite the incompetence of Mike, the HVAC guy, the heating system had held today. Still, the living room was an ample, open space. It would take quite a bit to keep the chill at bay. I'd plugged one of my smart speakers into one of the many outlets that now worked, thanks to the competence of Emmett McCarty and his overhaul of my electrical wiring.

On this, the tail end of my second day of living in the house, I'd been busy unpacking, arranging and rearranging furniture, making phone calls, and with…other activities that had popped up as a result of my ownership. During this, I'd discovered that Mom and Dad had been right, as, unfortunately, parents often are. They'd warned me not only about that ever-growing things-to-do-list but about things going Poof around here. Still, they would've never guessed just how right they were.

"Am I forgetting anything?" I wondered aloud.

"That depends. Do you have a bottle of gin in the house?"

At the sound of those words murmured in my ear, I gave an instinctive, startled jump and spun around.

The ghost of Edward Masen, 1920s bootlegger, and quasi-gangster, stood behind me. He took a step back, his appearance as sudden as ever. Meanwhile, I set a palm atop my heart to keep the organ from popping out of my chest.

"Holy crap, man. You're going to have to learn to announce yourself."

"I don't see why," he responded, neither understanding nor apology in his tone.

"Dude, you're a ghost!"

He raised his brows in an expression that clearly meant 'And?' as if being a ghost wasn't uncommon.

"You already know this and know very well that I live here. What's more, we agreed to meet at seven in the evening, in the living room, for this interview you requested. So, I fail to see the why for all the yelling, screaming, and swooning."

I shook my head much more calmly now, my heart having decided to remain in my chest after all, although it still raced.

"First, I was nowhere near swooning. And second…man, we really are going to have to do something about your sexist tendencies."

He merely smirked. "I'll find a drum to bang on before I enter a room next time."

"Whatever," I chuckled. "And sorry, I don't have gin. But hey, do you mind if I stream holiday music while we do this?"

"By all means, please treat us to the hundred-and-seventy-second playing today of your favored Christmas tune." He flourished a hand toward the speaker in invitation.

"O-kay, then," I said, raising both brows and rolling my eyes. "Just take a seat at the-"

Edward Masen abruptly sucked his teeth. The next moment, he disappeared into thin air, reappearing two seconds later in the same spot but with one of my new, gray plush towels in hand. Suddenly, all the contents on top of the coffee table floated a few inches off the tabletop. They hovered there while Edward gingerly unrolled the towel. Shaking his head and muttering, he spread the towel over the coffee table.

"Of all the careless…took me hours to carve this piece of walnut wood, and she sets food and drinks over it." The towel unfurled, and the snack tray, drinks, laptop, and the rest of my stuff floated slowly and securely back onto the table. With a sharp nod, Edward met my eyes.

I quirked a brow. "No. There's no need for yelling and screaming at all," I said, oozing sarcasm. "People disappear and reappear into thin air while making objects float all the time."

"To borrow one of your strange yet apropos terms, 'Whatever.'" Flourishing an arm toward the sofa now, he smirked, "After you."

"Oh, may I?" I grinned wryly as I plopped down. "Or do you first want to blanket the couch in towels as well?"

"Maybe just try not to throw yourself on there," he gritted through his teeth.

"Fine, fine."

He then joined me, though he propped himself at the other end of the sofa. Knowing it was to prevent that weird charge that first struck us just outside my bedroom this morning when we'd gotten too close to one another, I tried not to take offense. Though I did scoff because heaven forbid I feel that semi-orgasmic charge again.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just…" I shook my head, smiling, "I still can't believe this is real- that you're real, that I'm arguing with a ghost."

"Well, I've had about a century to get used to the idea. So, how was the rest of your afternoon?"

I got a distinct impression that he wanted to change the subject, so I let him.

"Busy. And thank you," I added with a genuine smile, "for helping me move around some of the furniture."

He could've replied with, 'You're welcome.' Or with 'No problem.' Or, with any of a slew of boilerplate yet pleasant platitudes. Instead, he responded with dismissive bluntness.

"Don't give it a second thought. After all, as you've seen, picking up objects is no hardship for me. It's just mind over matter. And it was either help you or stand around while you destroyed more of my handiwork."

"Boy, you're even more of a ray of sunshine tonight than usual, aren't you? And here I thought our cohabitating truce meant we'd try to be friends."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him make a production out of adjusting his silver cufflinks, avoiding my glare.

"Should you really be saying things like that out loud?" he wondered. "That we're cohabitating?"

When he still wouldn't look at me, I shrugged and looked away, waving off his shitty attitude.

"Whatever, dude." Temper flaring, I tried to focus by moving on to my laptop and prepping my document. Still, I threw in a muttered, "Ya fucking grinch," under my breath.

Edward Masen cleared his throat. "Bella?"

"Hm?"

"I…apologize if I'm being rude."

"If?" I threw him a scowl over the rim of my laptop.

"I'm just…" Sighing, he met my gaze.

The fire in the hearth dappled the copper strands in his hair and made them sway like flames. That same fire played with the emeralds in his eyes. Once again, I marveled at the fact that he was a ghostly apparition. Because I could see every gold and coffee-toned speck rimming the green in those inexplicably familiar eyes. And how could I see all that in the eyes of an apparition? The fireplace's flames also highlighted the lines marring his forehead. The indentations hadn't been there earlier, not even when we'd argued just outside my bedroom this morning.

It hit me. This man, who so far, always made his appearance while looking like he'd just finished shooting a GQ spread, whose feathers seemed unflappable every time he ruffled my feathers, this man who could do so much – disappear and reappear into the ether, lift and move the heaviest furniture, make things float and hover, etcetera, despite his nonphysical corporealness – this man was nervous.

The realization provided a reason for his so far shitty demeanor of the evening. And although I would've bet that, in his day and age, his looks and natural swagger helped him get away with a whole lot of shit, in this day and age, none of it, including nerves, gave him the okay to act like an asshole. We women had come too far in the past hundred years to give a guy a pass to act stupid simply because he was nervous. That excuse rarely worked the other way around, did it?

And yeah, my mind knew these things, but…

"Why are you uneasy?" I wondered, angling my head in curiosity now.

Then again, everything about him made me curious. And, at least, he made no pompous attempt to deny he was uneasy. Instead, he offered me a sheepish smile, lacking all his usual bluster, and my heart squeezed. So maybe we as women hadn't come that far after all in the past hundred years, because hell if it all didn't somehow make him even more attractive.

"I've never been interviewed or questioned about anything, much less about the facts of my life. The very nature of my…career," he said carefully, "necessitated privacy. What's more, it's been so long since I've thought back that far."

He raked a hand through his hair, and once again, I was struck by how someone who could walk through walls could also have such lifelike responses to the world around him. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His eyes suddenly held mine, bored through mine with an intensity that threatened to steal my breath.

"I'm not sure myself what all we'll uncover about me tonight, or if I'll figure out why your eyes…"

"What about my eyes?" I prompted with a breathy breath.

He pulled his eyes away and broke our gaze, and when he looked at me again, the intensity was gone. Instead, he offered me an insouciantly lopsided grin.

"Never mind. That's neither here nor there."

"Hey," I said softly, "you don't have to share anything you feel uncomfortable about sharing, okay? We'll play it by ear."

He snorted, then with renewed confidence and a determined nod, he clapped his hands.

"Okay, where should we begin?"

Sighing, I picked up my journal and pen, vaguely wondering if modern-day-woman Bella had just been played by old-timey-man Edward. Oh, well.

"I'm going to start with a few basic questions for you, and then I'll share what I have so far," I gestured toward my laptop. "We'll see where it goes from there. Oh!" I exclaimed, fidgeting with my cell phone, "I almost forgot I wanted to tape this session so I can replay it if I forget anything. Do you mind?"

"Tape?"

I suppressed another audible sigh. There were a thousand phrases, actions, and words that either meant something completely different in his time or hadn't existed then. Either way, I'd have to stop to explain. A lot.

"It means I'm going to record it. Do you know what 'record'-"

"Yes, I know what 'record' means," he replied with curtness seeping back into his voice. But before I could curse him out, he pressed his lips together, swallowing. When he spoke again, his tone was much more regulated.

"So, your silver knick-knack will record everything we say."

I confirmed with a nod.

"Exactly as we say it," he clarified.

"Mhm."

He nodded slowly in return. "Okay."

"Okay." I smiled much more broadly now because, despite his lingering unease, it was impossible not to be excited. I was the first person in the history of the world, or in the history of the Olympic Mountain Range at least, to interview a ghost! Clearing my throat, I hit the red record button on the phone.

"All right. My name is Isabella Swan. Today is December eleventh, 2022, and I'm here with Edward Masen for our first interview. Do you have a middle name you'd like to provide, Edward?"

"Anthony," he breathed. "Edward Anthony Masen."

"Edward…Anthony…Masen," I repeated, writing his full name in my journal, though I didn't even know why. "Edward, would you please state your date of birth?"

He drew in a deep breath, exhaling it in a long gust.

"Are you okay?" I mouthed because I wasn't wholly heartless despite the eagerness I could neither deny nor disguise. If this was going to be simply too difficult for him-

"I was born on June twentieth, 1896," he said in a strong, clear voice.

And although I'd known the date would be something along those lines, it still made my breath hitch. I started to write it, but when my hand shook too much, I set the journal and pen down. When I looked back at Edward, I found him smirking.

"Have you ever done anything like this before, Miss Swan?"

I shook my head. "Interviews? Uhm, no. I've been working from home since quarantine, and-"

"Quarantine?" Before I could go on to explain the meaning of 'Quarantine,' he put a palm up. "No, that word I know. I'm just wondering what quarantine you're speaking of. Did the Spanish Influenza make a resurgence?"

"The Spanish Influenza? Oh! No," I said, shaking my head again. I quickly typed in a search for info on the influenza pandemic of the early twentieth century. "No. You're talking about the 1918 Flu Pandemic. This was a similar worldwide pandemic but a different virus. And unlike the 1918 Pandemic, which attacked mostly the younger population, Covid-19 attacked…attacks mostly the older populations. We had to quarantine and wear masks for a couple of years, stay six feet apart from others when in public, and sometimes, we still return to those precautions. But, unlike the 1918 Flu, vaccines were developed, and our immune systems developed-"

Edward frowned darkly. "Why do you keep calling it the 1918 Flu? It was the Spanish Influenza."

"Well, no. It's been determined that the Spanish Flu wasn't actually Spanish in origin, but since Spain was the first country to report it, it became known as the Spanish Flu."

He reeled back. "My parents died from that flu."

"I'm sorry, Edward," I said.

He was quiet for a moment. "My parents' death from that flu was why I went to war. I felt lost and alone."

"Edward, you fought in the First World War?"

His brow furrowed. "No. I fought in the Great War."

"That was the First World War."

"The first…?"

"There was a second world war, fought between the late 1930s through the mid-1940s, so the Great War became known as World War One."

He stared at me, eyes rounded, mouth slightly agape. When he shut his mouth, his jaw clenched audibly. He scraped his palm hard against it.

"Two world wars," he marveled, then frowned. "Or were there more?"

"Just the two, so far."

"Hm," he pondered, his gaze seeming far away.

"You're a war hero, Edward," I said.

His eyes met mine, and he offered me a peculiar smile. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"I am surprised, but only because you were a bootlegger."

"And?" he asked, but there was no bite or indignation in his tone, simply curiosity about my train of thought. "I had to make a living, Bella."

"What about the G.I. Bill?" I asked.

He angled his head sideways. "G.I. Bill? Now, what's that?"

"Hold on." I quickly typed the term into the search engine. "Ahh, I see," I sighed. "It wasn't passed until 1944. The G.I. Bill was a law that provided benefits for the returning World War Two vets."

Once again, he appeared dumbfounded, but I soon discovered it wasn't due to the G.I. Bill. Or, not solely that. He craned his neck as if trying to peek at my laptop screen.

"Hey, how do you keep answering all my questions so quickly? And how do you know so much about the wars and the Spanish- excuse me, the 1918 Influenza? You got a whole set of encyclopedia's shrunk in there or something?"

"Something like that," I smiled. "Come here. Take a look."

He stood and leaned in close to peruse my laptop screen.

"This is called the inter…" I began, then trailed off.

Just a few short minutes earlier, I'd mused that even with the heating system on full blast, and the fire burning in the fireplace, it would take a lot of effort to keep such an open space warm.

I was suddenly burning.

Edward's incorporeal frame radiated a white-hot heat that made me gasp. Not because it was either uncomfortable or painful, but because it was the most perfect life force imaginable. It swaddled me like a newborn's blanket and cocooned me in a way that made me feel safer and more cherished than I'd ever felt. It was as if I were the most important being in the world to this fevered energy source. It cradled, rocked me soothingly, and melted away any and all stressors, making all my anxieties immaterial in the face of such intense fervor.

"Bella…Bella, can you hear me? Jesus, say something mouthy, sweet girl, please…Bella…"

I wandered in and out of the heat, neither seeing nor hearing clearly. The next thing I knew, my head rested on the sofa's backrest, angled sharply upward. Edward's worried mean hovered a few inches away – further than he'd been just moments earlier. He stretched out a hand as if he meant to touch me, to cradle my cheek, then quickly withdrew it, raking his hair instead.

"Bella," he breathed, "are you okay?"

I inhaled and loudly exhaled, straightening. "Whoooh! What happened?"

"I'm so sorry. I got too close." His voice was thick with remorse. "I should've known better."

"What? No," I said, still somewhat befuddled and dizzy. I shook the lightheadedness out of my head. "No, don't be silly. Don't apologize."

'Seriously, don't apologize,' I thought to myself. Had it been up to me, I would've remained wrapped in that haze of warmth forever.

"I'm fine. Whooh!" I breathed again, forcing a grin across my face, not because I was upset, but simply bewildered. "Where were we?"

Standing about a foot away, Edward's usually inscrutable expression displayed open distress. Although he remained close, he kept leaning in and then out. It was as if he couldn't decide what worried him most: causing another swoon with his proximity – fuck, I had swooned, hadn't I? – or having to catch me from another blackout. He settled for tugging on his hair hard instead.

"Maybe we shouldn't continue this."

"What?" I jerked back. "Don't be silly. Of course, we should! We're just getting started! We just…have to remember to keep our distance. I guess."

He quirked a brow, holding my gaze for half a minute. I bit my lip, afraid I'd given away my reluctance to keep that distance. Though, I'd keep it. After all, if that reluctance made him uneasy, I'd forego any more of those beyond-pleasant moments of proximity. Fair was fair. If, as a woman, I wanted men to respect my personal space, then I had to assure Edward that I respected his personal space. Even if invading it had felt fucking amazing.

"Edward…"

"Actually…" With movements more measured than I'd become accustomed to from him, Edward took a couple of steps back and reclaimed his original seat on the sofa. I swallowed back any disappointment because, yes, if I planned to remain conscious while conducting these interviews, the space between us was necessary.

"You said you've started some of your writing already, right? An intro of sorts, with what you know so far?"

"Yeah," I nodded.

"How about if you read it out to me? I keep…slowing us down with questions, getting stuck on all I don't know, on all I've missed."

"I don't mind explaining it," I said. "And I'll show you how to use the laptop – while keeping my distance," I chuckled, "if you want to look stuff up yourself."

He shook his head vehemently and shot me a warm smile. "Maybe some other time. I'm just thinking maybe if you read what you have so far, and we go on from there, I can give you what you need without slowing down your process. I have all the time in the world," he smirked, "but…"

I nodded, swallowing and blinking because I knew how that sentence ended. I was human, and unlike him, I didn't have all the time in the world.

"Okay." I looked back at my screen. "So this is what I have so far." Clearing my throat, I read:

"'It was a little-known Dickensian-style Christmas carol retold every holiday by the townsfolk of Forks, Washington. But instead of three ghosts in grimy, Victorian England, this modern-day carol took place in an old, local Victorian, where one Christmas Eve, a century earlier, a Prohibition-era bootlegger stashed his loot-"

"Wait, that's how you're beginning it?"

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"You have to give some of that bootlegger's background, don't you? Offer it as a prologue, at least. That 'bootlegger,' as you say, already sounds like a gangster."

"I mean...well, okay, how would you begin it, then?"

"How would I begin it? Well, if I had to trace it back...

And, for the rest of the night, Edward Masen and I remained tucked away in an old, dilapidated Victorian in a little corner of the world. It was a corner where somehow, a hundred-year-old ghost and a very human twenty-seven-year-old woman could at least pretend to co-exist.

A/N: Thoughts?

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Twitter: PattyRosa817

There are a couple of things I wanted to highlight about this chapter!

I began writing this story last holiday season, so the year referenced in one or two parts was 2021. As I plan to complete it this year, I'm now referencing the current year. I'll change all references to 2021 as soon as I get a chance, but I wanted to let everyone know what's going on there. :)

The last part of this chapter, where Bella reads her novel's intro aloud to Edward, is how this story begins. Just wanted to point that out. ;)

"See" you soon!

(The Burn will update in the next couple of days. ;) )