Wouldn't it be lovely? For her chateau to one day be filled with guests — birthday parties, or weddings, the bigger the better. She would hold her champagne glass in the corner as an observer, making sure nobody's posing harm to the sixteenth century property, listening to the buzz of conversations, the delicious leers and whispers of gossip, and the pitter patter of dancing feet beating against parquet. As their bodies grew warm from moving, the scent of their perfume would emanate in the air; heavy, light, nauseating or arousing, accompanied by clinking of crystal glasses when they bumped against each other, against their teeth, cheers, cheers drowned out by the rustles of dresses against trousers and the heaves of breaths after exerting such energy, followed closely by laughter.
Imagining was easy, strange, and temporary.
She wasn't gifted in the art of drawing, her hands were unsteady, eyes unable to divide by half correctly, a straight line always going up or down. Bridget couldn't share the world she saw, so she drew only in the company of herself in her head, often carried on into her dreams as they sprung to life and made her the happiest she knew to be.
The sun had disappeared the next day they came back to the shelter. The weather steadily grew colder as they breezed halfway through September. She cherished this in-between points. Rochester was like New England: there wasn't anything to do outside from November to May unless you enjoyed winter sports.
With the power of number and time-crunch new kennels were now standing, walls painted, beds washed and dried, posters both funny and ironic were being put up, dogs were barking endlessly, the cats always eager to roam new territory, and Mrs. Addams was outside with her. Lunch came and went, and the altruistic youth could now play around as they put on the finishing touches. This was fair: they were kids who should rightfully be whining about being put to work and not having enough free time. Though if they thought they didn't have enough, she wondered what they would say once they were in college.
Bridget absent-mindedly stroked Mrs. Addam's fur. It was snow white and heavenly soft — the very reason the mutt was born and raised in a fur farm. Funny how any imperfection in her coat would have deemed it unworthy. The only patches of discoloration were the ones under the pretty brown eyes, blots dark as ink in the shape of crescents. It made Mrs. Addams smiley if nothing else.
The fox was unexpectedly restless today, wouldn't allow Dr. Cullen anywhere near her, kept yowling and pacing, crashing onto Jamie several times in the process. So Bree excused herself and took Mrs. Addams to the backyard, where Morticia was free to be restless and she could sneak in a little time-off. Laid down a few newspaper and she let out a sigh once she was horizontal.
She needed more sleep.
"Esme, ahem, Mrs. Cullen asked where you were, wanted to say goodbye. She left with the Doctor, hospital emergency."
She saw a pair of yellow sandals. Her eyes slowly drifted up. Who on earth would wear sandals in Septemb- ah, hello. Florence, oblivious to her plight let out a breath and sat down beside her.
"I told her you're near death from exhaustion, like me," Flo cheeked, brushing nonexistent dust from her jeans. They have faded in color, a wise decision. Mrs. Addams trotted to her side to lick her face.
"Have you been sleeping at all?" Bridget asked. It was an unfortunate situation they could both lament over. Florence was what she could consider a childhood friend. They went to the same primary school, and met again in prep when Flo received a merit scholarship. Bridget was blind to the facts at first, on why Flo was inexplicably pulled out of primary school. But it's the best school here, she had argued. They were considered BFFs, whatever it meant for fourth graders; the kids with the coolest sticker collections.
By the summer of fourth-grade Florence Hughes was officially the byproduct of a broken family. Divorced, the kids would say in hushed voices.
"About five hours a day," Florence frowned, pulling at the brown strands that came out of her ponytail. "Caffeine helps." She shrugged nonchalantly.
"I have something for you." Bridget pulled out a box seemingly out of nowhere. A shoebox. "Happy… I don't know, pick a random anniversary."
Marriage had always been a financial proposition; it was a financial proposition when ladies were required to supply dowries, it was a financial proposition now because Flo's mother couldn't afford sending her to the best school after the fact. Florence had to learn to live below her means, much below the luxuries she was born into. She said this much when they were sophomores.
"Where are you applying to?" The topic of college counselors was hot, everybody busy mapping out their charities and clubs, grouping their accomplishments and interests into a solid direction. The Ivies were all laid out, each kid in their preparatory institution picking them out as if they were candies sold at half-price. Bridget picked the crimson one.
"Nowhere," Florence answered. "I have to save up first, and maybe I'll get a partial scholarship somewhere." Her hands were busy fiddling with the career form they all had to fill for the school counselor. Her dream job slot was left blank.
Bridget could only stare then, comprehension dawning on her that their realities diverged widely somewhere between fourth and tenth grade. A year of waitressing added up into the fund to buy medical textbooks and a decent portion of the tuition, thankfully Flo's mother was able cover the rest. I want to go to a nursing school, Florence said. I found a scholarship, and I can get licensed in a year if I go full time. The message was clear: It wasn't a school that would give her prestige, it was a school that would lead her to a good salary as soon as possible.
Florence's gasp brought Bridget back to their current conversation. "You didn't," she breathed. "This is why you very weirdly asked if you can borrow my heels, isn't it?" She gave Bree a pointed look, but the grin on her face wiped any semblance of seriousness off the topic.
Florence was aware that Bridget could very well purchase anything she wanted under the sun, had an allowance to burn through— to eat out, to buy new clothes, to go to see movies, to buy fancy birthday presents. She wasn't dumb to not notice that Bridget would always lump their gift money together, with Bridget paying a bigger portion every time because half a present for prep kids wasn't within her budget. Don't waste your money on other people's property, Bridget persisted when the topic was mentioned.
"Yup," Bridget said. "Do you like it?" The pair of trainers Florence wore in the hospital was the same one she had worn in school, the pair in the box would last longer and be more comfortable to run in. Quality and price did go hand in hand for some.
"Yes, thank you." Florence's cheeks reddened in poorly concealed excitement and pulled Bree in for a hug.
The suburbs were a convivial network of friends and family, and Florence was unceremoniously kicked out of it when she was ten. Going to prep was different from the dog-eat-dog world of her junior high. There were no uniforms in junior high, and the kids were ruthless about knowing their place in the food chain. There was a hierarchy on who wore what label, who had nicer dates with whom, and cliques were the hottest thing to have. She thought that going to a more academic-focused prep where everybody wore uniforms and grades were a race would be mercy.
It was not.
She often marveled on the phenomenon of Bridget keeping friends with her when there were more robust competitors in Jade Bernard and her posse - they were a group of fancy people that Bree fitted into like a piece of jigsaw puzzle.
Florence was hardly in the right shape for it, but Bridget would actively seek her out and took her out on dinners and lunch dates, sometimes with her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were gracious about her presence in their golf dates and paying for it (she was a non-member, after all), and Bridget would say stop thanking them, it'll get to their heads. As they stood on well-manicured fields, a golf cart behind them and caddies to wait on them, time trickled by her fingertips a little slower with each swing of the club.
This is what I left behind when daddy left me behind.
Bitterness gnawed at her stomach, jealousy creeping into every fiber of her being for she had to watch these group of kids she called classmates fooling around with their riches. Not only was she not allowed the same privileges, she didn't understand the reason why Bridget dragged her of all people around for these extravagances, letting her get a taste of what she was supposed to have, just the tip of the iceberg compared to their summer vacations.
That was, until one day in class Jade Bernard looked straight at her and asked, "Have you even tried out the new restaurant downtown? They serve excellent barramundi en papillote." The French, not only nouveau riche in their standards, besotted with the idea of polyamorous relationships and obnoxious in her choice of attire, she was also constantly seeking for any chance to yank the lowly scholarship girl away from her object of desired attention. The new restaurant as they dubbed it, was outrageously out of bounds for her pocket-money.
Florence blinked owlishly, body stiffening at the nasty inquiry. Her heart galloped as she weighed her options. Not answering was not one of them; other students had leaned forward in their seats, amusement dancing in their eyes. She glanced at the other person sitting at a further desk, watching the interaction with a cool air about her.
Bridget's quiet face peered behind the sleeves of her school cardigan, ambiguous eyes alight with a streak of wickedness. She was an excellent chess player and her pawns were exactly where she wanted them to be. Bridget gave a slow smirk... and winked.
Florence was aware their barramundi en papillote was good, she'd tried it herself. She also knew, "Their fougasse margherita was just as good. I thought the dining setup was a little disappointing for the price," she mimicked what Mrs. Wilson had said the other night.
A series of smug emotions were inflicted when Jade's eyes flashed, jutted her chin and looked away.
The queen was free to roam around the board in chess.
Bridget gave her the ability to retaliate on golf politics, give her two cents on luxury amenities, pipe out comments on high end retails, and know what made up boat races. An even ground. Leveled knowledge. A hefty weight of envy and contempt lifted off her chest whilst the determination to repair her self-confidence and boost her grades strengthened as less and less challenge and scorching remarks came from the posse. At some point she stopped worrying about blending in and focused on her dreams.
Florence examined Bridget now, who had returned to lying on her back, eyes closed.
When Mr. and Mrs. Wilson passed it was not without consequence. Nothing, she supposed, was without consequence. Bree had just turned sixteen, the same age she would graduate school at - absurdly young from a combination of her late birthday and skipping a grade. Tragedy fell during winter break of '93, the funeral attended by teachers, fellow students and their parents who came ready to commiserate and shower the youngest left behind with comfort. But good, some opinionated churchgoers whispered amongst themselves, these rich folks need to be reminded that they can escape tight corners, but they can't cheat death.
"You know, the other day a boy asked me out," Florence said.
Bridget paused, her eyes popping open. "Who?"
"His name is Benjamin, he's ten," she laughed when Bridget rolled her eyes with a smile. Bingo. "He ran into me when I was in Ped and said, 'I think I just found my next girlfriend'. The gall of a ten-year-old!"
Bree wasn't surprised. Flo was pretty, delicate, and had a collected aura about her. A person of charisma, which combined with her patience the nursing occupation became her. Imagining a straight-forward, flirty ten-year-old coming up to her was hilarious. "Did you take him up for it?"
"Well, we have a monopoly date next Tuesday." Florence hugged the shoebox to her chest.
Oh my god. "That's the cutest thing I've heard today."
"Yeah, we're both indoor kids. We have limited emotional vocabulary. He said games can show people's true character, and we have to know each other before we can date."
"Ben knows what's up."
"Yeah, right?" Florence scoffed, then grinned broadly. "Edward is walking this way, he looks determined." She started to stand up, the shoebox safe in her clutch.
A cursory glance confirmed what Flo said. Bridget could spy his lithe frame coming to view, his hair a literal red alert in her peripheral. She caught Flo's hand. "Take me with you," she pleaded.
"I love the shoes, but you can't run forever. Bye," she dragged out the e, waving her hand as she slowly disappeared from view.
Bree didn't bother sitting up, contently watching as Edward approached from a rare sideway angle instead. Tall, lean, and ginger, he walked with a swagger. Had he lolloped she might've been more inclined to feel bad. Didn't he own older clothes for this restoration project? She could identify several paint specks even from the distance. Psh, what a waste of good linen.
His steps came into a stop and he settled himself on the newspaper Flo occupied just moments before. Paper crinkled and rustled, his gaze stayed cool and collected, but Mrs. Addams' reaction was the opposite. The bundle of white fur immediately started to wriggle and thrash, trying her utmost to worm her way out of Bridget's hold. Bridget let her flee. "Morticia doesn't like you. Animals are good judge of nature, no?"
Edward's lips twisted up into a satirical smile. She returned in kind. An ugly silence followed.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," she said.
An uglier silence ensued.
Edward cleared his throat, his hand shot out to place something in front of her face, everything in one-eighty view. Club soda. "For you," he said.
"Bribery?" She asked dryly. "What would your father say about this?"
He made a shushing gesture. "Don't tell him. It's a last resort."
"Breaking out into a musical number or reciting a poem will do, soda is a little too much." She accepted the peace offering, bringing the bottle close to her chest. The liquid sloshed as it was tipped to the side.
He paused and tilted his head to meet her eyes. "A poem?" He forked his fingers through his hair. He smiled. Edward smiled to fill silences in conversations, she noticed. It seemed they shared the same motto about life: when in doubt, smile; when in trouble, smile; when unhappy, smile.
Bridget's mirroring smile congealed and melted into horror when he spoke up next.
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-swell under it
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast."
His voice was calm, melodious in its levelness. Bree was forced to anchor all her attention to what was looking back as he inched forward, losing sense of detachment. Shade of liquid gold with transparency and as such, she could see his pupils widening, the colors in his irises racing each other to form a different formation to accommodate the change. A ripple, not unlike a camera lens focusing.
"And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go."
Why is he doing this? Indulging her wishes, her humor, herself. He must be a romantic to a disabling degree if this was how he apologized for his wrongdoings. A smile appeared on the corner of his lips, but he kept going.
"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
"He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again,"
"Good fences make good neighbors," they finished together.
Bridget gripped the neck of the bottle tightly, a squeak sounded from the friction between her fingers and the perspiring glass. Robert Frost. Edward had delivered his message across, and she had received the point in return. An explanation. A caution.
She slammed her eyes shut. She had forgotten her way around this. Friends, her mind sarcastically supplied, friends must be able to converse properly. "Do you make a habit of memorizing poems?"
"I remember everything I read. It's a secret, though."
"I'm sure it's not. Someone at school was bound to notice."
"It actually is, do you know how dangerous it is to be at prep and be known to have photographic memory?" His voice lowered to convey the scandalous nature of the topic, though the grin begged to differ.
It made sense, she supposed. The 'cheating' that ensued, the competitions the teachers would just love you to enter, the concept brought an echo of a not so distant past. "Fair. But you just told me."
He considered this for a moment. "So I have." The muscles in his face tightened and he crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry for what I said the other day about your campaign. It was beyond rude."
His body language said otherwise, but his delivery was sincere. She had just become a lone witness of how Edward and Dr. Cullen were cut from the same cloth. "I suppose after the eidetic secret I have to accept your apology."
Edward grinned amusedly down at her. "But?"
"But… do you have plans next Saturday?" Bree rummaged through her yellow bag and pulled out an invitation. She handed him the sought item. "Sophie MacMillan's twenty-first birthday, a costume party. It's gonna be glitzy," she said in a beguiling manner.
He flipped open the front cover. "This is a Great Gatsby novel."
She reversed his action. "With invitation on the back cover. It's printed for the party. What do you think?" The theme was clear, opulence was invited.
"Parties… aren't really my scene."
"Even when your siblings were here?" she questioned.
He shook his head. "Still not my scene."
"But it's a MacMillan party," she reasoned, unrelenting. They never spared cost with their setups or the things they served, and the bigger the party the more intimate guests can socialize. There were no social police, to say the least. "I guess this is why we never met in high school. Golf?"
"Nope," he smiled in amusement.
"Tennis? Boating? Sailing?" She was sitting upright by this point, edging closer with each guess. He shook his head to all of them. "Do you have friends?" she cheeked, grinning in amusement.
Edward arched a sly brow. "Wow, thank you for preempting my poor social skills."
"Only stating the truth."
"I guess we run in different social circles."
"We evidently don't if we're both invited to Hearst-hosted parties."
He squinted in a furtive manner. "Fair, but it was my parents they invited. Are you sure you're not taking me to that party because a certain ex-boyfriend is going to be there?"
Bree slanted him a quick impatient look.
"Esme told me," he admitted. "Sorry to hear that, too."
"So, back to the topic of no friends then?"
"Are you even allowed to drink?"
She inhaled a sharp breath, and laughed. Someone clearly didn't frequent college parties. "I insist you come to the party. Wear a suit, come to my place after dinner - we want to drink responsibly here - and we'll take my period-appropriate car."
"You have a BMW."
"And a 1929 Hudson in storage." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Come on," she beseeched, and if she was correct in her assumption, "Sweet, sensitive guys like you spent their whole high school years frozen in place while everyone is running around going to parties and getting laid."
Bree averted her eyes when his glance glazed over. Bingo.
I found you.
"What's the point of living a lifetime without getting to see parties like these?" she urged in a quieter voice.
Edward maintained eye contact, mirth slowly coloring his eyes and mouth. "Do you really want me to go?" He matched her hushed volume.
She nodded earnestly, twisting the cap of the soda bottle. A pop and a hiss.
"Then it's a date," Edward acquiesced.
She beamed, taking a swig from the peace offering. "Cheers, Edward."
§
I was there when the stepheniemeyer site crashed so yes, I'm looking forward to reading Midnight Sun and crossing my fingers that it would be what I hoped it to be. Are you excited for MS?
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The poem is Mending Wall by Robert Frost.