I don't own Twilight.

~ XI. ~

New Orleans, 1950

While the beginning chapters of the diary explain a lot of things I've always secretly wondered about, the entries that followed Edward's departure from Atlanta were fascinating, full of adventure and suspense. After a brief dinner with my grandfather, I eagerly run back to my room, lock the door securely and lie on my bed, ready to devour Edward A. Cullen's life story.

The start of his ventures in New York didn't come without hardships and costs, but he prevailed. The longshoremen, the union, and the mob didn't always cooperate. I'm captivated by his descriptions of the world he lived in and the expansion of his business. In the beginning, most of the characters in his story are dirty, grimy criminals and corrupt, lower government officials. His life was in serious danger more than once. He suffered several setbacks, both in his business and in his personal life. His mother died shortly after his return to New York, and he was grief stricken for weeks, barely able to get out of bed. But the most devastating blow he suffered came at the hand of his beloved Bella. After she married Alec in October of 1931, he stopped writing for some time.

He seemingly was able to carry on by clinging tenaciously to the small sliver of hope that he might be able to win her back one day, if only he was rich enough. So he kept on going, assuming and amassing wealth.

In the process, the characters of his story gradually change from the dark figures of organized crime to successful businessmen and high-ranking politicians. Mr. Cullen's business diversified, expanded and flourished. When Aro died in 1936, he dropped the Atlanta connection, but hired Mr. Whitlock as his personal accountant. Over the years, the relationship between the two men evolved, and Mr. Whitlock advised him on many of his investments. As best as I can guess, he also became his confidant, his guide in turning his enterprise legitimate.

The beginning of the World War II happened to be particularly lucrative for Mr. Cullen, and by the end of 1941, when the US entered the war, he was a wealthy man, with money invested in so many gainful ventures that he no longer had to work or deal with petty criminals. Yet for a man who had accumulated so much in such a short period of time, he had no taste for luxury, and the money at his disposal didn't bring him pleasure. He took careful measures to avoid social functions at any cost and only dined out to talk about work. Aside from his apartment on Fifth Avenue and a weekend house on Long Island, he never spent his money on much.

I can't help but envy him. He was completely self-made, with no handouts, no family connections to help him. The last entries I find, written in the same cheap notebooks that he'd used when he was a student, are from August 1942. He stopped writing completely after that, it appears.

~000~

Atlanta, Georgia

Wednesday, August 12, 1942

Atlanta has changed a lot since I last set foot on its streets. It's busier now. Aro has been dead for some time, and I don't know many people in this town anymore. Even Mrs. Cope has passed away. I am not sure why I bothered to find out about her whereabouts. I don't think I would have visited her. I'm only here to see one person.

I checked into a hotel this morning. Locating Alec turned out to be easy. The family is still wealthy, but they've taken some losses during the past years. According to my sources, Bella and Alec settled in Atlanta shortly after they got married. When I'd first heard about their nuptials, I couldn't bear to hear anything, not even small tidbits, about their lives. It was too painful for a long time.

I'm not sure I made the right decision now to find her, but the emptiness I've felt ever since I found out about her wedding has become unbearable lately. I'm also possibly rich enough these days to buy out both Alec's and her father's businesses without putting a dent into my accounts. In short, I have no more excuses left that would prevent me from searching her out.

With some digging, I was able to find information about her aunt, Petunia Higgenbotham. As Bella had suspected, the bank foreclosed on her house in 1933. Thankfully she didn't live through the humiliation of having her belongings sold to the highest bidder. She died shortly before the auction with her possessions in tact.

I've been planning this trip for three weeks, yet, as I'm sitting in my hotel room overlooking downtown Atlanta, I'm reluctant to face her. I've imagined this meeting for ten years, dreamed about it all the time. I've calculated all possible scenarios on how our encounter will end. Still, I feel unprepared.

Thursday, August 13, 1942

I'm ready to leave Atlanta. There is nothing for me to discover here. After some delay yesterday, I decided that my best chance to meet her alone would probably be on a business day when Alec would most likely be at work. The concierge found me a car and a driver. With their home address in hand, I had the driver take me there before lunchtime.

According to their address, they lived in a wealthy neighborhood. The house itself was situated on a large parcel of land, surrounded by a high white wall. I could tell Alec had a hand in picking this property. The place was secluded, almost invisible to the casual by-passer. The driver nearly missed the entry gate, and no house number could be found near it to confirm the address. Yet, there was no doubt in my mind that we'd reached the right place.

We were granted entrance and a large white house loomed in the distance at the end of a long narrow driveway. It was plain, yet imposing. Marble steps led to the front door and dark window shutters closed off any view of the inside. As the car pulled up in front of the main door, an older looking maid dressed in all black with her hair pulled back into a severe bun opened the door. I walked up the three steps to greet her. She looked at me with a confused expression on her face, her brows furrowed and eyes inspecting my appearance carefully.

"I apologize, but I don't recognize your face or your name, Sir. I hope you are not another reporter," she said curtly.

"I can assure you, I'm not a reporter," I said, but before I could introduce myself, she spoke again.

"Are you a business acquaintance of Mr. Dubois? If you are here to express you condolences to his family about his passing, I will have to disappoint you. His family is in New Orleans and the funeral will be held there this Friday," she said, impatiently stepping from foot to foot, half ready to close the door in front of my face.

"Alec Dubois has passed away?" I clarified, stretching my hand against the door.

"Yes, isn't that why you are here? It was all over the newspapers last weekend. He was shot dead five days ago at his place of business."

"No, I hadn't heard. I came here to see Mrs. Dubois actually."

"Mrs. Dubois? His mother passed away last year."

"His wife?" I tried.

"I don't know anything about a wife." She looked at me then with suspicion. Obviously I wasn't familiar with any of the Dubois' recent affairs and I knew she wouldn't be willing to divulge further information to a complete stranger.

"I see. Well, it looks like I made this trip for nothing then. Excuse me," I said quickly. I turned around without hesitation and drove back to the hotel.

If she isn't in this town, there is no purpose of prolonging my stay. Too many memories haunt me here. Looking at old buildings that have changed and new buildings that have risen, I'm reminded constantly about how much time has passed … how much time I've lost and will never recapture.

I can't believe Alec is dead. I called an acquaintance of mine I sometimes use to dig up dirt on people. He had no problem finding the scoop behind Alec's murder. One thing is for certain, Alec's tastes never changed.

The official story is that Alec was killed by a man named Sam Uley. The unofficial story is that Mr. Uley is taking the blame for someone else's deed. According to one of the clerks in Alec's office, Mrs. Uley was the person who actually pulled the trigger. The whispers around the store were that she accused Alec of stealing her husband from her before she shot him once. She must have had good aim. He died instantly.

Normally, I'd dismiss the story as fabricated gossip, but knowing Alec, I believe the gossip in this case comes closer to the truth than the official story. I booked a ticket for the next flight to New Orleans the minute I returned to my hotel room. I'm certain that she will attend his funeral, even if they are no longer married.

New Orleans

Friday, August 14, 1942

I made it to the cathedral in time for Alec's service, but for anything else I am too late. I've wasted too much time accumulating something I don't want and have no use for after today.

I was so busy wallowing in my own misery after Jasper Whitlock gave me the news about Alec and Bella's impending wedding date that I never bothered to contact her. I drowned myself in liquor first, and when that proved to be an unsuccessful means to forget her, in work. Drinking, I discovered fairly fast, brought on even stronger visions and dreams of her, and work only occupied my mind for so long. So I gave up on forgetting her, and instead picked up the pieces I had left. I didn't bother to search for explanations of why she hadn't waited for me. I guess I had little faith in her in the end.

Bella remained on my mind every single hour of the every day. Her existence and the mere possibility that I might win her back gave me reason to work, a purpose to continue slaving my days away despite the fact that I cared little for the spoils of my labor. I had this impossible dream that once all my business transactions were legit, I would go find her and try to win her back. Like any dream, you have wake up eventually and today I did.

I stood in the back of the cathedral searching for her, but couldn't see her. The building quickly filled up with mourners, all lamenting the tragic death of someone I couldn't care less about. When the cathedral was almost filled, nearly every last seat taken and she was still nowhere to be seen, I was starting to wonder whether Bella and Alec had parted on bad terms. I couldn't find any records of a divorce though, but maybe the investigator I'd hired overlooked it.

I was ready to storm out of the service to take a cab to her parents' house, when I saw a portly old man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, walking down the nave and sliding into one of the front pews. I slowly stalked down the side aisle, until I reached the row where he'd sat down. Standing behind a column, I took a closer look. I couldn't place him at first. Only when I saw the waif thin woman with parched skin next to him did I recognize them as Bella's parents. The years had not been kind to them. Mr. Swan's face was swollen and red like that of someone who habitually drank too much. Mrs. Swan looked frailer and her hair had gone completely grey.

I gazed at them for a minute before stepping to the side. The service would start soon and there still was no sign of Bella. I was about to make my way back to the entrance to leave, when the sight of a boy, about nine or ten years old, caught my attention.

He was standing near the stoup on his toes, searching the rows of the seated guests. The first thing that drew me in was his mop of unruly bronze hair. It was the same color mine must have been when I was about his age. Something about his physique and his gait when he finally ran along the nave to the person he'd been searching for also reminded me of myself. Skinny and agile. He came to an abrupt halt at the row Bella's parents were sitting in. The boy scuttled in and settled next to them. I couldn't take my eyes off of him from then on. I moved back to my spot behind the column, but my view of the boy was partially blocked by Mr. Swan's protruding belly and large head.

Uncertainty remained after I caught another sight of him as the family exited the cathedral. I didn't dare to go into the small cemetery where only the closest family members appeared to be in attendance. Instead, I took a cab down to the Swan residence in the Garden District. I needed to take one proper look at the boy to confirm my suspicion, and I had yet to see her. If my gut feeling was right, then I knew why she'd married Alec early. It would explain everything.

I waited for an hour inside the car parked in front of their home. Their mansion was well maintained and hadn't lost any of its grandeur. Flowers were blooming and the lawns were groomed to perfection. I was tempted a couple of times during my wait to walk to the front door and knock, half expecting her to open the door, but something kept me in the seat of the car. I needed to know for certain before I saw her.

When the Swan's car pulled up, I got out and walked down the sidewalk toward them. I halted a distance away. The boy stepped out first, skipping in a carefree way up the stairs to the front door, before turning around.

"Grandpa, hurry up. I wanna go fishing," he whined. I looked at his face, catching a brief glimpse of his eyes, shining brightly green. Even the face was remarkably similar to my own. At first glance, I couldn't detect even a hint of Bella in him. I stepped back casually, but stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the old man's voice.

"Damn, boy! Edward, you won't be goin' fishin' today. Get it out of your head!"

In shock and strangely emboldened by the information, I waited until they closed the front door behind them, before stepping up the stairs to their front door. I knocked only once before a young woman in a maid's uniform opened the door.

"Good afternoon. My name is Edward Cullen. I was wondering if I may please speak to Ms. Isabella Swan."

"I'm sorry . . . she's not here …" the girl stammered with wide eyes as if she was seeing a ghost.

"Would Mr. Swan be able to spare five minutes of his time?" I asked in a rush to find out more.

"Let me see for you whether he's available, Mr. Cullen." She bowed briefly and closed the door. I half expected her to deny my request, but she returned a minute later to let me into the house, leading me to a well-stocked library.

Bella's father hoisted himself up from a leather chair upon my entry, inspecting my appearance carefully. I smiled at him, even though I hated his guts more than anybody's.

"Good afternoon, Mr. – what was your name again? I don't think we've met before?" he said with a strong southern drawl, extending his chubby hand toward me.

"Mr. Cullen. I think we were never officially introduced. I was friends with your daughter a long time ago," I answered, shaking his hand firmly. At the mention of his daughter, his expression darkened.

"I see." He narrowed his eyes wearily. "Please sit," he said, falling back into his chair. "What did you want to speak to me about, Mr. Cullen?" He pulled out a pipe from his waistcoat pocket, stuffed it with tobacco and lit it.

I sat down in the chair across from him, leaning back to take a closer look at the man in front of me. I could see some only faint similarities between Bella and her father. The eye color was the same, but not much else. "This should only take a minute. I actually came to Atlanta to visit Mr. Dubois, unaware of his passing. I attended his funeral service and was hoping to express my condolences to your daughter. Unfortunately, I didn't see her at the service."

His expression shifted from one of distrust to one of anger.

"A friend of my daughter's, heh?" He exhaled smoke sharply.

I nodded. "Yes."

"Listen, I've no idea why or how you knew my daughter, but you obviously didn't bother to keep in touch, which makes me wonder why you are here today. You see, my only daughter passed away seven years ago. Alec's will is about to be opened and administered tomorrow and my grandson, who you incidentally bear a striking resemblance to, is expected to be the only heir to his estate." His voice had gradually risen in volume and by the end of his last sentence, he was yelling at me, breathing heavily. His face was bright red, as he got out of his chair and was about to stagger over to me. I should have moved, attempted to leave; yet all I could do was stare in shock at the grotesque figure in front of me. "I think you should go now, Mr. Cullen. Rest assured, as long as I live I will not let you near my grandson or his money. You can bet on that."

I wanted to protest, but words failed to come out. He hovered near me for a second, before walking to the window.

"I wasn't completely blind. That boy looked nothin' like her or Alec. I always had my doubts, but I kept quiet. For her sake and the boy's. I suggest you do the same," he said, not looking at me, staring out into the garden.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Swan," I finally hurriedly replied, walking out of the room. My mouth felt dry and sweat started dripping from my forehead as I rushed out the front door without uttering another word. The cab driver, still parked at the curb in front of the house, yelled at me, demanding his pay. I tossed some bills into the window of the car, to shut him up and continued walking.

"Mr. Cullen? Edward Cullen?" I heard a deep, melodic voice behind me. "I've somethin' for ya. Sir?"

I turned around cautiously and saw an elderly black woman approaching me slowly. She came to stop a couple of feet away, eying me with deep brown eyes full of sorrow and pity.

"My name is Bernie. I've worked for the family for a long time. I watched Miss Bella grow-up. She was such a purty child. Before she passed, she gave me this for you, sayin' that you might come back one day." She held a yellowing envelope out to me.

"Thank you," I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own, reaching for the envelope.

"Your boy's a good boy." A broad smile spread across her face. "She named 'em Edward after his father. He looks just like ya."

"Thank you. I didn't know … " I choked on my own pathetic excuse.

"I know." She patted my arm gingerly. "After the child was born, it was all down hill. She never recovered. Nothin' much I s'pose anybody could've done."

I don't remember how I returned to the hotel. My memory is hazy after that conversation. I've wasted the last ten years of my life dreaming, instead of coming back for her and living them. I've lost the time I could have spent with her. My dreams are dead. The only thing I've left is regret. Regret that I didn't stay, that I failed her. I loved her more than life itself and yet I destroyed her. There is nothing left to live for now. The boy, our son, doesn't need me.

~000~

New Orleans, 1950

There are no more entries after this one. Nothing. Not a single word. Tucked behind the last page of the notebook, I find her letter.

~000~

June 3, 1935

Dear Edward,

I guess if you are reading this letter, you came back for me. I always knew you would. When I first told Bernie that I wanted to write you a letter and I needed her to hand it to you in case I wasn't around anymore, she protested, telling me it wouldn't work because she didn't know what you looked like. I didn't have a photograph of you, so I started describing your face, the color of your eyes, your physique and even your smile to her, but then I stopped. I said to her, "Bernie, you know what? You'll know it's him when you see him." She didn't want to believe me until I told her, "You'll know because my son looks exactly like him."

Bernie quit fighting me after that. To be honest, I was surprised she gave me an argument. It's quite plain when you look at my son that he's not Alec's and he looks nothing like me either. Sometimes I hear them whispering behind my back, claiming that my son must be the milkman's child, but I ignore them. He's all you, Edward. So much so that when his eyes first turned from dark blue into their true color, I spent hours staring into them, because they reminded me so much of yours. I swear they are the exact same color as yours, even down to the little dark specks around the iris.

I named him after you – Edward Anthony. Alec didn't care. In fact, he doesn't seem too fond of children really. He told me he might have felt differently, if I'd had a girl. He said he would have enjoyed having a smaller version of little old me around. I told him that I was happy I didn't have a girl. Girls are powerless and weak in this world. Our boy is strong and good.

Old Maurice though, Alec's dad, is absolutely and perfectly mad about little Edward. He takes him with him wherever he goes and spoils him rotten.

No matter what anybody tells you when I'm no longer here, having your child was the best thing I ever did in my life, do you hear me? That boy is my pride and joy. He turned three just two weeks ago. He's so smart, just like his father. He talks a lot and has so much energy. I'm sure every mother says that about her child, but I'm dead certain that in the case of our son, it is the complete truth and not an exaggeration. I'm trying to teach him how to read before he goes off to school, but he barely sits still long enough for me to go over the alphabet, and sometimes I'm so tired that I give up trying.

I know I sound like a horrible mother. You have to forgive me. Some days it's hard for me to get out of bed. It feels like this heavy blanket is covering me, weighing me down and it's so hard to fight it – this feeling of being dragged down. I think I'll have to stop fighting soon. You'll have to forgive me for that too when it happens.

Don't be concerned about the boy. Bernie has promised me she'd take care of him, just like she took care of me when I was a little girl. She is so good with children, much better than I am. Plus, Edward will have his grandparents. He'll be fine. So when you do come back, think about leaving him here?

I miss you every day. I know you were trying to do what you thought was best, but I still love you and I feel so desperately alone without you. I wish that we'd had more time. I tried getting in touch with you after you left, but nobody knew where you were. It's too late for regrets now, and mostly I am hopeful these days.

I hope you are living, and not just existing, Edward. Make the most of it everyday, will you? In fact, pour yourself a glass of decent brandy while you're reading this. I can't tell you how happy I was when the prohibition finally ended. Alec sent me two boxes of the finest French champagne that day. Generally, I think things are moving in the right direction. I know I sound like a silly, little schoolgirl with a crush, but I must say I adore FDR and everything he's doing. Things will get better, I'm certain. Our son will have a bright future ahead of him.

I know I told you back when we first met that I didn't believe in God, and I'm still not certain I do, but as I can see my end in this world, I do wish for a place where I could see you again one day. I doubt it exists, but I would love to be in your arms one time, even for just a minute or two.

I have so much more I want to tell you, but I think this will have to do for now. Maybe I get to see you and we'll talk while you hold me in your arms. If we miss each other and don't get to say goodbye properly, please don't plague yourself with guilt or regrets when there are so many things we need to be grateful for. I am so happy that I did get a chance to know you, even though the time we spent together was brief. It is those memories of our days in Atlanta that sustain me, make me smile like a mad woman. I experienced a love most people only dare to dream or write about. What we had was so special and rare, and maybe that's why we weren't meant to have all the time in the world together. We have a child, a child that will outlive us both. So what more can I ask for? Take care, Edward.

Love,

Bella

One more chapter to go – an epilogue of sorts that will explain (hopefully) any remaining mysteries. Thank you very much for reading.