Spirit to Flesh: A Twific by LittleWing, betad by the incomparable Jessica1971
I don't own Twilight or The Love Letter. I'm just playin around and havin a ball. No infringement intended. No money made. Viva Le Fan Fiction!
Chapter 3: Enough
"How are you, dear?" Esme asked Sylvia as she rushed into Edward's office, slightly wet from the rain. Esme had always liked Sylvia. As Edward's assistant, Sylvia had proven that she could be counted on to have Edward's best interests at heart, and that made her a treasure in Esme's eyes.
"I'm fine, Esme. Thanks for asking." Sylvia came from around her desk to free Esme's hands of the umbrella and packed lunch she was carrying. "Why don't you put your coat over here?" Sylvia said, pointing to the coat rack by the door. "It's really coming down out there, isn't it?"
"Yes," Esme said, fussing with her hair. "It's a good thing I decided to bring lunch. Is my son around or has he forgotten his date with his mother?"
Sylvia laughed at the idea. Esme was probably the only woman Edward truly loved, Sylvia thought ruefully. She was not a fan of Amazons.
"Nope, he's in the practice room. I think he's working on a new piece. He kept humming during the faculty meeting this morning. I can go get him if you like."
"No, sweetie, you relax. This is for you," Esme said, separating out the lunch containers. "You're losing too much weight. As we get older, you have to keep a bit on. That's the secret, you know." Esme winked and pushed the chicken salad and seven-flavor pound cake towards Sylvia's slim fingers.
Sylvia smiled knowingly. Carlisle had insisted on performing her triple bypass personally and still called her once a month to check on her – 5 years after the surgery. Sylvia had just gotten over the flu and had lost more weight than she needed to. Esme's pound cake would do just the trick. "Thank you, Esme," Sylvia called as Esme slipped out the door.
Esme knew the music department by heart. Edward had been a professor and conductor here for seven years. Plus, she met Edward here for lunch at least once a month. Esme was grateful that, despite his age, Edward still enjoyed his mother's company. As she stepped out of the elevator on the lower level, the hallway was filled with his playing. Esme knew it was him; no one played like Edward. On the piano, Edward was his truest self, completely in and out of control - intense passion, absolute precision. He could play literally all day and not get tired. She knew nothing in his life filled him like his music.
Esme slipped quietly into Practice Room 8. It was his favorite, with a wall of windows overlooking a secluded school courtyard. The fact that Edward was working on a new piece warmed her. He had not written anything new in years. She watched him silently as he played a segment over and over, looking for the continuation. Her sigh broke through his concentration and Edward smiled, motioning for her to sit with him.
"I'm sorry to be so late. I got lost down here. What time is it?" he asked.
"You're not late; I'm early. I brought us lunch since it's raining."
"Ummmm," he hummed, kissing Esme's cheek while eying the packages she laid on top of the piano. "You're too good to me."
"That was hauntingly beautiful. What are you working on? Is it new?"
"Yes," he said simply, absently stroking the piano keys.
Esme watched her son for a moment. He looked tired, but energized somehow. His intensity was palpable. Something had happened.
"What inspired it?" she asked.
"A letter I found last night," he replied. Esme noticed that he kept his focus on the piano keys.
"A letter?"
"Yes. I found it in a desk I bought yesterday. A very old desk."
Esme was silent. This – whatever this was – was not what she had expected to hear. She knew her son. She would have to wait for him to tell her what was really going on.
"For I can not give what is already yours, and since I can not find you, both my love and my heart are lost," Edward whispered to himself, playing a soft succession of notes before pausing.
"You memorized it? The letter."
"Yes." Edward paused for a long moment before adding, "I don't know why, but I can't stop thinking about it."
Edward lifted his head then to look at this mother through ancient eyes. "My God, Edward! Are you alright?" Esme took her son's face between her two hands. "What has happened?"
"Nothing, mom. I'm alright. I've just been up….thinking."
"You need to eat," Esme demanded, grabbing a container and fork and pushing it towards him.
"Yes," he chuckled. "I'm starving. Thank you."
They ate in silence for a moment while Esme tried to figure out what, if anything, this had to do with Victoria. In between bites of her salad, she plotted.
"So," Esme started, having decided on an indirect course of questioning. "Are you and Victoria coming over for dinner on Sunday?"
"I don't see why not," Edward answered in a low, distant voice. He knew that his mother had never really warmed to Victoria. It wasn't that she didn't like her, it was simply that she knew that he and Victoria would never have what she and his father had found over 40 years ago. She couldn't accept that Edward was settling.
"How is Victoria?" Esme tried to ask casually. The slow smile on Edward's face let her know that he was on to her. "She's fine, mom. We're fine. Please don't worry yourself."
Esme sighed, putting down her half-eaten salad. "I just want you to have everything, Edward, everything that really matters. That's all, sweetie." Her hands found his unruly hair and tried, for the millionth time, to find order in the chaos.
Edward looked at his mother as her brows furrowed the way they always did when she was trying to fix his hair. Gently, he captured her hands. "Not all of us get everything, mom. But I have a lot. I have enough."
"What is enough, Edward?" He couldn't have this conversation with her again. Not today, when he was acutely aware of how empty his life would look if he was willing to examine it.
"Enough is enough that you shouldn't worry," he said finally with a forced smile, and quickly rose from the piano bench.
"Okay, okay," Esme conceded, grabbing the elbow of his shirt. "Sit down. I want to play with you for a moment. Sit down."
Slowly, Edward lowered himself back on the bench, his face breaking into a genuine smile. They hadn't played together in years. "Name the tune," he grinned.
Instead of answering, Esme began playing the first few bars of Clair de Lune. He played in perfect time with her, his first teacher.
Their playing was quiet enough for them to hold a conversation, and as they played Esme came up with a novel idea.
"Tell me more about this letter you found."
Edward had wanted to share it with someone, but who? Who would understand the effect it had on him? Who wouldn't think he was crazy? Edward and his mother had always been close. Maybe, he thought, she could at least help him sort through his thoughts.
"Her name is Bella," he began, and instantly regretted starting there. He didn't want her to think that he was simply fixating on a dead girl. When Edward noticed that Esme didn't react to this, he continued. "I mean, the letter was written by a woman named Bella. She appeared to be writing to a fantasy, someone who did not really exist to her. It seems she was worried about being forced to marry someone she didn't really like."
"Why?" Esme asked, still looking at the keys in front of her, playing her part softly.
"I don't really know. The letter was dated March 3, 1918. I think she probably didn't have a lot of options."
"The letter was dated yesterday?" Esme stopped playing for only a brief moment before resuming her playing and pondering the coincidence.
"Yes, 92 years ago yesterday." Edward answered with a tight smile. His mother didn't miss anything.
"And will you answer it?" Esme asked casually.
Edward chuckled, sensing in some unconscious place that he knew she would say something like that. "And how would you suggest I do something like that?"
Esme continued to play as she answered him without missing a note.
"The letter found its way to you, Edward. Maybe you were meant to find a way to respond."
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