Twilight character names belong to Stephenie Meyer. I own Dodge and Burn.
Much love and thanks to Editor Azucena, Pre-readers BtwntheStacks and Lemonmartinis and Beta-MsKathy
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Dodge and Burn / Chapter Two / Old School
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Isabella's heart's fluttering as Edward enters her home. She wonders about his perceiving her as off-kilter. After all...she's engaging him to do a private concert for a woman he's never met, playing music she only heard by accident on a warm spring night.
Yet, oh…the thrill of it! She can hardly contain her excitement.
All week she'd made a game out of guessing what he looked like: short and stout or tall and skinny, flaming red hair or no hair, a couch potato or an athlete's build, sporting either a goatee or maybe a long beard. The possibilities were endless. For some reason, she didn't expect this: tall and handsome, a short mane of wild hair, and intense blue eyes that tell a story without speaking.
He looks apprehensive, not sure if she's a dubious sort or not, but has convinced himself to come inside anyway. She gives him a moment for his eyes to adjust. The dark walls from her living room keep the light quiet and scarce.
She studies him while he takes in her world, worn chairs filled with elaborately embellished pillows, stacks of books everywhere, black and white photos framed on every spare space of wall, and the soft pink light of the cranberry glass lamps.
He's long and sturdy and wears his jeans exceptionally well. She guesses him to be around forty, for although his body looks much younger, the lines around his eyes reveal something else.
She feels his eyes fall on her so she looks up at him directly.
He can tell she's not afraid to show him anything. "Do you collect dolls, Isabella?
She quickly glances around the room trying to imagine why he'd ask that, but her detective skills fail her.
"No, no dolls."
He lets out a deep breath. He seems relieved. How odd.
"But I do collect doll houses."
He doesn't appear to know what to make of that.
"I like decorating them and imaging that I'm tiny enough to live in them."
The corners of his mouth turn up.
"Do these houses have tiny paintings with fancy gold frames?"
"I believe you know the answer to that," she teases. "And I must admit, there's almost nothing I like better than a tiny painting."
"Really? I prefer paintings that are really, really big."
"How big?" she challenges.
"So big that they wouldn't fit in this room," he replies, sweeping his arm up in a big gesture. "I like the boldness of a big painting, and the audacity of the artist that's implied by creating it. I can't get over the feeling that you can step inside of it." He drops his arm, looking terribly satisfied.
She assumes his intention is to be contrary. "I see," she replies.
The best part is that she can't see-not yet. She likes that she really can't read him and know if he's playing her as a fool. It's a game of cat and mouse that can only make their brief time together more interesting.
He moves his guitar case from one hand to the other. It occurs to her that it would be good form to take care of business first.
She walks up to her mantle and reaches into a squat teal-colored vase. Pulling out a wad of cash, she returns to him, offering it.
"Here we are…your payment for today"
"But I haven't even played for you yet," he points out with a puzzled expression, his free hand remains wedged in the back pocket of his jeans.
"No, but you're going to. Offering to pay first may seem like a leap of faith on my part, but you even showing up here was a bigger leap of faith." She smiles encouragingly.
He studies her expression for a moment and then reaches out and accepts the cash, sliding it down into his pocket. "Thank you."
She nods, and he seems to relax just a bit.
"So on the phone you said you'd already heard my music. Something about hearing it from your yard?"
"Yes, yes, when you played at my neighbor's engagement party."
"Right, because I don't recall seeing you at the party." His eyes crinkle up at the corners as he squints in thought. "I'm sure I would've remembered you."
She takes his arm. "Here, let me show you." She leads him through the house until they pass through the French doors that lead out to the yard. She gestures to a garden swing under a tree.
"As I told you, I was sitting right there last Saturday afternoon reading, completely caught up in the story and not even paying attention to the murmur of people talking just on the other side of my fence. Then suddenly a clear voice, your voice, rose up in song above the drone, and I literally dropped my book."
"Really?" he asks. "I didn't think anyone was actually listening. There was a lot of champagne flowing at that gig. It was a chatty group."
She nods vigorously. "Yes, I listened to both of your sets, even when it meant I was sitting in the dark. It was like my own personal concert. Like you were playing for me."
He doesn't look convinced.
"You think I'm exaggerating?" she asks, sensing his doubt.
"It's not that," he replies. "It's just a first for me. To think I was playing for someone who was so into the music and I had no idea at all."
She smiles, looking satisfied.
"So shall we start?"
"Sure." She nods. "Do you want some water, something to drink?"
"What are you going to have?"
"A bit of wine. Would that suit you?"
"That would suit me just fine." He nods as he puts down his case and opens it.
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When she returns to the yard with a bottle and two glasses, he's already set up a place for himself. He looks right at home as he tunes his guitar. Her breath catches when she realizes how easily she could get used to this.
She fills his glass and sets it on the table next to him.
He takes a long sip and nods. "Any requests?"
She shakes her head. "Play what you feel like playing."
He sits completely still for a minute, his vision fixed just above the trees. She waits silently, knowing that feeling of rediscovery is right on the edge of her skin. She has the stamina to wait a long time if necessary to once again feel how his playing affected her. It was a sensation of peeling her self open and letting the music soak right through her; letting her heart get so full with the feeling that it barely fit under her ribs.
She settles back on the swing, her colorful skirt falling in waves around her outstretched legs.
He looks down finally, his vision lingering on the exposed stretch of her calves and delicate ankles as the first notes fill the air.
For the first part of the next hour his eyes are closed or turned away, as if watching her reaction to the music is too much for him. In between songs, he sips his wine and observes her, but no words are spoken between them.
She barely moves, only small gestures, brushing away a tear or taking a sip of her wine. But he can tell something powerful is building inside of her and he waits to see if it will be unleashed.
Sure enough, when the music gets bolder and the bottle is near empty she takes flight, slowly gliding and dancing barefoot over the grass as he plays for her. His eyes are watching now, noting the way the late afternoon light illuminates the golden hues of her hair. In this lively moment her colorful skirt seems perfect. She grabs the edges of the gauzy fabric and lifts it as she twirls, all the colors moving together. He thinks of a color wheel spinning at a carnival as you hold your breath—waiting to see when it stops if you've won the prize.
The wine has mellowed him so that he doesn't find her spirited movements strange. Suddenly being in her yard, playing music for her makes absolute sense; she's more audience than an arena full of people. His guitar has never felt so perfect. His fingers caress it like a lover; its curve nestled over the edge of his thigh.
Some time later he realizes that the sun has fallen; the bottle's empty, and she's electric, glowing in the low light.
He finishes with the Beatles. His voice grows soft. She stops dancing to listen with complete focus, sinking to the ground until she's on her knees.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird fly…blackbird fly…
into the dark of the night sky
She's completely still, with every sense as sharp as a fox. It's as if she hears layers of secret words under his breath. Each note draws her further in.
He can see it, in the beatific look on her face. There is a halo of light surrounding her, burning bright as if the music captured her then set her free.
She is transformed.
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..~*~..
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They haven't spoken, a comfortable silence settling over them. His guitar packed, he tries to gather himself inside her house. He lingers.
"Well then…" he says as he takes a step forward.
She wants to say something, but she looks a bit lost. Then suddenly her eyes light up.
"Ah! I almost forgot your banana bread. Sit down, sit down." She gently pushes him to one of the easy chairs by the kitchen window.
He allows himself to be pushed by her. It feels good.
"Is that what that great smell is?"
She grins. "Yes, I took it out of the oven right before you arrived. I'm going to make you some coffee, too. I think we both could use some." She pushes her hair, now untamed from the dancing, out of her face as she moves through the kitchen.
"Milk and sugar?"
He shakes his head. "Black."
Minutes later she carries over a tray laden with steaming mugs of coffee, and thick slices of the bread smeared with cream cheese. "I brought extra," she points to the bowl of soft, whipped goodness. "In case you like a lot."
"I do," he says, as he watches her add more to his slice.
She scoots back in her easy chair and folds her legs up with her toes curling off the edge of the cushion, wrapping her skirt around her like a cocoon. She watches him take a bite, relaxing when he groans with approval.
"This is delicious, thank you."
"I'm glad you like it. I've wrapped up the rest for you to take home."
"Baking like this might persuade me to come back to play some time."
Her eyes get wide and hopeful.
"I'd love to bake for you again. Do you like brownies? You know…the really chocolate-ey, chewy kind with nuts? My brownies are like having a party in your mouth."
"Oh yeah, I could get behind some chewy brownies."
"I'll get right on that," she assures him. She watches him lick his fingertips. "Does your wife bake?"
He pauses, pulls his finger out of his mouth, and reaches for the napkin to finish the job.
"No, she doesn't."
She can't read his expression.
"Ah, just as well. Everything I bake is fattening. It's probably best to avoid it. I just can't seem to help myself."
She wraps her hands around her calves and pulls them tighter to her body. She watches him take another healthy bite while she sips her coffee.
"Can I ask you something?" he finally asks.
"Anything," she replies.
"It doesn't seem like you have any small kids living here. Why do you have a swing in your front yard?"
"Why, would you like to take a swing?" She grins happily, like she hopes he'll consider it.
She seems so childlike at times.
"No, I just was wondering why you have it."
"Oh, because sometimes a good swing is the only thing that will do."
"Yes, of course," he agrees, trying to contain a grin as he pictures her soaring over her front lawn, her skirt leaving a rainbow blur behind her.
"And no, I have no kids at home. My son's grown and out in the world."
He looks up, surprised. She hardly seems old enough to have a kid that old. What in the word would a child of hers be like? It's hard to fathom.
"…and he's not a fan of the swing in the front yard either."
"Really?"
"He's a serious sort."
He nods and suddenly feels too full, as if he can't take anymore of her vividness.
He glances at his watch and stands up, running his hands down the front of his jeans.
"Well, I think I better head out. Thank you for this," he says, gesturing toward the bread. You spoiled me."
"Thank you," she says quietly, her expression so sincere. "I'm so blissfully happy, I can't tell you what that meant to me, hearing your music again."
"Ah, well, I enjoyed it."
"Really?"
"I promise. Watching you reminded me how music used to make me feel."
"So you'll come back? You'll play for me again?"
He reaches to grab the last bite of his banana bread and pops it in his mouth. It must be the sweetness, or the buzz left over from the wine, or the magic spell she's cast over him, but he doesn't even hesitate.
"I will."
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..~*~..
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"You look…"
"What?" he asks Alice as she studies him.
"Flummoxed, happy, stunned…I don't know," she replies. "Am I even close?"
Jasper steps back behind the bar with a case of wine.
"Hey, baby?" Alice addresses Jasper. "Don't you think Edward looks different?"
He looks over and shrugs, but then turns back and his face lights up. "Hey, you saw that crazy broad, right? Did you get some action after all?"
Edward shakes his head, gives him a dirty look, and takes a swig of his beer.
"Did you have a date, Edward?" she asks, looking almost surprised at the idea of it.
They must really think I'm hopeless.
"He had date, all right," Jasper teases.
"Oh, that's good," she responds. "You need to get out. It's the first step in getting on with your life. I'm proud of you."
"Hold your horses, Alice. It wasn't a date, Jasper's just toying with me. I played a gig."
"A private gig," Jasper emphasizes. "For a woman."
He makes it sound almost dirty.
"Oh, well that's good too," she says. "Was she pretty?"
"Actually, yes, she was."
"Was she crazy?" Jasper asks, remembering their previous conversation about her.
"No, not crazy, but she's definitely different."
"That's nice," Alice says. "It's good to meet different kinds of women."
"I'm not 'meeting' women. Like I said, this was a gig." Edward huffs.
"A gig," Jasper repeats, rolling his eyes.
"Besides, she's different in a good way. She wasn't that extreme. A bit eccentric, but not weird or anything."
"Well, maybe you two will become friends. If so, it'd be great if you brought her in here to meet us sometime," says Alice.
"Meet you? What are you, my mother?" Edward asks, irritated.
"Don't be that way, Edward. You know we just want you to be happy. Don't forget we're the ones that stood by you after Lauren left. There's no reason to be on the offensive when we're just trying to help you."
He looks at her determined expression and realizes that he doesn't even want to go there. "Okay. Sorry."
She nods and moves away.
"Jasper," he calls out, pushing his empty beer bottle forward. "Another one, please."
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..~*~..
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Two weeks later, when he heads over for their third session, he finds a note attached to her front door.
I'm in the darkroom. Come around back and find me.
"In the darkroom…" he repeats out loud. It occurs to him that she never confirmed that she's an actress. Even after two sessions she's still a mystery he can't figure out. Maybe photography is a hobby, along with baking, unorthodox garden design, and calling strange men late at night with unusual job opportunities. Anything is possible with Ms. Isabella Swan.
He follows the path of stepping stones through the side yard until he's in her backyard. He remembered seeing a cottage-looking structure when he played last. Maybe that's where she is.
As he approaches the door he notices it's ajar. He sticks his head in and looks around. It appears to be a meeting room or something, with chairs around a large table and black and white photos framed on the wall. It's not as cluttered as her house.
"Hello?" he calls out. "Isabella?"
He steps inside and notices that the photos on the walls are all black and white portraits. Most appear to be of couples.
She suddenly steps out from a hallway on the other side of the room. "You're here," she says brightly. "It's good to see you again."
"Likewise." As he sets his guitar down, he realizes that he isn't just being polite, he actually means it.
Her hair is swept back in a ponytail and she's wearing a long black apron. She brushes some stray hairs off her face with her forearm since her hands are sheathed in rubber gloves.
"I'm a bit behind. I was doing some printing and hit a rough patch. The couple's coming in the morning to see the work so I was getting worried."
"You're a photographer?"
She nods. "Among many other things. You look surprised. What did you imagine I was?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Absolutely! I hope it's something fascinating."
He laughs and folds his arms over his chest. "I was sure you were an actress."
"Really?" She laughs. "Am I that dramatic?"
He shrugs, smiling.
"Yeah, I guess I can't argue that one. I always wear my heart and my passions on my sleeve."
"Well, for the record. You're much more interesting than the actresses I've known."
She smiles, smoothes out the front of her apron, and bows her head. "Thank you."
He looks at her gloves and apron, remembering that she still seems to have work to do. "Look, if you need to finish in the darkroom, we can do this another time."
"No!" she insists. "I just have two more prints to put in the drier. I'll just be a sec."
He looks over at the couch. "Okay, I'll wait here."
"Would you like to see what I'm working on?"
"Sure." He steps forward and follows her.
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"I do portraits…of couples." She leads him towards the hallway. "My printing space and darkroom are back here."
At the end of the hallway they enter a brightly lit room. There's a long stainless sink against one wall, with a stainless backsplash where several wet prints cling to the surface.
"Wow," he comments. "I didn't think anyone did this kind of printing anymore. I thought everything was digital now."
"It is," she agrees as she pulls a soggy print out of the shallow water bath, presses it up on the backsplash, and runs a squeegee over it. "I'm old school."
He smiles at her. "Ms. Old School Isabella."
"That's me," she agrees, laughing. "Digital has no soul. There's something about sliding the pristine, naked paper under the enlarger, exposing it with your image as you determine the time, the contrast, and whether to hold back or add light in places. Then the thrill of immersing the paper into the bath of chemicals and watching it come to life in under the dark light."
"You make it sound so mysterious."
"It is. It's tactile and almost sensuous having the wet prints in your hands, manipulating them, touching them. By the time you're done in the lab there's a part of you in the print. I love that."
Her expression is full of light. He imagines it doesn't take a whole hell of a lot to inspire this woman. She sees more than most in the smallest gestures, the moments that other people barely notice.
"But I'm done here. Let's go outside and watch you create for a while." She reaches behind her to undo her apron.
"Okay, but I'm curious. You said things weren't working and you hit a rough patch. Can you show me what you mean?"
"Sure," she says as she leads him to the opposite side of the room where the belt of what appears to be some type of dryer slowly rotates. She removes her gloves and sorts through the basket where the dry prints have dropped.
He's fascinated, watching her in her workspace. She seems more serious, more focused. Seeing this professional side of her intrigues him and makes him want to know more about the other sides of her.
She hands him a print with multiple images of a couple on it. "Here are the proof sheets from our shoot. And this unfortunately…" She holds up a larger single-image print of a smiling couple. "…is pretty much what we got."
"That looks fine to me," he observes.
"Fine isn't enough. It doesn't mean anything to me unless I capture some of the essence of their true dynamic."
He's not sure what to make of that, so he just nods.
"My first impressions of the proofs were flat. I was worried I'd misread the couple when we spoke. I couldn't feel their connection in the proofs. But sometimes you need to blow them up to know for sure. I was about to give up when I discovered this image."
She holds up a different print and even he can see a certain undeniable look in their eyes. It's love, the kind of love with no fences around it, nothing pressing it down. It's a beacon basking in the sun, with no shadows, just air and blue sky all around. It takes his breath away. It makes him wish for it.
He nods slowly, his heart quietly aching.
"Right?" she asks, smiling. "This is what I sensed when the couple and I met. This is what I needed to find."
"Do you find it often in people?" he asks, assuming he knows the answer, his cynicism bleeding through.
"No. I turn down far more couples than I shoot." She sets the prints down and finishes untying her apron. "Now enough about me. I can't wait to listen to you. I've been excited all day."
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They move out to the yard and she doesn't even ask, just goes into the house to get the wine and glasses.
When she sweeps back outside he notices she has jeans on, and she's slipped on a bright blue Indian looking shirt with silver threads and beads over her tank top. She's barefoot and her hair has been let loose, falling around her shoulders.
"How old were you when you started playing, Mr. C.?" she asks as she hands him his glass.
As hesitant as he is to share personal information, he realizes that now he's learned something about her life, it's only fair he shares some about his.
"Seven. My parents were really into music and when my sister, Rose, started her piano lessons, I wanted to get in on the act. I immediately took to it. They had to pry the guitar out of my hands to get me to do anything else."
Bella tries to imagine Edward as a young boy as he first became obsessed with music. She can picture his face young, his eyes lit up with excitement. Maybe that Edward is still somewhere deep inside of him. What if she can help him find that excited little boy again?
She grins. "How wonderful. Can you play me one of the first songs you remember learning?"
"Are you sure?"
She nods.
"I remember my first teacher gave me this book, Easy Songs for the Beginning Guitar Player." He strums a few times deep in thought, then suddenly a song comes to him and he starts to sing.
Almost heaven,
West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains…
"John Denver!" she shouts out, laughing. "My mom loved him. I must have heard his greatest hits album a million times."
"So shall I spare you the million and first?"
"No, keep going," she insists. sitting down on the grass right at his feet. She proceeds to sing along with him and they both make up the lyrics when their memory eludes them.
Mystic laced with moonshine, teardrops by and by
"It's in my eye!" she cries out.
"And I'm sure it's misty taste of moonshine," he adds.
"What the hell does that mean anyway?"
"You're asking me?" They both start laughing.
"You know, if Jacob were here right now he'd remind us that our cool quotient just went down the tubes."
"Jacob?"
"My son."
"So he's not a John Denver fan?"
"Not exactly." She smiles with a faraway look and he wonders what it must be like to spend all those years raising a kid and then have to let them go.
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He follows John Denver with Coldplay. This session his playing is less like a performance and more informal since they're becoming comfortable with each other. They chat more between songs. When comparing favorites, he's impressed at how broad her tastes run. She's interesting to play for since she loves hearing anything she hasn't heard before.
"Sometimes I buy tickets for concerts where I know nothing about the music," she explains in between songs. "I just go with a feeling if the name intrigues me. I ended up at a metal concert that way. It's was pretty wild…me and thousands of head bangers. The people watching was fascinating. I've never seen so many piercings and tattoos in my life. I took some very cool pictures."
"So you stayed for the whole thing?"
"Oh yes! It wasn't my favorite music, but their passion was very infectious."
He laughs and shakes his head.
"I can't play any metal. Sorry to let you down."
"It's never too late to learn," she teases. "I'll expect some Metallica next week….perhaps Bleeding Me or Until it Sleeps. That was pretty heart-pounding live, I'll tell you."
"I'll get right on that." He smirks.
As he picks his guitar back up, it occurs to him that she said next week again. I'll expect some Metallica next week.
Did they just come to an understanding that these sessions are continuing indefinitely? To his surprise, he accepts the idea, realizing it's the first real commitment he's made in a long time.
This woman is a puzzle composed of disconnected pieces: mother, photographer, baker, friend, risk taker, traveler, bohemian…she's a woman with a big personality who collects tiny paintings. He wants to sort each puzzle piece, hold and examine it until he figures out how they all fit together.
Her spirit and openness are a cleansing rain falling over him, washing away some of his darkness. Since his life unraveled he's been such a cynic, but Isabella does something to him. She's already left her mark on him and every color seems brighter as a result.
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If you've gotten this far, I'm thinking you're sticking around to take this journey with me. Thanks so much for coming along. I'll do my best to make it worth your while.
xoxo
abbie