Hi, lovely friends!

It's been a long time, we know. There's been some life-stuff that's had to take precedence over writing for a time. We're sure you understand that family has to come first. However, we've been back working on this story for a while, and, now that we have a fair few chapters written, we're feeling ready to start posting again. We're going to aim to bring you a chapter for every other week. Thanks so much for sticking with us.

As ever, our hugest thanks to Maplestyle for pre-reading, and to myimm0rtal for her beta-work. We appreciate your assistance so much, ladies.

Love, thimbles and BelieveItOrNot.

Chapter 9

I wake almost an hour early. Timid light slinks between the half-open curtains. The sky is overcast. Tree branches sway, the wind not strong enough to rattle my windows. If I had been dreaming, I can't remember it. I recall only blackness. And when I first awoke, Edward wasn't fringing my mind the way he often does in the morning. Although he is now, and he doesn't stick to my periphery, but comes into full view. I kick the covers off, close my eyes, and wait for the blackness to return. It doesn't.

"Might as well use the extra time," I tell my ceiling. Blank and white, it stares back at me.

I slip out of bed, and instead of throwing the comforter over the twisted sheets and scattered pillows as I usually do, I make my bed properly, tuck in the corners. And I take my time in the shower. Wrapped in a towel, I blow dry my hair into submission. Maybe it will make it to lunch time without a tangle.

In case Gianna comes through again, I do a sweep of my living room. I sift through the mess on my coffee table. The takeout menus go back in their kitchen drawer; the flyer with the Moonlight Cinema dates goes under a magnet on the refrigerator. I align the slanted poster, and even though "Coffee and Cigarettes" appears as straight as can be, I adjust that one as well—tilt the frame, un-tilt it—and stand back to check them out. Both of them are black, white, and red. If I were Maggie, color coordination would have been a requirement, but for me, it is a pleasant coincidence. I bought them on separate occasions, back when I was still in the dorm, simply because I liked the films, probably overpaid for the "Coffee and Cigarettes" poster on eBay.

Still ahead of schedule. I could slip a book from the shelf and sit down for a moment—is there time to get through a chapter of something? Not this morning, but for later, I choose a book at random and toss it onto the couch. I used to do this at school. After all the set in print, required reading I had to do, I would stand in front of my bookshelf, eyes closed, and grab a book, not allowing myself a glance at the title before I opened to the first page. My rule was that I had to read it, even if I'd read it before, even if I hadn't liked it the first time around. It was my little submission to fate, if there is such a thing.

Coffee on, I pause at the sliding doors. I put my hand on the glass. I'm not sure what I expected to see after only one day. Edward told me it would take time to get everything cleared away.

Over toward the fence, where he indicated they were going to start yesterday, I spy a patch in the back corner where the woodwork shows through the shrubbery, like a missing tooth in a child's smile.

More small differences pop out. The stumps that remain where the greenery has been cut away. The huge rocks that were scattered across the yard, the ones I gave a wide berth when mowing the grass, are stacked against the fence at the back.

"It's a start," I say.

I have a spoonful of cereal in my mouth when Edward and his guys show up. They come with their tools and go back for more. From my stool at the counter, I watch them for too long through the breakfast nook window, unobscured now with the shade up and the table still outside. The guys seem two-dimensional, as if they're part of a movie. Edward leads the way, Collin brings up the rear, the Seven Dwarfs hi-ho-ing their way to work. My next bite of cereal is soggy. On his third trip, Edward lays his armful of smaller tools on my patio and looks up before I can react. My spine stiffens. He waves me to him.

I walk first to the sink and rinse my bowl and coffee cup. I shut off the water and stand there a moment, hand on the tap, wishing I could as easily extinguish this blaze of adrenaline. I shake it off, tell myself to disregard the pulsing in my ears. I go to Edward.

He's under the ash tree, holding the shovel. The spikes of my heels sink into the ground as I walk across the grass. I try to keep my weight on my toes, my calf muscles tightening in protest. There's nothing graceful about it.

Like in art class, that time I was walking toward the sinks, and he was walking away. I went to step around him and he did the same so that we were chest to chest. We both moved the other way, meeting again chest to chest. We exchanged an uncomfortable laugh. His eyes were on mine, focused. For one second, we were alone.

He said, "Wait," and turned to the side to let me pass.

I walked by. "Thanks for the dance." The shake in my voice killed my attempt at wit. It was something my dad had said to me in a similar situation—harmless and funny when he had said it, charged with too much undercurrent when I said it.

"What?" Edward asked, and I didn't answer—kept moving like the floor was pulling me under, my face hot. I could feel him watching my sinking steps and thought, Why can't he be bent over his sketchpad at times like this? But I had liked it when we were chest to chest, the second before it got weird. I had seen something in his eyes then, some connection, a taut line from him to me. His life, my life. His breath, mine. But after, when my vision cleared, I understood it had only been hope, fantasy.

"You took the bow off." I point to the end of his shovel.

He lets out a short, "Hm-hm," like a courtesy laugh to my non-joke. "Yeah."

A silence follows, a too-long pause, the kind of drawn-out pause that descends and expands after someone states the obvious. I look down at my feet and cover my mouth with the backs of my fingers.

When I look up at him, the soft green light filtering through the leaves plays on Edward's face and his eyes seem to glow. It irritates me that I notice.

"So, what did you need?" I stick my thumbs into the back pockets of my slacks.

"I was thinking that maybe instead of putting in manzanitas here..." Palm down, he marks out an area with a pendulum motion of his arm.

I only partially absorb his words as I try to figure out some way to make the air around me less thick. I take a step away from him and fold my arms across my chest.

"We could go with that other species of lilac. I remember how much you liked it and it would–"

"Let's just stick with the plan we agreed on," I say. "The way you drew it. That's what I said I wanted."

"Bella..." There's a flash of confusion in his eyes. I catch a question in them, a question I evade as I claim to be running late and practically bolt to my car.

Throughout the day, I see his flinch as I cut him off, hear the question I didn't give him the chance to voice: Did I do something wrong?

He's working away when I get home. I spot him through my sliding glass door, then again through my breakfast nook window. Raoul takes Edward's cap off his head and throws it. I can tell by the color that it's Dodgers today. Maybe he wears it ironically, although I don't see the purpose of that, only strangeness. Edward gives Raoul's chest a couple of light punches. Well, they look light to me, but perhaps not. Raoul rubs himself there as if it stung.

I preheat my oven for frozen enchiladas, and then my eyes are drawn back to the window above my sink. Nearer to the house now, Edward digs around the stump of a vanquished azalea, and I take this opportunity to look at his face in a way that I don't chance up close. He has strong bone structure, a defined jaw, prominent chin. I think that's supposed to mean something, a prominent chin—like confidence or stubbornness maybe. I touch my face. My cheekbones are somewhat defined, my chin a little pointed, but I wouldn't call it prominent. Anyway, it's something I read in one of Maggie's magazines. It's probably completely false.

Edward's eyebrows draw together and he pulls his lips into his mouth as he yanks out the stump of the old bush. I watch his muscles harden and push against his sleeve. He sets the stump aside and brushes his gloved hands together. The other guys usually take their shirts off as the day progresses, but not Edward. His remains on. I take a breath. I'd never thought noticing that a guy is wearing his shirt could be wrong. But when he's married and you're attracted to him, no doubt it's the wrong thing to notice. The only thing worse would be wishing he'd take it off, and I won't allow myself to do that. He glances my way and I spin around, my back to the sink. Shit.

A knock on the glass door pounds through me. I walk over to him. Through the glass he asks if it's okay if he leaves his tools on my patio. I nod. He waves. I move to my sofa and listen for the start-up of his truck, but I can't hear it from here, not with the windows closed. I sit in the stillness, my legs curled up on the sofa. The book I tossed there lies next to my knees. I pick it up, avoid the cover, and open it. Howards End.

This is a good one, I remember. The clerk, the umbrella, the goblins of Beethoven. I settle back against the cushions and turn to the first page, let myself get pulled away from reality until I hear the oven beep.

For the rest of the week, each day mimics the last. I know what's coming. The anticipation makes it worse. Edward knocks on the sliding door to let me know he's starting, and the glass rattles in my chest.

I can't seem to find my balance with him. He outlines the day's plans, and I want to keep him talking, listen to his enthusiasm, press him for the details that give me a glimpse of the artistry at work behind the "pull this out, dig that hole." But instead of the questions I want to ask, I let out, "I need to get to work," or, "Can this wait?"

.

I turn onto Maggie's street, the houses gradually spaced farther and farther away from each other until there are acres between homes. I park at the curb, grab my bag, and step into the warm but breezy afternoon. Saturday brought relief with it, a break from my routine, from Edward. I suggested we take the kids out for a picnic or hike through the nature trails, but Maggie told me they'd had a busy week and needed a "home day." She said today they planned their first swim of the season and invited me over.

Their front lawn is immaculately manicured. It must be a different species of grass from the stuff growing at my house. I'll have to ask Edward about it, because even when I've borrowed Mr. Crowley's mower, mine doesn't look this soft, like plush, green carpet. I want to kick my shoes off and walk on it, but Pete probably spent all morning sweating to keep it looking this good. I stick to the path, my flip-flops slapping against the paving stones.

Charlotte, as usual, waits for me on the other side of the door. She smacks her palms against the security screen, a staccato beat of rattling metal. I shade my eyes and lean in, but can't see any more than shadow. "Locked," she tells me. "Mommy!"

"Hey, Bella." Maggie flicks the lock and pushes the screen door open. She adjusts her swimsuit cover-up, cream and open-weave, shaped pretty enough to wear over a slip on a dinner out. Not that Maggie ever would. I might, Emily definitely would, but not our Maggie. If it's intended to cover up a swimsuit, that is what it will spend its short life with her doing.

Charlotte wraps herself around Maggie's leg as she looks up at me, shy now without the screen between us. Maggie swipes a stray curl from Charlotte's forehead. "Not this again." She disengages herself from her daughter's arms. "You've been waiting here for Bella for the last fifteen minutes." Charlotte holds tight to Maggie's hand.

"It smells amazing in here, Mags. What are you baking?"

"Snickerdoodles." She waves a hand, like it's nothing at all that she can juggle a three- and four-year-old, a hot oven, and a batch of cookie dough.

Her living room has been "Maggie-fied," as Emily and I call it. Winter jewel tones switched out for shades of dusky pink and pale green—which probably have names like "Turkish delight" and "new sage." It seems choreographed, the way the eye is drawn across the clusters of throw pillows, up to some abstracted-but-obviously-floral watercolor prints on the wall, then over to a side table where a pair of huge vases are overflowing with peonies. Maggie knows how to stay just this side of "too much."

"Excuse the mess. We've been out every afternoon this week. It's chaos around here."

There's an open coloring book and a packet of those twist-up crayons on the coffee table, an abandoned pile of half-built Legos beside the couch, and a scruffy stuffed bunny nestled against one of the pillows on the couch.

This is why I get Emily to come over and help me clean before Maggie or my mom visit. If this is "a mess," then I don't want to know how Maggie would feel about my house in its regular state.

"I love the peonies." I bend to smell them, the fragrance strong, sweet and almost rose-like.

"They're La France," Maggie says.

Having flowers sent from France is kind of extreme, even for Maggie.

She must catch my expression because she laughs at me. "It's the name of the varietal."

"Your place looks like it dropped out of a decorator magazine."

Maggie herself often looks and sounds like she has dropped from a magazine, complete with the facts and tips offered in print. Her voice is raspier than one might think by looking at her, like that of a lecturer with overworked vocal chords, as though she has a well of information to share. That was my first impression of her when she stood in front of the class of wannabe bakers—a class Emily and I had decided to take on a whim, buzzed at a wedding, munching on cake between pulls of champagne, trading one-liners about how we could make the stuff, no need for a wedding to have a slice of rich, moist, cream-filled and candied deliciousness. "It can't be that hard." "Just need a recipe." "Some practice." "We could do it." "Easy as pie." "Easy as eating pie." Maggie, in her pumps and eyelet apron, had saved my cake from collapsing in the center, not without laughs, though, and not without the suggestion that I come back for more classes. Emily and I went to one more class, to feel like we were following through, and when we left that Saturday afternoon, we took Maggie with us, didn't let go.

"My place could never look this good," I say.

"It's a misconception to think it's hard. If you stick to classic pieces and neutral colors—" she points to the ivory modular sofa "—you can just update your accents with the season."

"Oh, sure. Accents." I fake an accent that might be German with a hint of French. "Ja. I am sinking of making zee kitchen Deutsch zis soommer."

Maggie shakes her head at my stupid joke. "Everybody knows German is a winter accent, Bella. And besides, it's so last year. Perhaps try Swedish… Or Estonian."

"Estonian is so hot right now." I laugh and follow her out of the living room.

Charlotte releases Maggie's hand, staring at me. It's likely she hasn't taken her eyes off me since I arrived. I bend to her level and lower my voice. "You know, I'm shy a lot, too. Until the small talk is out of the way."

"You mean, whispers?" she asks in a whisper.

"No. When we talk about things just to be polite, but that have little consequence."

"Like when you're bad?"

"Not that kind of consequence. See, like now. Neither of us are shy anymore."

Her face brightens and opens in a way an adult's never could. She stands tall, grasps my hand, and leads me through the short hallway past the "gallery wall." The girls' creations hang here, just as an art gallery might display art—track lights shining down on the pieces. We pass too quickly for me to check for anything new that may have been added.

"Would you like a drink? I just made a pitcher of cucumber and mint water." Maggie takes a plate from the cupboard and piles it with Snickerdoodles from the cooling tray on the counter. "Oh, we picked up a few bottles of this gorgeous Gewürztraminer in Mendocino last weekend." She takes two plastic plates out and adds two cookies and a handful of blueberries to each. "Is it too early for wine? We can open a bottle later. I think you'll love it." She turns to Charlotte. "Go tell Victoria her snack is ready."

"Victoria!"

"Shhh." Maggie touches a finger to her daughter's lips. "I can yell, you goose. I asked you to go and tell her to come join us."

Charlotte disappears out of the kitchen. From the hallway, we hear her shout for her sister, and Maggie rolls her eyes as she straightens up. "I don't know why I bother." She sighs. "So, the water? Or I could make coffee."

I snag a cookie from one of the plates. "Water's fine, thanks." I take a bite, still so oven-warm and pillowy. "Mmm." I swallow before I speak. "A little bit tangy, a little bit sweet. This cookie's like me," I joke.

"That's why I made them."

"Really?"

"No." She laughs. "I started them before you called. If I were baking them specifically for you I'd make—" she replaces the cookie I took "—pinwheel cookies. And I've perfected that one."

I finish off the cookie and wipe my crumbs from the counter into my cupped palm. "What about the Snickerdoodles? Not the best ever yet?"

"You tell me."

I walk around the counter and brush my hands over the sink. "They're delicious enough to be sold in a bakery, but I wouldn't know what to look for in terms of best."

"Well, not yet, but close." She turns on the faucet and chases my crumbs down the garbage disposal. "I'll try a touch more cream of tartar next time and bake them at a lower temperature."

After the girls have had their snack, Maggie sends them to the playroom to pack away their toys. "When the playroom is my kind of clean, not your kind of clean, then we can go for a swim. And Charlotte, can you tell Daddy we're going swimming soon, please?"

"Pete's home?" I ask.

"He's here, but not. Working."

"Bummer."

"It's fine. He has to get everything wrapped up before we move, you know? Putting in a few Saturdays now to tie up all those loose ends. It'll mean less stress in the long run."

Maggie is summoned by her girls to approve their work in the playroom, and I duck into the bathroom to change into the bikini I dug up from the back of my sock drawer. Maggie gave it to me last year. The tags are still attached. I pluck them off and stuff them into my bag. The suit is solid black, more my style than Maggie's. She would have chosen bright colors for herself. I look at my reflection, suck in my stomach and let it go, adjust the waistband and turn to the side. Not much more than a bra and underwear, but the cut more flattering, the way it lays over the skin without squeezing. Emily and I might give her a hard time about being a slave to trends, but Maggie does have a good eye, and she knows which lines look good on people.

I follow sounds of laughter to the backyard and find that Peter has joined Maggie and the girls by the pool. Balanced on the edge, he waves hello before he cannonballs in. Water and little girl shrieks fill the air. He surfaces in the middle of the pool and shakes the water from his hair. Victoria and Charlotte launch themselves at him and he pretends to sink, pulling them all under.

I dip a toe in, the temperature bathlike.

Maggie guides Victoria to the side of the pool. "Why is it the instant you get wet, you have to go potty?"

The only dry adult, I take Victoria to the bathroom where she makes me wait outside with my back turned. I move to close the door. "Open," she says.

She hums "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" while she pees. When she's finished I lift her to the sink to wash her hands, and then she rushes us back to the pool, saying, "Throw me! Throw me in, Bella!"

She's too excited to deny. I pick her up, jump in with her, and I'm sucked into a whirlwind of splashing and losing handstand competitions to Maggie—her lung capacity rivals a whale's. I'm surprised she doesn't have a spout.

Something about swimming turns us all into little kids. Pete has us jumping in one after the other, trying to create a "tidal wave," water lapping over the sides.

"It's slowing down," he says, just as out of breath as the rest of us.

"We're tired!" Maggie pulls herself out and sits on the lip of the pool. Her girls sit beside her, skin to skin, sandwiching their mother between them.

Clouds have clumped up in front of the sun and the girls shiver and whine about being cold. They rub their chlorine-red eyes, and Peter takes them inside to shower and get into their pajamas.

"I'll do dinner," he says. "Bring it out here for you."

Maggie and I stretch out on the lounges by the poolside. The light reflecting off the pool casts honeycomb patterns on our skin as water slaps against concrete and an occasional bird twitters. Peter returns with two glasses and the bottle of wine Maggie told me about earlier. He pours us each a glass.

"You got the girls tonight?" Maggie asks like she's coming out of a dream.

"I got the girls."

Maggie thanks him, and they kiss, Peter leaning down. He sets the wine bottle on the ground between Maggie and me and leaves us to what he calls our "lady time."

Whenever he's home while I'm here, he's attentive, hangs out for a bit, asks questions, then builds on my answers in a way that never makes me question whether his interest is genuine. And like just now, he'll eventually, politely disappear, taking care of the girls when needed. Maggie thanks him often, puts her arms around him.

The evening wind brings out goosebumps over my body and I pull a towel around me. I take a swallow of wine. She was right—I do love it. "You guys are nice to each other," I say.

"We're trying." She nods to herself. "Pete walks that line of workaholism, and that gets…" Her face distorts for a millisecond, something more than pensive and less than anguish, a pursing of the lips and brow before relaxing again. "Well, he knows he has to watch it. After the kids go to bed, we have Conversation Time. Just the two of us talking, some wine, no TV. Sometimes TV," she amends, "but after we've talked. Strange we have to schedule in talking, but schedules are Pete, or Pete is schedules. It's what works for him. It's a lot of effort sometimes."

"Not as simple as redecorating every season?" I ask.

"Husbands don't come in neutrals."

Peter, I understand, is the definition of a "people person." It's why he's good at his job, why he likes it. The same way Jacob, who has the same job I have, loves his. A person loving their job—seems rare. But not impossible. Edward loves his, and from what he told me, he fell into his line of work. An artist, he finds the art in it, a nice fit. And Emily, she loves hers. If only I could love mine.

Maggie leans over, one hand pressed to her chest, and tops off my wine glass.

"It was full."

"Now it's more full."

I take a big sip. It's kind of floral, a smidge sweet. "This tastes like your living room."

Maggie settles back in her chair. "Would I serve you wine that clashes with my décor?"

Smiling, I rest my glass over my ribs and lay back, face to the sky, eyes closed. "I haven't felt this way in a while."

"What way?"

"I don't know, like I'm part of a family." I hear Maggie adjust herself on her lounge chair.

"You are part of our family, Bella Marie." She says it like she's my mom, though, as I recall, my mom has never called me that.

"And you're moving away."

We both fall quiet. It's better that way, to not draw out the conversation, to not look into the eyes of what her moving away actually means to our friendship, to not let emotions get mixed up with fact.

After a while she says, "When was the last time you felt this way?"

I think back. Maggie and Emily—especially Emily—have been like family for years. But this feeling I had today, splashing in the pool; creating a tidal wave; having breath-holding competitions with, essentially, children as there's no point in competing with Maggie; I haven't had that since I was a teen.

"With my friend in high school. We used to babysit her brother and sister." Little kids, they're powerful in evoking the feeling of family. "And her parents were always planning these family vacations, or these backyard movie nights where they'd drape a sheet along the back of the house and use an actual film projector." I remember the way Riley's dad would wheel out the projector, leaning over it, a bottle of beer caught between a few of his fingers and the edge of the stand, an intense almost-smile on his face like he was a scientist and we were about to celebrate his new discovery. He used to be a movie theater projectionist, Riley had told me, and he'd never given up his love and respect of film. "Or, I don't know, dinners where everyone had to take a part in preparing something. I broke a dish there once." I laugh. "It was embarrassing. Her mom blamed her little brother. He didn't tell on me, and I let him take the fall. What a creep."

Maggie laughs, too. "Sounds fun. I like that dinner idea."

I close my eyes and fall back into a previous existence. Angela, Riley, and I, back then, were inseparable. If anyone had told us at sixteen that within six years we'd be separated by time, by states, by life, we would have laughed in their face. Kids, perhaps, don't have the capacity to understand the strength of change. I reach out and brush Maggie's arm with my fingers, the quietest, "Don't move away," behind my lips.