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When at Last

"A thing long expected takes the form of the unexpected when at last it comes"

- Mark Twain

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Rosalie's POV – Middle of June, 1932

I stare at my bracelet watch, knowing that it is mocking me. Tick-tock it talks to me. I close my eyes and ill-manneredly rest my elbows on the table. My shoulders slump over as my back curves slightly; however, I make sure not to slouch fully; the stern voice of mother is ever present in the recesses of my mind. My eyelids squeeze tightly over my orbs, trying to fend off the stinging.

Think of something else, I console myself. My eyes open and become focused on the bracelet watch. Like everything else I'm given, it's quite lovely and delicate. Even though it is resting on the table in front of me instead of my wrist, I think it still looks fetching. Moroccan leather lines the band and always feels incredibly supple against my pale skin. Delicate white gold forms the outside and inside mechanisms of the piece.

On the back is the inscription: Priceless Rose. It never fails to warm my heart, reading the dedication. It was a gift from my Aunt Jacqueline. She's my only living relative outside my immediate family. She and my father are close, but do to other obligations aren't often to talk often.

Aunt Jacqueline isn't married, but still very well-off. She inherited a fair amount of money from my paternal grandparents. Through wise and providential investments her wealth was largely untouched by the Stock Market Crash of '29. Auntie loves to tell me about the importance of wise choices and not letting fear hold one back. My aunt is larger than life and can be just as boisterous.

But through all of her fearlessness, she is still a refined lady. Unlike mother, Auntie and father were reared to be the best citizens' possible, but with love and firm guidance. I feel such positive guidance and reinforcement from my father, but not mother. I often wish she is more like him, in teaching me, but it is no use. Mother is a product of her environment. Her mother raised her as she continues to raise me.

No matter what others may think of her, mother's former education has brought her quite the life, and thus she feels no need to change tactics with me. There are many times I want to beg her, ask her with my entire heart to simply love me, but I don't. She doesn't respond to erratic emotions, but cool and resolute logic.

My eyes catch the inscription once again. The harsh light of the library reflects off the white gold and beautiful script. Priceless Rose is the message my Aunt and father try to teach me. "Time is precious, darling; something not to be trifled with, but respected. It is quite priceless and nothing can compare to it. We are each given a set amount, and, therefore, it's all the more treasured; like you, my Rosie."

Unshed tears gather in my eyes, but I don't allow them to fall. I have some pride and decorum left in me, no matter how much I may feel crushed at the moment.

Turn your mind, Rose . . . and so I do.

Personal time with father and Auntie are at a premium and coveted by me. I live through my memories of them both. They are my strongest internal believers, deeming my true beauty lies within me, not on my skin. My memories of them are strong and clear. I never want to forget something about them; so I make sure to replay them often in my thoughts. My loyalty to them is more than blood-deep; it radiates to my very soul. They are as timeless to me, as me to them.

I breathe in deeply and try to dispel the stinging water from my eyes. My head falls back and my curled, pinned-back hair tickles my neck. Gooseflesh arises on my upper arms. My head comes back to center as I look around. It's as if more than my hair makes the gooseflesh arise on my flesh. I take in every nook and cranny around me, finding nothing of importance. I scoff at myself, thinking there is more to my situation then there truly is.

My fingers caress the book I'm holding, but I don't take in any of the words. My time piece is moved to the right of me and continues to speak to me in tick-tocks. Several more deep breaths leave my lungs; I know it time to leave.

I try not to let the crushing distress and letdown drown me.

It's completely silly, Rose," I ridicule. You shared an interlude of no more than two hours . . . why should it garner such importance?

I laugh mockingly to myself. My heart knows the truth if my brain refuses to see reality. But even that is relative (reality), speculative to each individual person: for no two people see something uniquely the same.

I roll my shoulders and try to release some of the devastating tightness. I began to wonder, like I did this entire Friday afternoon, what makes someone or such a situation so important. My mind boggles and tries to grasp the obscurity of the topic. Back and forth my mind tosses, ebbing and flowing to the confusion of my perplexity.

I concede that the situation was conducive to it. By the time Edward found me, I had been hysterical. My constant shield was down and my reclusive vulnerability (something I save for my room and the light of the moon) was there for him to see. I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me that emotionally exposed.

But for that moment, he saw me, actually saw Rose. She is someone that lives deeply in me, only making rare appearances.

I may refer to myself as "Rose", but that beautiful girl, I always long to be, can't come out often. I have been trained, tirelessly, to shun her as much as possible; she is an unknown and not refined. Her actions and thoughts would be free for all to read. And as much as I love and cherish her, she scares me. Such unknown exponents can take me away from my life's goal. It's all I ever wanted, being a mother. I want to love my child with everything and see that love reflected back.

However, the thing which scares me relentlessly about the situation is how much compassion I saw written on his gloriously handsome face. From what mother taught me, it would stand to reason he'd be turned off and somewhat repulsed by such an unrefined creature that I exhibited. Mother teaches me to be demure and meek, but not completely helpless. To have a woman so weak and feeble is a repulsion and deterrent to men.

It was no such thing to Edward. Of course I question some of the things mother teaches me (it's only prudent to), but in regards to men, she is usually correct. I act as she teaches and they respond as she alleges.

Edward didn't show said repulsion. He truly saw me at my absolute worst and only extended compassion and comfort. How could such expressions of emotions not rightly scare me, especially from everything I know and learned?

I know this made the situation different and more prominent in my mind. I understand that my heart, craving acceptance and love left over from mother's and those around me that just see my thin appearance, reached out and clung to what he offered. But what caused Edward to go against everything I've come to learn through my own experience? What made him want to comfort me and not push me away from his expensive clothes, from my horrid display of tears and madness? What made him wholly different than anything else I've encountered?

What makes Edward altogether different?

No answer becomes apparent. I want to throw something out of frustration, and the irritation only adds to my falling hope.

This is the second Friday I sit and wait for him to join me. I know it was an open-standing invitation he offered to me, but I want him to be here.

He creates so much confusion in me. I saw his compassion and the brief flash of hurt when I looked away from him. I could have been making it up in my madness, but it seemed real. I had blinked several times to make sure he was really there.

Regardless of how he makes me feel, how vulnerable I become around him and how incredibly liberating it is, he isn't here. Two weeks have passed since the Friday I was unable to make it, bringing the total to three weeks since he saved me. I've sat in the medical section, waiting hours at a time for his glorious self to make an appearance, but he has yet to show.

It is where my depression and devastation is coming from. Perhaps I've done something to make him mad, or upon reflection, he truly disliked what he saw reflected in me? I felt wholly different with him, not myself and yet unknown to even myself. Perhaps every girl acts that way around him and it turns him off greatly?

I simply don't know what to think and the confusion continues to swirl. The ticking of the watch sounds loudly in my ear and becomes accompanied with the bells in the tower. The hour chimes five and even though I have an hour of personal time left, it's time to leave. I should have known I'd disappoint someone so nice and truly good as him.

I shiver from disappoint in myself before trying to stand. My legs are somewhat wobbly, but not as much as my aching heart.

This is ridiculous, Rose, I try and comfort myself. You've hardly known him. Why are you reacting in such a way? Done and over with; pull the veil back over your face . . .

It actually hurts to do that. My mask comes so natural to me; I hardly ever have to beckon it at will-call. But now, it fights with me.

I slump back into my seat and shudder from my heartbreak. The tears are begging me to release them, my eyes sting so much, but I hold them in. There is simply no use in letting them fall.

With great patience and coaching, I put my emotions into some semblance of order before straightening my shoulders and pushing my chair back. The legs sound loud as it slides against the floor.

"Were you leaving then, Rose . . ." I hear whispered behind me; the words linger in the thick air surrounding me.

Ed-Edward

I fall unthinkingly back into my chair and inhale sharply. My lungs ache from the quick, unexpected breath. His voice is even more magnificent than I recall. How is that even possible?

My head, without permission, turns around and takes in his splendid countenance. Goodness, he's glorious . . . can it be all glowing from within? He has to have even more goodness than I even contemplated. No one can be that appealing without radiating it from the inside out.

And like the spring waters waiting to break through the solid ice of winter – I can feel the words falling from my lips. It's as if his glorious face invites me to throw away every caution I know and embrace someone I hardly know.

"I'm incredibly sorry, Edward! I truly meant to come the next Friday, but was unexpectedly detained. Please, don't think I intentionally snubbed you. It's not possible for me to do so. If I offended you in anyway, know that it was inadvertent . . . never meant," I finish on a desperate whisper, willing him with everything to understand my true repentance.

I hear the chair next to me pulling out. I keep my head down, so ashamed of my erratic behavior, my lack of manners and the quiet joy of him seeing another side of me usually secreted away.

"Hey, love," he coaxes gently, waiting for me to look at him. It may seem like taking liberties, but he places his chilled hand on my overheated skin. His fingers curl around my small wrist; the difference in our skin temperatures feels good and keeps me grounded.

I still lack the courage to look at him, but that doesn't stop my heart from beating wildly at him calling me "love"; it's as if my heart is begging me to go to him (so shameless). I even feel myself tremble from the four-letter word: so seemingly simple.

"Rosalie, please look to me . . ."

His soft plea hangs in the air between us. I want to fight the pull; I want to put my useless mask up and hide behind it, so I can't feel this staggering ache. Regardless of what I want (or think I want), I feel my head start to rise. His eyes stare at me quite intently and are dark. I can only imagine the emotions running through him. It's incredible the way his eyes are able to change colors continually. It reminds me of my littlest brother's hazel eyes, and how they are able to change with his feelings.

The right side of Edward's lips quirk up, and I wonder what he's thinking. He looks intense, yet gently happy. My fingers want to run along the perfect contours of his face, but I refrain. It would be beyond inappropriate.

His uniquely-colored hair is falling gently into his eyes, and I wonder as to why he doesn't wear a hat. It's almost required of any gentleman to wear a hat. However, Edward seems to be a man unto his own, and he fits that role so well. There's no need for him to march to another's drum beat when everyone would beg to march to his.

"I'm sorry, too. It should have never come down to you blaming yourself," he admits. His face is the picture of honesty. I want to claim there isn't a reason for him to apologize – I was the one to stand him up – but he doesn't let me.

"No, Rosalie. It's my burden to take. I should have never allowed a lady to sit in sadness. It is mean and unbecoming of me. My mother raised me better and would be ashamed of my actions towards you." I can see some pain as he speaks of his mother, but it's quickly pushed to the side. His refined manner comes back over, but it's softened.

"Accepted," is all I say, not wanting him to wallow any longer in something I feel is of my own making.

A little engaging smile plays over his mouth, and I can't place the reason for it. I simply feel myself becoming inexplicably content.

The silence reins as we take in each other. We don't speak, but words are unneeded in the moment.

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When things are seemingly settled and the thick air around us becomes somewhat stable, we settle into conversation. Everything about him and me, together, seem natural to me. I know I must be insane, thinking such ludicrous thoughts, but they aren't meant to be stopped.

"Where did your interest in cars come about?" he asks, scanning the books near my hands.

His face looks pleasantly surprised. I feel my cheeks pinking; the act is so foreign to me, yet comes without abandon with him. What does he have, which compels me to blush like a child?

I turn from him and truly, truly giggle stupidly. It's really not funny, but I find it such.

"My mother," I admit honestly. Mother would keel over if she heard where my interest came from. "As a child I wanted to tinker with cars, but she deemed it unnecessary and beneath me to show any interest in cars; therefore, my fascination was piqued.

A laugh comes from Edward's throat, and though it strangely sounds rusty, it feels wonderful. To know that I made him laugh gives me a sense of peculiar accomplishment.

"Of course, it's only natural. We all feel some need to rebel in some aspect against our parents." His voice drops off. He still has a smile on his lips but it becomes tightened. Again, I start to worry I've said something wrong, especially since he was so free moments ago.

"I read Auto books as my form of rebellion," I inform him, wanting to get his mind of his perceived problems. He's meant to always smile; those gorgeous lips should always be pulled into some form of a smile.

He starts to chuckle again, thus granting me my wish. "I also call my mother "mom" at times. She doesn't like to be called such, but what kind of daughter would I be if I only pleased her?" I inquire coyly.

Oh, I all but exist to please my mother, but I like that I can find the humor to joke about it with Edward. He continues to bring out this whimsical side to me.

"For shame, Rosalie," he mock-chastises. "How are the skies not falling?" He brings his long, tapered fingers to his chin in jest.

"By the grace of God," I tease. I lean in closer to his chair next to me and pretend to look around us. I've never been this silly with someone of the opposite sex (outside my family), and I embrace it. "I've even been known to slouch while reading . . ."

We both laugh gaily and I have to hold my stomach. The muscles tighten and feel quite odd. I only laugh this way with my brothers and occasionally father.

"You're a regular Bonnie Parker, sans the Clyde. However, who needs him when you're known to slouch." He sounds scandalous and his radiant face shows his mirth.

"As long as someone recognizes my outlaw potential," I say righteously, my nose rising in the air as my arms fold over my chest.

"Thanks, Rose," I hear his soft voice say. The laughter leaves him and I wonder why. My arms drop as I take in his serious visage.

"What for?"

He stares at me for a while. I see several emotions playing over his face, some of which I don't want to believe. I fear that I would become even more heart-sore if it turns out to be untrue.

"Don't underestimate yourself," he truly pleads, sending my confusion sky-rocketing; but it's nothing new with him. "You bring such levity to me, Rose. It's quite a joke in my family about my being a stick in the proverbial mud. I may be nineteen, but I like routine and can be quite unchanging."

I frown.

Never would it cross my mind that Edward is so rigid and unfeeling. How can one so unchanging bring about so many rampant emotions in me?

"With you . . . with you, I find myself coming out of that routine and embracing something new and unfamiliar." I could more than empathize with him, for I feel the same way. "Thanks for that."

"Um," I stutter inelegantly, uncertainly. "Not at all." He chuckles gently before shaking his head.

"There you are, proving my point wonderfully."

"You're one to talk," I rebut. "I've never stammered so horridly in my life. I'm as much at an unknown as you, Edward. I like what you do to me." I wonder if he can hear my whispered, true confession. My face is aflame.

"You can add the stammering to your list of rebellions," he joshes.

I smile indulgently at him, not being able to help my reactions. He is endearingly sweet and beyond beautiful. "Thanks, Edward . . . too. I'm glad you were able to make it today."

We stare at each other and let the silence settle in. None of my answers have been answered this afternoon, and I'm still baffled in regards to him. What is it about you that makes me too entirely comfortable with you (sans the blushing and stuttering)? What is so indelibly different about you and this instant friendship and rapport we've established? What, what, what is it about you, Edward?

His eyes are back to their jewel color, and once again I'm reminded of Esme . . . so peculiar.

"Are you related to an Esme Cullen?" I ask, rushing the words out. I want to slap myself for being so imprudent and brash. My mind also realizes I don't know Edward's last name.

"Yes," is his simple answer.

I am truly stunned. I remember that it crossed my mind when he saved me from the broken elevator. I am even more stunned at the connection. The world seems small and closely-knit. I think of the chances of Esme mentioning her brother during the dinner party and the fact that Edward was supposed to have been there. My heart feels the loss.

"Oh," is all I can think to say.

"She is my brother's wife. How are you familiar with her?"

"Many people are quote on quote familiar with your family, Edward," I say quite honestly. It becomes a habitual tendency. "Your family is shrouded in mystery, thus making your company more appealing and sought after. I wouldn't be surprised if people were to hire Private Investigators to probe further into your family."

I want to stop the words spilling from my lips, knowing that my mother is a likely contender, but I feel as if someone must warn him.

His chilled hand brushes over mine. The contact is too brief and leaves me breathing heavily. Such an innocuous touch, yet heart-warming.

He doesn't answer.

"I became formally acquainted with her at the Governor's Ball. We talked briefly, but the impression she made on me was anything but." I think back to that night and how she had me off guard from the very start. The Cullen's seem to have me at a disadvantage.

"She really wonderful," I tell him, meaning it wholly. Edward's head tilts to the side as he gives me a soft smile. I wonder if he is also thinking of his sweet sister-in-law. "She talked about you for a bit . . . at the Watson's dinner party," I admit, wanting to see his reaction. He gives me nothing.

I'm quite impressed by his facial control. It's as if he never has to move; he could stay immobile for a while.

My mind refers back to that night, and I want to be both happy and sad. I was denied a chance to see Edward, to alleviate some of the pain I had felt over the past three weeks. The many thoughts that had gone through my head weren't nice or serene. They were actually quite terrifying. I didn't want him thinking terribly of me.

On the flip side I was actually relived he hadn't been at the Watson's dinner party. The madam hadn't the opportunity to get her claws into him, rendering him either a perfect suitor for me, or completely improper for me to even converse with. There weren't shades of grey with Lillian Hale, the purveyor of all things Rosalie.

I didn't understand my need to keep Edward from her. Perhaps I thought he would see her and think me the exact replica of her. Perhaps he would become like all the other gentlemen and start to see me only as a commodity my mother regulated. Perhaps, the person I had come to know as "Edward" wouldn't be my secret, the person whom I had come to actually feel "natural" around. I didn't want to surrender the person I was around him.

It once again showed the levels of my selfishness.

"And what, pray tell, did the esteemed Esme have to say?" he hums. I giggle at his silliness. It makes me feel better and take my mind of my previous wanderings.

"Only that you were unable to make it. She also intimated it was of a personal nature," I confess. The little, secret grin falls from his beautiful lips to become straight-lined. "I heard about your parent's passing, Edward, and I'm truly sorry." I felt completely dumb in saying it.

"I wish I had better, more eloquent words of sincerity, but I haven't. It's something I'm not really acquainted with, and I'm sorry if I'm coming off as insincere."

I lower my head as heat infuses my cheeks. I'm mortified. These are reactions I have no experience in. My demeanor is usually cool and collected, while being demure. I feel out of place and stuck in my skin.

"Rosalie, please," Edward's soothing voice comforts me. I am taken aback and look up. I see nothing but that compassion in his eyes I am becoming familiar with. "Don't trouble yourself with unnecessary feeling," is his gentle plea.

"You haven't come off as disingenuous, but refreshingly real. Stop doubting your amazing gifts, love."

My heart absolutely soars at his words. I can't stop the drooping smile blooming over my lips and the tears clogging my eyes. I am in awe of Edward and this seemingly odd and tenuous connection we share.

Like the gentleman he was probably raised to be, he reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Instead of offering it to me, he takes it upon himself to gently dab at my cheeks, removing some of the fallen tears. I'm speechless.

"There, imperfectly perfect . . ." I give him a tremulous smile.

"My parents have both passed. I'm originally from Illinois. My father was a lawyer and had many hopes and ambitions for me. I was closer to my mother, favoring the love and adoration she gave to me in abundance."

"Did your father have the same standards for Dr. Cullen?" I ask nosily. I knew my mother had different ambitions for me versus my brothers. My father only wanted us to have the best advantageous in life he could offer; not to mention happy. Was it the same in Edward's upbringing?

He gets a strange look on his face before rearranging it. "My father was indifferent. Carlisle wanted to be a doctor for some time, and that's what he accomplished. Father hardly had any time to devote to family. He was quite busy with his profession and social obligations. We learned to adapt," he finishes quietly.

I want to feel bad for causing such emotions in him, but he looks up and gives me that stare which says I better not even think it.

"But mother more than made up for his lack of affection. Anyhow, they both came down with Influenza. It was quite severe. Mother made Carlisle promise to take me away and protect me." I gasp in awe.

I didn't know Edward's mother from Eve, but she seemed quite wonderful; the type of mother I aspire to me. I couldn't imagine the pain she must have felt in sending away her children, to protect them from such a crippling and contagious sickness.

"Eventually the influenza took both of them and Carlisle kept his promise. He took me away and kept me safe to the best of his abilities. At times, I think of him more as a father than my own."

I have nothing to contribute. I feel inadequate. I do the only thing I can. Slowly, cautiously and shyly I reach out and lay my hand over his. Our eyes timidly meet. I can see the thankfulness in his. He doesn't turn his hand over and clasp mine, but allows mine to simply sit atop his.

"That's quite the history," I admit softly.

"My own tale of suffering . . . we all have them, Rose, regardless of our status and backgrounds."

I couldn't have agreed more with him. Even though my life hadn't been affected with mortality issues (that I could truly remember) doesn't mean I'm not plagued with my own struggles, and my friend seemed to understand that.

"I hope you aren't expecting me try and top you," I say facetiously.

"Well, I'd say it's only fair . . ."

And on and on our banter continues. We don't touch on anymore gripping and sad topics, but keep it light and teasing. Being with him is like submerging oneself into cool water on a hot day: refreshing and invigorating. He's like nothing I've ever experienced.

An hour and a half passes, and unlike earlier, my watch is mocking me about the quickly passing time. When one is miserable time passes at a snail's pace, yet when one is happy and enjoying the moment it quickens and passes in the blinking of an eye. It almost doesn't seem fair.

We both stand up. Edward moves my chair back and assists me. He truly is a gentleman. I make sure my hat is perfectly situated and my dress is acceptable. I place my mocking bracelet watch on my wrist and proceed to ignore it.

My companion grabs my bag and places it on his own shoulder. I start to blush foolishly at the gesture. My eyes look over at him. He has a roguish smile playing on his lips. I look up to his eyes and he covertly winks.

Goodness, he's lethal. What will I ever do with him . . .

His laughter can be heard as we make our way down the stairs, thankfully bypassing the elevator.

My heart no longer feels like a painful, useless lump.

I smile.

Author's Notes: Hope you enjoyed the chapter and the Edward/Rose interaction. I know many of you missed it last chapter!

Truly, thanks to those who reviewed last chapter. I could never thank you fully, but it means so much to me! Anyhow, if you have the time, please review! I love them so very much! Much love sent everyone's way!

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(1) Bracelet Watches or as sometimes called "wristlets" were predominately worn by women. Pocket watches were mostly worn by men. They were usually given for special occasions and were also handed down heirlooms. A wrist watch was seen as feminine and rarely worn by men, even though watch companies tried to advertise them as "manly". It really wasn't until after the World Wars that wrist watches started appealing to men. Once they were reinvented with electronic mechanisms, men started to buy them more.

(2) Bonnie Parker was a famous outlaw and robber during the Great Depression era with her partner Clyde Barrow. They were famous during 1931 until 1934 when they were ambushed and killed in Louisiana. They mostly robbed banks and small gas stations. Both Bonnie and Clyde have become Pop Culture Icons.

Updated: Sunday, 29 April 2012