Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.
Assurance of Tomorrow
"Progress is the activity of today and the assurance of tomorrow" – Ralph Waldo Emerson
.~~.
Rosalie's POV – Last week of October, 1932
I've heard about numbness, and being the victim of it. I know the definition and the symptoms associated with it, yet to experience it personally is an entirely different matter.
There is nothing I can think to truly reference it to. It's as if everything, every emotion is taken from one's body, and the only thing one feels is apathy. There are no highs to one's feelings and also no lows. Even if one wants to feel something, one cannot. He or she is stuck in a state of indifference. Quite scary in its own right.
This torpid response is all my body now seems to register. I find no happiness in my life, only a monotonous expansion of time. Like a motion picture playing before my eyes, I see only in black and white; color seems to have drifted from my spectrum. It doesn't even outline the edges of my vision.
At times, I want to cry, but find I can't. Other times, I want to scream and throw some kind of self-indulgent tantrum, but also can't. The only response I can honestly muster from within is tedium: whether at some social obligation, or at home finishing some take-away assignment from university. It is all the same and nothing amounts to anything special.
Father's face lines with worry when he observes me. He tries to engage more than dull answers from me; I give to him the same as I do everyone else. Although mother would like me more responsive to available gentlemen, she cannot truly complain because I don't embarrass or give fodder for gossip. My reputation stays clear and my manners impeccable.
What does it matter if none of my fake, yet highly believed bravado isn't really felt? Society wives and rich young men cannot tell the difference. They still only see my immense beauty, with another added element. It is unattainable, yet desired. The hallowness inside me seems to call to them, begging them to discover its sources.
The comments unveiled . . .
"Goodness, Rosalie is looking so worse for wear. Could you imagine looking so dead-eyed? She's even more snobbish than ever . . ."
.
"I thought you beautiful before, Miss. Hale, but I must confess myself incorrect. Your beauty rivals everyone here . . ."
"Thank you," I replied, evenly . . . somewhat graciously - factitious.
.
"Lillian, whatever regime do you have your gorgeous daughter on? It is doing wonders." Mother looks coolly at her inept companion. It is as if I am not even present.
"Would you like to rephrase, dear?" Mother tilts her head as she scrupulously studies her companion.
"Well . . . what I meant was she's even more beautiful than normal. One could never refute your daughter's beauty, Lillian. She sets the bar."
"Oh, dear, you are too kind," mother cooed with false praise. This woman's opinion really meant terribly little to her. Her companion, on the other hand, breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn't be on Lillian Hale's bad list.
.
The only criticism which truly matters to the Madam is the ultimate Queen Bee in our high society: Mrs. Royce (Constance) King. She is the premier elite.
Oh, one would never want to upset the most important wife in society. One never knows what gossip she could 'accidently' slip to her husband over a casual dinner.
It is all terribly moot to me anyhow. Uncaring is one welcome side-effect to being numb.
I sigh heavily as I turn the page to my journal. Many thoughts and emotions I have written. If found, it wouldn't really matter; everything is written in vagueness and generalities. That doesn't preclude me from hiding it beneath the loose floorboards under my bed.
"Rosalie, darling," I hear mother calling me. Her voice is sickly sweet and I know that to mean only one thing: she wants something from me, which I'm usually reluctant to give. Not that I refuse her often.
I'm a little confused as to what she's even doing home, especially when I know it to be her day of selfless giving of herself to the community. As if that were wholly true. "Appearance must always be kept, Rosalie," mother's never forgotten words echo in my mind.
Cautiously I put my journal in its original hiding place and quickly make my way to the vanity. With quick inspection and a little added rouge, I qualify myself ready for the Madam.
As I make my way downstairs and into the formal lounge, I see mother holding something which looks like a metal container. I'm now rendered beyond confused.
It is funny, thinking how queer it looks in her elegant hands.
"Yes, mother?" I ask politely as she sees me approach. Her firm eyes take in every inch of my appearance, as I already knew. Thankfully, I had the forethought check before coming down.
"About time you arrived, darling. It doesn't do well to keep people of importance waiting." Another life lesson to never religiously pass on to my children.
"Sorry, mother. I wanted to make sure I looked presentable before venturing down. You did request, after all, I wear my white silk organza dress today." She nods her head, as if she forgives my lack of manners. Why the dress? . . . her reasons are beyond my understanding or even worry.
"No matter. Here," she says – always evenly – as she pushes the canister towards me. I can only give her a curious look. I don't know what she'd have me do with it. She is acting most peculiarly. "It's to be taken to your father."
I still give her a confused look. I can't fathom what she'd have me do. To my immediate recollection, I can't remember father taking in his lunch.
"Don't crinkle your brows, Rosalie." Could her tone sound anymore long-suffering? . . . as if she's been telling me things since birth and I have yet to grasp the simple concept.
This time I don't apologize. It would be in vain, anyhow.
"This needs to be taken, Rosalie. I simply don't have the time, seeing as my schedule is already pressed." I barely just refrain from rolling my eyes. "And seeing as your father worries – completely unnecessarily, mind you – this will give him the occasion to look over you properly. He shall observe his worry is all for naught. You are quite well, aren't you, Rosalie Lillian?" mother questions.
Her head tilts to the side, as if studying me intently. Her tone however says it isn't really a question, so much as a command.
Be well, Rosalie . . . Convince your father . . . or else.
"Yes, mother," I answer like the mindful person I'm raised to be. "Is there anything else you require of me? I shan't keep father waiting too long."
Her gentle laughter tinges on my nerves. I still feel numb, but underneath is a thin layer of common annoyance for this woman who birthed me.
"Simply be on your best behavior, Rosalie, dear. This is your father's place of work, after all, and appearances must always be kept. One never knows which way the wind shall blow; when fortune will rain supreme." Her cryptic words bring no comfort to my unfeeling self, only foreboding.
"Fortunately, you look wonderfully lovely this afternoon. I'm pleased to see how much effort you've been putting into your appearance and etiquette lately, daughter. You have pleased me so. Now . . . along you get and remember, Rosalie, don't disappoint me. Much work has been put into you."
She gives me a sickly sweet smile, which actually shakes me to the core, before giving me the once over again and quitting my sight.
Shudders run along my skin and rattle the metal container in my hand. My glamorous appearance as of late has absolutely nothing to do with her and more to do with my flailing self-esteem.
It's as if I needed to go back to my roots, to the person I was before Edward. There is a sort of comfort and safety in such routine. Much effort has gone into recreating Rosalie again. It's been easier than anticipated. Perhaps she is never far beneath the surface as I would like. But in my instance, beggars cannot be choosers. Simply ask the people standing in governmental-subsidized bread lines.
Regardless, I find my strength and resolve in the Socialite Extraordinaire. It's terribly paradoxical she'd be my saving grace.
No matter how much I would wish it otherwise, I find there is life beyond the magnanimous Edward Cullen. And, I refuse to be brought down into utter darkness. My greatest aspiration survives beyond him. New life simply waits to flutter in my womb.
. .
As I approach father's office, and pass his less-than-pleasant assistant, I can hear him speaking with someone.
"Yes, in ten minutes time shall suffice," he says before hanging up his telephone. I wonder if the person to whom he was speaking with can hear the tightness in his voice. I truly doubt it. Father is nothing if not wonderfully professional.
I round the corner and see my father swiping his large hands over his tired face. A little concern enters into my constant numbness, but not enough to truly register. I just know it's there, lurking.
I enter my father's plush office and wait for him to take notice of me.
A bright smile takes over his face as his eyes meet mine. I know myself to be my father's daughter. He loves me endlessly. Nothing I desire is out of his reach.
Well, that which he knows of, I remind myself. Edward is beyond retainable.
"Hello, sweetheart," he greets me as he readily stands and makes his way around his large mahogany desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His arms wrap around me and for a moment I can see that small girl with the long golden hair. She's in my mind's eye, so terribly happy and innocent.
"I've brought you lunch," I state obviously. After I return my father's hug and plaster on my fake smile, I hold up the metal container holding his lunch.
"Lunch?" father inquires. The surprised tone of his voice surprises even me. Mother did send me here after all, and she never does anything without express purpose. What it is, I can't even figure out as of now.
"Yes, mother said you would need it." I give him the only answer I know.
The confusion quickly leaves his face and is replaced with a grim firmness. Again, I'm taken aback by his quick reactions. I can only assume father must know mother's purpose in sending me here and is awfully annoyed by it.
"Thank you, darling. It was very thoughtful of you to have come. Has Clarence accompanied you?"
He doesn't even need to ask. With the economy being bad, and many indigent people about town, it is not terribly safe for someone of my station to be walking around unaccompanied. Even if the danger was minimal, father would still insist I have a trusted someone of the opposite gender watching over me.
I give my worrying father a rare, but real smile. I know he can tell the difference from my counterfeit one. Thus his ever present concern for me.
"Of course, daddy," I reply sweetly . . . too innocently. "Would you expect otherwise from me?"
My father momentarily gives me the patented "placating" look before shaking his head and laughing robustly. It causes me to feel tiny sparks of happy-gratification. I know it isn't much, but the feeling is enough.
"You are just what the tedious day ordered, my daughter."
"I'm available for lease between the hours of one until two, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Gold only, I'm afraid," I jest. It is difficult for me to spare the effort beyond my numbness, but my father is worth the small sacrifice.
"A tough bargain you sell, daughter. But alas, I get the honor of your company for free."
"That you do, sir," I reply respectfully, allowing the corners of my lips to turn up ever slightly.
The ringing of his phone breaks the pleasant mood and causes me to start for a moment. It is quite unexpected, not to mention shrill.
"It would seem business awaits me, sweetheart. Shall I walk you out?" My father is nothing but a gentleman and I know I come before his probably important phone call.
"It's no trouble, father. I wouldn't wish to inconvenience you." He goes to open his mouth, in what I know to be a refusal of my statement, but I give him a soft smile.
You could never be an inconvenience, my daughter, I can hear my father argue in my mind.
"I shall be fine. You know, I've been told I learned to walk on my own at quite an early age." My father laughs again at my dry humor.
"Cheeky daughter," he mumbles through his deep mirth. "Off you get, then. If you happen to see your mother before I, tell her thank you for the lunch and we shall indeed be discussing her motivations." I can only nod in acquiesce.
"I love you, baby girl," father all but whispers my childhood endearment. It is something only really said at home amongst family. However, I know he is reassuring me. He isn't peeved at me.
"Love you, too, daddy."
And with a little kiss blown to him I take my leave. I can already hear him picking up the phone and retrieving his no nonsense business tone.
As I pass his assistant, I give her a haughty look. The nerve of her . . . to think she could ever stop me from seeing my father. His assistant truly needs to learn her place. No one here can compete with my beauty, I repeat silently the long-ago remembered mantra.
I shine in all occasions.
. . .
As the darkened clouds roll on by overhead, my fingers delicately play with the petals of roses. I wonder how the light of my moon-friend would bounce off of them. They are quite a stunning shade of lavender and the softness of the petals is almost comparable to my own skin.
It's quite funny, though, I never really preferred roses. It always seemed terribly clichéd to me, having part of my name resemble said flower. Yet, it has never really stopped gentlemen from sending them to me, most likely thinking how clever they are in sending me roses . . . I can't help but laugh at the absurdity.
These lavender beauties are different. How, one may ask? Funnily enough, it has nothing to do with the flower itself but the sender.
However unexpected, my surprise doesn't stem (no pun intended) from the roses but from him.
When my eyes first landed on the delivery, I knew them to be from Edward. Somehow, in some way, fate had smiled down upon me and decided to grant me all of my fondest wishes. My now former beloved had come to his senses; everything he had confided in me had been a mistake.
"What is the meaning of these, Rosie?" my father's voice had broken through my bafflement.
Even stranger still was mother's silence. It's something she isn't really known for: not having an opinion on a subject.
My hands shook as Ms. Rhodes placed the arrangement in front of me.
"Here you are Miss. Hale." I could only nod my thank you, not being able to find my voice and all.
Both mother and father came over and also examined the bouquet. Father's countenance was one of consternation and mother's of utter delight.
"Thirteen Roses? Why are there thirteen and not a dozen?" my father inquired.
"Honestly, Rich! Have you no knowledge of flowers and their meanings." Mother's smile quickly disappeared with father's stern frown. She knew not to trifle about any longer. Father may be affable, but even he has his limits, and they aren't to be tested.
"Thirteen roses signify a secret admirer. The color Lavender implies enchantment."
Father then turned from mother to me. He wanted answers and I had none to give. Even the head of our family wouldn't know about Edward. He was my secret to keep.
I raised my shaky hands and retrieved the little linen cardstock envelope. Everything about the display spoke of wealth.
My mouth dropped open with each word my eyes took in as my hand covered my surprised, parted lips.
Rosalie Hale –
I know these flowers fail in comparison to your exquisiteness, but a gentleman can only try. Please accept this paltry offering as an introduction to myself and a splendid thank you for being so utterly, unknowingly beguiling. I find myself now thinking exclusively of you.
An unsuspecting bystander – Royce King
And for the first time, since leaving Edward, I found myself suffused with rampant emotions. They flooded me heavily and without remorse.
Royce King, the most wanted and eligible bachelor had "unsuspectingly" caught me off guard, as supposedly as I had him.
Father's guarded questions and mother's delighted answers passed over me. I was in a world all my own, a world of sweeping emotions and gentle-springing hope. Someone of worth could actually take notice of me and retain interest.
As I had told Edward, quite unknowingly at the time, life would and had to proceed without him. I had to survive and with my dormant hope coming out of obscurity, I finally knew it to be truth, not a fervor wish.
. .
Little did I know going to the bank and dropping off my father's lunch would result in such a reaction. Yet I find it is a welcomed reaction, and perhaps a sweet beginning of things to come and of dreams to be realized.
. . .
For a week straight, bouquets of roses have been delivered to the house. The first two were a welcomed surprised – at least to mother and myself; poor father is now coming to grips with the situation. The next three arrangements have been happily accepted. My room is filled to bursting, and the smell is exquisite. It's as if I have my own secret garden in the middle of autumn in my bedroom.
The last bouquet came with an invitation for a soirée at the King's estate. It should be quite the gathering, complete with flowing golden champagne and glittering expensive jewels.
My evening gown hangs elegantly off the canopy of my bed frame. It simply waits for me to slip on the enchanting fabric and gracefully dance the stylish night away.
However I sit at my vanity and prepare myself for what I know will be an exciting, yet taxing night. I can already imagine the scorching looks of Mr. King's admirers and the thoughts which will be lingering in their minds. I've already had a small taste of such dealings.
Yesterday as Mr. King and I lunched at a popular restaurant in town, many eyes followed our every move. I'm not unfamiliar with every eye around me following my every move. It isn't vanity which makes me think this, but actual results. My entire life feels as if it has been acted out in the stares of anyone near me. It comes along with the territory of my beauty.
Being with my lunch companion was terribly different than with Edward; not that it is fair to compare. I can still feel the high anxiety of being with Mr. King in public. His intense stares and probing light-eyes are unreadable. I can see he thinks me astonishingly beautiful, which is nothing new, but there is also another layer, something intangible.
Perhaps I was too in awe of being in his company to have the correct mind to try and distinguish his attentions.
Having to say goodbye to Edward, having to move on and having to make peace with that something inside of me which is broken and unwanted by Edward has been difficult – to say the least. It's a constant battle, no matter the numbness.
But though my heart bleeds for him, I won't surrender; I won't fall down. Rosalie Hale would never allow such a notion, no matter how much my self-worth is flailing.
Now, having Mr. King's attention heaped onto me only adds to the swirls of confusion, delight, hope and new feelings. I'm trying to come to terms with Mr. King having genuine affection towards me, no holds bar and no excuses.
His intentions have been made clear. It's safe to assume, at least in regards to his intentions towards me, he isn't playing his cards close to his chest. They are out in full view for me to observe.
.
"Why the slight frown, Ms. Hale?" my lunch companion had asked me. His handsomely distinguished face is quite fetching in the weak afternoon sunlight. "Have I come on too strongly? Am I of no interest to you?" I look away from our audience and the scathing looks I seem to be getting from single girls. It is no surprise who any of the Kings' are in Rochester; their pictures are regularly printed in the society pages.
I study his mien and can't help but feel pride in being in his company and that he'd choose me for his.
"No, Mr. King. It is really of no consequence. Perhaps my own qualms playing havoc within." I try and give him a genuine smile. Like Edward, he has a commanding presence, and it tends to overwhelm somewhat.
"Hmm . . . then it isn't any bearing on my company?" he asks, though I can hear a light teasing in his tone. I find myself becoming even more enchanted with the fair-haired gentleman.
"It's safe to assume so," I banter back. My smile blooms even further.
He slowly tilts his head to the side as he takes a drink of coffee. His gaze never leaves the contours of my face. I don't know what he is studying so intently.
"You are quite beautiful, Ms. Hale. Have I intimated that to you?" He puts down his drink as his eyes all but seem to glow. I can truly feel his attraction to me. It's almost corporeal. Burning.
I have to look down and break the intense connection. I don't want him to see all the truths and lingering hurt in my reflection. But more to the point, I don't want him to see my cheeks tingeing pink. The last to make me blush was Edward. The pain is sharp, but I withstand.
"You have, Mr. King. When we first met this afternoon," I answer simply, probably to what is a rhetorical question. I don't, however, tell him how I feet faint and all but speechless in his presence.
That someone such as him would wholly single me out . . .
"It bears repeating . . . and so very often." I can't fight the feeling and have to see his expression. His voice is calling out to me, all but commanding me unwittingly.
"I would like the privilege of courting you, Ms. Hale."
Once again he takes me aback by the frankness of his statement. Many a gentlemen I have met, and many of them have commented on the opportunity of wooing me, but it feels entirely different with him. It's as if my decision is already made and it is a foregone conclusion.
"I can see I surprise you with my candid request." I nod in agreement. There is no need to pretend otherwise. "But surely, you must know of my serious intention. I have no guile."
He places his hands on the table, as if showing me he isn't hiding anything. I wonder if he knows how telling his body language is.
"How could you know so soon, Mr. King? You are just returned from school and busy with your father's business. I'm sure there are many a ladies who would like the pleasure of your company."
For some reason I feel like stuffing my mouth with cotton. This isn't Rosalie Hale speaking: comfortable in all situations; but a variation of dormant Rose. She isn't Edward's Rose, but someone resembling her. I don't like it and wish to run far from it. It must be the reason I'm feeling somewhat overwhelmed.
"Quite easily, Ms. Hale." He sounds so incredibly sure of himself without even giving me any specifics. Yet he isn't quite finished. "I'm a person who has always known what he wanted. I'm not one to really trifle, Ms. Hale. You're incredibly beautiful, I can see also, though, you have a bright and eager mind. It is no secret you attend Rochester University. It's something to be quite proud of."
I want to shrug off his 'compliment', but he doesn't allow it.
"How could I not want to court the most beautiful lady I've ever beheld, with a sharp mind no less?" I truly have no answer for him. It's not something I can answer. My main goal has always been my future children, and everything I endure is for them. I wonder how Mr. King would react to such a notion, but I don't say anything. Our first meeting isn't really the time for such intricacies. Or so I would believe. He is declaring his intentions towards me . . .
"How indeed?" His white teeth are on display as his robust laugh fills the space between us.
"Make no mistake, Ms. Hale, I want the pleasure and opportunity of courting you. The only thing lacking is your approval. What say you?" He leans forward, and it seems unwitting. He is terribly handsome with his striking features and fair coloring.
This must be the culmination of my dreams: if not with my first choice, then at least with the first choice of every young available lady in Rochester. I might be feeling shaky and faint, but the answer is all but clear. There isn't even a debate within my mind and heart.
"I think it is s-safe for you to call me Rosalie, Mr. King." My request for him to call me by my Christian name is answer enough.
His widening smile tells me he captures my meaning.
Goodbye, darling Edward . . . salutations to my future, willing companion.
. . .
It is oft said when a door is closed a window is opened. Well, I can certainly attest to such an axiom. It wasn't only a romantic interest Edward removed from my life when he left, but first and foremost my wonderful friend. He had become to me what no one else had – not even my family.
I didn't have to hide or be something practiced in front of Edward. He truly seemed to accept me as someone I didn't even know existed. She had been a lovely find and addition to my repertoire. Such a fragile, budding, delightful girl.
It wasn't only my romantic affection for him which became numb, but my seemingly strong want in a trusting and accepting companion.
My avenue of release, anonymity and confidant left, only to be replaced with a deafening silence. It didn't seem quite fair, but I was no stranger to understanding life isn't fair.
As I left my lunch appointment with my chosen suitor and walked along the pavement lining Main Street, I hadn't truly paid attention to my surroundings. I knew Clar to be close by and quite frankly, my mind was too full of more important things. It was ever a surprise to me as my shoulder collided with a passing stranger.
An uncouth yelp left my mouth at the hard impact. Before I could even stumble a callous hand reached out and steadied my elbow. I quickly lift my head and go to make my sincere – if not distracted –apologizes.
Before anything can leave my parted lips a huge sigh of air is dispelled. Recognition is instant and I feel myself filling with even more emotions, from those added from lunch. It is the last person I would suspect of running into. Why? I cannot be certain . . . I cannot seem to maintain anything in my life any longer.
Like many things from one's past, this one comes roaring into my immediate present. She was my closest friend . . . she was my confidant . . . she was my unbiased and true companion. Though quite plain and forgettable to many, she hadn't been to me. In fact, until her father lost his job and her family fell from society, we had been quite close. She was an acceptable companion – at least in mother's estimation, and I had been allowed to socialize with her.
"And it helps she is quite plain, Rosalie. Not that anyone is more beautiful than you, darling," mother claimed haughtily. "But I believe her forgettable demeanor will only add to your appeal."
How? I never knew for certain.
.
"V-Vera," I stutter quite ineloquently. Mother would be horrified, even with me stuttering in front of 'inferior company'.
"Rose?" Her voice is just as surprised as my own. "Goodness, you look amazing! I've never seen you more beautiful." I feel myself coloring slightly. Her praise and kind words are all honesty. The sincerity is plainly written on her flushed cheeks.
"As do you, Vera," I return kindly. And like her, I have no untruths. She seems quite happy and perfectly content. She has only returned to my life for a few brief moments, but her happiness is readily apparent.
Though she is wearing ordinary clothes (not fashionable) and she has only a simple silver band adorning her left ring finger, she looks terribly content. Never before have I been jealous of someone else's looks, happiness or life, but I can start to feel a tingling within at her obvious joy.
However, it isn't really her contended look which has something quite foreign rising in me, it is the shawl hanging over her frame and cradling a little babe.
I feel my breath catch terribly as I see the cloth move and little mewls coming from within. My hand automatically rises to my mouth as I try to stop my jaw from dropping.
"A l-little one, Vera?" I ask unsteadily. It is more than obvious to the casual observer she has a tiny babe, but I'm so overcome with staggering emotions.
A soft, sweet smile plays at the corner of the new mother's lips. I am in complete awe at the smile. It speaks of her absolute desire in being so wholly bonded and in love with her child. Her finger slowly caresses the sleeping one's cheek. It is flushed pink and so very plump.
"Yes," she hums reverently. "He's just turned two months." She reluctantly takes her eyes from the little babe and puts them onto me. I feel as if I could glow in the love shining from them.
"What is his name?" I ask just as softly. I find most of my voice has deserted me – never wanting to be found.
"Henry."
My eyes begin to tingle, but no tears are forthcoming. I thank anyone listening for small miracles.
"He's quite enchanting, Vera." She studies me for a time. It isn't a simple platitude I give to her. Henry is terribly enchanting. From his dark, slightly curly hair to his tiny fingers clutching her shawl, he is fascinating. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears as I study every inch of him.
"I'm of the same opinion," she replies tenderly. I almost feel encircled in her love of her son.
"Miss. Hale?" I hear spoken behind me. I know what he wants and I know it is time to leave. Perhaps it is the kindest blessing of the day: given the opportunity of escaping this saccharine, overwhelming situation.
I turn around and give Clar a thankful smile.
"Of course . . . time beacons." I wink playfully before giving my attention back to my old friend.
Before I can speak or even excuse myself politely, she starts. "If you ever have the time, Rosalie, I'd love for you to come visit me. I'm sure Henry would also like the attention," she adds playfully as she studies her slumbering babe.
I laugh softly, not wanting to add too much noise around him.
"It would be a pleasure," I hear myself answering. It is as if I don't even need the time to think or contemplate the situation. Regardless, I'll make the situation work. The pull of her little son to my heartstrings is too fierce.
As I glance at Henry I can't help but smile; his little lips are moving, as if suckling, even in slumber. I feel my ultimate desire rear strongly within me. Having a child of my own . . . what I desire most above all.
"Here you are, Miss. Hale?" Clar's voice breaks me from my fundamental longing. I turn and reach for the fountain pen and scrap of paper he is offering me.
Quickly and in my elegant script I take down Vera's address. I hand the paper back to Clar before we give our cordial goodbyes.
As I go to turn around and leave, I feel my girlhood friend reach for my fingers. She gently sweeps them over the flushed, velvety cheek of her tiny Henry.
It is as if she can hear my silent longing and see the pleading my heart is giving to my thoughts.
My fight is all but forfeited as a lone tear clouds my right eye. The little one is terribly warm and silkily soft.
I sweep my forefinger over his cheek one last time before retrieving my hand.
I look up to Vera, someone whom I always thought plain and forgettable. "Thank you," the gentle words falls from my lips. I have nothing else to say.
"Not at all, Rosalie." An unforgettable grin spreads over her somewhat chapped lips. "Be sure to come visit us. I'd love the company." I nod my answer before giving one more glace to her Henry and leaving.
I find my heart is full to almost spilling over. And I think to myself, for what seems like the first time, this is what it feels like to be jealous of someone else. Someone I've never really thought to envy.
It's quite an awakening.
.
Later in that evening, I sit in front of my father's desk and study his reaction to what I've just related to him. I don't know how he'll react or the answer I'll receive, but I can only hope it to be favorable.
"I'm quite surprised, daughter," he finally says. Not really what I expected . . .
"And you literally ran into each other?" His mirth is contagious. I feel myself reluctantly smiling.
"Unsuspectingly," I add, sheepishly. "We were both wholly taken aback, sir. And directly after lunch with Mr. King. Some afternoon."
"I'd imagine." His smile is in full bloom. It is not only for the amusing story I've related to him, but also because I know he can sense my quiet (yet) real joy in finding such an unsuspecting gift.
"And you mean to see her again?" I nod in the affirmative. I've already told father my intention of seeing Vera again, and hopefully recapturing our old companionship. If she'll have me . . .
"I don't want to be dishonest with you, father. I'd like to have her friendship . . . and not simply in secret."
I'm wholly honest with my father. I refuse to keep this friendship a secret, keeping to the shadows and little indiscretions. I know there is nothing to fear from an association with Vera. It seems my morals are called into question where little Henry is concerned. I can't help but smile at the thought of his angelic, slumbering mien.
"Yet you wish me to run interference with your mother," my father calls me out. He knows my wishes too well. I don't even have to voice them aloud.
"It would be much appreciated, sir. I'm not sure mother would object, especially with Mr. King now courting me. I'm sure she can grant me this small boon."
The stillness in the room is all but deafening. I can't understand how the silence is the loudest sound of all. I study father as he studies me. I make sure to keep my eyes open and forthright. There is truly no hidden agenda in my request.
"You need only ask, baby girl," father relents. A thankful and loving grin overtakes my firm lips. I all but knew father would grant me my request.
Perhaps in his own way he is like mother . . . in his conditioning of me. I know I only have to simply ask father, and if it's within his power, he'll grant it to me. I can't help but wonder if his concessions only add to my vainness; unknowingly, unthinkingly on his part, of course.
. . .
It had been a whirlwind of a day, but wonderful. Slowly the numbness receded and left me with a soft hope.
Yes, life is still attainable without Edward. It simply takes more effort, concentration and resolution. But, I'm Rosalie Lillian Hale.
As mother and her hairdresser approach me, I stand and make my way away from my vanity and beautiful roses.
I shake off the past week and prepare for my new life, my new order it seems.
It seems Royce King is waiting for me but simply to arrive – and so am I.
.
.
Author's Notes: Hope everyone had a nice weekend. Thanks for the feedback. If you like, please review! Much love sent your way!
Updated: Monday, 25 February 2013