If you haven't read to CHAPTER 31 of Firefly in Summer you won't understand this, I don't think. Go get caught up!

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There are clues here if you can read between the lines!

This is Bella, three years into her five year stint without Edward. She's going kind of crazy, missing him. Wouldn't you?

You guys are the best- Firefly in Summer was recommended for fic of the week over at The Lemonade Stand. Take a moment to vote, if you haven't already... you can choose up to four favorite fics from their list. It's such an awesome place to find great stories to read- new and old, WIPs and one-shots.

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Lots of love to faireyfan and les16 as always.

2007

"Sir."

"Bella, what a pleasant surprise! Come sit down." The professor hobbled over to the kettle to put on water. "Tea?"

"No, thank you." She fidgeted in the doorway.

"Come in, you're making an old man nervous." He pursed his lips, sorting through the tea bags. "Although…" he peered over the cabinet door, "if you've come in here to ask for an extension I'll whack you with my cane."

Finally, a laugh bubbled out of his favorite student. "I can move pretty fast, Professor."

"Yes, well…" he sighed, "it's all relative. I've become slower over the years. Next year you'll see me resort to throwing paintbrushes." He settled down in his leather chair. "I have to be able to frighten the students somehow, now don't I?"

"I'm fairly sure your reputation proceeds you, sir. We all compare emotional scars after the final evaluations." She took a tentative seat in a metal folding chair close to the door.

"Well, that's what I like to hear," the old man smiled. "But what do you need, dearheart? Surely you didn't stop by to inflate my ego more than it already is. And you must know by now you have your A." The professor always chose his words so carefully, like he was reading from prompts, an endless formal script in his head.

"I guess…" Bella sighed. "Maybe a favor."

"Yes?"

"I wanted… I just… can I participate in Chicago instead of New York?"

"Chicago?" he said in surprise. "Well, we're set up for the Met, Bella, you know that."

"I know George Harrod had his exhibit in L.A. a few years ago. Is there any way I could do-"

"He had a contact at the museum out there, dear. I think it was family," he said, frowning at her. "What's this about?" he asked softly, watching her shoulders slump.

She shook her head slightly, staring at her restless feet, bouncing to a nervous rhythm no one could hear but her. "Nothing," she mumbled. "A wild goose chase."

"I might be able to pull a few strings for a straight A student." Gently, he blew across his tea. Turned his head to thumb through his mail.

She sighed again and nodded, as if she'd expected his concession all along. "I'd like to use Wanderer on my postcard. And I only need one. Well…" she bit her lip, smiling, "maybe two postcards. I'll tack one to my bulletin board."

The professor ignored the strange request for only a single mailing card, shocked by the fact she would consider selling the painting she'd hoarded ever since he'd met her, barely eighteen, ready to eat, sleep and breathe brushes, oils and turp. It had taken her a year to finish it. She definitely had his undivided attention now.

"I know you're well aware that what you'll take to the show will be for sale," he finally said. "Most especially what you put on your card." He waited for her to explain but she only nodded enigmatically, excusing herself politely, murmuring something about getting to class on time.

Bella had always seemed a bit lost, a bit melancholy, like she was waiting for something. Or someone. Maybe that someone was in Chicago. He'd puzzled over her before, her dedication to her craft commendable but very one-sided. He'd been afraid she'd burn herself out before she even had a chance to graduate. The professor blinked his eyes at the empty space where she'd been sitting. Isabella Swan had never asked him for anything. So he took one last sip and put his tea down, reaching for his address book.

Two months later

Now that she was here, she didn't know if she could keep the emotion off her face. What in the world had she been hoping to accomplish?

She moved to stand beside them, a little behind, gripping her short plastic cup of chardonnay with both hands. The tremors that shook her had grown throughout the evening, beginning with a jolt of fear when she'd seen that they had actually come to the show. She'd circled and circled like a vulture in a little black dress, until finally she was close enough to speak. This was the closest she'd been to him since she'd freaked out and murdered her cell phone.

"See? I told you," the woman smiled up at the man, threading their arms together. "Don't you think so?"

"Well, it's hard to tell; his back is turned." The man stepped closer, then leaned back, the classic revolving pose of a self-proclaimed art connoisseur. "Wanderer," he murmured, reading the small plaque to the left. "Well, the artist certainly got his jaw right." He shrugged. "But I don't know if a jaw is worth what they're asking."

"Oh, I think so," Esme breathed. "Even if it didn't look like Edward, the colors… oh, I just love the style. Amazing. So bold and expressive." A pause, then, "I really miss him."

Carlisle dug in his pocket for his brochure. "Who is it again? Are they local?"

"It's a student, dear. Surely we should support a student?"

"Miss Swan… another glass of wine?"

Bella's eyes widened as she turned to face the man who served as the liaison between the Art Institute and her school. Even as she tried to step back discreetly, the damage had been done. She was such a fool.

"Swan?" Esme Cullen said to herself. "Oh, please pardon me for interrupting," she said a little louder. She spared a small glance for Mr. Biers then honed in on the pale girl off to the side. "Are you the artist?"

Goosebumps broke out over her skin. She'd created this very situation; masterminded it really, the least she could do was buck up and act like the grown-up she pretended to be.

"Yes," she replied smoothly, if a little too quietly. She cleared her throat. "Yes ma'am, I'm the artist."

Esme Cullen cocked her head at Bella as if she were a riddle that begged to be solved. Pretty girl, a student, no obvious ties to Chicago or the Gulf Coast, seemingly four years Edward's junior, if the small bio in the brochure was to be believed. So how did she know Edward well enough to capture him so profoundly? It wasn't just the angular line of his jaw as he looked away into the sunset, although it was remarkably like his. Rather the girl had caught the essence of him, the way he carried his body while deep in thought, the downward slope of his shoulder, the slant of his forearm as he held one hand casually in his pocket. His air of sadness despite the vibrant colors of the paint was delicate… understated. Masterful. She'd painted a portrait of a man looking mournfully off into the distance, his face mostly hidden. But Esme would know her stepson anywhere. Besides, the unusual color of his tousled hair was a dead giveaway.

Just who was this girl?

"I was just admiring your painting; it's absolutely stunning."

"Thank you," Bella answered graciously, eyes flitting nervously between Esme and Carlisle.

"And you're an art student from Savannah?

"Yes ma'am. This is my last year."

"I see."

There was a beat of silence in which Esme Cullen looked fairly expectant for some sort of revelation that was not exactly forthcoming. Mr. Biers sighed internally. Young artists never knew how to draw a patron out, how to endear themselves and their work to a potential buyer. Miss Swan, although exquisite in her elegance and beauty, resembled something like a deer in headlights right about now.

"Miss Swan has quite the following in the more southern states. I understand that several galleries in Atlanta have offered to show her work… isn't that correct Miss Swan?" Mr. Biers prompted, to little avail. He turned back to Esme. "We are very lucky to have her here in Chicago for this evening. The only student from Savannah," he murmured, smiling back at Bella benevolently.

Esme's eyes narrowed at the way he looked at the girl.

Carlisle stepped forward. "We'd like to purchase the painting from Miss Swan," he said in a confident tone. He was tiring of all the back and forth and pussyfooting around. He knew what his wife wanted to know. Hell, he wanted to know too. "But we had some questions as to the identity of the model. Was this painted from life?"

All eyes turned to the artist, who got even paler, if that was possible. Bella shifted minutely and then tapped her temple with her finger.

"Just in my head," she smiled weakly. She hoped desperately that the group would accept her answer at face value and not attempt to delve further. Her voice was fighting a losing battle with the unspoken depth of emotion gripping her throat.

Because that was the goddamned depressing truth, now wasn't it? That was all Edward was to her now.

A beautiful painting.

A memory in her head.

In her mouth, his taste, her eyes, that saw him everywhere, her skin, every inch alive, tingling with his knowing touch. And her heart. Her heart that broke and healed itself again and again with each passing of a new year.

Esme was kissing her husband on the cheek. "Thank you darling! Will you bring another glass of wine on your way back from arranging everything?"

"Of course," Carlisle murmured, coming around her other side to shake Bella's hand. "Miss Swan, it's been a pleasure. Lovely work."

He walked off with Mr. Biers, who was talking animatedly, thrilled at the easiness of the sale. Bella's insides swarmed with a curious mix of anxiousness, elation and disbelief that she had actually sold that painting. She'd be adrift without it in her apartment.

"Let me show you something," Esme Cullen said while rummaging in her tiny evening pocketbook, sending Bella's heart into high gear when she triumphantly pulled out a photograph.

A picture… of Edward! It was an unexpected gift. She'd only dreamed of getting close enough to his parents so she could somehow feel him. And of course she'd wanted them to have the painting. She would have given it to them for free. She'd actually said goodbye to it… sort of a, you're going to a good home. I'll see you again, someday…

Bella held her hands behind her back; afraid the trembling in her fingers would expose this bizarre ruse she'd concocted. Worst case scenario was that Esme thought Bella was a creepy stalker, fixated on her stepson. Best case scenario? Esme would assume she was another love struck girl that Edward had forgotten. Oh wait…

"Please," Esme murmured, wiggling it somewhat impatiently between them. "I may have another one in my wallet."

"Sure," she said, holding a corner delicately between her thumb and index finger.

Pull up your big-girl panties, Bella. It's only a picture.

"It's a remarkable likeness, wouldn't you agree?"

"It is… I mean, yes," she stammered, staring at the little rectangle of paper in her hand, not daring to lift her head just yet. Edward looked… happy. She had no frame of reference for the picture… but oh, it was him. And she wished that was all that mattered. Because there was a pretty blonde girl in the picture with him. Flashing an engagement ring.

She was going to be sick.

"No more," Esme said, giving up, turning her attention back to Bella. "I know he's dressed like a dirty construction worker in that picture but that was during the cleanup after the hurricane. Not Katrina… although he helped during that one too- this one is from Ivan."

Bella nodded, swallowing down her dinner for the second time. "Ivan hit the Gulf Coast."

"That's right," Esme said. She looked at the picture and traced Edward's face with her thumb. "He was so sure that his little town down there wouldn't take a direct hit. And he was right. It was the craziest thing. And Katrina-"

"Mrs. Cullen? Is he—I mean to say, he looks happy." Bella held the picture out to her like it was burning her hand.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Esme said softly, tucking the photo back in her purse. "Sometimes I wonder. And now I see that there's a lot he hasn't told me." She looked at Bella shrewdly. She hadn't told the girl her name and yet she'd called her 'Mrs. Cullen'. "How does Edward know you, Isabella?"

"He doesn't." A small voice, full of tears that had already been cried a million times over.

But he will, Bella vowed to herself. He will.

Chapter 32 of Firefly will be up on Friday. No Bella in that one, just Edward. Thanks for being so patient. :)