A/N: Twilight and affiliated characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended.
Special thanks to blk3660 for pre-reading
As I drove away from the city and into the increasingly winding roads of Western New York, I silently thanked the fine weather on that early morning in May.
The nights were noticeably shorter, and thankfully the day I spent driving from the City back to the Cullen household was warm and bright, with enough clouds to protect me from the blazing sun. I had recently purchased a new car – a 1947 Mercury Club Convertible, and I was eager to test it on long stretches of highway. Despite my upbringing, I really felt a desire for few things. My apartment was furnished in a practical manner, I had purchased for myself clothing that suited my lifestyle and my diet was sound and mostly unimaginative when I wasn't dining out.
This left excess funds available to fill my life with escapades out on the town, and of course, my love of the automobile.
Despite my city-boy persona, I found myself becoming increasingly pulled back to the Cullen house in the woods and their anomalous project with Glendale. With every mile I put between New York City and myself, I felt a deeper sense of calm. During my drive, I had little to think about, and I was constantly tinkering with the radio as I fell in and out of range of local stations. It gave me time to pinpoint when I most strongly felt this emotion that the presence of the Cullens and Lt. Whitlock had brought forth in me.
When I was about eight, I remember entering the back door of our house in Seattle on a cold February afternoon to the smell of apple pie. It was my father's birthday and Geraldine had set out to make him a feast fit for a king. When I walked through the doors and deposited my wet clothing in room off to the side, Geraldine came whipping in and helped me to remove my sodden coat and boots and ruffled my red-brown mop of hair.
"Dear child, this cold rain will give you a chill and a fever. I have enough food to cook up; I don't have time to make my famous soup too!" Despite her chiding words, I distinctly remember feeling warmed by the smile on her face and the light in her eyes from seeing me at the end of my school day.
When I was eleven, I placed first in a local competition in composition and performance on the piano. As I stood before the baby grand on the stage, I remember the sense of pride I felt as the crowd clapped for me as they placed the ribbon on my lapel and awarded me with a impressive trophy. But the warm feeling, the feeling of home came from seeing my mother and father in the third row gracing me with a standing ovation. I knew from that point on that pleasing my parents gave me a feeling inside me that I wanted to hold onto forever.
And when I was sixteen, the feeling came from her. I remember the day I realized I was in love with her. It had been over Christmas break and my melancholy was affecting the entire household. Isabella's mother and stepfather had insisted that she visit Arizona of all places to call upon Judge Dwyer's parents. Without doubt, those two weeks of her absence had been, until that point the longest two weeks of my life. Then one afternoon, I heard my father's footsteps approach my room after I barely registered the chime of the doorbell.
"You have a visitor, Edward," My father announced.
"If I must, Father." I was not in the mood. I was too busy reading over a letter that had been sent by Isabella and sulking over our separation.
"I think you'll agree with this one." Had I detected a smirk in his voice as he left my room?
Begrudgingly, I descended the stairs to receive my guest in the parlor. By the time I had reached the last step my feet were all but dragging. I hoped it wasn't another girl from school. I found the way they called upon me unannounced most rude. Everyone knew that I was dating Isabella, and no girl arriving by surprise was going to change my feelings, unless their intention was to get on my bad side.
Finally I decided to round the corner to the parlor.
In my parlor sat the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. The sun in the south had kissed her skin in the most delicious way, and I saw immediately how it had also brought out the red highlights of her dark hair. She was in a new dress, royal blue that stopped at her knees, and a small white cardigan that set off the glow of her skin. Rising from the couch, she laughed as my slouched posture straightened immediately and I all but ran to her side.
"Isabella…" I was at a loss for words, but the next ones that came forth as I clasped her hands could not have been truer, "I missed you…" I whispered, and then added without a second thought, "I love you, so very much."
Her smile was blinding, and she let go of my hands to hover them over her mouth. Tears slid down her cheeks, "I love you too, Edward."
And I didn't care who might see us as I cupped her face and kissed her soundly and with reverence.
Breaking from memory, I found myself on a familiar street in the heart of Bennington, to check into the hotel in which I had stayed the weekend past. I was given the same room as last time, by the same portly gentleman who seemed to practically live night and day at the reception desk.
The hotel I was staying in was quite modern, and I was pleased to find an array of toiletries available, include soap for washing and shaving. After showering and dressing, it wasn't long before I was heading down the country road to the Cullen's home.
The entrance to the lane was much easier to spot this time around, and as I carefully wound his car over the dirt road, I saw something I hadn't noticed the first time around.
About one third of the way up from the main road, the laneway forked and a narrow grassy path shot off to the left. The path seemed less worn than the Cullen's laneway, but still used. Instead of being a full dirt road, it was simply two strips of dried mud which had been left with the imprint of large horse hooves. The way it looked, it appeared better fit for a carriage than a car.
At the apex of the fork in the road, two signs hung about seven feet up a tree. Pointing to the right, a wooden arrow directed the traveler to "Dr. Cullen, MD." The sign to the left simply said "Glendale". I then remembered that this was the name given to Carlisle's visionary maternity home. I found it strange and intriguing that the place would be accessible by a road only slightly bigger than a footpath. Still, I continued on my way to meet up with Carlisle and Esme.
For the second time in a week I approached the white house, and noticed that it had been cleaned up considerably, probably for the evening's events. The porch rails had been fixed and painted to match the shutters and the house and windows were neatly washed. The April garden was still sparse, but brave flowers of yellow, purple and white had pushed their way through the cold soil, and in some places had even found their way to daylight through small clumps of snow that still lingered in the shadow of the eaves. The grass, which had been patchy brown the week before, seemed to have enjoyed a rainfall as it sported a bright spring green coat, and smelled like the newness of the season.
I rapped on the door, and it was opened by a tall Hispanic lady who introduced herself as Angela. As she nearly stood eye to eye with me, I took in a gentle, but mischievous glimmer in her eye. I introduced myself as Dr. Edward Masen, friend to Dr. and Mrs. Cullen, and I thought I saw a brief flash of familiarity and perhaps anxiety in her face. Perhaps Carlisle and Esme had mentioned me, or she read the Times and is afraid of maintaining proper comportment in the face of someone of my status. The expression remained only for the briefest of seconds however, before her face became neutral and she led me to the parlor to meet with the hosts and then excused herself.
When I questioned Carlisle and Esme, I learned that her name was Angela Weber and she was not a servant. She was, rather one of the few women who stayed behind and chose to work and support he Maternity home from the inside. A gifted cook, she was assisting Mrs. Cullen for this evening's party and had probably retreated back to the kitchen to continue with preparations.
Soon after, Mrs. Cullen also excused herself, and Dr. Cullen offered me a brief tour of the property.
Heading out the back door, Carlisle led me through the gardens that Esme herself had designed, which were manicured all the way up to an even larger hospital-like building that stood about 400 yards from the Doctor's house. When I questioned Dr. Cullen about the small road, he simply stated that is was used for some deliveries, but mainly everything that was needed came through the Cullen house, which is why their lane was better maintained. He showed me that beyond a stand of trees, the lane that circled in front of the house extended off to the side and back, meeting up with the larger Maternity building.
"The girls, unfortunately have few visitors to the Glendale building," as he referred to the large square brick building, "And any prospective parents who are wishing to adopt are received in our home. While all couples wanting to adopt can receive a full tour of the facilities, we discovered long ago that some are upset by wandering into a building full of girls at various stages of pregnancy. Perhaps some husbands and wives prefer to forget that their babies were born from another union, or maybe they are upset by seeing girls so young and round with child. In any case, we also learned that privacy is paramount to the girls in residence. While we don't try to hide anything, many of the young women like to be tidied and freshened before they are met with parents.
"Like I said however, we have nothing to hide. As a doctor and a professional there shouldn't be a problem with your impromptu visit."
As Carlisle continued on with a tour of the building, explaining that it was originally a small Mental Asylum from the mid-1800s, until the need outgrew the facilities, and those patients were transferred to a newer and larger facility up north in Waterbury.
Carlisle gave me a brief history of their work in this place. When they purchased the property in 1933, the building was an established Maternity home but its conditions were deplorable. All but one patient had already left; Ruth Brandon, who was in her second trimester and had one daughter – Alice, who was 4 years old at the time. She had been serving as the former owners' live-in maid, and it was through her that they developed a friendly working relationship with the Black Family.
I was given a brief tour. He pointed out several aspects of the home, including a large dining room and kitchen; two large rooms used as classrooms; labour and delivery rooms and even a poorly equipped, but sanitary operating theater.
"The classes are taught by Ms. Black, our daughter Alice, and Miss Weber whom you met this morning. Ms. Black plays an important role with Glendale. She runs the farm adjacent to the property. In the winter, as part of our agreement, she makes extra money for her family by teaching for us. In the summer, many of the girls work with her on the farm which is how we keep down some of our costs. The girls work in the garden voluntarily and are paid directly, and we receive some food for free. In return, Ms. Black has enough hands to help her produce enough goods to keep the farm running and her family fed. This is also part of the girls' education, as they are taught the art of canning and preserving goods that the home uses all winter, as well as seed saving, garden planning and household economics.
"This is all foreign to me," I admitted, "How does Mr. Black feel about his wife working out of the home so much? I mean, with a successful farm, she should be needed at home."
"Ms. Black is widow," Carlisle chuckled, "and before you ask the next rational question, the answer is 'No'. For some reason she is strictly opposed to remarriage, although she has several suitors in town," Carlisle's shoulders shook in amusement and his grin widened, "Unfortunately for her, they are as persistent as she is stubborn, and each one of them is convinced that one day she'll want to warm her bed with a man once again and give up on the men's work such as farming and paying bills."
I smiled at Dr. Cullen's observations, and strangely I could relate to Ms. Black and the persistence of others in determining her marital status. Of course, I wasn't a widowed woman with a farm and possibly children. If that were me, I didn't believe I would think twice about remarrying so I could give up the men's work and stick to women's affairs.
Three hours later, I was sitting at a small round table in the music room listening to women speak about the importance of providing young ladies and wives with healthy pregnancies, and even contraception. The Cullens, my table companions, had long ago abandoned their seats to fulfill various obligations related to hosting the party.
The speeches were enlightening. As a doctor, I was well aware that there were women groups fighting to legalize the pessary and other methods of birth control, but as a man I had never given it much thought. My medical expertise focused on surgery, and except for encounters with Tanya I was more or less oblivious to the desires of women to prevent pregnancy. Oh, I'd heard of back alley butchers ending women's pregnancies, and I certainly studied the topic from a professional standpoint, but my operating theatre was no place for such conversations. It was easy to dismiss those stories as over-exaggerated tales turned to nightmares.
But as the women took to the podium one by one, I was reminded that economic conditions as well as women's health were all factors in promoting contraceptives. For very few women, the goal of contraceptives was not to become loose or delinquent in sex. For many married women, their bodies were worn out by the time they reached their late twenties, not only with the physical strain of childbirth, but the economic and time demands that were placed on a housewife who had 6, 7 or even 12 children.
"I've had just about enough of this, haven't you?" A raspy male voice spoke from beside me.
Taking the seat to my right, one of the few male guests had caught my attention with this vague comment, "I beg pardon?"
"All this talk of birth control and women's rights, I don't think I can take more of it," He chuckled darkly. His dark blonde hair was slicked back and his face was cleanly shaven, yet his eyes appeared calculating and rebellious.
"I mean, they got the vote, what more do they want? Next they want to control when our sons are born. I think they just want it as an excuse to bed the milkman while their husbands are out making a hard-earned dollar. As men, I say we can't sit idle while women start making decisions that are clearly beyond their scope." Stunned by his blunt introduction, I was at a loss on how to politely refute his claims. Further, the way his eyes shifted as he scanned the room while speaking with me was unnerving. I wasn't sure if he was looking to meet up with someone, or looking to keep away from them.
"By the way, I'm James Black." James extended his hand.
"Dr. Edward Masen. Are you any relation to Ms. Black?" He laughed darkly and shook his head.
"I'm a cousin of her late husband, although I intend to be more than that to her, if you know what I mean. In fact, she's the only reason I'm here. I came to make a good impression, but she didn't even show up. Alice Cullen fed me some malarkey about her children being ill or some such.
"The truth is, Marie Black sits on land that belongs to my family by right, and as far as I'm concerned she's all but throwing it away with the agreement she has made with the Cullens. Typical for a woman, she's much too emotional. Once my family and I convince her to marry me, I can take over the management of the farm and she can resume her duties as a proper woman should."
I couldn't fathom the reason, but I had an overwhelming urge to protect Ms. Black's name and reputation. It seemed ludicrous. I hadn't even met the woman. Perhaps the fond way in which Carlisle spoke of her made it feel like I knew her, although I wouldn't know her from Eve.
I tried to interrupt James and his rant, but he continued, "But, I don't want to make her sound like that much trouble. Despite her personality, the woman is gorgeous. Her legs are out of this world, and even for her age she has the face of an angel. I used to think I preferred blonds, but she has since converted me to the sexual wiles of the brunette." James Black had the nerve to waggle his eyebrows as he spoke the last part of his sentence. I wondered where he learned it was respectable to speak about a widow in such a manner, his late cousin's wife, at that.
That was my breaking point. I'd always had trouble hearing other men speak about brunettes in a sexual manner. I realized it was irrational, as most women had dark hair, but for some reason it was a strange manifestation of my love for Isabella. Every time a man mentioned that hair color, my brain superimposed her face into the story of his conquest or victory over the woman in question. Not to mention, I had developed an unreasonable soft spot in my hear for Ms. Black, to whom I had yet to make an acquaintance.
Excusing myself, I scanned the room for any sign of the Cullens. Esme was in the throes of introducing and thanking speakers, Carlisle was sitting with a group of people, but when I approached I could tell he they were discussing the various uses of potential donations and I didn't feel that it was a conversation I could intrude upon. Jasper and Alice were no where in sight, although he had left his jacket behind so I knew he had not yet gone home for the evening.
I circled past the stage to the opposite end of the sitting room to a pair of French doors, their windows twinkling gold from the light within. Stepping out, I was assaulted with the cold clean air of the Green Mountains and the inky black of a moonless night in the woods.
Using the light that emanated from the indoors, I took in the garden at night. Crickets strummed a beat to the symphony of the nocturnal animals that surrounded the home. Standing still, I could hear the small rustle of grass as mice scampered around my feet, and occasionally, I heard the lonely hoot of an owl scanning for his next meal. In the distance, a pack of coyotes rounded out the concerto with a cacophony of howls that broke through the silence, until their voices were slowly enveloped by the darkness once more.
Without conscious thought, I began walking and found that I had rounded the side of the house. I could see the row of kerosene lanterns that had been placed along the drive to welcome the guests. Following the trail, I noted a peacefulness that I hadn't felt in a long time even though I had left behind a very familiar and comfortable setting. I had lost count how many dinner parties, soirees, cocktail parties, evening fundraisers and silent auctions that I had attended over the last year. So it was surprising that I would feel such a sense of calm walking away from the event and into the blackness of the unfamiliar forest.
I stopped at the road to Glendale. The lanterns continued every 25 feet or so down the drive to meet the main road, but there was one placed on either side of the carriage road. I thought it was strange that they would mark a road so rarely used. Surely no one would be using the road at this hour. Curiousity got the best of me, and I decided to meander up the road which would lead back to the maternity building.
The thick darkness of the night pulled me in, and it wasn't long before I was surrounded by black on all sides. Perhaps the lanterns had made me over confident in my ability to travel down dark country roads on a moonless night. After about 10 minutes of shuffling my feet blindly, I reasoned that the maternity home was probably closer than the fork in the road, and once I reached that building, I would be able to see the lights from the party.
I held my hands out in front of me and the adrenaline pumped through my veins. I knew little about the creatures that lived in these woods, but I knew enough. This would surely be an unpleasant time to meet up with a mother bear or perhaps a bobcat protecting their young. Recalling my survival training from a summer camp in my youth, I attempted to make as much noise as I could on my path, and I resorted to singing a new song by Frank Sinatra.
Ain'tcha ever coming back, aintcha?
Can't ya see the difference it makes?
I'm half myself without your kisses,
One more night of doing without`em will drive me crazy
Won'tcha make me smile again,won'tcha?
Just a word is all that it takes.
Your hello will let me know that we're the same as we used to be,
Oh, ain't cha ever coming back to me?
My heart felt heavy as my voice broke on the last line. I had not intentionally chosen a song that reminded me of Isabella and what we could never have, but I had long since resigned to the theory that most songs would conjure memories of Her. I knew the answer to the question that was posed by the song – I knew that if I ever got to see her again, it would be me that was going to her.
I wasn't able to wallow in my grief for long, as I heard a large branch break in the distance. My head automatically snapped to the right, for fear that I had encountered a large animal. I wasn't typically fearful man, but the woods were dark and strange, and I knew I wouldn't be able to negotiate my life with an angry beast.
My fears were unfounded, however. As I looked quickly to the left, I saw the yellow light moving swiftly away from my line of vision, blinking in and out behind trees and receding into the distance. I thought it strange that someone was out at this hour, but of course I also had no idea where I was. I could have been close to a main road and be completely unaware until a vehicle of some sort passed by. Perhaps the lantern had been attached to a wagon, although the gait didn't seem right for a horse.
Up ahead I could detect a break in the trees just slightly illuminated by the warmth of light emitted from several windows. I must have become entirely disoriented on my nighttime jaunt because the Home was much further away from the road than I recalled. No matter, at least I had a bit of light to lead me.
I kept my eyes trained on the glowing dots. After traipsing through the woods for what seemed like hours, nothing was more welcoming than the lit windows of a building, a beacon promising warmth and light. My pace quickened as the building came better into view.
As I approached, I realized that the building I had come across was not the Maternity home at all, but rather a smaller house. From the angle that I approached, a barn resided just behind the house and in the darkness it appeared as one large entity. I wondered where exactly I had stumbled.
I didn't have time to think long though. Before I took another step, I felt the cold butt of a rifle in the middle of my back.
"Don't. Move. A. Muscle." It was a low growl, fierce, determined and feminine.
It took all the strength in my body not to respond to what my body ached to do. I remained as still as I could, and slowly raised my hands when the voice commanded me to do so. Though my body wished that I would run and my fists wanted me to fight, my brain reminded me that neither of those actions were possible. So I stood still.
Slowly, the attacker shifted around the right side of my body, dragging the butt of the gun over my shoulder blade, my bicep and my chest, eventually settling squarely over my heart. I had kept my breathing steady, and I concentrated on keeping my reactions in check so as not to make any sudden movements.
So when she gasped and spoke, my eyes flew open. I didn't realize that I had closed them, but I could see her plainly because in taking up her gun, she had been forced to abandon her lantern behind me, which caused her to be illuminated from her cheekbones to her feet.
I first heard her sharp intake of breath and she gasped, "Edward!" before her gun lowered and her hand flew over her mouth as she backed away. Her hair was bundled into a cap that mostly obscured the top half of her face, but I recognized her lips and chin and her voice well enough. I was frozen in place, not sure which type of fantasy or delusion or rabbit hole I had fallen into on my travels. It simply wasn't possible. It wasn't real.
Before I could think, she had turned and ran into the night, leaving me alone on a dark path with a lantern. I didn't know where I was or into what I had stumbled, but I knew I had to follow that small woman.
Turning to retrieve the light I searched for her form, but I could only make out the crunch of feet on the forest floor. I followed the noise, and in an act of desperation I called out her name while scanning the darkness with my lantern.
"Isabella! Isabella!" I bellowed into the night, my voice hoarse from breaking the silence of my walk with a scream. I searched the tree line, the road I had taken and the black wall of the forest, but I couldn't find a path that connected my current location with the sound of her feet on the ground. With nothing to lose, I broke from the road and took to the woods, stepping my way clumsily over fallen logs and last year's broken branches. My feet sunk into the spongy wet of the forest floor, and my shoes slid over mossy rocks slick from the recent rain. I called her again, with no doubt that it was her and laden with fear that I may never see her again.
As the footfalls faded ahead of me, I chanced to run over the uneven carpet of the woods. I had to see her. If I was wrong, I had to know, but I was certain of who that was. It seemed impossible but my heart knew what my mind could not process.
I stumbled after her in a half loping, half jogging fashion, until I felt my shoe catch on a piece of the woods. I felt, rather than saw the ground pummeling towards me. As the lantern rolled from my hands, my face connected with cold rock and my mind fell into darkness.
